The Other Side

“I’ll pay you more. Not much more, but then, you don’t have to do much. Just say nothing.”

Henry made a show of being unable to raise his head to the glass of water Miss Darlington was holding to his lips. It worked; she moved even closer to him on the sofa and slid her cool fingers to the back of his neck. “You don’t have any money,” he pointed out, taking a small, pitiful sip. His head throbbed, but Miss Darlington’s ministrations were making up for it.

“No, but I will have as soon as my grandfather’s lawsuit is settled. Any day now, I expect a windfall.”

“No, his new bicycle pedal. Someone else took credit for it, so now it’s in court. If we win, the A. A. Pope Company will market his recessed-cleat, dual-sided, spring-actuated, clipless pedal, and I’ll be rich. Well.” She made a deprecatory moue. “Not rich. But, by God, I’ll have enough money to buy this house back from the bank!” She set his head back on the sofa cushion with a bit too much force; he winced. He sensed a sore subject.

They were in the small parlor off the dining room, where she’d moved him, with some difficulty, so that they, or rather she, couldn’t be seen from the street when she switched the electricity back on. Now she rose from the sofa and started pacing. A habit, he’d noticed.

“The lawyer says a decision is coming down soon, so all I have to do is stall—make sure nobody buys the house in the meantime. Which means all you have to do is keep quiet. You just continue your ‘experiments,’ during the course of which you determine that Willow House is definitely haunted.”

“There’s no need to make those little quote marks in the air,” he said testily. “What makes you think I’m not a genuine, legitimate spirit investigator?”

She stopped pacing and looked at him. A minute passed. Somebody’s lips twitched first, or it might have been a tie. Their hoots of laughter were definitely a tie. A good sound, in which Henry heard not only hilarity but immense relief on both sides. Thank God, the jig was up. He threw his feet to the floor and sat up, holding his head, groaning and laughing at the same time.

She came to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re all right? Nothing feels broken?”

“A bruise or two,” he said manfully, “nothing serious.” He felt as if he’d been beaten with planks. How many steps had he fallen down? “So tell me, Miss Darlington. Why are there hidden staircases and secret sliding panels in your otherwise beautiful home?”

“It’s not a secret—you’d probably have found out anyway. Eustace Darlington’s brother inherited the house after Eustace’s suicide, or whatever it was—”

“Well, he might have. He died not long after she did, and they say he was complaining of stomach pains.”

“I’m not sure how that story started. She fell in love with somebody, but I’ve also heard it was her music teacher. Who was Jewish. Anyway—after they died, Eustace’s brother got the house, and when he died, he left it to his son, who was a strict abolitionist, very religious. He’s the one who built the secret stairs—they go from the first floor to the attic. So escaping slaves could hide here.”

“It’s a fairly well-known fact in Paulton, but I was hoping you’d be gone before you heard about it.” She sat down again beside him. “So tell me, Mr. Cleland,” she said, mimicking him. “Were you scared?” Her twinkling eyes invited him to be honest.

“Of course not.” The writing on the mirror might have given him a slight start, but he wasn’t going to admit that to her. “I take it you don’t believe in ghosts at all?”

“Don’t be silly. Not that I haven’t heard things—yes, I have, but they certainly weren’t ghosts.”

She regarded him for a moment, but instead of answering, she waved her hand and said, “Nothing, never mind.”

He’d have pressed, but they were interrupted just then by the sound of yipping, whining, and toenail scrabbling: Astra trying to get to the cat, still closed up behind the music room door.

“Astra!” Henry hollered, and after a moment the dog trotted into the parlor. “Come over here and behave yourself.” Instead, Astra made a beeline for Miss Darlington, to whom he seemed to have taken a shine.

“Naughty ghost dog,” she chided, playing with the two front paws he put on her knees. “Shame on you for terrifying poor Margaret.”

“He really is a ghost dog, you know. You don’t believe it?” he said when she rolled her eyes. “Astra! Astra, do you feel something?”

Henry thought Miss Darlington might slide off the couch, she laughed so hard. Delight filled him. For some reason, he blushed.

The clock struck one. They had an argument about whether he would walk back with her to Mrs. Mortimer’s (“You’re not going anywhere—you’ve just fallen down a flight of stairs!” “You are not walking home alone in the middle of the night.” “I do it all the time!”), which he won when they remembered there was no reason for him to stay here tonight anyway. He could walk home with her, then slip into Smoak’s from the back.

They passed no one on the quiet, empty streets—as she’d predicted. “We have a lot to discuss, a lot to arrange,” she said, resettling Margaret in her pillowcase. “The first thing is to get a story published in the newspaper about Paulton’s new ghost detective. I’ll take care of that; you just wait for a call from Walker Hersh.”

“After that, I’m quite sure you’ll be getting an invitation from Mrs. Grimmett. She’s dying to meet you.”

The moon had set. Nothing stirred on pitch-dark Lexington Street, not even a cricket. But when they arrived at Mrs. Mortimer’s, they huddled together under the branches of a white dogwood to say good night. Just in case.

“Shall we meet tomorrow, Mr. Cleland?” she asked softly. “I have a music lesson in the morning, but we could have lunch—”

“Please. If we’re going to be partners, don’t you think you should call me Henry?”

She frowned. “We still haven’t discussed the nature of our new partnership. I said I would pay you more, but we never settled on a fee.”

“Oh. Well.” She sounded surprised, almost incredulous. “Well. That’s . . . Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. What instrument are you studying? Could it be the Gypsy violin?”

He was growing addicted to that delighted burst of a laugh. “No, I teach the violin,” she said. “And the piano. I did it at Willow House as well, to supplement my grandfather’s . . . irregular income, but now I do it to keep body and soul together.”

Her wistfulness made him want to cheer her up. “I forgot to tell you: the dancing ghost is an absolute triumph. Quite a brilliant illusion.”

She shifted Margaret in order to clap her hands—gently, so they made no sound. “I know! Isn’t it? I’ve only done it twice before, but people are completely convinced.”

“The, um . . . ” Why was he getting into this? “The, um, transparent nature of it.”

“No, that’s impossible. Dear heaven.” The whites of her eyes went very big. “You’re teasing me.”

“But no one’s ever said that, never even hinted—and they would, you know they would, if you could—if you could—”

“Oh yes, they would. So it must’ve been just tonight,” he said quickly. “Perhaps the lighting was different.”

She seized on that. “The light! When I’ve danced on the balcony, I’ve always shined the lantern from the side, but tonight, in the hall, I had to do it from below, and I stood on a footstool. Did it look like I was in midair?”

“That’s it, then. The light.” She buried her face in the pillowcase. “You’re not teasing?” came out a cottony mumble. “You really could—see—”

“No, not really, hardly anything. Don’t know why I mentioned it. The barest glimpse, a mere suggestion, certainly nothing—lewd, just the reverse, in fact, quite natural and delightful—”

A soft, rising scream in the back of her throat finally shut him up. She backed away, clutching the cat to her chest, pivoted, and ran.

“Oh, well done. Good job.” Henry rapped his knuckles against his skull. “Blockhead.” But crossing the lawn to Smoak’s back door, he looked up at the sky and laughed. What a day this had been. It didn’t say much for the quality of his life lately, but he couldn’t remember when he’d had so much fun.