The Other Side - J. D. Robb [74]
“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—”
“You mean he didn’t drink poison after murdering his wife?”
“Well, he might have. He died not long after she did, and they say he was complaining of stomach pains.”
“What about the musical Gypsy lover?”
“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.”
“The Underground Railroad!”
“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.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, come on. Not even a little bit?”
“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?”
“Certainly not. And neither do you.”
“So you’re quite positive Willow House isn’t haunted?”
“Don’t be silly. Not that I haven’t heard things—yes, I have, but they certainly weren’t ghosts.”
“What kind of things?” he asked, interested.
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?”
Astra lifted his head and sniffed the air, bulging his eyes and snarling his lips.
Henry thought Miss Darlington might slide off the couch, she laughed so hard. Delight filled him. For some reason, he blushed.
“So he’s not from Calcutta?”
“A little west of there. Baltimore, to be exact. I inherited him from a friend.”
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