able and take the babies up to Brighton, to the summer home the family had there, by the sea. There was a car waiting to take us.”
“You and your wife? Take your own daughter and Edlyn out of London?”
“Yes, ma’am. Her Ladyship intended to come along after us, but she was on the frail side, just getting her strength back after a bout with pleurisy. His Lordship wouldn’t let her make the journey. Miss Edlyn was with my wife all day long, as it was, so she was well used to her. It was no hardship on the children, really, them being so young, so off we went to Brighton in the car.”
“Just the four of you?”
“And Edmund, the driver. But he turned right around and went back to London. We stayed in Brighton through the holidays and into the spring. Then in May, when Hitler invaded France, it wasn’t safe to stay right there on the coast any longer. If the wind was on your side, you could practically fling a stone across the channel and hit a lad standing on the beach in France. We were able to get a train out of Brighton headed to South Wales, a place called Swansea. His Lordship sent us money and the train tickets and arranged for the use of a wee cottage right in from the water.”
“Just the four of you? You and your wife and
your
daughter and your employer’s daughter, who later became Mrs. Winslow?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And then, when the war was over, you all came back to London?”
He paused before speaking. “Not all of us,” he said quietly. “Not Gwennie.”
I didn’t have the heart to ask what had happened to his daughter.
“No wonder they sent you to live with Edlyn,” I said, anxious to change the subject. “You practically raised her.”
“In the early years, I suppose you could say. His Lordship was involved in the war effort and couldn’t leave London, and Her Ladyship was never strong enough to travel.”
I had been so absorbed in our conversation that I hadn’t noticed a car make the turn from Dartmouth Street into the alley. But from my low and fairly sheltered perch, I could now recognize the driver: Tad Winslow. He was driving toward us and the house. If I didn’t duck away quickly, I was going to have to explain what I was doing in the alley behind his family home, pawing through boxes of his rejects.
I stood up quickly and walked in the direction of Clarendon Street.
“Come with me,” I said aloud. It couldn’t hurt to keep talking to a ghost only I could see. No one, including Tad, was likely to want to tangle with a person who seemed to be hearing voices and was carrying on a lively conversation with them. Then again, these days you see a lot of people walking down the street, apparently talking to themselves. They’re wearing Bluetooth headsets for their cell phones.
Mr. Grady floated along beside me.
“Please, don’t go,” he pleaded. “I must find that deed.”
“I know.” I was walking briskly. Though I’d been stung, the other day, by Tad’s utter disinterest in me, I was now counting my lucky stars that I hadn’t registered on his radar.
“Was that the last of the books?” I asked.
“No.”
“Where are the rest?”
“Upstairs in the hall. They’re being sent to the Bryn Mawr Book Store. Josie went to Bryn Mawr.”
I knew the store. It was a warm and inviting little haven for book lovers, in a Cambridge neighborhood known for its tantalizing food boutiques and astronomical house prices. Proceeds from the sale of secondhand books went to fund scholarships at Bryn Mawr College.
“Is someone picking them up?” I asked.
“I suppose so, yes.”
“When?”
“That I don’t know.”
I paused when we reached Clarendon Street. “Is there any way I can get into the house? Is there any time when no one’s around?”
“Mrs. Martin goes home at six,” he said.
“But I’m sure she locks everything up tight. Doesn’t she?”
He paused to think. Hollywood’s got it all wrong when it comes to the amount of power ghosts
“You and your wife? Take your own daughter and Edlyn out of London?”
“Yes, ma’am. Her Ladyship intended to come along after us, but she was on the frail side, just getting her strength back after a bout with pleurisy. His Lordship wouldn’t let her make the journey. Miss Edlyn was with my wife all day long, as it was, so she was well used to her. It was no hardship on the children, really, them being so young, so off we went to Brighton in the car.”
“Just the four of you?”
“And Edmund, the driver. But he turned right around and went back to London. We stayed in Brighton through the holidays and into the spring. Then in May, when Hitler invaded France, it wasn’t safe to stay right there on the coast any longer. If the wind was on your side, you could practically fling a stone across the channel and hit a lad standing on the beach in France. We were able to get a train out of Brighton headed to South Wales, a place called Swansea. His Lordship sent us money and the train tickets and arranged for the use of a wee cottage right in from the water.”
“Just the four of you? You and your wife and
your
daughter and your employer’s daughter, who later became Mrs. Winslow?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And then, when the war was over, you all came back to London?”
He paused before speaking. “Not all of us,” he said quietly. “Not Gwennie.”
I didn’t have the heart to ask what had happened to his daughter.
“No wonder they sent you to live with Edlyn,” I said, anxious to change the subject. “You practically raised her.”
“In the early years, I suppose you could say. His Lordship was involved in the war effort and couldn’t leave London, and Her Ladyship was never strong enough to travel.”
I had been so absorbed in our conversation that I hadn’t noticed a car make the turn from Dartmouth Street into the alley. But from my low and fairly sheltered perch, I could now recognize the driver: Tad Winslow. He was driving toward us and the house. If I didn’t duck away quickly, I was going to have to explain what I was doing in the alley behind his family home, pawing through boxes of his rejects.
I stood up quickly and walked in the direction of Clarendon Street.
“Come with me,” I said aloud. It couldn’t hurt to keep talking to a ghost only I could see. No one, including Tad, was likely to want to tangle with a person who seemed to be hearing voices and was carrying on a lively conversation with them. Then again, these days you see a lot of people walking down the street, apparently talking to themselves. They’re wearing Bluetooth headsets for their cell phones.
Mr. Grady floated along beside me.
“Please, don’t go,” he pleaded. “I must find that deed.”
“I know.” I was walking briskly. Though I’d been stung, the other day, by Tad’s utter disinterest in me, I was now counting my lucky stars that I hadn’t registered on his radar.
“Was that the last of the books?” I asked.
“No.”
“Where are the rest?”
“Upstairs in the hall. They’re being sent to the Bryn Mawr Book Store. Josie went to Bryn Mawr.”
I knew the store. It was a warm and inviting little haven for book lovers, in a Cambridge neighborhood known for its tantalizing food boutiques and astronomical house prices. Proceeds from the sale of secondhand books went to fund scholarships at Bryn Mawr College.
“Is someone picking them up?” I asked.
“I suppose so, yes.”
“When?”
“That I don’t know.”
I paused when we reached Clarendon Street. “Is there any way I can get into the house? Is there any time when no one’s around?”
“Mrs. Martin goes home at six,” he said.
“But I’m sure she locks everything up tight. Doesn’t she?”
He paused to think. Hollywood’s got it all wrong when it comes to the amount of power ghosts
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