It is just past five when Maeve and I arrive at the Tucker Cove Historical Society. The CLOSED sign is already hanging, but I knock anyway, hoping that Mrs. Dickens is still inside, tidying up. Through the smoked-glass door I see movement, and hear the thump of orthopedic shoes. Pale blue eyes, distorted by the thick lenses of spectacles, peer out the doorway.

“I’m sorry, but we’re closed. The building will open at nine A.M. tomorrow.”

“Mrs. Dickens, it’s me. We spoke a few weeks ago, about Brodie’s Watch, remember?”

“Oh hello. Ava, isn’t it? It’s nice to see you again, but the museum is still closed.”

“We’re not here to see the museum. We’re here to speak with you. My friend Maeve and I are doing research on Brodie’s Watch for my book, and we have questions you might be able to answer. Since you’re the number one expert on the history of Tucker Cove.”

    That makes Mrs. Dickens stand a little straighter. On my last visit here, there’d been almost no other visitors. How frustrating it must be for her to be so knowledgeable about a subject that few people care about.

She smiles and opens the door wide. “I wouldn’t call myself an expert, exactly, but I’d be happy to tell you whatever I know.”

The house is even gloomier than I remembered, and the foyer smells of age and dust. The floor creaks as we follow Mrs. Dickens into the front parlor, where the logbook of The Raven, the ship formerly under the command of Captain Brodie, is displayed under glass.

“We keep many of our historical records in here.” She pulls a key ring from her pocket and unlocks the door to a glass-fronted bookcase. On the shelves are volumes of leather-bound books, some of them so old they look ready to crumble. “We hope to digitize all of these records eventually, but you know how hard it is to find funds to do anything these days. No one cares about the past. They only care about the future and the next hip new thing.” She scans the volumes. “Ah, here it is. The town records for 1861. That’s the year Brodie’s Watch was built.”

“Actually Mrs. Dickens, our question is about something that happened far more recently.”

“How recently?”

“It would be about twenty or so years ago, according to Ned Haskell.”

“Ned?” Startled, she turns to frown at me. “Oh, dear.”

“I guess you’ve heard the news about him.”

“I’ve heard what people are saying. But I grew up in this town, so I’ve learned to ignore half of what I hear.”

“Then you don’t believe he—”

“I see no point in speculation.” She slides the old book back on the shelf and claps dust from her hands. “If your question’s about something that happened only twenty years ago, we wouldn’t have that record here. You should try the Tucker Cove Weekly. They have archives going back at least fifty years, and I think much of that is digitized.”

    Maeve says, “I’ve already searched their archives for any articles mentioning Brodie’s Watch. I never found anything about the accident.”

“Accident?” Mrs. Dickens looks back and forth at us. “Something like that might not even make the news.”

“But it should have. Since a fifteen-year-old girl died,” I tell her.

Mrs. Dickens lifts her hand to her mouth. For a moment she doesn’t speak, but just stares at me.

“Ned told me it happened on a Halloween night,” I continue. “He said a group of teenagers broke into the empty house, and there may have been drinking involved. One of the girls went out onto the widow’s walk, and somehow she fell. I don’t recall her name, but I thought, if you remembered the incident, and which year it was, we might be able to track down the details.”

“Jessie,” Mrs. Dickens says softly.

“You remember her name?”

She nods. “Jessie Inman. She went to school with my niece. Such a pretty girl, but she had a wild streak.” She takes a deep breath. “I think I’d like to sit down.”

I’m alarmed by how pale she looks, and as Maeve takes her by the arm, I scurry across the room to fetch one of the antique chairs. Unsteady as she is, Mrs. Dickens hasn’t forgotten her responsibilities as a docent and she looks down in dismay at the worn velvet seat. “Oh dear, this chair is off-limits. No one’s supposed to sit in it.”

“No one’s here to complain, Mrs. Dickens,” I say gently. “And we’ll never tell.”

She manages a faint smile as she settles into the chair. “I do try to follow the rules.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“So did Jessie’s mother. That’s why it was such a shock to her when she learned what Jessie had been up to that night. They weren’t just trespassing. Those kids actually broke a window to get into the house. And probably do whatever kids with raging hormones do.”

    “You said she was a pretty girl. What did she look like?” Maeve asks her.

Mrs. Dickens shakes her head, baffled by the question. “Does it really matter?”

“What color was her hair?”

I fully expect her to tell us that the girl’s hair was dark, and I’m surprised by her answer.

“She was fair-haired,” says Mrs. Dickens. “Like her mother, Michelle.”

And unlike me. Unlike all the other women who have died in Brodie’s Watch.

“Did you know the mother very well?” I ask.

“Michelle attended my church. Volunteered at the school. She did everything a mother’s supposed to do, yet she couldn’t keep her daughter from making a stupid mistake. She died a few years after Jessie did. They said it was cancer, but I think what really killed her was losing her child.”

Maeve looks at me. “I’m surprised an accident like that didn’t make it into the local newspaper. I didn’t find anything about a girl dying at Brodie’s Watch.”

“There were no articles,” says Mrs. Dickens.

“Why not?”

“Because of who the other kids were. Six teenagers from the most prominent families in town. Do you think they wanted everyone to know their darling children smashed a window and broke into a house? Did lord-knows-what mischief in there? Jessie’s death was a tragedy, but why compound it with shame? I think that’s why the editor agreed not to publish the names or the details. I’m sure arrangements were made to repair any damage to the house, which satisfied the owner, Mr. Sherbrooke. The only thing that showed up in the newspaper was Jessie’s obituary, and it said she died from an accidental fall on Halloween night. Only a few people ever knew the truth.”

    “So that’s why it didn’t turn up in my search of the archives,” says Maeve. “Which makes me wonder how many other women have died in that house that we don’t know about.”

Mrs. Dickens frowns at her. “There were others?”

“I’ve found the names of at least four other women. And now you’ve told us about Jessie.”

“Which makes it five,” Mrs. Dickens murmurs.

“Yes, five. All of them female.”

“Why are you asking all these questions? Why are you interested?”

“It’s for the book I’m writing,” I explain. “Brodie’s Watch plays a big part in it and I want to include some history of the house.”

“Is that the only reason?” Mrs. Dickens asks quietly.

For a moment I don’t respond. She doesn’t press me for an answer, but just by the way she watches me, I know she’s already guessed the real reason for my questions.

“Things have happened in the house,” I finally answer.

“What things?”

“They make me wonder if the house might be…” I give a sheepish laugh. “Haunted.”

“Captain Brodie,” Mrs. Dickens murmurs. “You’ve seen him?”

Maeve and I glance at each other. “You’ve heard about the ghost?” says Maeve.

“Everyone who grew up in this town knows the stories. How the ghost of Jeremiah Brodie still lingers in that house. People claim they’ve seen him standing on the widow’s walk. Or staring out the turret window. When I was a child, I loved hearing those stories, but I never really believed them. I assumed it was something our parents told us to make us stay away from that wreck of a place.” She gives me an apologetic look. “That was before you moved in, of course, when it really was a wreck. Broken windows, a rotting porch. Bats and mice and whatever other vermin lived inside.”

“The mice are still there,” I admit.

    She gives a faint smile. “And they always will be.”

Maeve says, “Since you grew up in this town, you must remember Aurora Sherbrooke. She used to live in Brodie’s Watch.”

“I knew who she was, but I didn’t really know her. I don’t think many people did. She’d come into town every so often to buy groceries, but that was the only time anyone saw her. Otherwise, she stayed up there on that hill, all alone.”

With him. He was all she required for company. He gave her what she needed, just as he gives me what I need, whether it’s the comfort of an embrace or the dark pleasures of the turret. Aurora Sherbrooke would not have shared that detail with anyone.