“No, I’m just a lifelong birdwatcher.” He waves at the sofa, a haughty command for me to sit down. Like everything else in the room, the sofa is coldly minimalist, upholstered in stark gray leather that looks more forbidding than inviting. I sit facing a glass coffee table which is uncluttered by even a single magazine. The entire focus of the room is the window and the view of the salt marsh beyond.

He offers no coffee or tea but just drops down in an armchair and crosses his stork-like legs. “I taught economics, Bowdoin College,” he says. “Retired three years ago, and ironically enough find myself busier than ever. Traveling, writing articles.”

“About economics?”

“Corvids. Crows and ravens. My hobby’s turned into something of a second career for me.” He tilts his head, a movement that’s unsettlingly birdlike. “You said you had questions about the house?”

“About its history, and the people who’ve lived in it over the years.”

“I’ve done a bit of research on the subject, but I’m by no means an expert,” he says with a modest shrug. “I can tell you the house was built in 1861 by Captain Jeremiah T. Brodie. He was lost at sea over a decade later. Subsequent ownership passed through several families until it came to me thirty-some years ago.”

“I understand you inherited the house from your aunt Aurora.”

    “Yes. Tell me again how these questions are relevant to this book you’re writing?”

“My book is called The Captain’s Table. It’s about traditional foods of New England, and the meals that might have been served in the homes of seafaring families. My editor thinks Brodie’s Watch, and Captain Brodie himself, could serve as the focal point for the project. It would give the book an authentic sense of place and atmosphere.”

Satisfied by my explanation, he settles more deeply into his chair. “Very well. Is there anything specific that you’d like to know?”

“Tell me about your aunt. About her experiences living there.”

He sighs, as if this is one subject he’d rather avoid. “Aunt Aurora lived there for most of her life. In fact, she died in that house, which may be one of the reasons I can’t seem to get rid of it. Nothing kills a house’s resale value like a death. People and their stupid superstitions.”

“You’ve been trying to sell it all these years?”

“I was her only heir, so I got stuck with that white elephant. After she died, I put it on the market for a few years, but the offers were insulting. Everyone seemed to find something wrong with the place. Too old, too cold, bad karma. If only I could’ve torn down the heap. With that ocean view, it would make a spectacular building site.”

“Why didn’t you just tear it down?”

“It was a condition of her will. The house had to remain standing or the trust fund would go to…” He pauses and looks away.

So there’s a trust fund. Of course there had to be family money. How else could a mere university professor afford this multimillion-dollar property in Cape Elizabeth? Aurora Sherbrooke had left her nephew a fortune as well as a burden when she’d bequeathed him Brodie’s Watch.

“She had enough money to live anywhere,” he says. “Paris, London, New York. But no, she chose to spend most of her life in that house. Every summer, starting when I was seventeen, I’d dutifully drive up to visit her, if only to remind her that she had a blood relative, but she never seemed to welcome my visits. It was almost as if I were invading her privacy. An intruder, disrupting her life.”

    Their lives. Hers and the captain’s.

“And I never liked that house.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“There’s always a chill inside. Don’t you feel it? Even on the hottest days in August, I could never get warm. I don’t think I ever took off my sweater. I could spend the day sweltering on the beach, but when I stepped back into the house, it was like walking into a freezer.”

Because he didn’t want you there. I think of the first time I stepped into Brodie’s Watch, and the initial chill I felt, like walking into a wintry fog. And then, in an instant, the chill had vanished, as if the house had decided I belonged there.

“I wanted to stop visiting her,” he continued. “I pleaded with my mother not to make me return. Especially after the incident.”

“What incident?”

“That damn house tried to kill me.” At my startled expression, he gives a sheepish laugh. “Well, that’s what it felt like at the time. You know the chandelier that’s now hanging over the foyer? It’s a replacement. The original chandelier was crystal, imported from France. If I’d been standing just two inches to my right, that thing would have crushed my skull.”

I stare at him. “It fell?”

“Just as I walked in the door, the fixture gave way. It was only a freak accident, of course, but I remember what my aunt said after it happened: ‘Maybe you shouldn’t come anymore. Just to be safe.’ What the hell did she mean by that?”

I know exactly what she meant, but I don’t say a word.

    “After I almost got killed there, I wanted to stay away, but my mother insisted I keep returning.”

“Why?”

“To maintain family connections. My father was on the edge of bankruptcy. Aunt Aurora’s husband left her with more money than she could ever spend in a lifetime. My mother was hoping…” His voice trails off.

So this is why the ghost didn’t approve of Arthur Sherbrooke. From the moment this man stepped through the door, the captain would have known his true motives. It wasn’t devotion to his aunt Aurora that brought Sherbrooke to Brodie’s Watch every summer; it was greed.

“My aunt had no children of her own, and after her husband died, she never remarried. She certainly didn’t need to.”

“For love, maybe?”

“What I meant was, she didn’t need any man’s financial support. And there was always the danger that an opportunist would take advantage of her.”

The way you tried to.

“Even without her money, I’m sure more than a few men must have been interested in her,” I say. “Your aunt was a fine-looking woman.”

“You’ve seen her photo?”

“During my research into the previous occupants, I came across your aunt’s picture in a society column. Apparently she was quite the popular girl when she was young.”

“Was she? I never thought of her as beautiful, but then I didn’t know her when she was young. I just remember her as my oddball aunt Aurora, wandering that house at all hours of the night.”

“Wandering? Why?”

“Who knows? I’d be in bed and I’d hear her creeping up the turret steps. I have no idea what would bring her upstairs because there was nothing up there, just an empty room. The widow’s walk was already starting to rot and one of the windows leaked. Ned Haskell used to work as her handyman, fixing up the place, but she let all the help go. She didn’t want anyone in her house.” He pauses. “Which is why her body went undiscovered for days after she died.”

    “I heard you were the one who found her body.”

He nods. “I drove up to Tucker Cove for my annual visit. Tried calling her before the trip but she didn’t answer the phone. As soon as I stepped into the house, I could smell it. It was summertime, and the flies were…” He stops. “Sorry. It’s a rather unpleasant memory.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

“Some sort of stroke is my guess. Or a heart attack. The local doctor called it a natural death, that’s all I know. Climbing those turret steps might have been too much for her.”

“Why do you think she kept going up to the turret?”

“I have no idea. It was just an empty room with a leaky window.”

“And a hidden alcove.”

“Yes, I was quite surprised when Ned told me he’d found that alcove. I have no idea when it was walled up or why, but I’m sure my aunt didn’t do it. After all, she didn’t even bother keeping up the place. By the time I inherited, it was already in sorry shape. Then those kids broke in and really trashed the place.”

“That was Halloween? The night the girl fell?”

He nods. “But even before that girl died, the house already had a reputation as haunted. My aunt used to scare me with stories of Captain Brodie’s ghost. Probably to keep me from visiting so often.”

I understand perfectly why his aunt might want to keep him away. I can’t imagine a more irritating houseguest.

“Worst of all,” he said, “she let it be known all over town that her house was haunted. Told the gardener and the cleaner that the ghost was watching, and if they stole anything, he’d know. After that fool girl fell off the widow’s walk, the damn place became unsellable. The terms of my aunt’s will forbade me from tearing it down, so I could either let it slowly rot or I could fix it up as a rental.” He eyes me. “Are you sure you can’t afford to buy it? You seem like a happy enough tenant. Unlike the woman before you.”

    It takes me a moment to register the significance of what he’s just said. “Are you talking about Charlotte Nielson? You’ve met her?”