“She came to see me, too. I thought maybe she wanted to buy the house but no, she asked about its history. Who lived there and what happened to them.”

Gooseflesh suddenly ripples across my arms. I think of Charlotte, a woman I’ve never met, sitting in this room, probably on this same sofa, having this same conversation with Professor Sherbrooke. Not only do I live in the same house she did, I am following so closely in her footsteps that I might be Charlotte’s ghost, reliving her last days on earth.

“She was unhappy living there?” I ask.

“She said the house made her uneasy. She felt like something was watching her, and she wanted to hang curtains in the bedroom. It’s hard to believe a woman that high-strung would ever qualify as a schoolteacher.”

“Something was watching her? That’s the word she used?”

“Probably because she’d heard about the so-called ghost, so of course every creaky floorboard had to be him. I wasn’t surprised when I heard she abruptly vacated.”

“As it turns out, she had every reason to be uneasy. I assume you know about her murder.”

He gives a maddeningly unconcerned shrug. “Yes. It was unfortunate.”

“And you’ve heard who the prime suspect is? The man you hired to work on the house.”

“I’ve known Ned for decades. Saw him every summer when I visited my aunt, and I never saw any reason not to trust him. That’s what I told Charlotte.”

    “She had concerns about him?”

“About everything, not just Ned. The isolation. The lack of curtains. Even the town. She didn’t find it particularly open to strangers.”

I think about my own experiences in Tucker Cove. I remember the gossipy ladies in the grocery store and coolly businesslike Donna Branca. I think about Jessie Inman and how the circumstances of her death were suppressed by the local newspaper. And I think of Charlotte, whose disappearance never raised an eyebrow until I started asking questions. To the casual visitor, Tucker Cove seems quaint and picturesque, but it’s also a village that guards its secrets and protects its own.

“I hope none of this discourages you from staying,” he says. “You will be staying, won’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, for the rent you’re paying, you won’t be able to find anything like Brodie’s Watch. It’s a grand house, in a popular town.”

It is also a house with secrets, in a town with secrets. But we all have secrets. And mine are buried deepest of all.

Twenty-Four

The waiting room is empty when I arrive at Ben’s medical office late that afternoon. His receptionist, Viletta, smiles at me through the window and slides open the glass partition.

“Hello, Ava. How is your arm doing?” she asks.

“It’s completely healed, thanks to Dr. Gordon.”

“You know, cats carry a lot of diseases, which is why I stick with canaries.” She squints down at her appointment book. “Was Dr. Gordon expecting you today? Because I don’t see your name on the schedule.”

“I don’t have an appointment. I was hoping he’d have a spare minute to see me.”

The door opens and Ben pokes his head into the waiting room. “I thought I heard your voice! Come on back to my office. I’m done for the day, and I’m just signing off on some lab reports.”

I follow Ben down the hall, past the exam rooms and into his office. I’ve never been in his office before, and as he hangs up his white coat and sits down behind the oak desk, I survey the framed diplomas and the photos of his father and grandfather, the earlier generation of Dr. Gordons with their white coats and stethoscopes. One of Ben’s oil paintings hangs there as well, unframed, as though it’s only a temporary decoration being auditioned for the wall. I recognize the landscape, because I have seen that rocky jut of land in his other paintings.

    “It’s the same beach you’ve painted before, isn’t it?”

He nods. “Very observant. Yes, I like that particular beach. It’s quiet and private and there’s no one around to bother me while I paint.” He sets the stack of lab reports in his out-basket and turns his full attention to me. “So what can I do for you today? Has your ferocious cat attacked you again?”

“This isn’t about me at all. It’s about something that happened years ago. You grew up in this town, right?”

He smiles. “I was born here.”

“So you’d know the town’s history.”

“Recent history, anyway.” He laughs. “I’m not that old, Ava.”

“But old enough to remember a woman named Aurora Sherbrooke?”

“Only vaguely. I was just a kid when she died. That had to be around…”

“Thirty-three years ago. When your dad was the town doctor. Was he her doctor?”

He studies me for a moment, frowning. “Why are you asking about Aurora Sherbrooke?”

“It’s for this book I’m writing. Brodie’s Watch is turning into a large part of it, and I want to know its history.”

“But how does she come into it?”

“She lived in that house. She died in that house. She’s part of its history.”

“Is that really why you’re asking about her?”

His question, spoken so softly, makes me go silent. I focus on the stacks of lab reports and patient charts on his desk. He’s a man trained in science, a man who deals in facts, and I know how he’ll react if I tell him the reason behind my questions.

    “Never mind. It’s not important.” I stand up to leave.

“Ava, wait. Anything you have to say is important to me.”

“Even if it’s completely unscientific?” I turn to face him. “Even if it strikes you as superstition?”

“I’m sorry.” He sighs. “Can we start this conversation again? You asked about Aurora Sherbrooke and whether my father was her doctor. And the answer is yes, he was.”

“Does the office still have her medical records?”

“Not for a patient who’s been dead this long.”

“I knew it was a long shot, but I thought I would ask. Thank you.” Once again, I turn to leave.

“This isn’t about your book, is it?”

I pause in the doorway, wanting to blurt the truth, but afraid of how he’ll react. “I’ve spoken with Arthur Sherbrooke. I went to see him about his aunt, and he told me she’d seen things in the house. Things that made her believe…”

“Believe what?”

“That Captain Brodie is still there.”

Ben’s expression doesn’t change. “Are we talking about a ghost?” he asks calmly, a tone you’d use to soothe a mental patient.

“Yes.”

“The ghost of Captain Brodie.”

“Aurora Sherbrooke believed in him. That’s what she told her nephew.”

“Does he believe in this ghost, too?”

“No. But I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve seen him, Ben. I’ve seen Jeremiah Brodie.”

His expression is still unreadable. Is this something they teach you in medical school, how to maintain a poker player’s face so that patients can’t read what you really think of them?

    “My father saw him, too,” Ben says quietly.

I stare at him. “When?”

“It was the day they found her. My father was called to the house to examine her body. It’s the reason I remember her name. Because I heard him talk about it to my mother.”

I glance up at the photo of Ben’s father on the wall, so distinguished in his white coat. Not a man who looks prone to fantasies. “What did he say?”

“He said the woman was lying on the floor in the turret, dressed in her nightgown. He knew she’d been dead for some time because of the smell and the…flies.” He pauses, realizing that some details are better left unsaid. “Her nephew and the police officers had gone downstairs, so my father was alone up there, examining the body. And out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. On the widow’s walk.”

“That’s where I first saw him,” I murmur.

“My father turned and there he was. A tall man with dark hair and a black seaman’s coat. An instant later, the man was gone. My father was certain of what he’d seen, but he never revealed it to anyone except my mother and me. He didn’t want people to think their local doctor had gone insane. And to be honest, I never really believed it. I thought it was a trick of the light or a reflection in the window. Or maybe he was just bone-tired from too many late-night calls. I’d almost forgotten that story.” Ben looks straight at me. “But now I find out you’ve seen him, too.”

“It’s not a trick of the light, Ben. I’ve seen the ghost more than once. I’ve spoken to him.” At his startled look, I’m sorry I shared that detail. Certainly I’m not going to tell him everything else that has happened between Brodie and me. “I know it’s hard for you to believe. It’s hard for me to believe.”

“But I want to, Ava. Who wouldn’t want to believe there’s an afterlife, that there’s something beyond death? But where’s the evidence? No one can prove there’s a ghost in that house.”

I pull out my cellphone. “Maybe there’s someone who can.”

Twenty-Five