The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(17)
Sophie frowned at me, then refocused her attention on the house, sighing as if she’d just witnessed a miracle. “So, this is your inheritance.”
“Technically,” Jayne said. “I just happen to own it now—but only temporarily.”
“I’m sure you’ll change your mind when you see what an architectural masterpiece this really is. It’s been owned by only two families since it was built, and I’ve never had the pleasure of going inside before, so this is a real treat.” Sophie stepped back to see the facade better. “To the untrained eye, it’s just a typical double house of cypress and heart pine above a stout brick basement. But when you study it a little more closely, you’ll see that its Georgian simplicity is lightened by dentils under the corona of the eave cornices, the pattern repeated in the bull’s-eyed pediment and pillared portico. It’s really quite lovely.”
I wondered if Jayne’s glazed-eye expression matched my own.
“How old is it?” Jayne asked.
“I’m not exactly sure, but definitely pre–Revolutionary War.” Sophie headed toward the split staircase under the portico that led from the sidewalk to the front door. “One of my students several years ago included this house in her dissertation. It has a very interesting bell system based on differently toned chimes for each room. Part of the interview process for servants was to make sure they weren’t tone-deaf so they’d know where they were needed. I think the bells are still in the house, although I doubt they’re still working. But what a piece of history!”
Jayne and I shared a glance behind Sophie’s back.
A very fat ebony cat emerged from between the iron slats of the gate, struggling just a little to get its rear end all the way through. It plopped down on the sidewalk and stared up at us with one dark green eye, the other socket covered with a slit of pink, furless skin. It yawned with disinterest and then waddled its way toward the other side of the stairs until it disappeared.
“I hope the house doesn’t come with a cat. I’m allergic,” Jayne explained.
“Why would you say that?” Sophie asked from the top of the stairs.
“Didn’t you see that enormous black cat come from the garden?” I asked. “It was so large I have to assume it’s loved by somebody.”
Sophie shrugged. “Either that or there are plenty of rodents to keep it busy.”
I sent her a warning glance, but she was already studying the moldings at the top of the two portico columns.
I began climbing, only realizing that Jayne wasn’t behind me after I’d unlocked the lockbox and then the front door, pushing it open to the familiar smell of dust, mothballs, and old polish. And something else, too. Something I couldn’t identify that smelled vaguely medicinal and reminded me of my grandmother.
I looked inside at the high-ceilinged foyer, peering past the dull pine floors into the front parlor. Heavy cornices with wedding-cake ornamentation capped the tall ceilings, the missing chunks resembling the teeth on a jack-o’-lantern. Like silent ghosts, sheet-covered furniture sat around the room suspended in time.
Stepping back onto the portico, I said, “Coast is clear, Jayne. No cats that I can see.”
She didn’t look convinced and her arms had returned to their crossed position over her chest.
“Oh, my goodness. It’s a period mantel—with original Sadler and Green tin-glazed earthenware tiles!” Sophie called from inside the house.
I smiled down at my client. “This is as good a time as any to see the interior, Jayne. Sophie’s enthusiasm can be contagious when it’s not being annoying.”
I was rewarded with a half grin. Reassured that she’d follow, I walked back into the foyer, my heels echoing in the empty house. A sound like fluttering wings came from the room opposite the parlor. I turned my head in time to see a flash of white passing through the thick plaster wall, accompanied by the soft patter of small bare feet.
An icy cold chill began to wrap its way around me as I listened to the sound of approaching feet, heavier than the first set, and definitely wearing shoes. My ears tingled even before I felt the hands gripping my shoulders and shoving me toward the door. I tilted my head to escape from what I knew was coming next—a cold, hollow voice whispering into my ear. The words were soft and feminine, but not enough to make them any less frightening. Frigid air scraped across the side of my head, punctuating each word as if to convince me that the voice wasn’t in my imagination. Go. Away.
I began singing ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” as loudly as I could, my proven remedy to drown out voices I didn’t want to hear. It was something I’d learned as a child to escape the disembodied voices and still proved useful—but only when I’d prepared myself. And I hadn’t. My mother had been in this house multiple times to visit her friend Button Pinckney before she died, and I’d thought she would have mentioned a few extraneous souls.
Sophie came from the drawing room, staring at me with wide eyes as I began to back out of the front door. My progress was suddenly halted when I bumped into Jayne.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
The temperature in the room had returned to normal, yet I had the sensation I’d had the day in my office when I met Jayne. That whatever it was was still there, but someone—or something—was blocking me from seeing it.