The Uninvited

“Mad King George!” Jimmy said.

“Yes, so they called him.” Allison paused on the porch, waiting for the stragglers to catch up.

“King George never set foot here, of course,” she went on. “The days of kings leading their men into battle were long gone. But as for King George’s war,” Allison said, “there were two English brothers in control of the war effort here—Admiral Richard Howe on the water and General William Howe on land. One thing they hoped, of course, was that many citizens would be loyal to Britain and start coming out of the woodwork when they arrived.”

“And there were citizens loyal to Great Britain, right?” Jimmy asked.

“Yep. There were citizens loyal to Great Britain, although many moved to Canada—the United Empire Loyalists—when the war began. But this city was a prize to the British, harder to obtain than they’d expected.”

“The rivers weren’t deep enough for the Royal navy!” Todd said. “I know that because we’ve been on so many history tours already!”

“Exactly,” Allison agreed. “And there were numerous unseen obstacles under the water. It was difficult! But eventually they made their way here.” She continued the story she’d told so many times before. “Philadelphia fell to the British, and was held by them from September 26, 1777, through June 18, 1778. General Washington deprived them of greater victory by seeing that the city was abandoned and the Continental Congress moved to New York City. The British set up a puppet government in Philadelphia for that nine-month period. Meanwhile, the British soldiers enjoyed the warmth and comfort of some of these splendid homes, while Washington’s men froze at Valley Forge. And so here, at this beautiful mansion, Lucy Tarleton stayed behind, pretending to be loyal to the Crown, throwing parties, and even feigning a romance with Lord Brian Bradley—soon to be known as ‘Beast’ Bradley, and soon to execute—without trial or king’s command—the lovely patriot, Lucy Tarleton. Lucy was indeed passing British secrets to General Washington down in Valley Forge. She was passionate about her cause and she was to die for her efforts, in a rare but tragically vindictive incident. Follow me.”

The front door led through a tiny mudroom with cut-glass windows and then into a grand foyer. “In the city, you’ll find that many businesses were on the first floors of what are now historic buildings, while the living quarters were upstairs. But here, a servant would greet guests in the foyer, and determine where they’d go. Mr. Tarleton’s study was to your right, while the salon was the first room to your left,” she said, gesturing in those directions. “The kitchen is still a separate house out back, which prevented a cooking fire from reaching the main house. Beyond the salon is the dining room, and it gave the servants easy access to the kitchen. The left side of the house as you face me was the entertainment area, you might say, and to your right were the family rooms. In back of the study is the ladies’ parlor, and behind that, the music room. You’ll see an exquisite harpsichord there that actually belonged to the Tarleton family. Upstairs, there are five bedrooms and the attic, which contained storage space and rooms for the servants. The Tarletons had five household servants who lived in the main house and a number of gardeners and grooms who lived over the carriage house, which is also preserved.”

“Servants! I could use a few!” the boys’ mother said, ruffling her younger son’s hair.

Allison grinned and went on to describe various objects in the house. Then she explained that because of tight spaces and narrow hallways, they should go by themselves and look into the rooms on their own, respecting the velvet cord barriers. “So, please go ahead and walk through the first floor, and I’ll be here to answer any questions. Don’t forget to note the dumbwaiter at the rear of the dining room! It’s still in perfect working order.”

She stood in the foyer, in a central area so guests could question her. She was surprised when Todd came up to her. She suspected some kind of sexual innuendo, but he seemed oddly quiet and awed. “Miss, can you come here for a minute?”

“Sure, Todd.” She followed him to the doorway of Tarleton’s study. The room held his large carved maple desk, reproduction ledgers, quills, ink pots, study chairs and wooden shelves, some covered with glass doors. There were two paintings that dominated the walls in the room, one of Angus Tarleton himself, painted when he was a young man with shiny dark hair and bright blue eyes, traits he’d passed on to his daughter.

But Todd was staring at the other painting. He pointed at it.

“Who is that?” he asked in a whisper.

“Oh, that’s the man they called ‘Beast’ Bradley,” she told him. “Brian Bradley. Remember? We talked about him.” She stared at the painting, too. Bradley was a young man in the portrait, with a narrow face, high cheekbones, and dark, brooding eyes. Allison had always thought that although the portrait was certainly flattering, the artist hadn’t liked the man. The cruelty for which he would one day be known seemed painted into the sharpness of his features and the look in his eyes. He was elegantly dressed, in the fashion of his day. And while he was a general in the king’s army, she’d seldom seen him depicted in uniform. She assumed that wearing anything that might be rank and file—even with elevating insignias—would have been, in his eyes, beneath him.

Todd shivered, still pointing at the portrait.

“And a ghost will follow you home!” he said, and his words weren’t light. He was truly unnerved.

“He was a horrible man, but he’s long gone,” Allison said, surprised that the would-be “cool” preteen now seemed more like a scared schoolboy.

“He isn’t gone,” Todd said. “He…he looked at me.”

Despite herself, Allison felt a chill. She tried to tell herself the boy was trying to tease her, play off the situation and get her to slip an arm around him.

But he wasn’t playing any games. He appeared really frightened.

“It’s the way the portrait’s painted,” Allison assured him, but she found herself staring up at Bradley again. She never came into this room when she was alone, locking up and setting the alarms for the night. She always stood in the doorway, glanced in and moved on. While the house was equipped with a modern alarm system, they were supposed to make sure no visitors tried to stay on to defy the ghosts of the mansion.

Legend had it that Beast Bradley had thrust his knife straight into the heart of Lucy Tarleton in the grand salon; he’d killed her there while her father had wept for her life and been forced to watch. To add to the cruelty of the act, he’d left Angus Tarleton alive to hold his dying daughter. According to history—in this case, the accounts that were handed down by the survivors—Brian Bradley hadn’t killed Lucy for her patriot escapades. He’d killed her because he’d discovered she was false to him, that she wasn’t in love with him at all.

Before the arrival of the British, Lucy was about to become betrothed to another patriot, Stewart Douglas, who had fled the city with other American soldiers. It was a sad tale, one Allison would share in a few minutes when she’d gathered her people in the foyer again.

“Todd, this is a creepy picture of a man who was apparently a monster, which had far more to do with him than with the fact that he was British. Horrendous incidents, beyond any code of warfare, have taken place during just about every conflict in history. But the British weren’t monsters, and neither were the colonists. Most of the evidence we have says that Bradley did behave abominably, and—”

“How did he die?” Todd asked her.

“Actually, no one knows, but it’s presumed that he was killed in the fighting soon after the British abandoned the city. Howe was furious with him for his brutal actions in Philadelphia. They argued before the Battle of Saratoga, and he disappeared from history,” Allison said. “A few letters that mention him have been preserved, and some suspect he might have been killed by his own men. Those letters suggest he was a brutal commander, as well. Way, way, way back, he was related to the Royal House of Hanover, and he seemed to think he was entitled to his behavior through the divine right of kings—even though he was certainly not a king and never going to be one.”

“He’s still here,” Todd whispered. “He’s still here.”

She did set an arm around his shoulders. Allison was about five-ten in her two-inch Colonial pumps, giving her a bit of height over him. “Todd, that was then, and this is now, and you need to see the rest of the house, learn about the history, and have fun with your family tonight. The historic tavern restaurants, where they serve in Colonial garb and entertain with flutes and old jokes, are really fun. You’ll enjoy that.”

He shook his head, gazing at the painting as if drawn to it.

She led him firmly from the study. “What happened to the house after the British left?” he asked.

“Angus died a year after his daughter. She had a younger sister, Sophia, who married a fine American soldier, Tobias Dandridge, and they inherited the house. It’s now owned by a private corporation called Old Philly History, and there’s still a descendent on the board of governors. The house stayed in the family until 1930, when the owner formed this corporation. That’s why so many of the original family pieces have been preserved.”

She’d managed to get Todd back into the foyer, and she smiled at him as she related the history of the house she’d just given him.

“Now, the upstairs. We’ll go up together and I’ll wait in the hall while you look in all the rooms,” Allison said cheerfully. “The master bedroom is at the far end of the house, but the one everyone finds most interesting is Lucy’s room, on the right side of the staircase. She and her sister both had grand rooms with large dressing rooms. There’s a 1700s tub in Lucy’s room, which is authentic to the house.”

She sent them off and waited, watching Todd. He ignored all the rooms except for Lucy’s.

He came back to stand by her. “I saw her picture on the wall. Lucy’s picture. You look like her.”

“I think a lot of women do when they’re dressed like her,” Allison said.

Todd nodded solemnly. “Maybe. But you mostly.” He studied her for a moment and then whispered, “Someone else died in the study, right?”

She shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, the family had gone on a ghost tour last night. Though the house itself was closed to these ghost tours, they all walked by it and embellished the tales that went along with it. Personally, she thought the truth was far more haunting than anything they could make up.

“A lieutenant who fought in the War of 1812 came here when he was wounded, and he died soon after. Another soldier on the Union side in the Civil War also died in that room. And yes, one of the Dandridge girls died there in 1890—she took poison to commit suicide.”

“And a few years ago, one of you was found dead in the room, right?” Todd asked her, wide-eyed.

“I’m going to give all this information when the tour gathers again,” she told him.

“Right?” he persisted. She felt acutely uncomfortable. Every old house had its history. Naturally some of it was sad and even distressing.

“Angela Wilson did die in that room. She had a heart attack while locking up one night.”

Todd regarded her solemnly. “She died sitting at Angus Tarleton’s desk, didn’t she?”

“Yes, Todd, she did. She sat down—she must have been winded. Like I said, she died there of a heart attack.”

“And somebody else died in the house, too,” Todd said. “A couple of years ago.”

She inhaled a deep breath. “Yes,” she admitted. “It was really a tragedy. A young college student decided to hack into the alarm system. The police believe he was pledging for a fraternity. He tried to break in and did something wrong with the alarm, and he was electrocuted. Everyone involved with the house was appalled, but—”

“And there was another guy. The woman on our ghost tour told us. One of the curators or guides or whatever you’re called.”

“That was in 1977. He fell down the steps and broke his neck,” Allison said.

“Fell? Or was pushed? I bet Beast Bradley pushed him!”

“Oh, Todd. Beast Bradley’s been gone for over two centuries. He’s not hanging around here trying to kill people.” Allison shook her head. “The house has been here for a long time, and over time, bad things happen.”

Todd frowned at her. “I think he is. I think he wanted to stay in Philadelphia, and he wanted to marry Lucy Tarleton, but she hated him. So he killed her, but he still didn’t want to leave the house. It was supposed to be his house. So he came back here when he died. And now he kills people!”

There was something about the boy’s insistence that made Allison uncomfortable. She loved the house, and she loved working here. She didn’t need this job; she’d gotten her degrees in history and was a college lecturer who also wrote articles and was currently doing research for a book. She worked at the house because she loved the people part of history, loved understanding the realities and nuances of everyday life far more than dates and figures. She’d grown up farther down on Chestnut Street and had admired this place all her life, and as a result she could answer questions that few others could. She’d respected the house, and she’d never wanted to sensationalize it by writing ghost stories. Like any historical place, it had an aura about it. She felt that same aura standing next to the Liberty Bell or when she went into Independence Hall, or any of the sites around the world where people had once lived and passionately taken part in the shaping of destiny. She couldn’t believe that Todd was suddenly making her afraid of this house.

“Like I said, bad things happen, Todd, and they happen everywhere. That’s why we go through life trying to drive properly, cross the street only when the light is green and take care of our health—because human beings are fragile.” She smiled. “I work here three days a week, and sometimes more, and nothing has ever happened to me. I usually close up by myself, too, and I’m just fine. And I’ve never seen a ghost.”

Todd looked at her oddly. “He likes you. He might not always like you, but he likes you right now. He likes women.”

The way the boy spoke was unsettling, and she told herself he was heading back toward being a raunchy preteen, acting in a manner that was natural for his age.

His mother walked up to them a moment later. “I’m Todd and Jimmy’s mom, Haley Dixon,” she said. “I’m so sorry if the boys have been bothering you. As you’ve probably heard, we did the ghost tour last night. There are all kinds of stories about this place, and they’re boys, and…” Her voice trailed off.

“Mrs. Dixon, Todd’s been asking me about the house, and he’s a good listener,” Allison said.

Haley Dixon smiled at her son. “Todd, I’m glad you’re curious, but we have to leave Ms. Leigh alone and allow her to give everyone her information at the same time.”

She seemed a pleasant woman, and a good parent, slightly at a loss as to what to do with a couple of boys. Her husband, viewing some of the portraits on the wall, turned. Grinning, he came over to join them, slipping an arm around his wife. “Artie Dixon, Ms. Leigh. You do a wonderful tour. Forgive my sons, please, if they’re too inquisitive.”

“No such thing in this house,” Allison assured him. But she stepped back to include her whole group. “All right, everyone, gather around and I’ll give you all the grisly details on some of the sad and tragic occurrences here, since it seems the ghost story guides are beating us to it.”

She told them about the soldiers, then reminded them, “In the past, many women died in childbirth. It was the norm to have your baby at home, so several of them died here. Many family members died of illness or simply of old age. Remember, all human beings are mortal and leave this world in some fashion!” She tried to speak lightly, looking at Todd. “Now, we’re going down the rear steps to the old food preparation room, and then we’ll head to the back to see the outbuildings.”

Allison managed to get her group out to the yard. The property still consisted of about an acre, with the majority of the grounds in the back. The kitchen stood off to her left, behind the dining room, with a covered path between them. It was a one-room kitchen, large with a massive hearth and spit and a multitude of rafters from which pans and cooking utensils hung. Glass-frosted cupboards showcased the family’s fine china and several sets of silverware, and one of her group murmured that it was probably the most complete example of an upper-class Colonial kitchen she’d ever seen.

They went across another, broader path to the carriage house. There were no horses now, but there were stalls and tack and three eighteenth-century carriages. As Allison let the group look at them more closely, Haley Dixon came up to her.

“There’s a ghost horse here, too, or so they said last night,” she told Allison, sounding a little apologetic.

Allison sighed. “Firewalker. He brought Stewart Douglas racing back to the house, heedless of the British after he heard that Bradley had threatened Lucy. Stewart was the man she really loved. She’d urged him to take the horse after he snuck into the city to see her once, because Firewalker was such an exceptional stallion he could sail through enemy lines. Firewalker was born and bred on the property, and carried Lucy Tarleton on many of her journeys in the middle of the night, when she rode out to bring information to the Revolutionary troops. He survived the war and lived to a ripe old age, then died here in the arms of Lucy’s sister, which means, of course, that we have a ghost horse. We have a ghost hound, too. With the imaginative name of Robert. He was Lucy’s, and when Bradley went to kill her, the hound tried to kill him. Naturally, the dog died, as well. We probably even have haunted squirrels,” Allison said.

Haley Dixon laughed. “I guess. It’s strange. The house is strange because so much happened in it. I’m not sure I could hang around here alone at night.”

Allison shrugged, smiling. “You get used to it, really.”

She announced to her group that she’d show them the graveyard next.

The family burial ground was a popular destination. Lucy Tarleton herself lay in a handsome private Tarleton crypt in a beautifully sculpted tomb. Allison described the workmanship and explained that it was common for wealthy families to have their own graveyards. She noted that Todd didn’t want to be in the cemetery; she was shocked to realize that she was anxious to end the tour herself.

It was finally time to usher her people out, but Allison was still disturbed by the way Todd looked at her as he left with his family. They were the last ones out the back gate, and he lingered. “A ghost can’t follow you home, can it?” he asked in a whisper.

“I don’t think so. I mean, if we do have ghosts, I imagine they’d just hang around here. Have fun tonight! Pinch a tavern wench somewhere, okay?”

He grinned at her. “You don’t mean that.”

“No. She’d slap you. But go forth and have fun and be a kid!”

When they were gone at last, she hurried into the house through the back door. She found Jason Lawrence in their small employee quarters behind the main pantry.

He had removed his Colonial garb and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that promoted his favorite band.

“Hey, you holding up okay?” he asked her.

“Yes, but it’s nice when four people actually work on the busy days,” Allison said. “We could’ve used Julian. I understand why Annette had to go—poor thing. She looked like she was in so much pain.”

Jason was an attractive young man, about three years her junior at the ripe old age of twenty-four. They’d been friends since they’d met, and although they had great chemistry together, it wasn’t sexual. They were friends. He raised his brows and let out a sigh. “We may all love him for being a clown and a prankster, but Julian can also be a total pain in the ass,” he said. “He thinks he’s going to get rich and famous—and that we’re all going to be grateful just to have known him. But you have to speak to him or to Sarah or someone else on the board, because this isn’t fair.”

“I’ll try talking to him first,” Allison said. “And then, if he doesn’t start acting more responsible, I will talk to Sarah.”

Jason nodded. “Mind if I scoot?”

“Hot date?”

“I hope so.”

“Go.”

“I hate to leave you alone…”

“I’ll make a run-through and set the alarm as I head out.”

“I’ll lock the back door. The back gate’s locked, right?”

“Yep. I can just hit the alarm and dash out the front.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek and she heard his footsteps on the hardwood floor as he went to lock up. She heard him as he moved through the house, and she heard the front door close as he left.

To her annoyance, she was suddenly frightened in the house. She silently chastised herself. Todd was at the age when he wanted to be a sexual lothario one minute, and a kid spooked by a campfire tale the next. She wanted to rip off her dress and stomacher and change into her comfortable jeans; instead, she decided to hurry up and check the house, then get out of there.

She glanced over the room and went out, locking the door. She walked past the dining room and the grand salon and returned to the foyer. Looking up the stairs, she knew she wasn’t going up to make sure she’d left no scared toddler or would-be ghost hunter in the house. She knew that every man, woman and child on her tour had departed through the back gate.

A sense of something dark and evil seemed to have drifted over her, and she wished she could call Jason back. As she crossed the foyer, she stopped.

She’d heard a sound. A ticking or a…scrape or…

It was coming from Angus Tarleton’s study.

She didn’t want to look. She wanted to rush to the front door, hit the alarm and run home, run out of the house screaming....

How ridiculous!

It might have been an air-conditioning vent or…wood settling. There were probably dozens of technical or architectural things it could be.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head, annoyed again that Todd had managed to unnerve her like this. She was a sensible and responsible human being, a historian.

She walked to the room and looked in.

And a scream, shrill and horrified, tore from her throat.

Julian Mitchell had returned to the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

2

Tyler Montague’s first impression of Allison Leigh was not a good one.

But then, the woman had apparently been at the house where a friend had died—either accidentally or through a very bizarre form of murder—for hours before coming down to the police station to deal with more paperwork.

She hadn’t been accused of murder, not yet. Probably because the police and the pathologists couldn’t quite figure out how a woman her size could have managed it. Julian Mitchell had been big, tall, well-muscled. For her to have dealt with the weapon and the man would have been a nearly impossible feat.

She had dark hair, so sleek and deep a brown, it appeared black. He assumed she’d started the evening with her hair neatly tied back but now it was tumbling down around her shoulders beneath an eighteenth-century-style mobcap. Allison was dressed in the daily wear of an upscale Revolutionary-era citizen—a robe à l’Anglaise, he believed they called the gown—and looked exhausted. She was seated at a table in one of the interrogation rooms, a cup of coffee in front of her, and when he arrived, she had her head down on one arm.

“Ms. Leigh knows you’re coming to talk to her,” a quiet voice said at his side.

Tyler turned to look at Adam Harrison. Adam had to be close to eighty, but he walked with the ease of a much younger man and stood straight as a poker. His eyes were a very gentle blue, showing signs of a smoky color that might have come from his age. He had snow-white hair, and his suit was casual and in impeccable taste. He’d arranged for Tyler’s Krewe to be called in because of Ethan Oxford, an old friend of Adam’s with whom he’d served on many philanthropic boards over the years.