Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited (3 page)

“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.