Dewdrops shimmered along the hedges lining Snicker’s Gap Road the next morning, conquering the devil within me that was out of sorts from my encounter with Burke Cameron and elevating my spirits when thoughts of Henry Conyers surfaced. At my side, Justin Elmont beamed expectantly. Just outside Hillsboro, we turned onto Short Hill Mountain Road.

      Elmont drank in the rolling fields to one side, the sun-dappled peach orchard on the other.

      “It really is isolated,” he said, a bit too cheerfully.

      Several dusty miles later, we took the branch leading to Tom Grigsby’s house. Once it dwindled to little more than a rutted footpath, we saw up ahead the stone house rising from a hillock crowned by towering oaks. Twin chimneys announced fireplaces at both ends of the of the dwelling. Though adequately attended, the building and grounds were not nearly so grand as those we viewed the previous day, but Elmont smiled broadly. I sensed that he was prepared to make this purchase without further discussion.

      Tom Grigsby lolled on the front stoop, awaiting us. As he stood, I caught a clear view of the stone threshold and gasped. “What curious markings! Are they Indian petroglyphs?”

      “Could be,” Tom said, affably. “Don’t know much about those things.”

      He shook our hands firmly, then ushered us into a short hallway. A staircase directly ahead climbed to the second floor. Off the hallway, a large kitchen, or great room, was built around an open hearth. A parlor with a formal fireplace was directly opposite.

      I studied the wide-plank flooring and the hand-hewn railings. “This is obviously one of the oldest homes in Loudoun County,” I said.

      “No doubt about it,” Tom agreed. “The master bedroom was originally at the rear of the kitchen, but I’ve turned that into a workroom. The kitchen is so large it can be used as a family room.”

      “What’s upstairs?” Before Tom could respond, Elmont bounded up the steps to see for himself.

      “Four bedrooms and two baths,” Tom called after him. “Watch your head. The ceiling slants down to the eaves in the rear.”

      “Bathrooms in colonial days?” I asked.

      Tom chuckled. “The early settlers had no indoor plumbing, I’m sure you know. These bathrooms were originally a sewing room and a nursery.”

      “You really want to sell this house?” I hoped to discover a hidden agenda.

      “Yes and no,” he said. “I’m fond of this place, but the new one intrigues me. I’d like to experience firsthand the advantages and disadvantages of an underground structure. If it proves to be the great design I think it is, I’ll build others.”

      “If this house were mine, I’d not sell in haste. Because of its antiquity, it’s probably worth more than you think.”

      Tom Grigsby rubbed the stubble on his chin. “You may be right. Some of the original weather boarding on the front is called ‘ship-lap.’ It’s wider and thicker than your standard clapboard with a flat finish nobody’s reproduced since the eighteenth century.”

      “Interesting,” I mused.

      Tom eyes burned into mine, signaling that he was about to share a confidence. Once he earned my full attention, he lowered his voice, “The wing at the rear of the parlor is even more interesting. It’s downright curious.”

      “Curious? What do you mean?” 

      “There’s a secret hiding place. You can’t reach the second story of that wing from the upstairs. The only way up is a staircase behind the bookcase.”

      He led me across the parlor to the wing, an informal sitting room where a floor-to-ceiling bookcase occupied the inside wall. My jaw dropped as he grasped hold of one panel and pulled it away from the wall to reveal a narrow door.

      In that instant, I shelved my dislike for Grigsby. “Can we go up?”

      “Not now.” He placed a forefinger across his lips. “And please don’t say anything to Elmont. The joy is in the pleasure of the hunt. Until I stood outside the house one day and sized it up, I hadn’t realized that a section of the second floor was unaccounted for from within. When I began searching for a way up, I tried every board in the house thinking that one surely would give way, but I overlooked the bookcase that appeared to be built right into the wall.”

      “You’d sell this house without explaining how to reach the upstairs wing?”

      “Absolutely. I bought it blind. Now it’s someone else’s turn. Besides, this wing is odd for other reasons.” Even though we heard Elmont shuffling about upstairs beyond hearing range, Grigsby modulated his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Now I’m a realistic person, but I’ve lived here for nearly five years, and every time I go up there, I get a strange feeling. Really spooky.”

      “The house is haunted?” My voice squeaked.

      “Hush! Not so loud.” Grigsby shot me a warning frown. “Tradition is that the Davis family who built it brought a large fortune from Wales and hid it nearby. It’s never been found, and some folks believe that the family ghosts will lead some lucky person to it.”

      “A family of ghosts? A lost fortune? That’s incredible!”

      “I thought so too, until I consulted the courthouse records. The immigrant’s will gives each child some land and ‘a key to the family treasure.’ If a fortune turns up, what a story!”

      I laughed. “You’re selling the house because you don’t like living with ghosts?”

      Tom grinned. “That’s as good a reason as any. I trust you won’t tip my hand. Especially when I say I’ll be happy to pass along to the Cameron Agency a good deal more than the standard fee.”

      I remembered Burke’s lack of concern about writing up a deal with Grigsby. “Does Burke Cameron know about this house?”

      Grigsby merely smiled. “Your employer knows many things, and he knows me well. Just promise that the staircase will remain our little secret.”

© 2004 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at