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  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF SIMONE ST. JAMES

  The Other Side of Midnight

  “No one mixes romance, mystery, and that faint, spine-tingling sense of the supernatural, that curtain lifting in a breeze that isn’t there, the hair prickling on the back of your neck, like Simone St. James. Her novels are the perfect combination of classic ghost story, historical fiction, and romantic suspense.”

  —Lauren Willig, author of the Pink Carnation series and The Ashford Affair

  “With The Other Side of Midnight, Simone St. James has once again crafted a headily atmospheric and suspenseful mystery that kept me reading until the wee hours. Her command of the period is so immersive, and her characters so real and heartbreakingly broken, that I felt transported back to the hard, cold gray years after the Great War, when its legions of dead and missing were a ghostly and inescapable presence, and the bright lights of the Jazz Age were but a fleeting distraction for the privileged few.”

  —Jennifer Robson, author of Somewhere in France and After the War Is Over

  “Simone St. James has created her own genre—historical gothic mystery romance, with more than a dash of the creepy. In The Other Side of Midnight, young psychic Ellie Winter and her partner, war-damaged veteran James Hawley, have terrific chemistry as they tackle the case of a rival medium’s death in 1920s London. But what’s truly haunting is how St. James uses the post–World War I period, and its poignant undercurrents of unresolved trauma and anxiety, to ground her story in real emotional resonance.”

  —Susan Elia MacNeal, New York Times bestselling author of the Maggie Hope Mysteries

  Silence for the Dead

  “Kudos for Simone St. James. I was swept away by this atmospheric and truly spine-chilling page-turner, a riveting tale of dark suspense. . . . If you love a good ghost story, you will be entranced.”

  —Mary Sharratt, author of Illuminations: A Novel of Hildegard von Bingen and Daughters of the Witching Hill

  “Vivid, eerie, and atmospheric. St. James’s latest will simultaneously tug at your heartstrings and send chills down your spine. Absolutely riveting.”

  —Anna Lee Huber, author of the Lady Darby Mysteries

  “Atmospheric. . . . St. James cleverly intertwines the story’s paranormal elements with what is now called PTSD, crafting a pleasurably creepy tale about the haunting power of the unseen.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Aficionados of the classic gothic style in the tradition of Victoria Holt won’t want to miss this atmospheric tale of romantic suspense.”

  —Library Journal

  An Inquiry into Love and Death

  “I thoroughly enjoyed it! I do like a good ghost story, and Simone clearly relishes and is steeped in the traditions of gothic fiction—in the best way. She conjures that secretive, hushed atmosphere perfectly, and the story kept me turning the pages from beginning to end.”

  —Katherine Webb, author of The Unseen

  “Another chilling story. . . . St. James delivers a quickly paced read that will satisfy both new and old fans.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A perfectly balanced combination of mystery, romance, ghost story, and history. Told in the first person, it conveys the lasting psychological and practical consequences of war movingly.”

  —RT Book Reviews (Top Pick, 4½ Stars)

  The Haunting of Maddy Clare

  Winner of the RITA Award for Best First Novel from Romance Writers of America

  Winner of the RITA Award for Best Mainstream Novel with Romantic Elements from Romance Writers of America

  Winner of the Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Novel from Crime Writers of Canada

  “Downright scary and atmospheric. I flew through the pages of this romantic and suspenseful period piece, where a naive city girl must brave a terrifying apparition in order to find justice and redemption for all.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner

  “An inventively dark gothic ghost story. Read it with the lights on. Simply spellbinding.”

  —Susanna Kearsley, New York Times bestselling author of The Winter Sea

  “A compelling read. With a strong setting, vivid supporting characters, and sympathetic protagonists, the book is a wonderful blend of romance, mystery, and pure creepiness.”

  —Anne Stuart, New York Times bestselling author of Shameless

  “A compelling and beautifully written debut full of mystery, emotion, and romance. . . . Great story, believable characters, wonderful writing—I couldn’t put this down.”

  —Madeline Hunter, New York Times bestselling author of The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne

  “This deliciously eerie, traditionally gothic ghost story grabbed me with its first sentence and didn’t let go until the very last.”

  —Wendy Webb, author of The Tale of Halcyon Crane

  “With a fresh, unique voice, Simone St. James creates an atmosphere that is deliciously creepy and a heroine you won’t soon forget.”

  —Deanna Raybourn, author of the Lady Julia Grey series

  “Chilling. . . . Fans of the modern gothic novel will enjoy filling up a few creepy hours.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Fast, fun, and gripping. Kept me up into the wee hours.”

  —C. S. Harris, author of the Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery series

  “Compelling and deliciously unsettling, this is a story that begs to be read in one sitting. I couldn’t put it down!”

  —Megan Chance, national bestselling author of City of Ash

  “An atmospheric and resoundingly old-fashioned ghost story that pulls you in from the first pages. . . . St. James’s writing evokes the time period without pretension, the pacing is just right, the ghost story plausible, and the love story important but not all-consuming.”

  —The Historical Novels Review

  “St. James deftly ratchets up the tension in this thrilling ghost story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Author Simone St. James has an entrancing voice that mesmerizes from beginning to end . . . filled with fascinating characters and unrivaled suspense in a gothic setting guaranteed to spellbind. This novel is a superb ghost-hunting story, unlike anything I’ve read in years. . . . Easily earns Romance Junkies’ highest rating. Don’t miss it!”

  —Romance Junkies

  Other Books by Simone St. James

  The Haunting of Maddy Clare

  An Inquiry into Love and Death

  Silence for the Dead

  New American Library

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

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  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Simone Seguin, 2015

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  St. James, Simo
ne.

  The other side of midnight/Simone St. James.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-62134-9

  1. Women psychics—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Women detectives—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR9199.4.S726O85 2015

  813'.6—dc23 2014031006

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Simone St. James

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from LOST AMONG THE LIVING

  About the Author

  This book is dedicated to

  the memory of author

  Mary Stewart

  (1916–2014)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my editor, Ellen Edwards, for your enthusiasm, dedication to my work, and brilliant ability to make my books better. To the staff at New American Library, including art director Anthony Ramondo and the team who creates my beautiful covers, as well as the editorial, publicity, sales, and design teams, I appreciate everything you do. Thank you.

  To my agent, Pam Hopkins, who is my partner in the crazy ups and downs of this business, thank you. Also my friends: Molly, Maureen, Tiffany, Julie, Michelle, you all know what you do for me. My mother, sister, and brother help me every single day. And Adam, who believed from the first that I could do it: There are no words for what you mean to me.

  Good mediums are rare.

  —Hereward Carrington,

  Psychical Phenomena and the War, 1920

  CHAPTER ONE

  LONDON, 1925

  The man who sat before me at seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening was lying.

  He’d come with an impeccable reference from a barrister client of mine, and though he was barely thirty-five, the tailoring of his three-piece suit and the glint of his watch chain spoke of success. He wore power easily in his posture and the set of his shoulders, like a man accustomed to it, and yet the problem he set me was not only trifling; it was false.

  He dropped his gaze to the table, where my fingers rested over his, and I took the opportunity to study his face undetected. Slender, clean shaven. Almost handsome, but not quite; something about the width of the temples was off, and an absolute seriousness marred his expression, suggesting no sense of humor. His brows were drawn down as though something weighed on him, and his mouth was pulled into a grim line, as if he was thinking of something terrible and new. Whatever his true reason for consulting a psychic, he was not giving it away.

  I glanced at the clock on the mantel. We’d been here for an hour already. I’d earned my shillings.

  The man looked up at me, uncomfortable in my silence. “I wonder perhaps—”

  “Hush,” I said. “You must not interrupt.”

  It never occurred to him to obey. “It’s just that—”

  “Mr. Baker, if you cannot let me concentrate, I have no hope of finding your sister’s brooch.” I gave him a stern look, the black beads on my dress clacking. I was prolonging things needlessly now, but he’d annoyed me, and I was admittedly peevish. “Please concentrate. Picture the brooch in your head. See it in as much detail as you possibly can. Picture where you last saw it.”

  He sighed, shifting in his chair, as if it hadn’t been he who’d come to waste my time this evening. “I suppose I’ll try again.”

  He would fail. The brooch he’d asked about did not exist; I’d known as much as soon as I’d touched him. What I didn’t know—what his touch hadn’t told me—was what he actually wanted from me. And here I was, trapped at the little table in my sitting room, hungry, my cold supper waiting for me in the kitchen. If this man didn’t want to be honest, then he could suffer in one of my hard chairs a little bit longer.

  I waited for a stretch of minutes, my eyes closed, as the clock ticked on the mantel. “It really isn’t coming very clearly,” I said at last.

  Mr. Baker, who was no more Mr. Baker than I was, squirmed just a little. “Perhaps I should come again another time.”

  “No, truly, I can find it. Sometimes it takes a little while, that’s all, and you must concentrate harder. Just a little longer . . .”

  “It’s quite all right.” He squirmed again, and from under my lashes I saw the first evidence of a conscience. “I’m afraid I have another appointment.”

  I shook my head in a show of frustration and lifted my hands from his. “But of course. We’ve run out of time, haven’t we? I’m sorry the brooch did not appear to me, Mr. Baker.”

  “No, no. You mustn’t apologize. I insist.” Now he seemed almost annoyed. His gaze wandered off and clouded over with disappointment, as if he’d expected something else entirely from this evening and was already forgetting my existence. “Perhaps I’ll come and try again another time.”

  I stood, pushing my chair back coolly. “You could, but that wouldn’t make an interesting story, would it?”

  He frowned. “I beg pardon?”

  “For your newspaper.” My peevishness was fleeing now, leaving only tiredness behind. “I assume you write for one. ‘Famous Psychic Debunked,’ perhaps? Or ‘Seer Bilks the Innocent of Money’ may also work. Though I can’t imagine why any newspaper would want yet another story about people like me.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” His outrage was convincing. He pushed his chair back and stood as well, and though he was only slightly taller than I was, he somehow seemed much larger. “Do you honestly take me for a journalist?”

  “Honestly? You don’t look like one. You dress too well, and your demeanor is wrong. Honestly, Mr. Baker, I don’t know what you are, but a journalist is the only kind of person who would go to elaborate lengths to get a referral, then come here and waste my time with a false story about a valuable brooch.”

  He went very still.

  I looked at his face. “Of course I knew it was false. Though if you like, you can publish in your newspaper that I have found the toy soldiers you lost when you were eight. That’s what you were really thinking about just now. Here it is: Your brother Tommy took them. He broke them in half and fed them to the dog while playing African Explorer.”

  There was a long beat of silence. I hadn’t meant to say that, not exactly. It had just come so clearly to me—the crisp fall day, the little boy roaring as he pretended the dog wa
s a man-eating tiger, eagerly snapping up Stanley and Livingstone. I wondered whether the dog had gotten indigestion from the enterprise. It seemed likely, though the vision didn’t specify. A shadow crossed the vision of the boy, something foreboding, but I pushed it away.

  Mr. Baker was looking at me with the shocked expression people wore when they first realized I was telling the truth. “There’s no way you could know that,” he said softly. “No way at all.”

  This was a telling moment. People came to me for answers, yet they were always knocked on their heels when I actually gave them. Some customers tittered nervously; others grew angry and defensive, accusing me of trickery or lying. Those were the dangerous ones. The truth, even one so small as the fate of a few wooden soldiers, affected everyone differently. You couldn’t predict it. It was why I kept my client list so select.

  But the look on Mr. Baker’s face was one I hadn’t seen before. He stared at me with a sort of profundity, as if I’d answered a question he hadn’t even known he’d been asking. And yet the revelation seemed to strike him as a blow, and his look of desperate misery almost made me step back. It was the look of a man who has just seen proof of hell’s existence, an answer to one of life’s deepest questions, and not the answer he wanted to hear.

  “Mr. Baker,” I said, keeping my voice level, “I’m asking you to leave the premises.”

  He swallowed, and something indescribably sad crossed his features. “If only you’d let me explain.”

  “There’s no need.” My voice rose almost to shrillness. I wanted no part of the sadness and desperation on his face, none at all. “I’m well acquainted with the local constable. If you don’t leave, I’ll have no choice but to send for him.”

  It was a bluff—the local constable thought me a hussy, when he thought of me at all—but Mr. Baker only looked ashamed. He took an expensive handkerchief from his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said, dabbing his forehead and looking away. “Good night.”

  And then he was gone, without another word to me, my front door shutting on the back of his well-cut suit. I still had no idea why he’d come, what he’d wanted, or even why he’d left so quickly. I told myself the most important point was that he had gone. You’re a woman alone in this job, my mother had taught me. You must never take chances.