The Mystery Guest

“Molly? I’m not a murderer. I’m not even a thief. That you could think I’d stoop that low, well…that breaks my heart.” Mr. Preston reaches across the table for my hand. “The only thing I’m guilty of is not confessing to you earlier that I knew Mr. Grimthorpe. And the day after he died, I walked past the pawnshop on my way home from work and saw a first-edition copy in the display window. It was listed at an astronomical price. That gave me the idea to sell my own copy. Plus, I’ve always despised Mr. Grimthorpe, so why keep his book? Your gran used to preach patience, but she put up with too much working in that coldhearted place, especially when Grimthorpe was drunk. She thought if he could just get sober, everything would change, but she was mistaken. Mrs. Grimthorpe trusted almost no one near her husband, just your gran and his personal secretary. She said they were the only women besides herself strong enough to deal with his antics. For a long time, your gran stood by the Grimthorpes. But even she saw the truth in the end. Grimthorpe was a vile and odious man, not worthy of her loyalty. And Mrs. Grimthorpe let your gran down, too. They both betrayed her in different ways.”

“Gran never told me any of this,” I say.

“No. She wouldn’t have. She was ashamed, humiliated. She wanted to put it all behind her, make a fresh start.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it relates to what I’ve been trying to tell you for some time.”

“That you knew me. Before. When I was a child at the Grimthorpe mansion. I get it,” I say.

“That’s only part of it. I remember you, the brave little girl who held her grandmother’s hand and walked up the path of roses. That same little girl made the reverse trip one day to stand in front of the cameras at the gate and deliver a gift to the gatekeeper. Do you remember?”

Of course I remembered. How could I ever forget the kindness of that stranger? But I didn’t know who I was speaking to. I had no idea at the time.

My stomach churns and agitates. “Mr. Preston,” I say. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.” Shame burns in my throat, and I struggle for a moment to find the words. “I’ve made an A-S-S, not out of U, but out of myself. I don’t know who stole that book from the reception desk, but I see now that it wasn’t you. And I see so much more than that. I’m terribly sorry. Will you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you? Molly, that’s a given. Now and always.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “There was something else you were going to tell me,” I say.

Mr. Preston pats my hand. “I’ve just told you a lot,” he replies. “Maybe it’s best we leave the rest for another time.”

“You won’t forget?”

He stares at me with his warm, watery eyes. “I could never forget, Molly. Never.”

Chapter 17

Before

I’m a little girl sitting in the darkness, frightened as her gran sobs unseen on the living room floor. It wasn’t Gran’s tears that frightened me. And it wasn’t the dark either. I was afraid of myself, of my infinite capacity for understanding things too late.

The sobbing stops. I can’t see Gran, but I hear her shuffling about. Then footsteps, the familiar creak of the vanity in the washroom, the sound of rummaging.

“Gran?” I call out.

“I’ll be right there,” she answers. “Stay where you are.”

More shuffling and footsteps. A raspy swish.

“Let there be light,” Gran says as she places a lit candle on a side table and begins to light the others at her feet, placing them at intervals throughout the room. The effect is wondrous, the entire room cast in an enchanting glow.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I lost my will for a moment, Molly, but it’s back. Tea?” she asks.

“The power is cut. The kettle won’t work.”

“We still have ice in the freezer, at least for a while. I can make the cold kind.”

She grabs a candle and heads for the kitchen. She rummages about as I sit motionless on the floor, listening to her humming as though all is right with the world. She emerges a few minutes later with a candle, two tall glasses, a pitcher, and some biscuits on a silver tray.

“Tea for two?” She places the tray on the living room table, sits on the sofa, and pats it.

I take my place beside her.

For the rest of the evening, we drink iced tea and eat biscuits. We cannot watch David Attenborough or Columbo, so Gran regales me with stories of fairies and princesses, lords and ladies, maids and servants who work downstairs. At some point, I feel my eyes closing. A hand wraps around mine and guides me to bed.

My gran. She was always like that. She always found a way to ignite hope. And what is hope if not the decision to shine light into the dark?

—

The next morning, the sun is up and candles aren’t needed even though the electricity is still cut, no hot water in our apartment either. I wash up with cold water, a cat bath, as Gran calls it, even though there are no felines in our apartment.