The Mystery Guest

In my stockinged feet, I tiptoe down the corridor to the parlor entrance with its open French doors. Inside, Gran is standing behind the tea cart she’s prepared for me. Standing on the other side of the cart is Mr. Grimthorpe. It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of his study, and that in itself is a shock, never mind that he’s on the main floor, talking to Gran in the parlor, addressing her in low tones. It seems he’s taken my advice after all and has come to seek her out for himself. But there’s something strange about what I see before me. I decide to watch for a moment, silent and out of sight.

I press myself to the wall in the shadowy corridor. I study Gran more closely. The way she’s standing is peculiar, rigid behind the tea cart, her hands gripping the handle, her face and knuckles white.

“You abandoned me in my time of need. What kind of a nasty woman would do a thing like that?” Mr. Grimthorpe asks. His voice is even and measured, but there’s something about it that makes my stomach churn.

“Mr. Grimthorpe, I did nothing of the sort,” Gran says. “My job was to see you through the worst of your withdrawal. But when you…when you…”

“When I what?” Mr. Grimthorpe asks, the last word coming out louder than the rest.

“I’m very busy today, sir. I have a lot of work to do for Mrs. Grimthorpe. I really need to go.”

“Because you serve my wife, not me? Is that it? Did my wife order you to stay away from me? Did you complain to her about me?”

“Sir, your wife and I agreed that since your recovery, my job here is to clean the mansion. And to cook. Nothing more.”

“Your job is to do as you’re told. That’s what I pay you for,” Mr. Grimthorpe says, taking a step toward the tea cart.

“You were getting better,” Gran says. “You were through the worst of it. That’s why I stopped coming upstairs. And just so it’s clear, I don’t blame you for…for what you did before. You were ill. The demons had their grip on you. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“I’m a changed man, Flora,” says Mr. Grimthorpe as his lips curl into a lopsided smile.

Gran relinquishes her viselike grip on the tea cart handle. “I’m truly delighted that you’re clean.”

“Clean. Meaning: sober, immaculate, pristine,” Mr. Grimthorpe says. “Remind you of anyone?” he asks.

Gran’s shoulders rise.

Mr. Grimthorpe slips around the cart with sudden stealth and grabs at Gran. It happens so quickly, I don’t quite understand what I’m seeing. It’s as though in an instant he’s transformed from a man into a wolf. His hands grope at Gran’s waist. His teeth flash white, and his mouth gloms onto her neck. What is he doing? Is he trying to eat her? Gran’s hands flail as she struggles to push him away.

I step out of my hiding place and rush into the parlor. “Gran!” I yell.

Mr. Grimthorpe freezes. He releases her instantly. His hair is rumpled. One of his monogrammed slippers has slid off his foot. It points at me like a deadly arrow.

“Pip,” Mr. Grimthorpe says. “I was just…inviting your gran to tea.” Casually, he slips his foot back into his roving slipper.

Gran’s mouth is tight. Tears pool in her eyes as she stares at me. She wants to speak, I can tell, but the words are caught in her throat.

“Tea is a fine drink, don’t you agree?” Mr. Grimthorpe remarks. “It got me through the worst of the darkness. Sweet tea with honey. Isn’t that right, Flora? A bitter man always craves sweetness. Care to join us for a cup, Pip?”

His eyes are steely blue, as they’ve always been, not bloodshot. He’s tall, lean, and well dressed, not hunchbacked and hirsute. He’s clean and looks respectable, not a wolf in sheep’s clothing. There are no piles of bones in the corners of his study, nor does he live on a bridge, terrorizing whoever wishes to pass.

But I see it now. I see it clearly as I never have before—how a man can be a man and a monster at the very same time.

Chapter 20

“Molly? Molly?”

It’s Mr. Preston, sitting beside me on a barstool, two hands supporting my back, keeping me upright.

Angela looks on, her face full of concern. She clicks her laptop closed.

“I’m all right,” I say.

“No you’re not,” Angela says. “You fainted, Molly. If Mr. Preston didn’t catch you just now, you would have fallen off your barstool and landed smack on the floor.”

I feel light-headed and foggy. Pinpricks of light twinkle in my peripheral vision.

“There, there,” says Mr. Preston. “Deep breaths, Molly.”

I breathe as instructed.

“She’s back in the land of the living,” Mr. Preston tells Angela, releasing his supporting arms. “No need to panic.”

“Look what a mess I’ve caused,” I say. “I brought filth into this hotel. I hired a rat, a rat named Lily.”

Mr. Preston swirls on his stool to face me. “Now you listen to me, young lady. Do not make the same mistake twice.”

“What mistake?” I ask.

“Assuming,” he replies. “You know exactly where that will lead. There’s only one way around it.”

“Which is?” I ask.

“Letting Lily speak for herself,” Mr. Preston replies.

“But she can barely utter a full sentence,” Angela says.