The Mystery Guest

Now, I find myself on the outskirts of the city in a police cruiser chauffeured by Detective Stark. It gives me only an iota of solace that I’m seated in the passenger seat rather than beyond the bulletproof barrier in the back. I’m feeling very much like a little girl as I head to a place I never thought I’d see again, this time not with my beloved gran but with the imposing detective at the wheel beside me. My hands tremble. I grip the door handle just as I did all those years ago in a taxi on my very first visit to the mansion.

Before embarking on this trip, Stark made a call and spoke to a judge. She explained everything and argued for a search warrant, the corner of which is sticking out from the hidden interior pocket of her black coat.

“Is it far from here?” Stark asks as she surveys the road ahead.

“No,” I reply. “Just five minutes away.”

Stark nods, then surveys the various grand mansions punctuating the dense, forested suburb. “Bloody posh neck of the woods,” she says.

“Beyond my wildest dreams,” I say.

We round the last bend in the road, and the Grimthorpe mansion comes into view. “That’s the one. Up there.”

The monolithic, three-story mansion is just as imposing as it was when I was a child, with black-framed windows set in three rows—the terrifying face of an eight-eyed spider.

The detective drives right up to the wrought-iron gate. The black paint is peeling, rust setting in. The watchtower is a stone’s throw away, its tinted windows obscuring whoever is inside.

Detective Stark stops the car. We both get out and approach the gate.

The buttons of the hidden intercom are faded and cracked with age. “You have to buzz the gatekeeper,” I say. “He’s in that watchtower.”

Stark puts a hand on the gate and pushes it. It creaks open with ease.

“Oh,” I say. “Things have changed.”

I pass through the gate, following the detective.

We walk down the familiar path of blood-red roses flanking the driveway. The buds are beginning to open. They emit an ambrosial fragrance, hypnotic and treacly sweet.

“This place has seen better days,” Stark says. “Looks like Fawlty Towers.”

The mansion is in a state of disrepair—the façade faded and cracked. The roses are the only things that look tended at all.

We arrive at the imposing front door with the lion knocker, the brass blackened and weathered. The last time I was here, my tiny hand was tucked into Gran’s as we made our way to this landing. The memory hits my heart with a wallop.

“You knock, I’ll do the talking,” Detective Stark says.

I grab the mandible and pound three times.

Clomping footsteps, some shuffling, then the turn of the knob as the enormous door swings open. Standing in the threshold is a gray-haired man with protruding eyes and a leather tool belt around his waist containing an array of trowels, secateurs, scissors, and clippers. He is rounded with age, his body no longer an exclamation point but shaped more like a question mark. Regardless, when I look into those eyes, I recognize the man who stands before me.

“Jenkins? Is it you?”

“Molly? Molly Gray?”

“You remember me.”

“Of course I do,” he replies. “My Little Mite. The silver girl, polishing everything to perfection. Oh, that was such a long time ago. It was a dark place in those days. But you made everything shine.”

“You were kind to me,” I say, “though I was a bit afraid of you. I was too young to tell the good eggs from the bad.”

“You were a lovely little thing, filled with youthful energy. I used to listen in on the fanciful stories you told. Hard worker, too. Your grandmother was so proud of you. How’s she doing? Flora?”

“She died,” I report matter-of-factly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. She was a good woman.”

“The very best,” I say.

“So much for me doing the talking,” Detective Stark says with a sigh.

Jenkins turns his attention to the imposing figure on the landing. “And you are?”

“Detective Stark,” she replies. “I’m in charge of investigating the death of the owner of this estate. I was wondering who was in the mansion these days. Thought I’d pay a visit.”

“I’m afraid there’s no one else here but me at the moment,” Jenkins replies. “We’re waiting for the will to be read. I figure the property will go up for sale sometime soon. I’m sure Mrs. Grimthorpe is rolling over in her grave.”

“Jenkins, may I ask how she died?” I say.

“A stroke, five years ago,” Jenkins replies, “right after plucking a rose from her very own garden. As you know, Molly, Mr. Grimthorpe was always strange, but he got even stranger after that. More paranoid. Said without his wife his secrets would never be safe. He never did go back to the bottle, though. He made a promise to Mrs. Grimthorpe, and he kept it. I suspect that’s the only way he was ever loyal to her.” Jenkins pauses and looks down at a box by his feet. It’s filled to the brim with tarnished silver, trinkets, and paintings. “I’m clearing house,” he says. “I’ve received orders.”

He eyes Stark from head to toe. “So…do you have a search warrant?” he asks.