Page 16 of The Mystery Guest

“I didn’t harm it,” I say. “Look, it shines.”

“You’re an imbecile!” Mrs. Grimthorpe screeches, her bony finger still pointing at me as though I’m a five-legged toad or a two-headed calf, or some other unnatural abomination.

“She was only trying to help,” Gran offers.

“She’s a half-wit! She destroyed the value of a Fabergé! If I told Mr. Grimthorpe about what you just did, young lady, you and your grandmother would both be frog-marched out the door.”

“But Gran didn’t do anything,” I say. “It was all me.”

“Hush,” Mrs. Grimthorpe orders. “Do you not understand what it means tobe quiet?”

This is exactly the kind of conundrum that cracks my brain in two. How am I to stay quiet when asked a question?

Gran intervenes. “Madam, I can restore the patina. There are tricks any good maid knows. Mr. Grimthorpe need not find out. Don’t dismiss me. You know how hard it is to find reliable help these days. As you always say,Thingscan and willget worse.”

“You’ll never find a better maid than Gran,” I say. “Not ever.”

Mrs. Grimthorpe looks from Gran to me through angry, slitted eyes. “Your grandmother is loyal, sometimes to a fault. Unlikeothermaids who have passed through this house, at least she understands duty. But you, young lady, do not.”

“Please,” says Gran. “Molly made a mistake. That’s all.”

“If your granddaughter is to make it in this world, she needs tolearn there are consequences for her actions,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “The girl must be punished.”

“I agree entirely,” Gran replies. “She deserves a harsh punishment. The most severe.”

“Gran!” I say. I’m shocked that she should suggest such a thing when she knows I was only trying to help. But when I look at Gran, she puts two fingers to her chin, our secret signal meaning everything will be okay and that I’m to follow her lead. I stop speaking instantly.

“What I propose,” Gran says, “is that Molly work to pay off her debt to you. Children must learn their lesson, and what better lesson to learn than hard work, don’t you agree?”

Mrs. Grimthorpe’s face changes. “Hard work?” she repeats. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Molly will put her talents to good use. She will clean. At no cost to you.”

Mrs. Grimthorpe smiles, but it’s not the kind that reaches her eyes. “I suppose the punishment does fit the crime. She’ll polish the silver in the silver pantry,” she commands.

“All of it?” Gran asks.

“All of it,” Mrs. Grimthorpe replies.

“But that will take weeks!” Gran says.

“Yes,” Mrs. Grimthorpe answers. “It will.”

Gran looks at me in a peculiar way that I cannot comprehend. She’s glowing as brightly as the Fabergé. “Come, Molly,” she says. “Let’s go to the room where you will endure your severe punishment.”

My head is spinning. I don’t understand anything that’s happening, but I follow Gran and Mrs. Grimthorpe as they lead me out of the room and down the long corridor deeper into the labyrinthine belly of the mansion. We pass a massive ballroom on the left, a formal dining room on the right, a billiard room, and more thanone washroom. Finally, the ample corridor opens into the largest, cleanest, most magnificent kitchen I have ever seen, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a glass conservatory and gardens beyond that are so green and manicured they look like something out of a fairy tale.

“Keep up, child,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says as she stomps to the far end of the kitchen. She opens a door and flicks on a light. The room is twice the size of my bedroom at home, with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with silver chargers, silver plates, silver bowls, silver teapots, silver platters, and countless sets of silver knives, silver forks, and silver spoons. This cannot be. How can one couple own so much silver? Have we just entered a pirate’s trove or a dragon’s secret lair?

“This is the silver pantry,” Mrs. Grimthorpe announces. “The silver is tarnished. Filthy, all of it. I once fired a maid because she refused to polish it, said it was a waste of time. Apart from other ridiculous assertions, she also claimed the lye in the polish ruined her hands. Well, I never.”

“Gran,” I say. “Why is it you haven’t polished the silver?”

“Because your grandmother has other duties,” Mrs. Grimthorpeexclaims, “including taking care of the entire mansion and seeing to the copious needs of my husband. Do you understand that it’s a privilege just to be near an artistic genius such as he? By serving him, we serve creativity itself.”

I nod repeatedly to show understanding, then I raise my hand the way I would in the classroom when I have a pressing question.

Mrs. Grimthorpe sneers. “What is it now?” she asks.

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