Page 31 of The Mystery Guest

“Bloody bugger and tarnation! Rubbish and gibberish!” I hear, the growl of a hungry troll on the other side of the forbidden wall.

I put down my book and tiptoe toward the voice. I know I shouldn’t. I’ve been told not to touch that wall, but I lay my hand on the Oxford dictionary and press my ear against theAtlas of the Worldso I can hear the troll more clearly. No sooner does my hand make contact than something gives way. The wall springs open.

“AHHHhhhhhhhh!” I scream as I jump back in surprise.

“Wahhhhhhh!” I hear in deep echo.

Before I can even process what’s happened, I’m standing in front of a lean, rickety man seated at a colossal mahogany desk between two looming stacks of Moleskine notebooks. His salt-and-pepper hair is wildly unkempt, his steely blue eyes are drilling into mine with a look that, if I’m not mistaken, betrays either cannibalistic intent or abject confusion.

My hand trembles on the Oxford dictionary, but I cannot let it go because the entire bookcase is in fact a hidden door that I’m propping open with my hand.

“Who in the dickens are you?” asks the being before me as he clutches a black-and-gold fountain pen, wielding it above his head like a knife. I cannot quite tell if he’s going to stab me or take notes, but when I look at his hand, I notice I’m not the only one trembling.

“Speak!” he booms. “What are you doing here?”

I fear my very life depends on my answer, and yet I’m not sure what to say.

“I’m…I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” I say. “I mean no harm.”

“Who are you?” he growls. “To whom do you belong?”

“To my gran?” I say. “She works here.”

“The maid?” he asks.

“Yes. The maid. I’m her granddaughter. My name is…” I suddenly remember that Gran expressly forbids me from telling strangers my name.

“Call me Pip,” I say, punctuating this with a wobbly curtsy.

“In that case,” he replies, “I shall expect great things from you.”

I look at him for a moment, afraid that doing so might convert me to dust. “Are you a troll or a man?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“How refreshing. Never have I been asked that question so directly. I’m a bit of both, I suppose,” he says. “I’m what’s known as a misanthrope.”

“Misanthorpe,” I repeat. “M-I-S-A-N-T-H-O-R-P-E.”

“Incorrect. You’ve confused it with Grimthorpe. You’ve reversed two letters.”

I look carefully at the being before me. He’s thin and lithe, with no facial hair at all. His skin is pale and smooth. His teeth are straight and clean, not pointed, bloodthirsty fangs. His hair is unruly and might be possessed, but he himself is dressed neatly in a button-down blue shirt, pressed slacks, and monogrammed corduroy slippers. My eyes flitter around the spartan room, taking in the details. There’s a reading chair in the corner piled with newspapers. There’s the desk, with the looming piles of black Moleskines stacked on top. There’s also a bookcase on the far wall, every spine sporting the name J. D. Grimthorpe. Though the study is far from tidy, there are no bones of children or other small mammals strewn about. There is no evidence whatsoever of overt monstrosity.

“You’re not a troll,” I say. “You’re a man. You’re Mr. Grimthorpe, the very important writer who should not be disturbed.”

He crosses his arms and scrutinizes me. “Is that what she told you? My wife?”

I nod.

“Well, then,” he replies. “What an enormous privilege for you to be in the presence of such hallowed greatness.” He stands from his desk and offers a bow. “I suppose she also told you never to come into my study.” He slaps his pointy pen down on his desk, much to my relief. Then he walks in front of his desk and perches on it, right between the teetering stacks of black monogrammed Moleskines. He glares at me with his two steely blue eyes, one of which I saw yesterday through the crack under the door, though I can’t be sure which eye it was.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I explain. “I heard a voice. I didn’t know your study was behind the wall. I was sitting in the library reading a book.”

“Reading? What were you reading?”

“A book about a child with no mother or father, just like me.”

“Ah yes. I see.Great Expectations.Precocious.”

“Precocious,” I repeat. I know this word. I’ve been called it before. “Meaning: clever, intelligent. Ahead of one’s peers.”

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