Page 38 of The Mystery Guest

“When Mr. Grimthorpe became a bestselling writer, he earned a small fortune,” she replies. She raises her crumpet but pauses before taking a bite. “However, he was rich even before his books hit it big. His grandfather was a wealthy investor and so was his father.”

In my mind’s eye, I try to picture Mr. Grimthorpe’s father, but all I can conjure is the mustachioed banker from my Monopoly game board.

“Do you think his family was kind to him?” I ask.

“I don’t know, Molly, but somehow I doubt it. What I do know is that Mr. Grimthorpe was an only child and that both his parents considered him a failure.”

“Did he fail at school like I did?”

“He was brilliant at school. And for the record, Molly, you’ve never failed in my eyes. But as for Mr. Grimthorpe, all he ever wanted was to write rather than run the family investment business. And a creative temperament was considered a curse to his family in those days. Mr. Grimthorpe inherited this mansion, alongside considerable wealth, when his parents died. But he also inherited a great deal of baggage, Molly, the emotional kind, which he carries to this very day. He may be Old Money, but that hasn’t brought him much happiness.”

A thought occurs to me. “Gran, if the Grimthorpes are Old Money, does that make us New Money?” I ask.

She laughs out loud, but I know she’s laughing with me, not at me. “My dear, we are No Money.”

Of course, I know that. I know it from the way we cut coupons and darn our socks. I know it from the rarity of clotted cream, from having a landlord who demands the rent, a public library we have to walk to rather than a private one in our home, and from the mismatched cutlery we buy from thrift stores rather than have handed down to us through generations.

It’s time to ask the question I most want to ask, the one that’s been burning a hole in my brain for days. “Gran, if Mr. Grimthorpe is such a genius, why does he hide himself away in the mansion?”

She cocks her head and looks at me in a funny way that I don’t quite understand. “Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes,” she says. “Have you heard that one before?”

“I have,” I say, “but I don’t see how it applies. Mr. Grimthorpe wears slippers, not shoes.”

“It applies to him nonetheless. And to you, my dear,” she says, as she grazes my cheek with her palm. “It means you can’t really know someone without experiencing all the things they have livedthrough. Make no mistake, Mr. Grimthorpe has reckoned with demons. He’s recovered now, but the darkness took over during his illness.”

“He was ill?”

“He was,” she replies. “Terribly so. And his affliction turned him into a monster for a time. But we survived all that. We made it through. Mrs. Grimthorpe and I helped him at the mansion, and he improved. He got clean, Molly, do you understand what I mean by that?”

I imagine sharp-winged gargoyles surrounding Mr. Grimthorpe as Gran and Mrs. Grimthorpe fend them off. “How did you shoo the demons away?” I ask.

“With patience and persistence,” Gran replies. “Mrs. Grimthorpe asked me to sit for hours by her husband’s bedside and read to him, which I did. It distracted him from the worst of his symptoms. I also served him tea, Molly, which was certainly not his beverage of choice at the time,” she says. “Tea is an amazing drink. I tell you, it can cure almost anything.”

“But what if Mr. Grimthorpe gets sick again?” I ask. “What if his illness returns?”

“There’s no need to worry. He’s recovered. And Mrs. Grimthorpe and I have forgiven him for any past mistakes made under the influence. But as a result of those dark times, he keeps to himself. Shame is the scar the demons leave behind. You remember that, Molly,” Gran says.

I look down at my half-eaten crumpet on the table. A moment ago, it looked so appealing, but it now appears congealed and grotesque on my plate.

“Are you finished with your breakfast?” Gran asks.

I nod.

“Good. It’s time,” Gran says as she puts a warm hand over mine. “To the mansion we go.”

—

All morning long, I work in the silver pantry while Gran cooks and cleans in the kitchen. She sings like a sparrow just outside the pantry door. Mrs. Grimthorpe is elsewhere, at least for now, which is probably why Gran is singing.

With each passing day, I’m becoming more skilled at using the lye solution and much less elbow grease to remove the tarnish on the silver. Today, I have elected to clean silver in the morning and read in the afternoon. I have completed buffing a full tea service, several serving trays, and an entire set of cutlery, right down to the final silver spoon, which I’m holding in front of my face. I study my image in the bowl, contorted and reversed, a warped world turned on its head like everything in the Grimthorpe mansion.

Someone appears upside down behind me in the bowl of the silver spoon—it’s Mrs. Grimthorpe, her frown turned into an incongruous smile. I face her as she surveys the newly polished wares on the table.

She tips her chin in begrudging approval. “You’re dismissed,” she says. “You may read your book in the library.”

I curtsy and leave the room, joining Gran in the kitchen, where she’s removing freshly baked scones from the oven.

“You’re doing a fine job,” Gran whispers. “Even Her Ladyship can’t deny it. Go on up, then. I’ll call you down later for tea.”

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