9

A Shriek in the Night

A knock at my door jolted me from sleep. I sat up and gazed around in the darkness. Where was I?

A deep, raspy voice called from behind the door. “Master Lambert, are you there?”

“I’m here,” I replied, scrambling out of bed. My legs became tangled, and I fell to the floor, striking my shin on the bed’s metal leg. With a stifled groan, I pulled myself to my feet, hopping around on one foot and biting my lip to stop from crying out in pain. I flicked on the light and gazed down at the bed. Where had that army blanket come from? I had fallen asleep on top of the thin floral bedspread. Had someone come into the room while I was sleeping?

I shivered.

“Is everything all right in there?” Lincoln called out.

“Yes, fine! Just a minute!”

“Lady Graverly wishes to remind you that you were expected for cocktails at seven.”

Uh-oh. “What time is it now?”

“It is 7:03 pm.”

No wonder I felt so groggy; I had slept for hours. “Tell her I’ll be right down.”

“The lady does not take kindly to tardiness, Master Lambert.”

I rolled my eyes. Why was he calling me ‘master’? “Duly noted, Lincoln. I’d prefer to be called Trevor.”

“Duly noted, Master Lambert.”

Through the wall I heard a burst of shrill laughter, following by hacking. Agnes. The stairs creaked as Lincoln descended them. Had Agnes covered me with the blanket? Lincoln was likely more inclined to smother me with a pillow after having been displaced from his room. Lady Graverly? Whoever it was, the gesture was appreciated, but from now on I was going to keep the door locked.

I stared into the closet, trying to decide what to wear. I would have loved to pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, but I had a hunch casual clothing would be greeted with a cry of horror. I selected a collared shirt, navy blazer, and grey slacks, then grabbed my toiletry bag and dashed across the hall to the bathroom.

To my surprise, the bathroom was clean and tidy. Had I dreamed its former state? I went to the sink and splashed water on my face. Several strands of long, grey hair were stuck to the basin. Lifting my head, I saw my reflection blurred by a streak of lipstick. Agnes wasn’t thorough, but at least she had made an effort.

When I arrived in the parlor, I found Lady Graverly seated in her usual chair before a roaring fire. “Mr. Lambert, how marvelous to see you!” she cried, rising from her chair to collect her kisses. She was dressed in her finery again, a yellow crinoline dress with a red ribbon tied around her waist.

“I guess we can dispense with the formalities now that I’m a resident,” I said as I sat down across from her. “Please, call me Trevor.” I waited for her to reciprocate, but she pursed her lips and looked away. “May I call you Elinor?” I asked.

She turned to face me. “I prefer to be addressed by my proper title, but you may call me Lady Graverly if you wish.” She gave me a reassuring smile.

“Fair enough,” I said, feeling like a cad.

A movement drew my attention to the corner of the room. Lincoln, who had been standing in the shadows, stepped forward with a tray containing a martini. Seeing that Lady Graverly was well into hers, I accepted mine gratefully, hoping it might alleviate the uneasiness I felt in these strange new environs.

“How is everything with your room?” Lady Graverly asked, her dominant eye peering at me over her glass.

“It’s perfectly fine, thank you,” I replied, sneaking a guilty look at Lincoln, who had his back to me. He reached up to place a martini glass on the shelf of the liquor cabinet, hands trembling, and almost knocked it to the floor.

“Did you meet Agnes?” Lady Graverly inquired.

“She hasn’t come out of her room. Is she not well?”

“She keeps to herself mostly. A typical Scot—temperamental, fiercely proud with little reason to be so, and a dreadful housekeeper. We may have to let her go. Pity.”

I sneaked another glance at Lincoln, who was now polishing a silver ice pick. Such talk was unwise in front of employees, who tended to gossip. Yet it seemed likely that Lincoln’s loyalties lay solely with his mistress.

“I haven’t run into any guests,” I said. “Are we expecting late arrivals?”

“Tonight we’re having a small lull. We have but one guest—a student, a horrid little creature from one of those vulgar southeastern states.”

“Kentucky, my lady,” Lincoln said, holding a brandy snifter up to the light. There was a chip in the rim, but he placed it on the shelf anyway.

“Lincoln, I feel a draft,” said Lady Graverly. “Kindly close the door on your way out.”

“Certainly, your ladyship.”

I watched Lincoln hobble out, and turned to her. “Is he blind?”

“Blind? I certainly hope not. I’ve never really paid much attention.” Her tone brightened. “Tell me about your charming family.”

“What would you like to know?”

She set her drink down and observed me, a bemused expression creeping over her face. “You aren’t like them, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“They are lovely people, of course. But ever so common.”

My fingers tightened around my glass. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“You, Mr. Lambert, are a true gentleman. You remind me of what my husband once was, what my son might have been. Do you ever feel as though you were born into the wrong family? Once in a while, the good lord makes a mistake. A blueblood is born into a common family, a commoner is born into a noble family.”

I was not sure whether to be flattered or offended. “I wouldn’t trade my family for the world,” I said.

“And why would you?” She gave an expression of distaste. “But those children, oh, how unruly they are!”

“They’re actually pretty good kids,” I said, chuckling.

“Chaos reigns in the presence of children. Yet they are a necessary evil; without children, there is no one to carry on the family name. For a bloodline to go extinct is truly tragic, don’t you think? Do you intend to have offspring of your own?”

“One day. Soon, I hope.”

“But you have no wife. Your heart was broken?”

I shifted in my seat. This woman had a way of dropping personal questions like comments about the weather. “We all get our hearts broken at some time.”

“Indeed.”

I had hoped our conversation might lead to an explanation of the demise of her husband, but her attention remained focused on me. “You are an old soul, Mr. Lambert. And so underappreciated.” She leaned toward me, her eyes intense. “Tell me, do you believe in destiny?”

The door to the dining room creaked open. Sir Fester padded in and hopped onto Lady Graverly’s lap. I watched her fingers, as thick and gnarled as the roots of bonsai tree, rake over the cat’s fur. She seemed unbothered by the cat’s scabs and patches of exposed skin. Sir Fester turned his head and gazed at me languidly.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘destiny’?” I asked.

“Entitlement. Justice. Being put on this earth for a purpose.”

“In a way, I suppose, yes,” I replied, deciding it wasn’t the right time to share my bleak views that life was random, a solitary journey with no purpose or meaning, a constant struggle to ward off chaos and alienation. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I think destiny brought you and I together.”

I thought of the comment I had made to Shanna: It’s fate. It was true that I felt a connection to the old woman, but we had been brought together to conduct a business transaction and nothing more. Instinct told me to beware, to avoid getting attached. I was growing weary of her cryptic intercourse anyway; I wanted answers to questions that had bothered me since I first toured the manor.

“Lady Graverly,” I said, “can you tell me about the rumors about this house?”

“Rumors? What rumors?”

“People say the manor is haunted.”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “Haunted? By whom?”

“By your husband.”

“How preposterous!”

“That’s what I thought. Forgive me, but I needed to ask.”

“Ghosts at Graverly Manor, imagine!” She tittered.

I leaned toward her. “May I ask what happened to your husband?”

Sir Fester bolted upright and scurried out of the room.

“Lord Graverly? Why, he vanished into thin air.”

“Didn’t you say he drowned?”

“That was the popular sentiment at the time, but I never believed it. I suppose it will remain one of life’s mysteries.”

I braved another question. “I heard another rumor, about a chambermaid who used to work here. They say Lord Graverly ran off with her.”

She gave a cry. “How could you say such a thing? Lord Graverly was a good man. He would never … ” She drifted off, lost in thought.

I felt awful for upsetting her, and yet I was surprised to hear her defend him, having assumed she felt nothing but bitterness toward him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

She did not respond. She sat, quiet and pensive, her fingers pressed to her lips.

I swallowed the contents of my drink.

Lincoln appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served, my lady.”

“Very well.” Lady Graverly pulled herself from the chair and headed toward the door. “Good night, Mr. Lambert.”

“We won’t be dining together?” I said.

“Lady Graverly takes her dinner in her private quarters, sir,” Lincoln said, turning to follow her into the apartment.

The door closed behind them. I heard the click of the lock.

I spent the next couple of hours in my room, folding and refolding clothes, arranging my meager belongings. I set a framed family photograph on the bookshelf and paused to observe it. My sisters and I were standing near the foot of the Emerald chairlift on Whistler Mountain. A trompe l’oeil made the chairlift look like it was about to strike us from behind and decapitate us. Placing the photo next to the stack of self-help books, I slid a pile of back issues of Hotelier magazine in front of it. My conversation with Lady Graverly was troubling me. I felt bad about asking such personal questions, forcing her to unearth painful memories she had likely buried long ago, but could she be that oblivious to rumors that seemed so prevalent outside of the manor? Either she lived in denial or had been spared the gossip.

As I puttered around my room, I heard the occasional cough through the wall, but otherwise Agnes kept quiet. Only a paper-thin wall and a few feet of wooden floor separated us, yet she hadn’t bothered to emerge from her room to greet me. I felt resentful of Agnes for ignoring me, and of Lincoln for being cold and distant, and of Lady Graverly for being secretive and elitist. It was going to be a long month. Yet I had not been the easiest guest. I had caused havoc upon arrival, had displaced Lincoln from his room, had arrived late for cocktails, and had pried into her personal affairs. I resolved to be more respectful in the coming weeks.

Just past ten, forced by hunger to leave my room, I crept downstairs to the kitchen to forage for food. On the stovetop, I found a large pot hissing and sputtering. Lifting the lid, I discovered a thick brown substance that vaguely resembled beef stew. It looked edible enough. As I searched for some bread to accompany it, I stumbled upon Lincoln’s makeshift bedroom in a nook off the pantry. A fold-out bed covered with a wool blanket occupied the space, surrounded by shelves stocked with canned goods, condiments, and bulk foods. On the lowest shelf rested a ratty old toothbrush, a disposable razor and shaving brush, and a tattered copy of the Holy Bible. Observing these sad little living quarters, I was glad I hadn’t complained about my own accommodation.

Back in the kitchen, I found a stale baguette in the breadbox, loaded a bowl with stew, and carried the items into the dining room. The stew was bland, but I ate voraciously. As I scraped up the last of the gravy, I heard the front door open. My spirits lifted at the prospect of company, anything to bring life to the house, but the footsteps climbed the stairs and faded off, and a hush fell upon the manor once again.

I washed up the dishes and nosed around the kitchen. It needed a good cleaning, but I was too restless to work. I thought of watching TV and realized I hadn’t seen a television set in the house. Deciding I could read in the parlor for a while, I headed down the hallway toward the stairs. As I passed the parlor, I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye and halted, peering through the beveled glass in the upper part of the door. To my surprise, a young, dark-haired woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties sat cross-legged in Elinor Graverly’s chair, reading. She lifted her head to turn the page, and I saw swollen lips and an upturned nose. Had Lady Graverly neglected to mention she had a hot young daughter? Or could this be the “horrid little creature” she had referred to—the student? Regardless, things were looking up at Graverly Manor. I opened the door.

Absorbed by her book, she didn’t look up.

I greeted her cheerfully.

Slowly, she lifted her head. How jarring to see this attractive young woman in the chair normally occupied by Lady Graverly, as though I had closed my eyes and made a wish. For a brief moment, I thought she had two black eyes, but then realized they were thick with mascara. Her hair fell in all directions from a plastic clip. She gave me a quick once-over, grunted hi, and returned to her book.

The fire had long since died, and the room was freezing, yet she seemed perfectly comfortable in yoga tights and a T-shirt. A silver skull with red jewel eyes grinned up at me from the T-shirt.

“I’m Trevor,” I said, taking a few steps into the room.

She looked up again, as though surprised I was still there. “Yeah, I know. You’re the new butler.”

I laughed. “Is that what Lady Graverly told you?”

“Lincoln told me you’re his replacement.”

“Well, I suppose I am, in a way. Are you the student?”

“Uh-huh. Clarissa Larch.” She looked back down at her book.

I did not have a book. To run upstairs and return with one might seem contrived, so I crossed the room and pulled down the lone book from the upper shelf. To my surprise, it was The Consummate Host. I wondered if my mother had brought it in from the van, not realizing I had leant it to Quinn. But it was caked with dust. Lady Graverly must have a copy of her own. Dusting it off, I carried it to the chair.

“Mind if I join you?” I asked.

“It’s a free world.”

I sat down. So she was going to be like this. Opening the book, I flipped to the introduction and pretended to be drawn in immediately. “Running an inn is like raising children,” the author wrote. “All of your own needs become secondary. Your work will never be fully appreciated. After you have invested your blood, sweat, and toil in the comfort of your guests, they will check out, and you’ll be left alone. Yet if you are anything like me, at the end of the day you will do it all over again, without hesitation, because you are a consummate host.”

The author’s words, however bleak, rang true. Perhaps I had been too quick to dismiss this book. I sneaked a look at Clarissa. She was pretending I wasn’t there, so I resumed reading. “The notion of a bed-and-breakfast originated in Britain, when elderly couples earned extra income by renting a room or two in their home to travelers. Today, bed-and-breakfasts come in all sizes and shapes. My inn is housed in a thirty-two-room castle in the outskirts of Greater London. In this book, I will share some of the lessons I have learned over the years, both as head of travel accommodation for the Queen of England for almost three decades and as innkeeper of my family’s castle.” I flipped a few pages. “Above all, the key to a successful inn is excellent staff. If you rent four or more rooms, I strongly recommend that you live in separate quarters. The smaller the inn, the more guests will expect the owner to interact with them. Having paid to stay at your inn, they should not be denied this privilege. However, it is essential to set parameters; your guests will find strange and unusual ways to occupy your time at all hours of the day. My sister-in-law manages—”

Clarissa cleared her throat.

I looked up and caught her eye briefly, but she jerked her head down again. I smiled inwardly, thinking she wasn’t as disinterested as she pretended. After a moment, she set her book down on the floor and stood up to stretch. I followed her with my eyes as she wandered to the bar in lithe, graceful movements.

“You want a drink?” she asked.

I rose quickly, having temporarily forgotten my role. “Allow me,” I said.

“No, god. Please, just sit down. I can’t stand people doing things for me.”

I retreated and sat back down. “Are you enjoying the manor?”

She turned to me and rolled her eyes, showing the whites of her eyeballs in a ghoulish display. “I can’t stand it.”

I was taken aback. “Why?” I asked.

“The house is fine, I guess. It’s the old lady who drives me crazy. She’s been scheming to get me out since the day I arrived. I don’t quite fit in with her target demographic.”

That was going to change the moment I took charge, I resolved, sneaking a furtive look at Clarissa’s taut figure.

“I could have stayed in a hotel,” she said. “My dad’s loaded. But hotel staff drive me nuts. All that obsequiousness—spare me. At least they leave me alone here.”

It was not the time to divulge my profession. Rubbing my arms, I said, “Aren’t you cold?”

“I like it cold. The colder the better.” She poured Canadian Club into a glass and lifted the bottle to the light. “If I go as much as a drop over, she bills me for a full ounce. She calls it an honor bar, but I swear she dusts the bottles for fingerprints. The night I arrived, I was so traumatized by the prospect of living in this old ladies’ knitting den, I sneaked a few shots of Cuervo. The next day, she slid a bill under my door.” She set the bottle down. “Please stop ogling me.”

I quickly averted my gaze. How could she know? She had her back to me. I looked back, searching for a mirror or a reflection in the glass.

“I said stop it.”

“I wasn’t! How do you—?”

“I can feel your eyes on me.” She returned to her chair, brandishing a snifter containing several ounces of whisky, and sat cross-legged again. She reached up to spruce her hair, as though the disarray were intentional. “Anyway, this place is ideal for my research, so I’m not going anywhere.”

I looked down at the book she had set on the floor, Legends of Vancouver. “What are you studying?”

She sipped her drink. “I’m working on my master’s thesis at the University of Kentucky. Right now, I’m reading up on Pauline Johnson, the poet. If you’re from here, you’ve probably read her work.”

“I’m sure I have,” I said, as though I read poetry all the time.

“She was half-Mohawk, half-white. She used to hang out with the first occupants of this house, the Denby sisters. Have you seen that photo on the second-floor landing of four women in a Studebaker? That’s Pauline and the sisters. She was buried not far from here, in Stanley Park. I visit her grave sometimes for inspiration.”

“Really.”

“Totally.”

It figured she was crazy. It was a good segue though. “Have you heard rumors that this house is haunted?”

She choked on her drink. “What do you mean by ‘haunted’?”

“Seen any ghosts drifting about?”

She shrugged. “I’m an insomniac. I’m up most of the night, and I sleep during the day only when medicated.” She lifted the glass to her mouth, sipped, and let out a cry, pressing two fingers to her lip. A droplet of blood trickled down her chin. I sprang from the chair and grabbed a napkin from the bar, bringing it to her. She took the napkin and pressed it to her mouth, soaking the monogrammed initials LAG with blood.

“Thanks,” she said casually, reaching for the snifter.

“I’ll get you another glass.”

“Forget it. They’re practically all chipped.” She rotated the glass and gulped down the whisky.

I stood over her, concerned. A delicious, intoxicating scent wafted toward me from her hair.

She waved me away. “Sit down, you’re making me nervous.” As I returned to my chair, she said, “Why, have you seen a ghost?”

“Me? No. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“We’re all haunted in some way.”

“I suppose there’s still time. I only arrived today.”

She inspected the napkin and set it down. The bleeding had stopped. Picking up the glass, she curled it in her hand, tracing its rim with her finger. I watched, mesmerized, fearing she’d cut herself again, but her finger stopped just as it reached the chip and turned in the opposite direction. An eerie wailing sound rose from the glass. She watched me watching her, and a trace of a smile formed on her lips, softening the glint of hostility in her eyes.

“So what makes you want to work at this mausoleum?” she asked.

“I’m buying it.”

“You’re buying this place?”

“Why so surprised?”

“No reason.” She set the glass down and stood up. “I’m going out for a smoke. I’ll see you later, maybe.”

“Wait,” I called as she headed for the door. “You never told me if this house is haunted.”

She turned. “There are no haunted places, only haunted people.”

“It’s not, then?” I said, feeling relieved in spite of my own skepticism.

“Oh, it’s haunted all right—haunted by a pathetic old lady in a red wig who’s still pining for her husband, as though he’s going to walk through the door after fifty years.”

I woke up with a start, lungs heaving.

The room was black. Reaching for my cell phone, I pressed the light, blinking to clear my vision. 3:20 am.

Something had awakened me. What? A piercing shriek. It was still ringing in my ears. Had I dreamt it? Pushing the blanket away, I climbed from the bed. The room was icy cold. I went to the window and parted the curtains. The moon glowed behind a veil of dark clouds. Down the street, a hooded figure was pushing a wheelchair toward the lagoon.

I turned from the window. In the light cast by the moon, my eyes caught the portrait of the mournful woman. She stared back at me, and for a chilling moment it struck me that it was she who had screamed.

Impossible.

Shivering, I climbed into bed and folded the blanket in half, hugging it around me. Curling into a fetal position, I willed myself back to sleep.

Another shriek sent me flying out of bed.

Crouching on the floor, I heard the murmur of a woman’s voice, then another shriek. Agnes. I flung open my door and pounded on her door.

“Agnes? Are you okay?”

Silence.

I thrust the door open. In the dim light of the tiny room, I could see two figures writhing on the bed. I grappled for the light switch. The ceiling light flickered on, exposing two naked bodies, a black man on top of a grey-haired woman. They were regarding me in shock.

“Lincoln?” I said. “What are you doing to her?”

“He’s givin’ me pleasure, ya lunatic!” cried the woman in a thick Scottish accent. “Now get the hell out!”

“I’m sorry! I thought—”

“Goo!” cried Agnes.

“Goo?”

“Go!” barked Lincoln.

I pulled the door closed. My heart was pounding. Lincoln and Agnes? Lincoln could barely make it up the stairs. How unexpected—and disturbing. Fearing the image of his ebony limbs tangled among her pale limbs and wild grey hair was forever imprinted on my mind, I pulled on a bathrobe and crept downstairs.

In the parlor, I tried to open the liquor cabinet in the dark, but the door was stuck. Switching on a lamp, I discovered a large padlock fastening the doors closed. Lady Graverly’s way of controlling beverage costs? Deciding a glass of milk would be better for me anyway, I headed through the dining room to the kitchen. The refrigerators were padlocked too. I went into the dining room and sat down. My first day at the manor had been a strange one, and there was only one guest in-house. What would it be like when the house was full? Only twenty-nine days to go, I reminded myself.

Cold air was streaming through cracks in the window frame. I stood up, trembling with cold, and made my way to the stairs. On the third floor, I stopped. Light showed beneath the door of the Edward VI room. I considered knocking but decided it would be inappropriate to disturb Clarissa at this hour. Reluctantly, I climbed the stairs.

Back in my room, I placed the lead-like pillow over my head, feeling like a patient getting a brain x-ray. Eventually, I drifted off, only to be jolted awake by a final ear-splitting shriek. At least I had solved the mystery of the haunting sounds of Graverly Manor, I thought dreamily. It wasn’t the dead Scottish chambermaid from fifty years past but the very-much-alive Scottish housekeeper in the throes of ecstasy, courtesy of the septuagenarian butler.