12

Private Parts

On Wednesday morning, I came downstairs at six fifteen, expecting to have plenty of time to prepare breakfast, only to find the Wainrights seated at the dining room table.

“Good morning!” Mrs. Wainright hollered, turning to her husband. “Look, Chuck, it’s the bellboy who was so kind to us last night!”

Mr. Wainright nodded and half-lifted his hand in a wave.

“Can I get you started on some breakfast?” I offered.

Mrs. Wainright, looking pretty in a buttercup-colored dress and red lipstick, said, “I asked that woman in the kitchen for some tea, but I don’t think she speaks English. A bowl of oatmeal with a sprinkle of brown sugar would be just fine for Chuck—his stomach is very sensitive. And a slice of dry white toast and some fresh cut fruit for me. Oh, and a dollop of plain yogurt, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” I entered the kitchen whistling, expecting to find Lady Graverly, but a ragged-looking woman wearing a checkered yellow-and-white apron over a faded floral dress was bent over the oven.

“Top o’ the morning to you,” I said, recognizing Agnes’s straggly grey hair.

“I’m Scottish, not Irish,” she barked.

“Right, sorry. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Trevor.”

She closed the oven door and straightened, turning to me with a severe expression. “Oh, I remember ye, all right.” She looked to be in her early sixties, with a hooked nose and wrinkles like penknife stabs around her eyes and mouth.

“Again, I’m sorry about that. I thought you were being assaulted.” Feeling my face color, I went to the refrigerator and ducked inside.

“Wot are ye doing?”

“Making breakfast for the Wainrights.”

“Breakfast’s noot served ’til seven, and we doon’t take special orders.”

Her accent was so thick, I could barely understand her. “Not to worry,” I said. “I don’t mind doing it myself.” I wandered into the pantry in search of rolled oats. Lincoln’s cot was empty and neatly made. Pulling a container of Quaker Oats from the shelf, I returned to the kitchen. “Lincoln’s up and about already?”

“He stays at ’is girlfriend’s on ’is days off.”

“Oh. I see.” For an old guy, Lincoln was quite the ladies’ man. I sneaked a sidelong glance at Agnes to see if his philandering bothered her. She was making a ruckus, slamming drawers and cupboard doors, yet I suspected this was her natural disposition. The kettle was boiling, and I reached to unplug it.

She slapped my hand. “Oot! I make breakfast, you clean up. Here, take this.” She handed me a plate containing two burnt pieces of toast. “This better keep ’em quiet.”

In the dining room, I placed the black toast before the Wainrights with great ceremony, as though delivering a steaming quiche. Grabbing a jar from the buffet table, I liberally spooned jam into a bowl and slid it toward them. Even the smell of burnt toast made my stomach rumble. I would be obliged to wait until the Wainrights were finished before I could eat. Judging by how long it took Mr. Wainright to reach for the toast, my breakfast was a long way off. Taking a seat at the table, I inquired as to how they had slept.

“Chuck slept like a log, as usual,” Mrs. Wainright said, her head lolling slightly. “But I tossed and turned for hours. Such strange noises this house makes! I swear it’s alive and breathing. It was like listening to Chuck complain about his aches and pains all night.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t sleep well,” I said, watching Mr. Wainright concentrate on getting a piece of toast into his mouth. “We can move you to another room if you’d like.”

“Oh no, we’re quite content where we are,” Mrs. Wainright said. She reached to stuff the toast into her husband’s mouth and wiped his face with a napkin. “To think we slept in the same bed as Queen Elizabeth!”

Thinking she must be kidding, I gave a laugh.

“Will she be in residence today?” asked Mrs. Wainright.

“Queen Elizabeth?”

“Lady Elinor.”

“Oh, I expect so. You have a surprise for her?”

Agnes stormed in and slammed a plate of shriveled orange slices on the table, then stomped back to the kitchen and returned with a pot of tea. While splashing tea into two cups, she broke into a fit of coughing. Setting the teapot down, she leaned over the buffet table and hacked.

I scanned the food items on the table, making a mental note to throw them away. Still coughing, Agnes returned into the kitchen.

Mrs. Wainright looked disconcerted as she watched the door swing back and forth. She turned back to me. “I suppose I could tell you if you promise not to tell her. Chuck wants it to be a surprise.”

I held up my hand. “I promise.”

“Well,” she said, her head bobbing to Mr. Wainright and back to me, “in the Second World War, Chuck’s battalion fought side by side with the Brits in Normandy, and one of the soldiers Chuck got friendly with was Andrew Graverly, Lady Elinor’s late husband. For over a decade, he’s been looking up old war buddies. Most are dead now, but he likes to meet their families too. For years he tried to track down Andrew Graverly, but with no success. Right, Chuck?”

“I remember him, all right,” said Mr. Wainright in a throaty voice. “He was a brave little dickens.”

“A few months ago, Chuck read in the veteran’s newsletter about the death of Lord Wakefield Graverly,” continued Mrs. Wainright. “He recalled that Andrew had a brother who was a year older, and that he claimed to come from a noble family, but at the time Chuck had thought it was all part of his act. Andrew was quite an entertainer, Chuck tells me, and he liked to perform for the troops. Boys will be boys.” She pursed her lips and gave Mr. Wainright a reproachful look, from which I surmised that the performances were bawdy. “Well, our grandson George helped us track down Lord Wakefield’s widow, an American woman who lives in the family estate just outside of London. We went to visit her, and she was absolutely charming. She told us the brothers had lost contact years ago after a family feud. Lord Andrew had moved to Canada, and she was certain he had long since died. She said his widow still lived in Vancouver. Well, our George managed to track her down here, and Chuck sent several letters, but she didn’t reply. When we found out she operates a bed-and-breakfast, we decided it was a perfect excuse to visit the city. George made a reservation, and here we are. Isn’t that right, Chuck?”

Mr. Wainright lifted his head, eyes bulging. “Damned Kraut ambushed me while I was reloading my rifle! Didn’t see him comin’. I woulda been dead if Andy hadn’t shot him clear in the head.”

“Andrew saved his life,” Mrs. Wainright chimed in. “Chuck has always been grateful.”

“Just a little fella,” Mr. Wainright rasped. “Not your typical soldier. Real flamboyant. Made us laugh and holler for more.”

“Andrew was awarded the Victoria Cross for his bravery. Chuck can’t wait to tell his son about his valiant father.”

I turned and caught Agnes peeking through the open door. The door swung shut, and she disappeared. Turning back to the Wainrights, I decided I could save them some awkwardness with Lady Graverly. “I’m sorry to say,” I said gently, “but the son passed away.”

Mr. Wainright lifted his head. “Huh?”

“Dear god, what happened?” asked Mrs. Wainright.

“He was born quite ill, from what I understand.”

“How terrible,” exclaimed Mrs. Wainright, reaching over to rub her husband’s back.

I excused myself and left them to absorb the news.

Agnes was sitting on the back porch, smoking.

“Yer not serposed to be gossipin’ with the guests,” she said.

“I wasn’t gossiping,” I said through the screen door. “I was playing host.”

She only snorted.

I opened the door and sat down beside her, shivering in the crisp outside air. “So what brought you to Vancouver?”

“Me sister.”

“She lives in Vancouver?”

She flicked her ashes onto the cement steps, not answering.

“Do you like working at the manor?” I asked, trying another angle to get her to talk.

Two tunnels of smoke escaped from her nostrils. “I despise it.”

Another happy resident. “How long have you been here?”

“A week.”

“A week?” I had assumed she had been there for decades.

She nodded, stubbing her cigarette out on the brick wall, and went inside.

I sat still for a moment, enjoying the fresh air, and then got up. Agnes was no longer in the kitchen. A pot of oatmeal bubbled on the stove. Next to it sat a plate of sliced bananas and strawberries. It appeared that Agnes was more accommodating than she liked to let on. Spooning some oatmeal into a bowl, I carried it and the fruit plate into the dining room.

“Young man,” said Mrs. Wainright as I set the plates down, “would you be so kind as to help Chuck clean up after breakfast? My son requested a handicapped room, but there are no safety bars in our bathroom. I’m too weak to be much help to him anymore.”

“Uh, sure, of course,” I said with a note of apprehension.

“Did you hear that, Chuck? This fine young man is going to help you shower!”

Mr. Wainright stared up at the ceiling, eyes unblinking.

I returned to the kitchen, torn between sympathy for the former soldier’s frail state and trepidation over having to help him shower. Agnes was back, furiously scrubbing a pot at the sink.

“Does Lady Graverly take breakfast in the dining room?” I asked her.

“She always eats in her quarters.”

“Maybe I’ll bring her some tea, then,” I offered, angling for a way to get into the private quarters.

“You wouldn’t!” she said, reaching out to clamp her soapy hand over mine.

“Why?” I asked, unnerved.

She released my hand and turned back to the pot. “A lady comes in to prepare her meals on Lincoln’s days off,” she said matter-of-factly.

I returned to the dining room and helped Mr. Wainright up the stairs and into the bathroom. Mrs. Wainright and I undressed him. He was unable to step over the rim of tub, so I lifted him over. I turned on the shower and stood back, ready to assist where needed. He swayed precariously under the downpour. Realizing I had no choice, I asked Mrs. Wainright to leave and took off my suit, climbing in with him.

“Is everything all right in there?” Mrs. Wainright called from behind the door.

“Just fine,” I said, lifting Mr. Wainright’s arm to wash under his armpit.

“Do you need a hand?”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said. Showering with one senior was enough.

Early that afternoon, I was polishing the dining room table when the telephone rang. I had heard it ringing when I was in the Wainrights’ suite but had been unable to leave Mr. Wainright. Now I hurried out to answer it.

Agnes was mopping the floor next to the phone.

I snatched up the receiver. “Good afternoon, Graverly Manor. This is Trevor. How may I help you?”

“Trevor, it’s Hal Farnsworth from Historic Home Inspections. I got ahold of those blueprints from the city. Does Monday afternoon work for the inspection, say around three thirty?”

“You can’t come sooner?”

“Sorry, I’m booked solid these days.”

“Fine,” I said, glancing at Agnes, who stood hunched over the mop, one ear cocked in my direction. I turned my back to her and lowered my voice. “What did you find out about the private apartment?”

“According to city records, it was added in 1961, increasing living area by 1,965 square feet.”

The news was heartening. It was more living space than I needed, which meant room for expansion. “What about a basement or underground storage area?” I asked. “Did you find anything?”

“Let me have a look.” Hal grew quiet as he studied the blueprints. “Looks like there’s a cellar of some sort.”

“A cellar?” I glanced over at Agnes. She was staring at me, one eye bulging. I shooed her away.

“It might have been filled in when she added the wing,” Hal said. “According to these plans, the master bedroom sits on top of it. We can have a look on Monday.”

I thanked him and hung up, turning to Agnes. “Next time the phone rings, I’d like you to answer it.”

“I’m not serposed to.”

“Well, I’m the innkeeper now, and I’m telling you it’s okay. We can’t afford to miss any reservations calls. Just try to be pleasant on the phone, okay? And write everything down as legibly as possible.”

“If ye insist.”

“Thank you.” Sitting down at the desk, I opened the ledger and turned to today’s date, December 6. The page was blank. I flipped ahead. On the next page, I found what appeared to be a doodle in Lincoln’s near-illegible writing. On the following pages, I found no reservations whatsoever. Hadn’t Lady Graverly said the manor was always busy? Only when I reached a full week later did I find a reservation. “Heritage Tours, seven rooms, two nights, welcome cocktail, farewell dinner,” Lady Graverly had written in her florid script. At least there would be some action next week.

The mail slot on the front door opened and a stack of envelopes spilled to the floor. I got up and went over to gather up the mail.

Agnes hurried over. “All mail goes directly to the lady,” she said, trying to snatch the envelopes from my hands.

“Fine, I’ll deliver them myself,” I said, sorting through the mail as I walked to the door of the private quarters. Elinor Graverly seemed to have an aversion to paying bills; several envelopes were stamped urgent or final notice. “Why are these bills in the name of Lord Andrew Graverly?” I asked Agnes, puzzled.

“How should I know?”

“Fifty years is a long time to procrastinate over a name change.” I lifted my hand to knock.

Behind me, I heard Agnes gasp. “Yer not serposed to bother her.”

I turned my head to her. “Dare me?” Lady Graverly’s words echoed in my ears. Should you dare to disturb me here, I shall call this arrangement off at once. I lowered my hand, suddenly apprehensive.

“She’s noot there anyway.”

“Then why don’t we have a peek inside?” I whispered to her conspiratorially, placing my hand on the doorknob. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell.”

“You wouldn’t!” Agnes cried, backing away. The mop clattered to the floor. “No one’s allowed to see her private parts but Lincoln.”

The terror in her eyes made me lose my nerve. I crouched down to slide the envelopes under the door and stood up. “Why all the secrecy in this house, Agnes? Where are we, Bluebeard’s castle?”

She only shook her head and resumed mopping.

There were footsteps on the verandah. The front door opened and Clarissa entered, looking pale and gaunt in a black overcoat. I froze, embarrassed by our last encounter.

“Morning,” she said in a hoarse voice. She took off her coat, revealing a clingy black dress, and headed for the staircase. “I won’t need service today, Agnes.”

“As ye wish, Miss Larch.”

On the landing, Clarissa turned suddenly and caught me staring. “Oh, Trevor? Next time you need to get into my room, knock first, okay?”

“Yes, of course. I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t—”

“Perv,” she said, and disappeared up the stairs.

Agnes turned to me and let out a shrill laugh.

I shrugged as though I had no idea what she was taking about and hurried down the hallway to the kitchen. My face was on fire.

After waiting around for Lady Graverly all morning, the Wainrights departed on a sightseeing tour in the early afternoon.

I tried to get the computer working, with no success, and spent the next hour checking the house for leaks, cracks, structural damage, and any signs of what Mr. Chagani had referred to as a “sick house.” The inspector would do this on Monday, I knew, but I wanted to get a feel for the place sooner. To my relief, I found little of concern aside from general aging and wear-and-tear. The house appeared to have good solid bones. As for its soul, I was still undecided. Mrs. Wainright’s remark about the house being “alive and breathing” was troubling me. The house did seem alive—and not very happy. Sadness permeated the air like a foul odor, materializing in potent waves and evaporating before I could locate its source. I was certain that when the manor’s occupants left they would take all the sorrow with them, and the house’s good old soul would prevail.

I asked Agnes to do a thorough cleaning of the parlor, pointing out areas that had been overlooked, and she dedicated the afternoon to the task, uttering long-suffering sighs and curses every time I traversed the room. Around three o’clock I heard a fit of coughing and hurried into the parlor. Spotting me, she stopped hacking and dipped her hands into her bucket of soapy water, ringing the rag and wiping down the mantle.

“Have you seen a doctor about that cold?” I said, concerned.

“What cold?”

“Oh. Nothing. Carry on.”

“I’m going out to the back for a smoke.”

“Don’t be long. We’ve still got the dining room to clean.”

With a grumble, she retrieved her coat and rubber boots and went out the back door. An hour later when she had not returned, I went to look for her; she was nowhere to be found. Deciding she must have gone out for breakfast supplies, I took over the cleaning of the parlor. Her efforts had made the situation worse—the dust and grease that had originally lay unobtrusively on every surface were now mixed with soap and streaked quite visibly over the areas she had worked on.

As I worked, I thought of Lady Graverly. How many hours had she spent in this parlor listening to the tick of the clock, praying for her husband’s return? The isolation I had felt in previous days, temporarily softened by the arrival of the Wainrights, descended on me like a wet blanket. How lonely the manor felt; no Internet, no television, an old-fashioned phone that made callers sound worlds away. Yet the manor was in the heart of the city, surrounded by Vancouver life. When the clock struck five, I realized Agnes wasn’t returning today. I was alone in the house again.

Cocktail hour arrived and passed. I had hoped Lady Graverly would join me for a drink, but her side of the house remained quiet. With only the ticking clock as company, I scrubbed and polished into the evening.

Around ten, my phone rang.

“You were supposed to call,” Derrick said, sounding like a jilted girlfriend.

“Sorry, I forgot. I’ve been preoccupied with this house.”

“Try being cooped up with three-year-old twins and a depressed wife. You free Saturday? I’ve got tickets to the Canucks game. I thought we could go to the Roxy afterward for a few beers.”

“I wish I could, but there’s no way. I’ll call when things settle down, okay?”

“Sure, Trevor. Whatever.” He hung up.

The Wainrights arrived, and I helped them to their room, fetching tea and sherry and a plate of cookies. At midnight, my limbs sore and aching and my spirits low, I went to bed.

I was on my knees, my neck stretched over a wooden block, eyes straining upward at my executioner. Lincoln heaved the axe over his head and held it suspended in the air, turning to Lady Graverly for assent. She was sitting primly in the bleachers, Sir Fester draped around her neck like a fur collar. In the prisoners’ dock next to her, Janet and Wendy were begging for mercy. Lady Graverly’s eyes flashed. How dare you disturb me! she cried. Off with his head! The blade flashed in the morning sun as it came down on my neck.

I bolted upright in bed.

Moaning.

The strange, eerie sound reverberated through the walls. I thought of Agnes, but it was coming from lower down in the house. The foundation shifting? The oak tree bending in the wind? Sir Fester? No. It was a human sound, a guttural, undulating drone. Mr. Wainright? I was certain it was coming from the main floor, perhaps even from beneath the house. Could Lincoln be back, bemoaning his displacement to the pantry? I thought of Mr. Chagani’s remark that Lady Graverly had murdered her husband and buried him under the house, and that his rotting corpse had poisoned the foundation.

The moaning ceased.

I lay still and waited. After a few minutes, it resumed. Unable to ignore the sound, I climbed out of bed, pulled on pants and a sweater, and slipped out of the room.

The door to Agnes’s room was shut. The stairs squealed as I descended. When I reached the main floor, I stopped to listen.

Nothing.

In the butler’s pantry, Lincoln’s bed sat undisturbed. I made my way back down the hallway and stopped in the foyer. The moaning was coming from Lady Graverly’s private quarters. I stood outside the door, listening, and remembered the online review. I was awakened in the night by an eerie moaning sound. I was so freaked out I checked out the next day. I glanced at the front door, feeling the same impulse.

After a few minutes, the moaning stopped. I scampered up the stairs to my room and crawled under the covers. The sound did not resume, but I was kept awake by the beating of my heart and the creaks and groans of the walls. After a while the house settled, and I drifted off to sleep.