25

The Resurrection

At the top of the staircase, a dark figure peered into the opening. The door slammed shut. I heard the clang of the metal latch.

“Who was that?” Shanna whispered, clutching my arm in the darkness. “Was it Elinor—did she come back for the diary?”

The silhouette of the diminutive, bald-headed figure still burned in my vision. “Lord Graverly,” I said. “He’s back.”

“Lord Graverly?”

I began to climb the stairs.

“Where are you going?” she called out.

“To get that axe.”

“It’s not there. I put it in the closet.”

I stopped. “You didn’t.”

“I’m sorry. Had I known …”

Not wishing to believe her, I continued up the stairs. Halfway up, I lost my equilibrium and placed a hand on the steps to steady myself. Blood. I yanked my hand away, smearing the sticky substance on my pants. A vision of Lord Graverly came to me, luring Agnes into the cellar, perhaps with the promise of seeing her sister’s remains, and then chopping her down like a tree. Or had Lady Graverly done the deed? I was still confused about her role in this nightmare.

At the top of the stairs, I grappled around for the axe, hoping it had somehow fallen into the cellar. My hands felt something hard and rectangular. I lifted it and carried it down with me.

“I brought you some reading material,” I said, handing the book to Shanna as I sat down next to her, our backs against the staircase wall.

“What is it? I can’t see a thing.”

“The Consummate Host.”

“A load of good that’s going to do us here,” she muttered. “I can’t believe I left my cell phone in my purse. I live in LA. It should be surgically attached to my ear.” She moved closer to me. “It’s cold.”

I put my arm around her. “I doubt it would have worked down here anyway.”

We sat in silence.

“What do you think he plans to do with us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s already gone,” I said hopefully. But I was starting to piece things together, and I feared I now knew too much to be let out alive.

“Someone will come for us, won’t they?” she said.

“Yes.”

I managed to get the flashlight working. Shanna and I explored the cellar, searching for a means of escape—a secret door or passage, a device to pry the door open, anything to use as a weapon—but the room was empty save for the icebox and butcher table. The trap door leading to the closet was impenetrable.

Next, full of trepidation, we approached Agnes’s body. She lay near the center of the cellar, sprawled in a pool of congealed blood. As I shone the flashlight on her face, a rat scurried out from under her wild grey hair. The axe had struck her body in several places. Her head was severed at the neck. She was still wearing the yellow apron.

Shanna let out a cry. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor.

I helped her to her feet and led her away. We sat against the staircase wall, holding one another, and wept.

After a while, she said, “We need to look in that box.”

“Are you sure?”

She took the flashlight from my hands and made her way across the cellar, steering a wide arc around Agnes’s body. I followed her. The light flickered as she pointed the flashlight on the lid with her trembling hand. Shooting a nervous glance at the tuft of hair sticking out from the lid, I wrenched on the rusty padlock. After several attempts, the padlock broke.

I looked up to give Shanna a chance to reconsider, but she nodded, a look of determination on her face. I lifted the lid, and she shone the flashlight in.

A skeleton lay on its side in the box, curled into a fetal position, strands of long blond hair sprouting from the skull.

“So this is where Sarah’s been all these years,” I said.

Shanna gasped. “Her skull—it’s detached.”

With a shudder, I lowered the lid.

We made our way back to our encampment.

“Now I understand why Lady Graverly didn’t want the house torn down,” I said.

“Even at a dollar, I think you paid too much.”

“I didn’t pay a thing. I tore up the contract.”

Hours passed.

I drifted in and out of sleep, jerked into consciousness by catastrophic thoughts and grisly images.

Shanna was restless too. She turned on the flashlight and began leafing through the pages of The Consummate Host. “This man is even more of a blowhard than Montgomery Neville,” she grumbled. “He recommends writing personal notes to guests at bedtime to wish them pleasant dreams. When was the book written—the eighteenth century?” She flipped to the front of the book. “1988. Oh look, he’s signed it here.”

“My mom went on a date with him forty years ago, and she’s still talking about it.”

Shanna read, “ ‘For my darling Evelyn and son Trevor—with all my love, Lord Wakefield Graverly.’ It almost sounds like he’s calling you his son.”

The flashlight sputtered out.

My mind raced. I examined every word of recent conversations with my mother, every inflection and nuance. Your father was not the man you think he was, she had said during our first walk in the lagoon. Later, in regard to Charles’s death: For twenty years I blamed myself, regretted the terrible things I said. What had been so hurtful she feared it had burst his heart open? Why had she been so insistent on telling me about her fling with Lord Wakefield—and why had I been so averse to hearing about it?

That last item on her agenda—I had assumed it was her illness, but was there something more? On impulse, I reached for the book and shone the flashlight on the back cover. Studying Lord Wakefield’s face, I recognized a weathered, imperious version of myself. My heart jolted.

“Shanna, are you awake?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I think Lord Wakefield was my father.”

Footsteps sounded in the main part of the house.

We scrambled up the stairs.

“It must be departure time,” said Shanna.

“Six am already?”

“Already? It feels like we’ve been here for days.”

There was a distant flurry of activity in the house: doors opening and closing, water running through pipes, the roll of suitcase wheels on the floor. We banged on the door and hollered for help until our voices grew hoarse.

“Won’t they find it strange that no one’s there to see them off?” Shanna said, panting. “They’ll come looking for us.”

“Maybe,” I said, not wishing to dash her hopes. No breakfast had been scheduled; the group was heading straight for the airport. They would think I had slept in and would depart without a second thought.

The front door slammed. The house fell silent.

“Oh god, Trevor,” Shanna breathed. “What if we die in here?”

“We won’t, I promise.”

She made her way down the stairs. I remained at the door, fiddling with the flashlight and thinking hard. There had to be a way out. The flashlight flickered to life, and then died.

I heard the sound of floorboards creaking. Someone entered the closet.

I hammered on the door with the flashlight. “Who’s there? We’re trapped in here! Let us out!”

Silence.

A deafening clang sent me reeling backward. I doubled over in agony on the landing, covering my ears in an effort to drown out the screeching sound.

Shanna came to me and led me down the stairs. She sat me down and cradled my head in her arms. By the vibration of her chest I could tell she was talking, but I could hear nothing but the piercing ring.

After a few minutes, the sound began to subside.

“What happened?” I yelled.

Shanna led me up the stairs and pointed to a tiny circle of light in the trap door—a bullet hole. “I think Lord Graverly found the rifle.”

Shanna’s voice broke the silence. “How long do you think it’s been?”

“Sixteen hours, maybe more.” I thought of Alexander, paralyzed on the bed, abandoned, his panicked eyes darting around the room. If Lord Graverly didn’t feed him, how long could he last without food or water? How long could Shanna and I last?

“I missed my flight,” Shanna said.

“If we don’t get out of here soon, I’m going miss dinner with my mother.”

“I can’t stop shaking. Hold me closer.”

“I can’t hold you any closer, Shanna. Here, put your face in my neck.” I felt her face nestle into me. I reached up to stroke her hair.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said, her lips moving at my neck.

“You’re burning up,” I said.

“I feel feverish. I can’t stop thinking about those poor women over there.”

“Me neither.”

My mind was whirling. Lady Graverly’s words repeated in my ears: I take a suite at the Four Seasons, if only for a few hours. There I can be myself. And: My heart will always belong to Lord Graverly. I had taken her remarks at face value, but was there more meaning to them? Had she been speaking in riddles, amusing herself by dropping hints with double entendres? What had disturbed Mr. Wainright about her? My thoughts returned to Agnes. What had she seen through the window that had ended in her murder? I remembered Shanna’s initial impression of Lady Graverly—Shanna, who was always so astute. And Lincoln’s cryptic words: Alexander is her son, but she is not his mother. According to Mrs. Fishburne, a DNA test had proved that Alexander was Lady Graverly’s son.

But not that she was his mother.

How could I have been so naïve?

I woke up to Shanna weeping.

“Don’t worry,” I said, comforting her. Her body was trembling violently. “We’ll get out of here.”

“How? It’s hopeless. I don’t know how much longer I can bear being trapped in this mausoleum.”

“When I don’t show up at my mother’s house, she’ll worry and … ” I stopped. She would dismiss my no-show as more self-centered behavior. Derrick would draw the same conclusion when I didn’t call. “Someone will come looking for us, I know it.”

I got up and began searching the room again.

A while later, I sat down beside her, defeated. “Shanna, why is it so difficult to get close to people you love?”

She was quiet for a moment. “Because the closer you get, the more they can hurt you.”

“Then it’s better not to get close.”

“No, Trevor. It’s a trade-off. The more pain you’re willing to risk, the greater the reward. My children have caused me more pain than I could imagine, but they’ve brought me great happiness too.”

“I like it better when I feel numb.”

“No, you don’t.”

“How come you never told me you were Susie Homemaker?”

“Ramin has fed my kids so much propaganda about my shortfalls as a mother that I’ve started to believe it.” She bolted upright. “What’s that sound?”

A rumble of wheels on the floor above. Alexander’s wheelchair? I got up and crouched at the foot of the stairs.

The door creaked open. Lord Graverly’s bald head peered into the opening. I took a deep breath and prepared to charge up the stairs and tackle him.

In a burst of movement, the wheelchair clattered down the stairs.

Alexander landed at our feet with a thud.

The door slammed shut.

“Is he conscious?” Shanna asked, crouching beside me.

“I can’t tell. He’s breathing, but barely.”

“The poor, sweet man. His body is trembling.”

I stroked his hair, as soft as a baby’s, until he settled. Then I carried him to our encampment and lay him across my lap, holding him in my arms to keep him warm. His forehead was drenched in sweat.

“What’s wrong with him?” Shanna asked.

“He must be in shock.”

Something was bothering me.

“What’s this?” she said, grappling on the floor. There was a rustle of pages. “Sarah’s diary! Why would Lord Graverly put such damning evidence into our hands? Unless …” She gasped. “Trevor, he doesn’t think we’re a threat anymore.”

I was only half-listening. I thought of the choking sound Alexander had made after I administered the medication. And Lady Graverly’s cryptic words in her letter: Please understand that you have no entitlement to the estate, and that Alexander is not a threat. Now that I was certain I was Lord Wakefield’s son, her words made more sense. Did she think I had delusions of being entitled to the estate? Is that what Mrs. Fishburne had meant when she said my ambitions were preposterous? My thoughts jumped to Agnes. Why had Lady Graverly told the housing inspector I had been in the cellar? Later, she had told me that Alexander had said he saw me in her bedroom with Agnes—and an axe. I forgive you for what you did to Agnes.

“Shanna, did you read the prescription on that medicine bottle?”

“No. Why?”

“I think I poisoned Alexander. And I’ve been framed for Agnes’s murder.”

A loud bang startled us.

“What was that?” Shanna whispered.

Gently I lifted Alexander off of my lap. I moved to the foot of the stairs. The door opened a crack and a sliver of light appeared, slowly widening. I opened my mouth to shout but stopped, recognizing Lord Graverly’s profile.

Liquid began flowing down the stairs.

Shanna gave a cry. “Is he urinating?”

As the liquid reached the floor, we backed away.

The smell of gasoline wafted to my nose.

“Stop!” I shouted, charging up the stairs.

Lord Graverly was crouching in the doorway with a candelabra, preparing to throw it into the cellar. The distant ring of the doorbell made him stop.

He slammed the door shut and closed the latch.

“I’ve figured it all out,” I whispered to Shanna.

We were positioned at the top of the stairs, waiting for Lord Graverly to return. The moment he opened the door, Shanna would whack him in the face with The Consummate Host and I would throw the wheelchair at him, then jump on him and hold him down while Shanna ran for help.

“One person is responsible for these murders,” I said.

“Lord Graverly or Lady Graverly?”

“Both.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Trevor.”

“Lord Graverly raped and impregnated Sarah to produce an heir, murdered her when she refused to marry him, and then stole her baby. Then he came up with a scheme to evade arrest and legitimize the baby. He became—”

“Quiet! Listen.”

I heard the muffled sound of a woman’s voice in the hallway. “Trevor, are you there?”

“Wendy!” I pounded on the door. “I’m in here! In the closet!” My mouth was so dry I could barely get the words out. Pulling Shanna out of the way, I lifted the wheelchair and slammed it against the door.

There was a scream, followed by a gunshot.

Silence.

“Oh god, Wendy!” I cried. “No!” I collapsed on the stairs, sobbing.

Shanna knelt beside me, rubbing my back. “She’s okay, Trevor. She’s going to be okay.”

There was a patter of feet in the hall.

We sat up, alert. I heard a frightened whimper in the closet. A little voice called out, “Uncle Trevor?”

“Quinn?” Tears stung my eyes. “Open the door, quick! Lift the latch!”

I heard his little hands grappling at the door. In a moment, the door opened. Quinn’s small frame appeared.

Footsteps approached.

“Wait here,” I said to Shanna, scrambling out. Shutting the cellar door behind me, I pulled Quinn behind the clothing rack on the right.

The power was still out. The closet was lit by a three-pronged candelabra on the floor. Near the entrance to the cellar, a gasoline container lay on its side in a pool of gas. The candlewicks flickered precariously.

A shadow fell on the floor. Peeking through the clothing, I spotted the bald-headed, wiry figure of Lord Andrew Graverly. He was lugging something into the closet, struggling with its weight.

Wendy’s yellow Crocs slid by, trailing blood.

I placed my hand over Quinn’s eyes. My body shook with rage.

Wendy’s right foot grazed the candle, almost knocking it over. Lord Graverly opened the cellar door and began pushing her in. Straightening suddenly, he turned toward me and peered into the clothing. I froze. His hand reached out, and his gnarled fingers pulled the army uniform from the rack. He removed the plastic covering and held it up, fingers caressing the medal.

Across the closet, I could see the axe leaning against the wall. My eyes moved to the candelabra. How could I take down Lord Graverly without knocking it over?

Lord Graverly’s trousers fell to the floor. He was trying on the uniform.

Quinn let out a sob.

Lord Graverly turned. He reached into the clothing and clutched the boy’s neck.

Quinn yelped.

I grabbed Lord Graverly’s arm and flung it aside, then dove to the floor and snuffed out the candelabra. Lord Graverly lunged for the rifle, spinning around and pointing it in my face. I knocked it from his hands and snatched it up.

“Quinn, get out of here, now!” I shouted. “Call 911!”

Quinn bolted from the room.

Kneeling on the floor, I pointed the gun up at Lord Graverly. Our eyes locked, and I recognized the twinkle in his green eyes. He lunged at me with both hands. I pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

Sliding back on the floor, I re-cocked and pulled the trigger again.

The chamber was empty.

Behind Lord Graverly, Shanna was crouched over my sister. Wendy’s white coat was soaked with blood. Lord Graverly grabbed his trousers and reached into the pocket, withdrawing a pack of matches. His hands shook as he tried to strike one.

Dropping the rifle, I lunged for the axe and jumped to my feet, heaving it over him. “Drop it now!” I warned.

A match flared to life. “No, you drop the axe!” he hissed, waving the match in the air.

Leaping forward, I extinguished the match in my fist, then knocked the pack from Lord Graverly’s hand. He fell to his knees and scrambled for it. Pulling another match out, he lit it.

I let the axe fall.

The blade struck his neck, sending a splash of blood over the clothing rack. He fell and rolled over onto his back, emitting a gasp. I stood over him, scanning his tiny frame, the cobbled hands and feet, the open mouth and familiar teeth. A pair of pale, skinny legs protruded from his undershorts. On his thigh was a silky growth like a tiny rodent burrowing into his skin.

Lady Graverly’s mole.