22

Persona Non Grata

The group was up early Thursday morning to eat breakfast before embarking on a historic tour of Vancouver. The term “historic” was amusing to me, given that the city was little more than a hundred years old; it was incorporated in 1886 and destroyed by fire two months later. Nevertheless, the participants were excited, and conversation at the breakfast table was lively. As I refilled their coffee cups and cleared their plates, I thought this must be what innkeepers live for: a house full of appreciative guests and strangers who become friends.

The exception was Mrs. Fishburne, who sat quietly in the corner sipping tea, ignoring everyone while she perused a city guidebook. Even when the bus arrived and the others gathered up cameras, purses, and maps and hurried out, she resumed reading.

I lingered in the dining room, hoping for a chance to talk. “Finished with that?” I asked, reaching for her teacup. She had consumed six cups of scalding black tea, refusing all offers of food.

“Hm?” she said, looking up. “Oh, yes. Thank you ever so much.”

“You’re not joining the tour?”

“The tour?” She looked around, only then noticing the room was empty. “Yes, of course,” she said, rising to stuff the guidebook into her purse. She was dressed in a simple and elegant aubergine-colored dress, a thin white belt tied around her tiny waist.

“Mrs. Fishburne,” I ventured. “Or should I address you as Lady Graverly? Perhaps simply as Marchioness?”

“Fishburne is my maiden name, but you may call me Gertrude,” she said curtly, heading for the door.

“I remember you from the open house.”

She stopped and turned, her expression perplexed and vaguely irritated, as though she couldn’t imagine why the hired help was addressing her directly. “Open house?”

“Here, at the manor. I was here too.”

“Why, yes, of course. You’re the Lambert boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Are you really Lord Wakefield’s widow?”

She sighed and dug into her purse, withdrawing a British passport.

I took it from her and turned to the identification page, reading her name: “Lady Wakefield Graverly, the Marchioness of Middlesex.” With a nod, I handed the passport back. “I have a copy of your husband’s book. He sounds like he was an impressive man.”

“My husband was hopeless. He was brilliant at making strangers feel at home, yet he was a complete failure in his own home. After twenty-five years of marriage, I still felt like an intruder in his house. He left his fortune to his dog, Regent, not to spite family and friends, as people have speculated, but because he had no close friends or family. All he did was work.”

“An occupational hazard,” I muttered, stacking dirty dishes. Her diatribe had been unexpected; she had been so tightlipped until now. “May I ask why you came to Graverly Manor?”

“Why, to meet the Grande Dame, of course. I had hoped to meet her son as well, but she tells me he’s locked away in an institution. I was also curious about you, I must admit.”

“About me? Why?”

She arched her eyebrows. “I am told you’re an ambitious young man.”

Outside, the tour van honked.

“Not really,” I said. “But if you’re still interested in the manor, you should know it’s no longer on the market.”

A flicker of amusement passed over her eyes. “Then I suppose congratulations are in order.” She reached into her purse and pulled on a pair of long silk gloves. “Though you might wish to confirm whether Elinor has the right to sell this house.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Lord Andrew was disowned, his father gave him a sum of money, which he used to purchase this house.”

“Lord Graverly wasn’t disowned. He disowned his family.”

“I suppose Elinor told you this?”

I nodded slowly.

“Lord Andrew brought great shame to his family for his ways,” she said. “He was sent away. I never knew the man. I met my husband after Lord Andrew left for Canada. About ten years after Lord Andrew vanished, my husband came to Vancouver on official business for the Queen. He visited this house and attempted to make peace with Elinor Graverly, but she slammed the door in his face. He was so distraught by the experience he never uttered his brother’s name again—not until he was on his deathbed, when he told me the most peculiar thing.”

“What did he tell you?” I asked.

Outside, the tour bus honked again.

“Well, I must be going,” Mrs. Fishburne said, hooking her purse over her shoulder. “It’s been lovely chatting with you, Mr. Lambert.”

“Wait,” I said, following her to the door. “Do you mean to tell me the manor is still in Lord Graverly’s name? Wouldn’t it be passed down to Lady Graverly as his widow?”

She stopped at the door and turned to me with a thin smile. “His widow?”

“She isn’t his widow?”

“Has she not told you? Lord Andrew is alive.”

I marched over to Lady Graverly’s quarters and pounded on the door, then tried the handle. Locked. Deciding she had gone out, I returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up, resolving to confront her upon her return.

Lord Andrew is alive. The news was staggering if it was true. If he was alive and, as Mrs. Fishburne had implied, the manor was still in his name, then my stay here—the abuse I had endured, my hard work—had been futile. Has she not told you? To make matters worse, Lady Graverly knew he was alive. She had lied to me and manipulated me, had used and verbally abused me, and had been stringing me along under false pretences. I felt foolish and betrayed.

If Lord Graverly had chosen to surface now, after all these years, the reason was obvious: his brother was dead, and he was coming forward to claim the family fortune. But if Lady Graverly’s account of Sarah’s death was true, why had he been in hiding in the first place? I reminded myself I could not trust anything she had said. It enraged me that I had been so quick to believe her. Upon reflection, Agnes’s theory made far more sense: Lord Graverly had murdered Sarah, and Lady Graverly had been covering up for him for her own personal gain—or, if she were as charitable as she made herself out to be, to use the fortune to ensure Alexander’s needs were taken care of. I recalled Lady Graverly’s remark that Agnes and Lord Wakefield’s widow had become “chummy” and cursed myself for not asking Mrs. Fishburne about Agnes. They would have been in London together only days ago.

My thoughts were interrupted by the distant tinkling of a bell. Thinking I must be hearing things, I resumed my work. A moment later, I heard it again. This time it was unmistakable; Lady Graverly was summoning me from her quarters. I was desperate to speak with her but refused to allow her to treat me like a servant from a different century. I began to set the table for dinner, slamming down plates, cutlery, and glassware as I brooded over Lady Graverly’s duplicity. A wine glass shattered in my hand, sending a gush of blood onto the white tablecloth. Cursing, I grabbed a serviette and tied it around my hand. While I was searching for the first-aid kit, my cell phone rang.

“Can you not hear my bell?” boomed Lady Graverly’s voice.

“I’m sorry, were you ringing for me?”

“Who do you think I was ringing for, Sir Fester?”

“What do you want, Elinor? I’m kind of busy.”

Her tone softened. “I was hoping you might serve me some breakfast. I’m feeling quite unwell.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to serve yourself today.”

She sighed. “Very well. But I’m worried about Alexander. The poor boy seems quite out of sorts.”

I gritted my teeth. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll check on him.”

“You are ever so kind.”

I disconnected. It would be an opportunity to ask her a few pointed questions.

When I arrived in her bedroom, I found it in chaos, the floor and surfaces littered with clothes, used tissues, old newspapers, and dirty dishes. Lady Graverly was propped up in bed, surrounded by pillows and cushions, too weak to feed her son or to tidy up but not to do her makeup and hair.

“There you are!” she squawked. “I thought you mustn’t be coming.”

Alexander sat slouched by the window.

Balancing the tray on one hand, I wheeled him to Elinor’s side and set the tray down on the nightstand.

“I do hope the tea is better today,” Elinor said. “Yesterday’s pot was ghastly.”

“I did my best, your worship. Would you like me to pour it?”

“It’ll do no good sitting in the pot.”

That she was in such a crabby mood, undoubtedly courtesy of Mrs. Fishburne, cheered me. As I poured the tea, I hummed happily, ignoring her penetrating glare.

“Where is that insufferable tour group?” she asked.

“They’re out on a heritage tour of the city.”

“With that Chinese tour leader?” she spat. “How could the Chinese know anything about this city’s heritage?”

“The Chinese have a long history in Vancouver, Elinor.”

“It was the British who colonized this province. It’s British Columbia, not Chinese Columbia.”

I opted not to dignify the remark with a reply. As I poured milk into her cup, my nostrils quivered, detecting an unpleasant odor. I sniffed the milk. My eyes moved to Alexander. Setting the teapot down, I followed the smell to the closed closet door. I turned in a circle.

“What are you doing, strange boy?” asked Lady Graverly.

“Can’t you smell that?”

“What?”

“That stench. It smells like … something died.”

“I don’t smell a thing. Lord Alexander, do you? Nor does he.”

Alexander hadn’t so much as blinked. I took a deep breath, and the odor hit me like a baseball bat, almost knocking me to the floor.

“Where’s Sir Fester?”

“Why, he’s right here.”

Only then did I notice the demon-cat perched like a sultan on a silk pillow at the corner of the bed. I braved another breath. The odor was gone, replaced by the usual smell of moldy wood, mothballs, and stale perfume. I went to the window and began drawing the curtains.

“What do you think you’re doing?” barked Lady Graverly.

“Opening the window.”

“Stop it at once! Alexander will catch a cold and die. And close those curtains. His eyes are extremely sensitive.”

I looked at Alexander, whose translucent skin could have used a dose of sunshine, but relented nonetheless and resumed serving breakfast. Cognizant of the seven guestrooms that needed cleaning, I moved quickly, handing Lady Graverly a plate containing two wedges of white toast. She put it aside and pushed back the covers to attend to Alexander.

On the other side of the bed, leaning against the wall, I spotted the rifle she had pointed at me the other day. “I hope that gun isn’t loaded,” I said.

She didn’t reply. She was peering down at my hand. Blood had seeped through my makeshift bandage. “What happened there?” she inquired.

“I broke a wineglass.”

“A pity,” she said, leaving doubt as to whether her concern was for me or the wineglass.

“I’ll live.”

“That brown woman,” she said, pursing her lips, “is she the new chambermaid?”

“Shanna? Hardly. She’s a former colleague—a friend. She’ll be helping around the house for a few days.”

“Hm,” she said in a disapproving tone.

“My mother is quite ill. I’m going to have to spend some time with her.”

“She’s dying, isn’t she?”

My hand jerked, slopping tea onto the tray. “How did you know?”

“I know grief well enough to recognize it, dear boy. You and your mother never saw eye-to-eye, did you? She made you feel like a constant disappointment, refused to acknowledge your true calling.”

“My mother has always been supportive,” I said defensively. I got up and began tidying the room, gathering up a handful of garments and heading toward the closet.

“Stop!” she cried.

“Why?”

“A lady’s wardrobe is no place for a man. You may leave those items on the chair.”

“Fine,” I said, setting them down.

She nibbled on her toast and made a face, setting it down and dabbing her lips with a serviette. “As the only son, you will inherit the family estate?”

“It’s hardly an estate. I’d rather not talk about it, okay?”

“She made her choices in life and obstinately stuck with them. She was a fine woman.”

“She still is. How would you know, anyway?”

“I’ve met your mother. Once, almost forty years ago, and again last week.”

“Last week? Why didn’t you tell me she was here?”

“She came to see me, not you. She had business to attend to.”

I clenched my teeth. “My mother is a silent partner, Elinor. Any ‘business’ is to be handled by me.” Lifting Alexander’s arms, I unfolded the tray attached to the wheelchair and tied on his bib. “You must have been shocked when Mrs. Fishburne revealed her identity last night.”

“Whoever that vulgar woman purports to be, she is persona non grata in this household,” she said calmly. Dipping a spoon into the teacup, she waved it in the air to cool the tea, then held it before Alexander’s lips. His eyes observed her, faintly hostile. His mouth remained firmly closed. “Alec, please! Open your mouth.”

“I had a chat with her this morning. She was actually quite pleasant.”

“She is not pleasant!” Lady Graverly roared.

Alexander’s mouth fell open in a silent cry. Elinor slipped in the spoon.

A scratching sound drew my attention to the closet door. Sir Fester had left his pillow and was pawing at the door. Letting out a yowl, he turned in a circle and scratched again.

“She told me Lord Andrew was disinherited,” I said.

Lady Graverly’s back arched, yet her voice was controlled. “An heir to a title cannot be disinherited. It is against peerage rules. The marquess was at liberty to leave his fortune to whomever he wished, but the succession to Graverly Castle is clearly laid out in the Letters Patent. Nothing and no one can change that.”

“She said Lord Andrew brought great shame to his family,” I persisted.

The spoon clattered to the floor. Lady Graverly’s head spun in my direction. “The marquess was a brute! Lord Andrew was a fine man, a war hero. He was mistreated, ostracized for simply being himself. For decades I’ve waited to right those wrongs, and that evil woman cheated me out of vindication, or so she thinks. She will get her dues. I am not finished. Am I, Lord Alexander?”

Alexander let out a soft moan.

I reached down to pick up the spoon and placed it on the tray. “Why is Mrs. Fishburne here? Does she think she has a claim to this house?”

“That woman has no claim to anything!”

“Who exactly holds the title to the manor?”

“I do, naturally.”

I took a deep breath and said, “She said Lord Andrew is alive.” I braced myself for her reaction.

Yet her voice remained perfectly calm. “So I’ve heard,” she said dryly, not at all sounding like a woman who had been pining for her husband’s return for fifty years.

“Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“May I ask—?”

“No, you may not.”

“But—”

“That will be all,” she said.

Clearly I wasn’t going to get any more information from her while she was in such a foul mood. I stood up and took my leave.

“Mr. Lambert,” Lady Graverly called after me. “Have you given any thought to my invitation?”

“Invitation?”

“To move to Graverly Castle with me.”

I hesitated, disturbed by her continued delusions. I sensed a great deal of emotion behind her casual tone. “I don’t know, Elinor. I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m—I’m not comfortable with … It’s just weird. I’m sorry. This manor is enough, it’s all I want. I need to stay in Vancouver. My family …” I stopped, hoping she would quickly agree, but she sat perfectly rigid, listening intently. Over her shoulder I could see Alexander staring at me, opening and closing his mouth as though trying to say something. His hands flitted in the air.

“Stop it, Alec,” Lady Graverly commanded. “For god’s sake, behave.”

He began thrashing about in the wheelchair.

I hurried over to help. “I hope I didn’t upset him.”

“He hasn’t been himself lately. He keeps babbling about something he saw the other day.”

“He speaks to you?”

“In his own way, yes. I’ve been amazed by his ability to communicate these days, especially when he becomes emotional.”

“What did he see?” I asked, wrestling with his flailing arms.

“Alec, please! Get hold of yourself!” Lady Graverly cried. “He saw Agnes here in my bedroom with a man.”

Alexander’s hands slipped out of my grasp. His arm struck the teapot, sending it flying to the floor, spraying hot tea over us. Lady Elinor shrieked. I grabbed a napkin and tried to sponge her off, but she pushed me away. I used it to spot Alexander, but he too shoved me away. I stumbled back.

“I had no idea he was that strong.”

“He needs a shot. Hold him, please.” She hurried over to the bureau and retrieved the black bag, withdrawing a needle and a bottle of medication. Filling the needle, she flicked it and hurried back to Alexander, sliding the needle into his arm. In an instant, his body went limp.

“We shouldn’t talk like that in front of him,” I said, kneeling down to gather up fragments of china and placing them on the tray. “I think he understands more than we think.”

When I finished cleaning up, I excused myself and went to the door, turning to observe them. Lady Graverly was holding Alexander’s hand against her cheek and staring lovingly into his drooping eyes.

“Elinor,” I said in a hushed voice, “after we close the sale, you and Alexander are welcome to stay. I can’t afford to do anything with this part of the house for a while anyway. I can help you take care of him.”

She lifted her head. Her eyes were moist. “My prince, you are so kind. But it shan’t be necessary.”

As I went down the hallway, I stopped to observe the photograph of the Graverly brothers again. Both men carried an air of privilege in the photo, even of entitlement. In the backdrop I recognized Graverly Castle from the pages of The Consummate Host. Peering closer, I saw that Lord Wakefield was far more handsome than his brother, with the sculptured features of a 1950s movie star. My gaze moved to Lord Andrew, and I searched for signs of evil in his eyes. He looked harmless enough, almost effeminate, with one foot thrust forward, hands resting on his hips. I continued down the hall, glancing into the drab parlor, and caught sight of the old guestbooks on the shelf. Remarking again how similar they looked to Sarah’s diary, I realized she must have taken her book from the same collection. On impulse, I plucked one from the shelf but replaced it when I found the pages empty. Selecting another, I found the withered pages full of commentaries from former guests. July 19, 1965. What a party! Lady Graverly, you’re a wild cat, the hostess with the mostest! Grinning, I tucked the book under my arm and slipped out of the quarters.

As I climbed the stairs to my room, another explanation for Lady Graverly’s protectiveness over Alexander occurred to me. Maybe she wasn’t hiding him from Agnes Kilpatrick or Gertrude Fishburne. Maybe Lord Graverly had resurfaced to claim his title and estate—and his son.

“Clarissa’s not here,” said her college roommate. “Who’s calling?”

“Trevor Lambert. I’m a friend. Do you know where I can find her?”

“She’s in Vancouver.”

“She came back to Vancouver?”

“Back? She never left.”

I felt a tremor of concern. “Do you know where I can find her?”

“The Grave Inn or something. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“Uh … I’m helping her with her research. I have some information for her.”

“Don’t tell me you chase ghosts too?”

“Ghosts?” I said. “I’m talking about her Pauline Johnson paper.”

“Who? Clarissa’s writing a paper on haunted houses.”

It all came rushing back to me: the lagoon, the cellar, the ‘lost poems’—Clarissa had been lying to me all along.

“If you track her down, tell her she better call her dad,” said the girl. “She hasn’t answered her cell phone in days, and he’s kind of freaking out.”

I thanked her and hung up.

So Clarissa had never left town. Then why had she left the manor in such a hurry?

I called Derrick next. “Sorry it took so long to get back to you.”

“No worries, man. How’s your mom?”

“Not bad, under the circumstances. Did you leave your wife?”

“Nope. She threw me out.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry. How are you holding up?”

“I miss my girls. You know, I even miss my mother-in-law. Hey, what are you up to? Want to go for a drink?”

Downstairs, the doorbell was ringing.

“I can’t today, Derrick. Sorry. But hey, my group checks out tomorrow. How about tomorrow night? I’m going to take my mom to dinner, but we could meet afterward.”

“Sounds great.”

“I’ll call you after dinner.”

I went downstairs to answer the door.

Lynne Crocker was standing on the verandah in a zebra-patterned top and black leather skirt. “Look what I’ve got!” she sang, waving a handful of documents in the air. “The signed contract and the inspector’s report!” She barged past me, heading into the parlor.

“I’ll get Lady Graverly,” I said.

“God, please don’t,” she said, plunking herself onto the sofa and looking around. “This place is depressing.” She reached behind her and yanked open the curtain. “There, at least we can see now. You have no idea how glad I am that this deal is finally going through.”

“Why?” I asked, pulling the parlor door closed.

“Crazy Graverly is a nightmare—I don’t have to tell you that,” Lynne said, smacking her gum. “But it was the dispute over the title deed that almost drove me insane.” Seeing my face fall, she lifted her hand. “Don’t worry, hon, it’s all settled.”

“Settled? How?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” She handed me the document and dug into her purse, withdrawing a pen. “I’ve highlighted the places you need to sign.”

“I’ll need some time to look it over.”

“There’s not a lot of time, Trevor. She’s going away tomorrow and wants everything tied up before she leaves.”

“All the same, I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself.” She stood up. “But I wouldn’t delay long. I mean, the price, it’s crazy! You don’t want to risk her coming to her senses. I’m just glad the old hag agreed to pay my commission on the market value.”

I walked Lynne to the door.

After she left, I sat down in the parlor to review the contract, but I couldn’t concentrate. My thoughts kept returning to Clarissa. If she was still in town, why hadn’t she called? Had she locked me up and taken my cell phone? If so, why? And what had prompted her abrupt departure? She was the third occupant of the house to leave in the same manner—and she was not a paid employee, but a paying guest. Didn’t Lady Graverly need the money? I realized I hadn’t heard back from Agnes’s son. Was the manor swallowing people whole? Were bodies piling up somewhere? I thought about Elinor’s remark that Alexander had seen a man with Agnes in Elinor’s bedroom. If Lord Graverly was alive, had he sneaked into the manor and confronted Agnes? Was he eliminating threats one by one? If so, who was next? Lady Graverly? Me?

I was being paranoid again. Lord Graverly wasn’t alive, and his ghost wasn’t haunting the manor. The lunacy of this household had seeped into my brain. Lynne was right, I needed to close the sale before it was too late. I looked down at the contract. It was signed in several places, but not with Lady Graverly’s florid handwriting. The signature was a masculine scribble. I walked to the window and held the contract up to the light. The name was unmistakable.

Lord Andrew Graverly, the Marquess of Middlesex.