The Fate of Mercy Alban (9 page)

I heard Chief Bellamy let out a long sigh. “For God’s sake, Grace, that’s the last thing you need. Now of all times. I told your mother last year I didn’t think it was a good idea to open the house for those goddamned tours. But she didn’t listen to me. She never did.” I could hear the slight chuckle in his voice as he remembered his old friend.

I hesitated a moment before responding. But then I thought I might as well say it. “Chief, this might not mean anything, but there’s something else you should know.”

He waited for me to continue, and I said it all quickly, in one long stream. “My mother died on the very day she was going to talk to a reporter who was planning to write a book about my family. I know she died of natural causes—it was a heart attack—but now with this happening, I thought I should mention it.”

He was silent for a moment and then said: “Don’t worry, Grace. Just as you said, it’s probably nothing, and I don’t want you to make too much out of this, but I’m going to send a squad over immediately. They’ll check the whole place out.”

I wondered how effective that would be. If someone was lurking here, the place was big enough to get lost in. Especially since the intruder knew about the secret passageways, he could stay one, or several, steps ahead of whoever was looking. Hide and seek was an impossible game within these walls, I knew. Those hiding would always win. Still, I’d feel safer if I knew the police had secured the house. Their very presence might be enough to scare whomever it was away.

“Thank you,” I said, and then, thinking out loud, continued. “And what I’d also like is for a squad to patrol the grounds tonight. I’m worried that, if we do indeed have an intruder, he has found a way to come and go.”

“Oh?”

The words I was about to say to the chief caught in my throat. Spilling secrets just wasn’t done in my family, but I knew I had no choice. My daughter’s welfare was more important to me than the almighty Alban traditions.

“I’m sure you’re not aware of this,” I began, “but this house is filled with passageways behind the walls, and some lead to the outside. I think the intruder might have been in those passageways.”

“Passageways?” the chief said, a slight lilt in his voice. “Why am I not surprised? You Albans have always had a flair for the dramatic.”

He had no idea how right he was. “The doors to the outside can be locked, of course, but I’d feel better with a police presence. My daughter’s safety is my main concern.”

“Consider it done,” he said. “Twenty-four-hour guard, until further notice. Grace, your mother—” His words stopped in midair. I heard him clearing his throat.

“I know, Chief. She loved you, too. The service is Friday morning. I look forward to seeing you there.”

“Anything you need, Grace. Anything. The entire force is at your disposal.”

“Thanks, Chief Bellamy. It means a lot, it really does.” I intended to hang up then, but a thought crept in. “I do have one more thing to ask of you, if I may.”

“What’s that?”

“Your discretion and that of your officers. I don’t want it getting out that there was an intruder at Alban House. You know what a field day the press would have with that.”

“Of course.”

I put the phone down and turned to see Mr. Jameson and his two young men coming out of the kitchen through the swinging doors.

“We’re on the job, Miss Grace,” he called to me over his shoulder as the three of them began to ascend the stairs. “All the doors and those infernal peepholes will be secured in a jiffy. Don’t you worry now.”

“Wait a second,” I said, hurrying toward the bottom of the staircase. “Cody, you and—” I looked at the second young man. “What’s your name?”

“Jason, ma’am.”

“Cody and Jason. You two are living in the groundskeeper’s quarters for the summer, isn’t that right?”

They nodded, exchanging a quick glance. That was the usual practice, the outdoor help stayed in a small two-bedroom cottage located between the gardens and the lake, which had originally been intended for the head of the groundskeeping staff. But Mr. Jameson, of course, lived with his wife in her large suite of rooms off the kitchen, so the cottage was vacant unless he hired outdoor staff.

“I’d like you both to move into the main house, effective immediately,” I said. “I’m sorry about this and I know it’s a bit of an upheaval for you, but I’d really feel better with you guys in the house. Is that all right? You’ll have the west wing on the second floor all to yourselves. There are bedrooms and bathrooms, a library, a media room, and even a small kitchen. I think you’ll find it much larger than the groundskeeper’s cottage. Come and go as you wish, and don’t worry about using the back stairs. You’re perfectly welcome to use this main staircase.”

It was strength in numbers I was going for. If there was an intruder and he was still here, I felt a bit safer knowing that two strapping young men were going to be in the house with us overnight rather than just me, Amity, and an elderly couple.

Cody and Jason exchanged a quick glance and tried to hide their smiles. “Sure, Miss Alban,” Cody said. “Anything you want.”

“Okay, then,” I said, turning to Jane. “Will you make up rooms for these boys?”

“I’ll also make up the master suite for you and Amity,” Jane said, nodding her head toward my daughter. “There’s a big daybed in the study that she can use.”

That hadn’t occurred to me, but of course she was right. Mr. Jameson had hired these kids and I trusted his judgment completely, but how much did we really know about them? I might have spoken too soon by inviting them to stay in the house. Best to have Amity safe with me, behind my locked door.

And the master suite was the only one on the second floor with its own exit to the outdoors. I liked the idea that we could get out quickly if necessary. To my great surprise, Amity didn’t balk at the suggestion.

Jane had started up the stairs with the men and Amity and I were headed back into the living room, but all of us stopped dead when we heard a knock at the front door. The police? Already here with information? I exhaled in the hopes that they had found whomever it was and we could all go back to normal.

But it wasn’t the police. Jane opened the door to reveal the minister, Matthew Parker, standing there, holding a bottle of wine.

Our stunned expressions must’ve been rather overt, because he said: “We said six o’clock, right?”

Of course, Reverend Parker.” Jane smiled, instantly regaining her composure and slipping right back into her role. “Please do come in. Miss Alban has been expecting you.”

As she ushered him inside, Jane shot a look at her husband, who then hurried the lads up the stairs and out of sight.

Before I took Amity on our ill-fated tour of the passageways, I’d been planning to shower and change before the reverend arrived, but with everything that had happened, it had flown out of my mind. And now here I stood, fresh out of the dusty, musty tunnels, not knowing the last time I had run a brush through my hair. Was I even wearing makeup? I wasn’t sure.

I pushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear and smiled my best smile, hoping my face wasn’t as grimy as it felt. “Hi!” I chirped a little too loudly. “Welcome! You brought wine! How lovely.”

Jane took the bottle from him with a nod and disappeared into the kitchen as he walked hesitantly into the foyer, looking up at the stained-glass window and chandelier.

“Wow,” he said. “This is the first time I’ve been inside this house. It really is quite something.”

“Home, sweet home.” I grinned, holding my arms wide. “Let’s go into the parlor, shall we? We’ll have drinks there before dinner. An Alban tradition.”

Amity sidled up to me, then.

“Reverend Parker, this is my daughter, Amity,” I said, putting an arm around her shoulders and brushing the dust off them at the same time.

“Amity, what a pretty name.” He smiled at her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you.” Amity nodded quickly, then turned to me. “Mom, I thought I’d go upstairs and watch a movie. Is that okay?”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about Amity going off by herself given all that had just happened. But with the police on their way, with Mr. Jameson and the boys securing the house, and with us downstairs, I guessed she’d be okay. “Just make sure you sit next to the buzzer.” I squinted at her.

“May I take my dinner up there, too?”

The reverend grinned. “Oh, you’re not going to be joining us? Are you sure? We’re going to be talking about funeral arrangements! Come on, what teenager wouldn’t love that?”

Amity giggled—a real, genuine giggle. This man actually amused her. She volleyed back: “Only if you tell me that my math teacher will be there, too, and we can do a few equations between deciding on readings and hymns.”

He let out a laugh, and I patted my daughter on the back. “Go ahead, then,” I said to her, shooing her up the stairs. “I’ll have Jane bring up your dinner. But listen, keep that buzzer next to you at all times.”

She and I exchanged a glance, and then she ran up a few steps. Turning back to Reverend Parker, she sang out, “It was nice meeting you!” and was gone.

“Nice girl,” he said to me as we walked into the parlor, where the fire was now blazing.

“She has her moments.” I smirked. “You know teenagers.”

On the sideboard, I saw uncorked bottles of red and white wine and sherry; crystal decanters of scotch, gin, and vodka; tonic water; an ice bucket; and various glasses—the usual bar setup, just as my father and probably his father before him had preferred it. Jane had also lit candles around the room, making it seem welcoming and homey.

It occurred to me that this was the first time I had entertained here at Alban House as an adult. I’d had birthday parties as a kid, of course, and attended my parents’ various functions and events, but I was never the hostess in the house where generations of Albans had welcomed friends, businesspeople, and even dignitaries. Five U.S. presidents had taken drinks in this room before dinner, most famously Franklin Roosevelt on the eve of this country’s entry into World War II. It was said that he and my grandfather talked about steel and iron ore production.

I could feel the mantle of that tradition, passed from one generation to the next, now wrapping itself around my shoulders as I walked over to the sideboard and said, for the first time in my life, what I had heard my parents and grandparents say countless times over the years: “What’s your pleasure? If you don’t see it here, just ask. We’ve got it all at Alban House.”

“Wine would be great,” Matthew Parker said, and the evening had begun.

I poured both of us some wine and gestured to a pair of leather armchairs by the fire. “Shall we sit, Reverend?” I said, handing him a glass.

He reached out to take it. “Please, call me Matthew.” He smiled. “Your mother never would. She was uncomfortable with the informality, I think, even though I prefer it.”

“Matthew it is,” I said, settling into my chair. I looked down and noticed I was wearing my ratty old slippers. Lovely. A quick glance at my dusty jeans and I was fully chagrined. It occurred to me that I was now the perfect picture of the eccentric lady of the manor. What a cliché. I put a palm to my cheek in a futile attempt to fend off the reddening I could feel seeping out of my pores.

“I’m sorry about my appearance,” I said quickly, brushing the hair out of my eyes. “We had a bit of a situation here just before you arrived and I didn’t get the chance to change my clothes. Usually I’d be, at least, clean when a guest showed up.”

Reverend Parker—Matthew—chuckled. “You look lovely, so you’ve got no worries there. But—a situation? Nothing serious, I hope.”

Contrary to what Jane, and generations of Albans, might have done, I made the decision right then and there to confide in this man. I relished the idea of having somebody to talk to, another adult who might help me navigate my way through what had just happened. Not that Jane and her husband weren’t a help to me, but they always seemed to have their own agenda in matters of Alban House, dispensing information on a need-to-know basis, always weighing their actions against public opinion of the great Alban family if whatever it was “got out.” Always prefacing everything with the question, spoken or unspoken: “How will it look if we …?”

And, it occurred to me, listening to parishioners was part of this man’s job. That’s why he was here, after all.

“I think somebody might have broken into the house,” I blurted out. “And may have even been living here.”

Matthew furrowed his brow. “Really? You’re kidding.”

I took a sip of my wine and nodded. “The police are on their way, actually.” And I told him the whole story—taking Amity through the passageways, finding the blanket and pillow in the false basement, all of it.

He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Hidden tunnels, secret doors, mysterious intruders. It would be the most intriguing story I’d heard in a long while if it didn’t involve your safety. And Amity’s.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking—the safety part, I mean,” I said. “I’m most worried about whomever it is getting into the interior of the house at night while we’re sleeping.”