Read Online The Fate of Mercy Alban by Wendy Webb - Free Book Online Page A

living room, and dining room. My brothers and I used to haunt these halls when my parents had dinner parties. We loved listening in on the hushed conversations of those who thought they were speaking in private. With our ears to the walls, we heard about all manner of affairs and alliances, secrets and scandals. We were privy to political intrigue and upsets, business strategies and tactics, even the odd criminal alibi or two.
    I took a quick breath in when I saw it: the same slim trail along the dusty wall. What could it possibly be?
    I motioned toward one of the peepholes and slid open the cover. Amity brushed off the dust on the wall around it and then put her eye to the hole.
    “It’s Jane!” she whispered, her face a mix of delight and devilishness. “She’s setting out the crystal glasses and wine decanter. What for?”
    “The minister is coming to dinner,” I whispered back to her.
    “Groan,” she mouthed, with a mock grimace. I squeezed her arm and we walked on.
    At the far end of the passageway that ran behind the grand living room walls, we came upon another stairway that led, I knew, down to a false basement room. This hidden room was adjacent to the main basement that held the furnace and other equipment needed to run the house and the grounds, along with a dark-paneled studio that contained leather armchairs, a long bar, a fireplace, a billiard table, and a dart board.
    This main basement room had always been called Scotch and Cigars, because generations of Alban men would retire down there after dinner for those two indulgences and to discuss politics or the day’s events, or to simply play billiards or darts in the company of friends while the women took tea in the parlor.
    Amity might or might not have seen this main room in earlier visits to the house—it was accessible via the main stairway—but the false basement room would be the one I knew would interest my daughter.
    A mirror image of Scotch and Cigars, it was a hidden, secluded lair for those same generations of Albans who needed to evade the law or other pursuers, or to conceal all manner of illegal substances—liquor during Prohibition, I suspected, thinking back to David Coleville’s letter—or to otherwise hide what they didn’t want seen in the light of day. There was even a daybed, a refrigerator, and a bathroom for those who needed to hide out for an extended period of time. When Jane discovered my brothers and me playing there one afternoon, she gave us strict orders to stay out of the room on pain of the severest punishments.
    Just a bit farther down the passageway from the false basement room was a series of tunnels leading outside—one went directly to the lakeshore (for speedy getaways by boat, we always thought), one into the gardens, another led toward the back of the house, and still another found its way toward the cemetery beyond. It was as though John James Alban had wanted the ability to flee in any direction if necessary, and I had no doubt that in a family as wealthy and potentially scandalous as mine, it had been necessary often.
    “Wait until you see this,” I said to Amity as we reached the door to this secret room. I put my hand on its center and pushed the groaning door open into the darkness.
    The beams of both of our flashlights illuminated the room’s interior, resting on leather armchairs and sofas, alighting on walls and floorboards.
    I noticed she was squinting, trying to make out something in the darkness. “Mom,” she said in a harsh whisper, grabbing my arm. “Look.”
    As I stood there straining to see what she was seeing, a feeling of tangible dread seeped out of the room and surrounded me, settling on my skin and taking hold. Something was not right here.
    I felt along the wall for the light switch and flipped it, illuminating the room in a yellowish glow. And I saw it then, the thing that had caught my daughter’s eye. On the daybed, a pillow and a blanket were strewn on top of the quilt, not