The Guest Room Says Grace

How it begins

Beatrice Ward heard the guest room thank her at six fifteen.

She stood in the passage holding a basket of clean towels.

'You're welcome,' she said, before remembering the room was empty.

The voice had been polite, male and close to the door. Room Three had no booking until Friday. It was Tuesday.

Beatrice set down the basket and used her key.

The bed was made. The window was latched. On the writing desk stood a glass of water she had not placed there.

She poured it away.

At breakfast, the dining table had gained one setting.

Samuel Pike arrived for the scheduled food-safety inspection while she was counting plates. He waited for her to finish, which earned him more goodwill than his badge.

'Expecting six?' he asked.

'Five.'

'Another guest?'

'Apparently the house thinks so.'

He smiled until she showed him the booking book. A new line had appeared beneath the week's entries. No name, no date, only WITH THANKS FOR YOUR HOSPITALITY.

Samuel examined the page without touching it.

'Anyone else has access?'

'Everyone who works here. Nobody writes like that.'

From upstairs came the soft movement of a chair. Beatrice had managed the bed-and-breakfast for eighteen years. She knew the difference between a guest settling in and a building settling. This sounded like a person taking care not to disturb anyone.

Samuel looked toward the stairs.

'We'll check the ordinary things first.'

She appreciated the sentence so much she almost offered tea. Then she saw the new card beside the extra plate.

Grace will be said for all who remain.

Beatrice read it twice. Her name was not Grace. She had never promised anybody a permanent room.

Upstairs, the polite voice thanked her again. This time she kept her mouth closed, no longer certain what an ordinary welcome might allow to enter.