Barnaby Trundle: Modest wealth, charming hair compared to Tabitha, horrible mother
Frances Wellington: Very rich, well connected, highest etiquette levels
Viola Dale: Charity supporter, consorts with the poor (possibly diseased from contact)
Edward Herringbone: Intelligent, most likely a bore
“Five other children,” Mr. Crum said, shaking his head. “Completely foul of the countess to have invited so many, if you ask me.”
“Very rude,” Mrs. Crum agreed, pushing Tabitha from her chair. “Get up and make yourself scarce. We need to get Mr. Tickles settled with his caretaker. Come back to the room at two o’clock.” She shooed Tabitha away, waving the back of her hands like one might do to repel a starving kitten.
Undaunted by the gesture, Tabitha left the dining room and examined the Hotel McAvoy foyer. A lone chair was tucked away into a curtained corner near the furnace irons, and Tabitha nestled into the space. Quick as a whip, she reached into the back of her tights for the newspaper she’d taken from her parents the day before. She hadn’t read it on the train because the Crums, Mrs. Crum in particular, disliked the sight of her soaking up pages of articles or Pensive novels. Remember, men don’t like readers, they like pretty, Mrs. Crum was fond of saying.
The lobby was empty enough for Tabitha to take Pemberley from her sweater pocket. He scurried into her lap and nibbled at the toast crumbs there.
“Do listen, Sir Pemberley, and feel free to take notes.” Tabitha scanned the Times until she came across the right headline.
Squeak.
“What’s that? You can’t take notes? Well then, no notes, but you must listen most carefully.” She cleared her throat and read aloud to Pemberley in her best whispered Inspector voice:
RENOWNED (AND VERY RICH) RECLUSE OPENS HOME TO CHOSEN FEW
In a baffling display of what surely must be charity, Camilla Lenore DeMoss, the Countess of Windermere, has issued six invitations around London, summoning a small group of children to spend the weekend with her in her Lake District manor. According to our source, the children’s parents will be housed on property in Clavendor Cottage. This will mark the first occasion that anyone has been a formally invited guest at the magnificent Hollingsworth Hall estate since the Countess acquired the property.
While her donations to various causes are well documented, little is known of the Countess’s personal nature and appearance, as she switches staff every six months and has had all employees sign strict confidentiality papers since King Edward gave her a title in 1895. She has been described to the Times in the following ways by a variety of those claiming to have witnessed her magnanimous presence: tall, rather average, quite petite, always dressed in the height of London fashion, matronly, dowdy, certainly approaching seventy, not past the age of forty-and-five, wonderfully verbose and kind, horribly taciturn and strict. The only consensus lies in rumored eccentricity in habits and in vague whispers of a large amount of unfortunate death in her past. Her husband and brother-in-law are said to have died tragically before she and her sister moved into Hollingsworth Hall in 1880. Several years later her only son disappeared amid reports of a violent family argument. Her sister expired shortly thereafter, leaving her with an even larger amount of disposable income. Details on the manner of those deaths and her son’s disappearance remain sparse and conflicting.
Despite the lack of solid fact regarding the lady herself, countless organizations and individuals praise the Countess of Windermere as the greatest type of philanthropist—one who keeps her generosity consistent and without conditions. The Times will do its utmost to report the mysterious happenings that take place at Hollingsworth Hall this coming weekend. The whole of England is no doubt holding its breath to learn more about this very titled, very secretive, and very rich woman.
Tabitha tapped her chin. “Well, Pemberley. That gives us little to nothing in terms of expectations. A mysterious lady, indeed. What on earth could she want with us? And what shall we do with ourselves other than wonder about it?”
The hours passed quickly enough in the hotel. Tabitha moved pieces on the foyer’s chess set for a bit and then perched on a long bench next to an umbrella stand and swung her legs, making a game of figuring out the stories behind each person present. A young woman with a long coat over an aproned dress had just delivered a box wrapped in beautiful white ribbon, dropping it on the front desk along with a note and a curtsy.
“See there,” Tabitha whispered to Pemberley. “The front desk man is a spy for a famous French chef, hoping to steal the pastry recipes of the shop down the street. And the lovely shop girl who just delivered a box of—what is most certainly—pastries is his secret accomplice. The note she passed to him while blushing has a recipe for the perfect croissant.”
As she peered around the room for a fresh prospect, Tabitha’s eyes settled on the mahogany telephone booth, which was occupied by the back of a man’s brown jacket and matching brown hat. The man’s shoes shuffled back and forth along the booth floor in an odd manner, as though he were dancing in place, and he shook his head vehemently at something the person on the other line had said. The man’s voice was muffled by people coming in and out of the front door, but Tabitha caught an insistent, slightly animated tone.
“Hmm, Pemberley. Perhaps Mr. Jacket and Hat has finally tracked his long-lost love to a manor house here in the Lake District and is demanding to speak with her.”
Pemberley gave a satisfied squeak at the supposition.
Tabitha didn’t often fantasize about such mushiness, but long-lost thises and thats were popular among the good-night tales she made up for Pemberley. Soldiers with amnesia and their sweethearts, orphans and parents, lost puppies and owners all reunited into tidy little happily ever afters. Her mouse, Tabitha reasoned, was sensitive about the early loss of his parents and siblings, and was comforted by such stories.
Pemberley let out another squeak and scuffled against the lining of her sweater pocket.
“Hush now, Pemberley,” Tabitha warned. “Let’s listen a bit more.” She casually moved to a long bench closer to the telephone booth, hoping to hear snippets of Jacket & Hat’s conversation. She was slightly surprised when the voice didn’t match the elegant clothing. The man sounded like he came right out of the rough streets and alleys of East London. Not that character could be judged by a voice, she reminded herself. Barnaby Trundle, for instance, had a perfectly respectable voice that he often used in a most unrespectable manner.
“—all arrived, they have—all six children. Yes, I called the Times and you were right about passing along the names as well, luv, they’ve agreed to transfer payment to the hotel.”
Tabitha inhaled softly. Was the man talking about her and the others? He must be.
“Now that you mention it, they do seem a bit nervous. No, nobody seems to know why they’ve been invited. Yes, I’ve ’eard a few of them mention the possibility of coming into money, but it’s all speculation. Best to assume the invitation was vague on that front, right?” He jerked his head around, and Tabitha ducked behind a curtain before his face could turn her way.
“Wha’? No, no, I’ll get back in plenty o’ time. Right, luv, I can’t wait either. We’ll do it up right and be married in style once we get this final bit done. Brilliant stroke of luck. It’ll be tied ends for us. Cheers, luv.” He hung up and patted a suitcase next to him. “But if it don’t turn out, luv,” he murmured to himself, “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to the mess.”
He stepped out of the booth and Tabitha remained hidden, not daring to peek. Masking herself behind thick velvet, she heard the man drop his suitcase at the front desk, indicating that they should hold it for him.
“When will you be back?” the attendant asked.
“Hard to say. Sooner rather than later, I hope. Haven’t had a proper holiday in fifteen years.”
But who was the man? A newly engaged newspaper man looking for gossip to sell to finance a wedding? That must be it,
she decided. The countess having guests was sure to be quite a big deal, and nobody had gotten an interview yet. But if the money didn’t come through, he planned to jilt the unlucky lady? Adults, Tabitha decided, had an enormous capacity for cruelty. But then again, so did children. Cruelty, she supposed, was one of those skills that ripened with age, but could be learned and executed quite well during any of life’s stages.
As soon as the man was gone and his business firmly decided, Tabitha wondered whether working for a newspaper might be a satisfying, mystery-solving type of profession. It hadn’t nearly the prestige of being an Inspector, but perhaps females (even one who happened to be an orphanage washer girl) might have a better chance of securing such a position.
Several hours later Mr. and Mrs. Crum primped and prepped each other in the art of fine conversation, with the order that Tabitha remain quiet. Mr. Crum wore a high, wing-collared shirt, waistcoat, frock coat, and top hat, and had also purchased an elegant black cane. Mrs. Crum wore an ankle-length skirt and long, tunic-like jacket that required a straight-line corset she forced Tabitha to squeeze her into. “It’s the latest style,” she kept grunting. She fidgeted with her new broad-brimmed evening hat, which featured an entire stuffed hummingbird in addition to several large feathers.
“We’re wanted in the foyer. Come along,” said Mr. Crum, tapping his feet.
Tabitha straightened her clothing. Mrs. Crum had bought her a black, knee-length dress in a shop for servants’ clothes, saying it was cheaper than mud, due to an odd stain on the front. “Don’t complain. They gave me this apron to cover it. Put it on. And you can wear your school sweater on top.”
With her shabby shoes, the too-big dress, too-tight sweater, and the odd gray apron hanging down, she looked more like a scullery maid than a guest. But the apron’s pocket was handy for holding her mouse, and a small sweater hole would give Pemberley sufficient air, so she didn’t say a word. She’d managed to pin her hair back on both sides, which helped a bit.
I still look ridiculous, Tabitha thought.
“You look ridiculous,” observed Mr. Crum. “We want her to look poor enough to be humble, but not that humble.”
Mrs. Crum sighed, as though having to purchase an excess of poverty for Tabitha had been a terrible burden. “You’ll get the sympathy vote, that’s for certain.”
“Let’s go, then.” Mr. Crum picked up the trunk he and Mrs. Crum were sharing.
Tabitha lifted her carpetbag and followed her parents down the hallway precisely at a quarter to three. At the last moment, she’d fastened the tiny bittern pin to the edge of her dress collar to look a bit festive. Tabitha fancied the pin was good luck. Good luck needed for what, she hadn’t the slightest idea.
The newspaperman in the telephone booth had been curious about the children, which was reason enough to believe that something very interesting could occur during the weekend ahead. Six children chosen to visit Hollingsworth Hall, seemingly at random, was apparently a story worthy of poking about for details. And from reading Inspector Pensive novels, Tabitha knew that small details often came full circle.
She took a very deep breath and watched her mum and dad descend the staircase to the hotel lobby. Pay attention. Anything can be a clue, she reminded herself. But a clue to what? The mysteriousness of this particular mystery was frustrating beyond pleasure until she realized what was missing—what was part of every Inspector Pensive mystery novel she’d read over and over again.
A crime.
Pay attention, Tibbs, to what is precious to people. Do they cling to paintings or pastimes or money? Do they shun the gifted items of others by shoving them into drawers instead of putting them on display? Remember that when a person leaves their home quickly, what they leave behind might be as important as what appears to be missing.
—Inspector Percival Pensive,
The Case of the Disappearing Dachshund
The Hotel McAvoy’s lobby rustled and murmured as women in full skirts and feathers mingled with men in their dress coats and homburg hats. The doorman and desk attendant busied themselves with afternoon arrivals, and there was a decided feeling of anticipation to the place, marked by a corner of bunched luggage and flocked parents awaiting transport to Hollingsworth Hall. Even hotel guests who were not bound for Hollingsworth paid tribute to the milling group with silent stares and appraising glances.
Tabitha journeyed the steps slowly, observing the four children seated beside the reception desk, lined up along a bench like expectant soldiers. Clearly they were her fellow invitees.
Nearest the window sat a pleasant-looking tall boy with dark hair and a half grin directed at a flash of silver in his hands. The seat next to him was taken by a cherub-faced blonde with a cheery glow, and next to her, a yellow-haired boy slouched. He wore delicate spectacles and rested a book on his belly, his mouth moving silently along with the words. The seat beside the marble length of desk was taken by an elegantly postured but sour-faced child with lovely auburn curls who kept eyeing the front desk attendant as though she wished he would disappear.
All four children were immaculate, with the tall boy and sour girl wearing the finest clothes. Oliver Appleby and Frances Wellington, based on Daddy’s notes, Tabitha guessed, leaving the others to be Viola and Edward. Though it’s best never to determine a person’s identity solely by their exterior, Pemberley. Goodness knows what they make of me. Tabitha took a very deep breath, determined not to show embarrassment over her own appearance.
“Frances, do put a pleasant look on your face, like the delightful child you are,” a stylish woman called from across the room.
“Yes, Mother.” A charming smile appeared immediately on the sour girl as she stood and curtsied to her mother, though her eyes remained annoyed.
The tall boy put away the pocket tool he’d been fiddling with and caught sight of Tabitha lingering on the fringes, but still standing solidly within the bubble of the Hall-bound gathering. He beckoned her to join the rest of the children. With no small amount of surprise, she hesitated, looked behind her, and finally nodded.
Don’t bob your head like an idiot, she heard her mother’s voice say. A woman should nod demurely. But Tabitha wasn’t sure how to nod demurely, so she simply blushed at her own awkwardness and walked toward the bench. None of them want to be friends, so that takes the pressure off, she told herself. And I’ve got my best friend with me already, she added, giving Pemberley a quick pat.
The beckoner grinned and held out a hand to Tabitha. “I’m Oliver. Look a bit stiff, don’t we all?”
Pleased to have been right about names, Tabitha sat. “Yes, you do all look a bit stiff,” she whispered back to Oliver. “That is, I didn’t mean to insult you, I’m sure you’re all harmless, I just meant . . .” Oh, bother! Why can’t you behave normally? “I just meant that I’m Tabitha.”
Oliver’s gaze shifted across the room as Barnaby Trundle’s family made a noisy appearance. “I wouldn’t be too certain about all of us being harmless. Some seem fit to win a game that hasn’t even been announced yet. I say,” he said, taking a fleeting but not unnoticed glance at Tabitha’s apron, “you look quick-witted enough to know what the sport is. You’re not some sort of spy, meant to throw us all for a loop, are you? If a sinister event occurs over the weekend, I shall blame you immediately,” he promised, eyes twinkling.
Tabitha blinked. “Sorry?”
He smiled at her kindly. “Joking.”
“Oh. Right. It’s just that I’m very used to getting blamed for things, you see.” She gave herself a mental slap for saying another idiotic thing. Oliver was joking, so she should joke as well. “Er, um, do I look the guilty type, then?” she asked.
Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Hard to say, hard to say.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps we’re all guilty of something.”
Tabitha let out a fumbled laugh and felt herself longing for the simple glares and whispers of the school yard. At least those were straightforward. Why, oh why, was it so much easier
to interact with Pemberley than with people? It was desperately confusing to both yearn for others to include you and half wish that they wouldn’t.
As observation was familiar enough, Tabitha settled into Inspector mode. Character study, Tibbs, is an integral and constant part of an investigator’s modus operandi. She watched the auburn-haired girl curiously from the corner of her eye. Ignoring the chitchat around her, Frances Wellington had lifted her hand casually to the marble desk. Her finely manicured fingers crept toward a small pile of short pens, which were next to an ink pot, which was next to the large leather guest book. She snatched a pen and stashed it in her elaborately beaded reticule before a full second had passed.
What would a rich girl want with a silly hotel pen?
Barnaby Trundle continued to stand next to his parents. His father, who wore a larger, bolder version of his son’s signature sneer, was gripping Barnaby’s arm. Quite tightly, it would seem from the pained expression on the boy’s face. Raising a finger and jabbing it repeatedly into Barnaby’s chest, Mr. Trundle gave some sort of instruction and then shoved his son toward the other children.
Barnaby bumbled over in a just-been-smacked-for-piddling-on-the-floor puppy manner that Tabitha had never seen from him. The sailor suit his mother had chosen for him was unfortunate. He aimed a hesitant smile toward Frances, nodding at the small open space between her and the front desk.
Lips pinched together as though appearing pleasant was becoming an intolerable and loathsome task, Frances scooted over so that all six were seated on the bench.
“Might as well introduce ourselves,” said Oliver. “The name’s Oliver Appleby and I’m eleven, near twelve. From London, attend Abbott Academy. My father is the head of Appleby Jewelry, so if you ladies are in need of a nice necklace or bracelet, he’s your man.” He winked and rolled his eyes.
Nobody laughed.
Oliver gave an embarrassed grin. “He likes to have me say that. I’m lined up to take over the business, though I’d rather be an engineer. I want to work with motorcars.” He pulled the silver tool from his pocket and held it up for general view. “I nearly fixed a faulty engine just last week using the knife and metal toothpick from this.” His lips twisted to one side. “Didn’t work out too well, actually. Anyway, I’m pleased to meet you all.”
Nooks & Crannies Page 3