Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  “I’m Viola Dale,” said the sweet-faced blond. Her voice was light and breathy, but confident. She had a lovely green velvet bow in her hair and a smile that seemed eager to please. Her dress was a generous cut of matching green velvet, complete with buttons and lace from her neck to her knees, where the whitest of wool stockings were worn with a darling pair of black dress shoes. On any other girl, all those buttons might look excessive, but Viola wore the dress with such a casual manner that Tabitha liked her immediately.

  “I’m eleven too,” Viola said. “I go to St. Stephen’s with Edward. We live in London, next door to each other, actually. Our mums and dads know each other quite well. And, let’s see, what else? I love to research social services, and I’m learning French.”

  Frances tossed her hair, snorting like an amused piglet. “You’re ‘learning French.’ How new money of you. My mother would love to take your parents on. She runs a finishing business for young ladies. Not that class or grace can be taught.”

  Nor can humility, Pemberley.

  “Frances Hortensia Rathbourne Wellington, also age eleven, near twelve. I already speak French. I have a private tutor and live in London as well. The second we got the invitation, my mother used her connections to hire a former servant of Hollingsworth Hall. For a price, the woman blabbed everything.” She frowned. “Which wasn’t much.”

  “Out with it then,” Edward said.

  The others nodded.

  Frances’s mouth tightened. “Fine. She locks herself into her bedroom some nights, and she supports the women’s movement, though not openly. Oh, and she talks to her staff like they’re actually people—how ridiculous is that?”

  Tabitha covered her laugh with a cough. Scandalous, she tapped onto Pemberley’s back.

  Next in the introduction line was Barnaby Trundle, who did not mention attending school with Tabitha or say a word about his tendency to be awful in general. Tabitha was tempted to add a bit to his introduction, but made do with realizing his sailor outfit was perhaps more of an embarrassment than her own clothing.

  “Hullo,” Edward said next, straightening in his seat. “Edward Herringbone. My parents work with the Dales. Like Viola said, they’ve all been the best of friends for years. We’ve spent enough Christmases and holidays together to be one big family. I like animals and poking bugs and reading thick books on history and medicine.” He nodded at Oliver. “That little knife and toothpick of yours would have worked wonders on medieval battlefields. Instead people mostly had their wounds jabbed at with rusty nails or sizzled with hot irons or . . .” He trailed off, sensing a general lack of enthusiasm. “Anyway, not a clue what we’re doing here.” He rattled off a few sentences in French and awaited Frances’s response.

  Frances stared blankly.

  “I asked if you knew why we’re here,” Edward told her. “You being a bit of a know-it-all.”

  “Perhaps Frances’s old-money French is a little rusty,” Oliver said, with a wink in Tabitha’s direction.

  “Shut up. I don’t speak peasant French. Speaking of peasants,” Frances added with a smirk, “who exactly are you?” She looked pointedly at Tabitha.

  Simple is best. “I’m Tabitha Crum. I live in Wilting. My father works at a bank. I’m eleven as well.”

  “Tabitha keeps rats,” Barnaby blurted. “I saw her playing with one at outdoor invigoration one day.”

  Tabitha glared at Barnaby and placed her hand over her pocket. “It wasn’t a rat.”

  “It was a rat,” Barnaby insisted. “You were feeding it something, like it was a proper pet.”

  “A filthy rat?” Frances said, recoiling to Barnaby’s side of the bench. “Are you perfectly serious? You can’t be, of course, but I can certainly imagine it. My God, Tabitha Crum, you are officially the most disgusting member of this party. You’ve edged Edward out of the spot completely.”

  “Edged me whatsies?” Edward asked, popping a pocket chocolate into his mouth.

  “It was a mouse,” Tabitha said softly. Perhaps the admission would cause her to lose any chance of making a close acquaintance among the group, but loyalty was owed to Pemberley. Tabitha had forgotten many of the rules of friendship, but that was one she felt certain of. “And he wasn’t filthy at all.” And he’s listening to us at this very moment.

  “I’m sure. Lovely brooch, Tabitha,” Frances said, clearly not meaning it at all. “What is it? Some kind of insect?”

  “I like animals too,” said Viola, patting Tabitha’s knee.

  Tabitha’s hand went automatically to the pin. “It’s a bittern,” she said, hating herself for the blush she couldn’t stop. After all, there were far worse things than being insulted.

  • having her hair pulled out, clump by clump

  • sifting through a rubbish bin for rotten food to eat

  • witnessing a carriage running over a kitten

  “Oh, a bittern!”  Viola exclaimed. “We just learned about those in our nature course. Our teacher said that they used to be found in the wet areas of England, but they’ve nearly all died out. It was so very sad to hear that I told her perhaps some have hidden themselves away. Perhaps they’ll come back one day.” She leaned over Oliver and looked at the pin more closely. “It is lovely. Do you know that the Countess has given away nearly eight thousand pounds to avian causes?”

  “Birds are very big in jewelry design now. My mother has a piece almost exactly like that pin,” Oliver said, glaring at Frances. “In fact, that design would fit in nicely at any of my father’s stores. Where did you get it? I’ll recommend the jeweler to my father.”

  Tabitha reddened once more. Oliver was just being kind, lying and trying to knock Frances down a bit. “My mother gave it to me.”

  “How nice. I’m sure it was her best piece, too,” Frances said, keeping her eyes wide and innocent.

  Tabitha gripped Pemberley lightly, willing his influence to keep her silent.

  “The Countess is sure to like your pin,” Edward said, having finished his treat. “There were swans on her seal.”

  “Oh! And we learned of something of swans in class as well. Boy and girl swans mate for life,” Viola said with a soft smile. “You know, the Countess never remarried after her husband died. I think it’s terribly sweet and romantic.”

  Edward pulled a worn envelope from his back pocket. He peered at the broken seal, trying to press it together. “Huh. Doesn’t look romantic to me. They’re the same size on this seal, aren’t they? Boy swans are bigger than girl swans in real life, so I’d say these two are brothers or sisters, or maybe best mates, but not the best of mates.” He chortled at himself, then scratched his nose. “If I recall, the Countess’s husband was rumored to have been murdered. And I’ve heard the place is haunted with all manner of ghosts.” He winked at Frances. “You’re not the only one with access to rumors, are you, tea cake?”

  Frances sniffed. “Good God, do you never stop thinking of food? And I suppose anyone with access to the daily tabloids knows of the ghosts. Former employees, bitter from being let go and looking to make money with their lies, Mother says.”

  Viola looked around the foyer before raising her eyebrows and lowering her voice to a whisper. “I don’t have any information about the ghosts, but I heard something about her husband’s death. It was probably in a grisly manner.”

  Oh my. Tabitha’s curiosity bullied away her silence, and she found herself unable to remain quiet. “Um, sorry, but why do you say that?” she asked, wishing very much that she had either a writing tablet or Pensive’s enormous memory to store the information in.

  Viola cleared her throat. “Since moving to Hollingsworth Hall, the Countess has given five thousand pounds a year toward hospital care for injured constabulary workers across England, from city police to small village watchmen and parish constables. And the funds were marked only to care for the fiercest of injuries—manglings, blunt force wounds, slashed appendages, things like that. I don’t know how much money she gave before she
came to the Hall, because mother could only find donation records for the DeMoss name starting when the Countess moved there. But research shows that a consistent hospital donation of that size probably indicates some sort of traumatic injuries to an individual close to her.”

  “And why the police, do you think?” Tabitha felt a flush come over her. Stop asking questions! This isn’t the time to play Inspector. Take Mum and Daddy’s advice and just stop talking altogether.

  But Viola didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Her lips twisted in thought. “Perhaps because they made proper inquiries. I overheard bits of conversation at a fund-raiser,” she added. “Two ladies were discussing how best to appeal to the Countess’s sensitivities, and one mentioned her moving to Hollingsworth Hall with only her son and sister. And apparently early staff members overheard the Countess speaking with her sister about their husbands’ deaths. A double murder.”

  Tabitha patted Pemberley gently, but he didn’t appear to be trembling. Tabitha had read enough Pensive novels aloud, she supposed, that the word murder didn’t carry too much of a shock with it. And the Times article she’d read had hinted at the possibility.

  Oliver clucked his tongue, opening and closing items on his pocket tool. “That’s awful.”

  “Yes,” Viola said. “No wonder she wasn’t ready for another marriage after that.”

  Edward shrugged. “Though I suppose none of the gossip ruled out the Countess and her sister doing the husbands in themselves. Seemed they came into enough money to buy themselves a Hall. Ha! Not too shabby, I say.”

  Viola gave a good-natured harrumph, followed by an affectionate smile. “Oh, Edward, you’ll never be a romantic.”

  Edward popped another chocolate into his mouth and grinned. “Never planned on it.”

  Vaguely, Tabitha wondered what it would be like to have a close friend to trade barbs with, rather than a mouse. Not that there was anything inferior about a mouse.

  A man in formal driver dress stepped into the lobby, straightened his coattails, and cleared his throat. “Transportation to Hollingsworth Hall, ladies and gentlemen. Children in the first carriage, adults in the second and third, please.”

  Lined up were three splendid black carriages, each with a driver and a footman. The dark veneer contrasted dramatically with the white horses set to pull them along. Even the horses seemed formal, stamping their feet with strength and dignity, trying to keep warm in the early afternoon air, which was growing colder by the hour.

  They shuffled outside, the parents scrutinizing the children as they exited one by one. Mrs. Dale kissed Viola’s forehead, and Mr. Appleby shook Oliver’s hand in a mock-serious way. Frances Wellington had brought a trunk and two cases and made herself busy by ordering an attendant to be careful.

  “Doesn’t even feel like there’s anything in this one,” said the man, lifting one of her cases. “A nice surprise and change from the heavier loads,” he added, reddening under the influence of Frances’s cool stare.

  “Do hurry, please, children,” said another attendant.

  “Why don’t you hurry,” Frances told him, stomping up the short steps and into the double-benched space.

  “Settle in, everyone,” the lead driver called over the activity. “It may be a bit of a bumpy ride.” He turned his face to the darkening sky, where white and gray clouds billowed and grumbled overhead. “We’ve got a few hours to drive, and the world looks fit to send something unsightly our way at any moment.”

  The very rich and those who long to be so, Tibbs, are often odd birds, who only dirty their cages when others aren’t looking. Astonishingly foul, the habits some people keep secret.

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Interrupted Ingenue

  The Countess’s property was thirty minutes at a fast clip from the last home they’d spotted, its isolation adding to the splendor of Hollingsworth Hall. Indeed, Tabitha’s mouth hung agape as the carriages drove between two low stone walls, crossed a bridged stream, and finally came into view of the group’s destination. It was a confident structure that had no tilting or looming about it, unlike Tabitha’s future residence, Augustus Home. And it most certainly was not full of orphans.

  No less than ten chimneys dotted the estate like top lookouts, and three small diamond-shaped windows perched closely together near the very top of the Hall. I would deduce, Pemberley, Tabitha said silently, that even the attic space in Hollingsworth Hall is certain to be true cozy quarters.

  “Ho! It’s a country palace,” said Edward.

  It wasn’t quite a palace, Tabitha decided, but it was still the most impressive home she had ever seen. She let her eyes follow the gables and sloping roofs downward, her gaze slipping and sweeping around the different angles of the manor. Lit by tall, glass-sheltered gas lamps, the lower half of Hollingsworth Hall was a somewhat unsettling study of shadows, with manicured trees and bushes queued up as though standing guard.

  The horses came to an abrupt halt, jolting the children so that they were torn from their seats and flung together like trapped trout. It was a lumbering process, waiting for the adults to arrive behind them and then waiting while the children’s bags and trunks were unloaded in the harsh weather. Though the rain that had pitter-pattered, then pelted the carriages during the drive had stopped, the ground was wet and boggy, sucking at feet as though hoping to keep anyone from ever leaving the estate. When nobody opened the large set of front doors, the group huddled together in a heap, not quite sure what to do next.

  “What do you think we’re doing here?” Mr. Dale asked Tabitha’s father.

  “Standing in the cold, aren’t we,” Mr. Crum replied. He sniffed. “If you’re talking about why we were all invited, Dale, I don’t know, and if I did, I don’t believe I’d tell you.”

  Mr. Dale looked baffled. “Oh.”

  “We haven’t a clue either,” Mr. Appleby said, stomping his feet and stepping around his wife to block the wind from her. “Does anyone else?”

  Murmurs of “no” and various speculations whirled into the wind and disappeared as they waited. The temperature had dropped several degrees since leaving the hotel and a cold, foreboding scent like frost and frigid things filled the outdoors, as though winter was arriving early and had chosen to make its first appearance at the Countess’s home. Tabitha watched her father. Mr. Crum had a short fuse when it came to patience and shallow reserves when it came to politeness, so it seemed fitting that he was the one to finally shove the group apart.

  “I suppose I’ll see to the door,” he said, “if there aren’t any servants about.” He grumbled about someone not knowing standards of decency if they were slapped in the face with them, but as he approached the wide set of carved wooden doors, he shied a bit at placing his hand on the knocker held within a brass gargoyle’s jaws. Quickly, as though he might be bitten for impudence, Mr. Crum banged on the entrance.

  Four solid raps echoed somewhere deep within the manor. Mr. Crum stepped back as the thick wood eased inward in slow motion. The door opened, revealing a statuesque butler standing at the fore of a marble-floored foyer. Tabitha noticed that his sideburns were meticulously trimmed and his eyes were brown and steady. A deeply clefted chin and a slight, involuntary lip twitch saved his face from being ordinary. He wore a black uniform with dark brown dress shoes.

  “Good evening. Do come in.” He bowed, showing a bald spot on top of an otherwise-thick head of black hair streaked with a few bits of silver.

  Mr. Crum straightened his jacket and peered around the man. “Yes, well. Who the devil are you? Where’s the Countess?”

  “I am Phillips. The butler. The Countess of Windermere does not answer her own doors, sir. Welcome to Hollingsworth Hall.”

  A rush of icy air blasted the crowd, which scurried in without further hesitation. A hush fell over the guests as they soaked in their first view of Hollingsworth Hall’s interior.

  On the foyer walls hung two portraits, one on each side, both of older
gentlemen. Each oil painting was displayed under black curtains, pulled back with gilded ropes, and each portrayed a man sitting in an armchair, holding a large pocket watch. The men’s faces were such that the eyes seemed to follow Tabitha across the open room. She watched them watching her, wondering if the paintings had been silent witnesses to any wandering spirits.

  Dim lighting came from a massive, low-hanging chandelier. Most likely it was secure, but Tabitha stepped out of its path nonetheless. Not one, but three suits of armor stood guard, looking out of place but ensuring the utmost sense of occasion. There seemed to be only one significant thing missing from the scene, Tabitha thought. One significant person missing, rather, she corrected herself.

  “Where is she?” Barnaby asked. “Where’s the Countess? Ow, Mother, you don’t have to—ow!” Barnaby rubbed his ear and glared at Tabitha as though she’d done the tugging.

  Clearing his throat, Phillips took in the group with a single gaze and double lip twitch. “Her Ladyship is delayed in her rooms and will join us for dinner. I’m to take you to the parlor for light refreshments. Parents, you may settle yourselves from the journey while the children are shown to their rooms. Once they return, I’m to give you a brief tour of the property.” He bowed again. “Agnes will take your coats and see that the children’s things are deposited in the correct rooms.” He clapped twice, like you might do when summoning a dog. “Agnes!”

  A cowering maid appeared, quickly disappearing under the load of thick dress jackets and coats piled upon her. Mrs. Wellington had worn a mink, which looked to weigh more than two stone.

  “I say, Phibbits,” Mr. Trundle said, “before we refresh ourselves with anything, what are we all doing here? We demand to know.” He dug in his pocket and produced a shilling, holding it out to the butler. “Out with it, now, like a good chap.”