Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  Phillips studied the coin as though it were a piece of tummy lint. “Oh my, that is most unnecessary. Put it away, please, sir. And it’s not my place to say why you’ve been summoned.”

  “So you know, then?” Frances asked.

  “We demand to know as well,” Mrs. Crum said. She slapped a hallway table for emphasis, rattling a Grecian mask. “First the hostess doesn’t show up to greet us, and now the butler is flaunting knowledge that we don’t have. I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”

  Mrs. Trundle clucked her tongue. “Perhaps not to your face, dear.”

  Frances whined like a squeaky vault door. “Give him twenty pounds, Daddy. I want to know now.”

  “Quiet, Frances, I’ve told you not to speak to me when I’m assessing the art.” Mr. Wellington stroked his chin, gazing at the portraits. “Shades of Thomas Gainsborough’s work, I believe.”

  “Follow me.” Phillips began walking down a wide hallway, his shoes alternating between efficient clicks and a barely audible squelch. All of their soaked shoes were squelching a bit, Tabitha noticed, from the delicate heels on Frances to her own shabby pair.

  With a dramatic roll of his arm, Phillips ushered them through a set of open double doors. Tabitha gazed at the finery in awe. Every surface burst with money, from elegant ivory effigies on side tables to the two large paintings hanging on either side of the fireplace mantel. Each showcased a single swan, swimming gracefully along a scenic lake.

  “This is the high parlor. Don’t touch that, sir,” Phillips said sharply, swiping a silver apple from the hands of Mr. Crum and placing it back on an end table. “A ladies’ powder room and a gentlemen’s room are just down the hall. Children, you will be escorted to your rooms shortly. Parents, please feel free to seat yourselves.” He pointed to a bound album resting on the lower shelf of a table near the fireplace. “There are more than three hundred thank-you notes cataloged in that album, if you would like to peruse them while you wait for the children. The Countess has been quite the benefactor.”

  “If she’s so rich, why hasn’t she got a fleet of motorcars? Would’ve shortened the journey here,” snorted Mr. Crum.

  Phillips raised one eyebrow. “The Countess keeps five of the finest new motorcars with custom-added luggage racks in converted stables on the property. I can only assume she sent her finest horses and carriages to convey an older sense of class and elegance, perhaps a difficult concept for some to grasp. I’ll be back shortly.” He gestured to a stone-faced servant. “This is Jane. She’s here to pour if you care for tea. There are assorted food items as well, though I should warn you that the Countess has quite a meal planned for supper, so do save room. She has”—he coughed into his hand, and a wrinkle appeared between his eyes—“spared no expense.” He bowed and closed the double doors behind him.

  Jane stood beside silver platters of cucumber sandwiches and smoked salmon sandwiches and savory-sweet ham sandwiches and open-faced sandwiches with thickly spread butter and fresh mint.

  “Hello, hello, Jane!” Edward said, rubbing his hands together. “And hello, refreshments.” But just as he reached for a butter-and-mint, two nervous-looking female servants appeared and approached the children.

  One was no more than fifteen years of age, with tired eyes and blond hair tucked under a cap. “Tabitha Crum?” she asked, fingers twisting together as though knitting an invisible scarf.

  Tabitha raised a hand. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Thank you, miss. Follow me to your room, please.” She turned and began walking quickly down the hall.

  Tabitha pushed gently past Oliver and Edward, hurrying to catch up. Stepping alongside the young maid in the hallway, she had the sudden idea of practicing the art of conversation. Surely it would benefit her throughout the weekend ahead if she could become comfortable speaking with others. And, though clearly tired, the maid seemed kind enough to be a suitable trial friend. “So, have you worked here long?”

  “No, miss. I arrived just two days ago.”

  “And have you run into any ghosts?” Tabitha was joking, but the servant stopped at the base of the staircase.

  Without looking at Tabitha, the girl spoke softly. “It’s . . . not for me to say, miss.”

  Hmm. A hesitant answer is one that always begs another question, Pensive would say. How to encourage the girl? Tabitha smiled. “I’m not frightened of them, you know. I just like mysteries, and ghosts are quite an exciting mystery, aren’t they?”

  The servant looked at Tabitha as though she had grown a second head. She began climbing the staircase at a fast clip. Oh dear, Pemberley, Tabitha said silently, I’m afraid I can’t talk to people the way I talk to you.

  The servant was glancing down the long left hallway when Tabitha reached the top. “The rest will be in the west wing, that way,” she said. “There were only five guest rooms on that side.” Twisting her fingers, she turned right, hurried past a shut door, then turned down a short hallway that dead-ended with a single room. “Here we are. I’m so sorry you’ll be separated. It’s not my fault.” She bit her lip.

  “No, of course not. It’s perfectly fine. And I’m sorry to have brought up ghosts. Perhaps you can’t talk about things like that.”

  The servant gave her a long stare, deciding something. “Well, since I’ll be leaving shortly and because you’re staying in this room . . . it’s probably best that one of you know that Hollingsworth Hall isn’t all baubles and ten-course meals.”

  Pemberley shuffled, and Tabitha gave him a light squeeze. She was certain that he gave her a nudge back. Yes, I know, sir! It’s exactly like something a maid would say in a Pensive novel before revealing terribly important information. You pay attention too! “Yes,” she said, fixing her face with an open and encouraging expression. “Please go on.”

  “I’ve heard something the past two nights. I stepped out of my room to see what was what, and it was almost as though something was walking the hallways, making the air currents shift. I swear I felt a presence. Something’s not right with this house.

  “I heard rumors before I took the job,” she continued. “Spirits calling for people in the halls. One poor girl even came back to the agency just to warn us not to work here. The voices, she said. The voices were moaning for an Anne and a George and a Victoria. Can you imagine?”

  “No,” Tabitha said, though she could. She had a very healthy imagination. She also knew that sometimes people liked to play tricks on those they thought naive. It was likely that somebody had been having a bit of fun with this servant, but it would be rude to suggest that. No, it was best to play along. “Who are Anne and George and such?”

  The servant shook her head. “Don’t know. Now,” she said, opening the door, “it’s not as large as the west wing rooms. I hope it will be acceptable, miss.”

  Tabitha thought of her attic dungeon. “I’m sure it’s wonderful, thank you.”

  But the servant had already left, keeping her head low and muttering to herself. Tabitha reached into her pocket and let Pemberley scurry up her arm. “Fresh air, my little Inspector.” She stepped into the room and froze. All thoughts of ghostliness vanished at the sight of her quarters, and then young Tabitha Crum felt a surprising wetness at the corner of her eyes and realized that she had been placed into a story after all, just as she’d wished for only one day earlier. “I have entered a fairy tale,” she whispered.

  And it was. There were luxuriant fabrics, elegantly carved wood, and a thick, rich rug with colors that beckoned her inside and wrapped around her lonely heart like a magically woven blanket and cup of never-ending tea. A canopy bed dominated one wall. It was hung with green gossamer curtains, covered in a gorgeous pale yellow comforter, and piled with embroidered pillows. It was a bed fit for a princess.

  There was an armoire and a separate closet as well, with a simple chair resting between them. Tabitha opened the doors of the standing wardrobe, almost expecting to see a row of fine dresses made just for her. Instead there were nea
t rows of clothing—four plain dresses that looked like something a maid would wear (or, Tabitha thought, what someone like herself would wear to a special occasion at a manor house), four trousers suitable for a groomsman or lower houseman, four aprons, six blouses, six shirts, what looked to be a driver’s uniform, and a variety of shoes and hats. All very organized.

  “This must be where the Countess keeps extra servant uniforms,” Tabitha told Pemberley.

  A large dressing table, a mirror, and an elegant seat were next to the wardrobe. She touched the items on the mahogany dressing table, first letting Pemberley down to explore a carefully arranged plate of chocolate digestive biscuits. There was a silver brush set, a powder puff, and a small jewelry case holding several rings and tasteful pins. Among them was a simple silver finger band with a large, clear gem astride it. Tabitha picked it up as Pemberley scuffled onto the dressing table.

  “This could make you a lovely collar, Pemberley.” She slipped it over his head and placed him in front of the looking glass. If mice were inclined to primp and preen, then Pemberley was doing just that. Paws on the glass, he sniffed his reflection, then sat back for a better angle.

  “Oh my, aren’t we fancy, sir,” Tabitha said. “Come, you can’t wear it to dinner.” She pulled him away, though an indignant squeak told her that Pemberley would certainly be back to examine his diamond collar later. While he scurried beneath the bed to investigate, Tabitha lifted a small frame from the dressing table and sat on the mattress. “Who’s in this photograph, do you think?”

  The picture featured a tall man, a plumpish woman, and a half-covered bassinet that revealed the lower half of a baby, whose two legs poked out of a blanket, feet spread far apart as though he or she had kicked off the confines of a too-tight wrapping. The image sent an attention-demanding prickle to her mind, as though it was hiding something of importance.

  I wonder if I was bundled lovingly. Tabitha placed the frame on the bedside table and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to remember back to her days of being an infant. Did she kick off her blankets until her mother stopped wanting to bundle her at all? Had she been a poor fit, both in swaddling clothes and in her parents’ lives, from the very start?

  Pemberley dashed up the bedclothes and settled on her lap.

  “What’s that, Sir Pemby? I’m being tiresome? You’re right. This, sir, is likely to be the most magnificent place we ever take lodging, so let’s soak it in.” She stretched herself onto the bed, folding both arms behind her head, studying the swirling design on the canopy and sniffing the air. “Though it smells like old lady in here, Pemberley.”

  Squeak. Squeakity-squeak.

  “Yes, I meant musty, not like an actual elderly person. Really, it’s a bit like Mr. Tickles’s favorite chair.” She sniffed again. “And pipe tobacco.” Tabitha studied the one painting adorning the room’s walls. It was a child sitting on a rocking horse, longish blond-red hair sweeping over his forehead and dangling into his eyes. He looked mischievous and happy. There was only one boy who had lived in the house with the Countess. Was this her son, or had the paintings already been there when the Countess purchased the estate?

  A knock sounded on the door. “Time to meet for the tour, miss.”

  “Yes, all right, thank you.” As Tabitha walked down the hallway to wait for the others at the staircase, she wondered at the chance of her being given the only isolated room. It was almost as though the Countess knew that she wouldn’t fit in, while the others would be great friends.

  Squeak!

  “I know, I’m being ridiculous.”

  Still, as the others exited their rooms in the west wing, Tabitha couldn’t help but notice how confident Frances was, how she casually whispered something in Oliver’s ear, and how comfortable Edward and Viola were together.

  “Tabitha, come with us.” Viola held out a hand. “I simply can’t wait to find out why we’re all here! Isn’t it exciting? I haven’t a clue what’s going to happen, but it’s bound to be spectacular. It’s like Bonfire Night, just before the fireworks light up the sky.”

  “Yes,” said Edward, “except now we have to tour the house before we even find out what this business is about. Parlor this, drawing room that, here’s money, there’s money. It’s like being invited to Buckingham Palace and then first having to tour the extra-special toilet facilities with perfumed—”

  “Edward, stop.” Viola’s hand wiggled a little, her fingers brushing Tabitha’s dangling ones. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, well, um, yes.” Stupid Tabitha, just take her hand! Though her inner voice had been rather rude, Tabitha took its advice and lay her palm in Viola’s.

  Viola squeezed and leaned in to whisper, her breath a warm wisp of air against Tabitha’s cheek. “Boring tour or not, I’m dying to meet the Countess, aren’t you?”

  “Dying,” Tabitha repeated, thinking about Edward’s words and an Inspector Pensive novel where a body was found in a water closet during a manor tour.

  Pemberley rumbled about in her pocket, and she used her empty hand to free a piece of chocolate biscuit she’d hidden under her collar. She was just poking the morsel into her apron when she bumped into a very solid wall.

  The number and quality of rooms touted in mansion tours is rarely as impressive and extensive as the wealth of secrets nestled within its walls.

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Enigmatic Encumbrancer

  The wall Tabitha had just run into, as it turned out, was the butler. Black uniform fabric pressed against Tabitha’s face, and she noticed that Phillips’s clothes felt strangely cold in a manor that was such a furnace of wealth. He stood at the base of the grand staircase, staging himself three steps up so that he looked down on the parents, who were leaning collectively forward.

  “Pardon me,” Phillips said, gently pushing her into the parent clump with a slight bow of apology.

  Tabitha let herself be squeezed into the cluster and was gradually pushed out of its backside. Viola had been right. There was an electricity to the air—a sense of anticipation and building pressure that had followed them from the hotel lobby and escalated. Even Pemberley was restless, scratching at Tabitha’s sweater until his nose found the small hole.

  They’re all desperate to know why we’re here, Sir Pemby. And I can hardly blame them. This whole manor feels like a powder keg, just waiting for a flame.

  Inclining his head a very butlerish fifteen degrees to one side, Phillips inhaled and exhaled deeply, then nodded at the gathering. “Hollingsworth Hall was built in the fifteenth century. Many a wealthy man has owned the estate, but never has such a charitable woman come into its possession until Camilla Lenore DeMoss’s purchase of the property in 1880.”

  “Are those two gentlemen the previous owners?” asked Mrs. Crum. She pointed to the portraits in the foyer.

  Phillips sighed and wove his hands behind his back. “I really couldn’t say, madam. The portraits were here when I arrived two years ago. Now follow me to the library.” He strode directly down the middle of the group, parting them and turning to walk gracefully backward as he spoke. “In addition to private rooms, the Hall contains—”

  Barnaby’s mother nudged herself to the front of the group. “A library, study, drawing room, double parlors, a dining hall, a vault, and guest and servants’ quarters,” she recited. She eyed the two nearest rooms with a hungry expression.

  Streaks of red crept up Barnaby’s neck as he stared at his mother, but he remained silent.

  At Mrs. Trundle’s summation, Phillips merely lifted the non-twitchy side of his mouth and gave a stiff nod. “And a gallery that includes England’s largest private collection of historical crime paintings, from the assassination of Julius Caesar to the Whitechapel murders of Jack the Ripper.”

  Oh my, thought Tabitha, her hand drifting down to cover Pemberley’s ears so he wouldn’t hear more if Phillips went into further detail. What an unusual choice for a collection.

  �
�How horrid,” Barnaby’s mother said.

  “Odd,” said Mr. Wellington, the art collector. “Though if they’re of significant quality, they might bring a very large sum at market.”

  “Is that right, sir?” asked Phillips, looking at Mr. Wellington with curiosity.

  “Certainly,” Mrs. Wellington replied. “There are all kinds of collectors looking to own unique pieces. There’s absolutely nothing a person can cherish more than the right piece of art. Art is the most precious, important thing that a person could ever give birth to or nurture. Isn’t that right, Frances?”

  Frances stiffened and pursed her lips. “Yes, Mother.”

  “Edward,” Viola whispered, gripping her friend’s shoulder. “The Countess gives nearly three thousand pounds a year to art-based organizations, and I daresay I should be interested, but do say we won’t go see those paintings.”

  Edward shrugged her off. “Not in charge, am I? I’d like to have a look at the Caesar one, myself. According to a riveting read on Roman medicine, the first recorded autopsy was done on him. Something like twenty-three dagger wounds. Physician named Antistius got to do it, lucky chap.”

  They passed through another door and into a wide room with three windows along one wall and scores of bookshelves along the rest. A neatly laid blaze crackled and popped in an enormous fireplace, lending extra warmth to what Tabitha had already decided was the best room in the manor. The fireplace’s mantel was made of dark wood, finely carved and extended to the ceiling, glittering here and there with golden leaf adornments. To one side of it hung a small painting of a boy seated beneath a tree.

  Viola’s nose wiggled, and she sneezed three times. “Oh dear, I do hope I’m not getting sick.”

  “Allergic to the rug fibers, maybe?” Edward guessed.

  Shaking her head, Viola sneezed once more. “No, it’s probably a dreadful cold. Some of the people at the poorhouse we visited were ill, and I must have picked something up.”