Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  The Countess smiled her approval. “Ah, quiet,” she said. “That’s much better. I don’t really care how any of you feel. Do you think a chance like this comes along every day?”

  “No?” Oliver guessed.

  “That’s right, Mr. Appleby. I fully intend to reclaim one of you as my own. And one hundred thousand pounds is a great deal of money. I need to be certain the money goes where it’s supposed to and not into any of your parents’ pocketbooks just because it was released to their child’s name. If I’m the child’s legal guardian, I can be certain where the inheritance goes.” She paused, closing her eyes while taking a deep breath. When she looked upon the room once again, her features had morphed into a kinder expression.

  Tabitha squeezed Pemberley to ensure he was paying attention to the personality shift. She’s back to the kind Countess. She’s either unusually moody, social awkward, or . . . something else.

  Frances raised a delicate hand for attention. Her chin was held at a high, determined angle, as though she were still resolved to “win” despite the unexpected and rather dubious development. “Your Ladyship, I’m certain that my parents wouldn’t mind who I belong to on paper. They often say that their focus is on artistic vision, and that legal business is beyond their concern.”

  “Do they? I do believe we’d get along grandly. Here’s hoping it’s you, dear. I’ve so missed out on being a grandmother. The arrangement is to the advantage of everyone, so if you’d cooperate, that would be lovely. Now do eat your sweets, children. Sweets for the sweet, that’s what I say.” She raised a cookie as though it were champagne and started chatting at a terrified-looking Barnaby.

  The rest of the children were equally unsettled, exchanging apprehensive glances. Viola’s fingers worried themselves around a bit of her velvet skirt as she turned to Tabitha. “I suppose she’s just . . . very floundering with people,” she whispered. “And she’s used to directing her money, that’s all.” Nibbling a corner of hardened pink frosting, she managed a smile and nod. “Yes, that’s all.”

  Tabitha nodded back. “I’m sure you’re right. And the Countess can’t really keep a child whose parents want him or her.” She didn’t mention that in her own case, it was a moot point, as her parents clearly didn’t fit that mold. “That can’t be possible.”

  “No, I can’t believe King Edward would sanction that sort of thing,” Edward said. “Viola’s right, the Countess has just gotten herself worked up about the money.”

  And perhaps she’s right to keep control of the money. Goodness knows my parents would have taken it with them on holiday. And speaking of control, isn’t it odd how the Countess seems to be losing a bit of hers?

  The Countess clapped her hands as Phillips and Mary appeared. “Ah, here she is! Sit her right next to me, Phillips, and then you may leave. I’m not afraid of mingling with filthy commoners like Mary, am I? Only kidding, pet.” She pinched the nearly catatonic woman’s cheeks. “You can look at the pretty vase if you’re not up for talking.”

  Mary looked helpless as ever, slumped to one side, leaning on the arm of the sofa with her head tilted until it was nearly touching a large violet vase. She was clearly unable to speak, but her eyes . . . her eyes were slowly rolling around the room. Lingering on Oliver as he politely smiled back. Focusing for a moment on Tabitha. Studying Edward, who had momentarily stifled his face stuffing. Staring at Viola. Examining Frances and Barnaby, whose matching freckles made them look like nasty siblings.

  A few heavy breaths sent a thin spray of Mary’s spittle onto the vase.

  “Poor thing,” the Countess said, gritting her teeth. “I’m afraid she’s not going to make it too many more days.”

  “She’s right there,” Tabitha said softly. “You needn’t say such things.”

  The Countess smiled. “We’re going to play a little game. It can be called either ‘You needn’t say such things’ or ‘Tell me all the nasty things you know about each other.’ Speculation or truth, I don’t care.”

  “Funniest grandmother I’ve ever met,” Edward muttered, picking up a mechanical dragonfly on a side table. He wound it and set it on the floor, where it buzzed in circles until Frances stood up and crushed it beneath her foot.

  Frances’s hand flew to her mouth. “So sorry, Countess,” she said. “I was startled into thinking it was a rat,” she said. “Tabitha Crum keeps rats, you know.” She curtsied and sat down.

  “Rats?” The Countess stood, looking almost murderous. “I despise rats even more than I despise cats and smoking.”

  Viola’s mouth fell open. She sneezed twice, then raised a hand. “But you gave three thousand pounds just last year to Feral Feline Fancies Street Cat Rehabilitation, didn’t you? Or was that a misprint in the donation records?”

  The Countess rolled her eyes. “A mistake, clearly. I get so many requests that sometimes funding for idiotic causes slip through.”

  It’s also funny for someone to have cigars available when they can’t stand smoke, Tabitha thought. Perhaps they’re only for guests who indulge. Pemberley squirmed and squeaked softly. Or for would-be victims of the Countess’s kitchen knives? Tabitha gave him a gentle squeeze. Pemberley, I don’t know where you get these awful ideas. I shall have to stop reading you mystery novels.

  “Rats are spreaders of disease,” said the Countess. “Phillips hates rats as well. He jumps like a schoolgirl just at the sight of mice. Plague-ridden terrors. I would like nothing better than to gather all the rats and mice of the world and make a large stew of them, and then feed it to anyone who thinks well of a rodent.”

  She’s getting raw now that the parents are gone, Tabitha noted. Pemberley shuffled upward, and she poked him back down. No, I’m not sure I’d want her to be my relation either, Pemberley.

  Mary lurched a little. Her eyes rolled around, locking onto the children in turn. She was pleading for something, Tabitha was sure. The elderly woman looked desperate.

  The Countess moved back to the sofa and patted her maid on the head. “No opinion yet on who’s to be my future companion? Well, perhaps a night’s rest will bring some clarity.” The Countess tapped Mary’s knee and turned to the parlor door. “Agnes! Get in here.”

  Agnes scurried into the room and Phillips followed close behind, uncertainly holding a short chain attached to an enormous boarhound. His eyes drifted to the Countess’s handbag. “There’s another telephone call for you, Your Ladyship,” he said, slightly out of breath. His lip fluttered several times before he managed to calm it down with his free hand.

  The Countess shook her head. “Probably a reporter. Tell whoever it is that I’m entertaining for the weekend. We agreed that I wouldn’t be taking phone calls.”

  “I’ve already done so, Countess,” Phillips said. “But this gentleman is rather insistent that he speak with you. It’s not a reporter, it’s a Mr. Simmons, Your Ladyship. The second time he’s called. He wishes to speak with you ‘immediately, if not sooner.’ Seems rather concerned and claims to know you personally.”

  A small crease appeared between the Countess’s eyebrows. “Tell him I’m indisposed. Terribly rude, these random callers, lying about knowing me and whatnot. Probably trying to guilt me into handing over money for some ridiculous cause.”

  Repeated telephone calls from someone named Simmons, creaking in the front hall. If she could only be allowed into a room, Tabitha would spend any time alone jotting down the oddities of the evening, excluding any interaction with her parents. Yes, all she needed was a piece of paper and a pen and that business about being forever abandoned could be properly forgotten. Tabitha swallowed hard. For once, she would have something more interesting to list than far worse things. Instead she would list noises heard at the manor :

  • Phillips’s squelchy shoes during the tour

  • Muffled strangling sounds from somewhere in the dining room or kitchen

  • Creaking and soft moaning in the foyer

  • Ghostly voices heard by a servant calling fo
r Anne, Victoria, and George

  Cook entered the room, her apron and hands floury, her expression harried. She carried two candlesticks and placed them on the center table along with several long matches. “Electricity has gone out in the kitchen, Your Ladyship. I thought you might need these if the same happens in here.”

  “And what did you need me for, Your Ladyship?” Agnes asked.

  “I want you to—”

  But Camilla DeMoss didn’t finish saying what she wanted, because once again, the entire manor was plunged into darkness.

  It took three long seconds before the screaming began, and then the room turned into a wild place full of grunting, shuffling, bumping, sneezing, fluttering, banging, crashing, gasping, and shrieking.

  “Don’t bloody push me!” yelled a boy.

  “Aaaaeeee!” shrieked a girl. “Get off me! Get off!”

  “No!”

  “Come on, then!”

  “Ghost! It’s a ghost!”

  “My hand!”

  “It’s got me! Who’s got me? Dear God!”

  “It’s not God, it’s me Edward! Who is—aaaaaaaaah!”

  Attempting to avoid the banging and slamming and whacking, Tabitha knelt on the floor, where she’d heard one of the candlesticks roll. Trying not to absorb a rather colorful string of street swear words that she wouldn’t have guessed Cook capable of, she reached around and felt for it. There, got it. Perhaps she could find the matches on the table. A dry hand tore the candlestick from her grasp, and a foot (belonging to the same body or not, Tabitha wasn’t sure) kicked her to the side. A raucous crash sounded close by, its sheer volume momentarily halting all human noises.

  When the lights flickered back on several moments later, a motionless body lay draped across the center table.

  People’s reactions to the unexpected or the upsetting say so much about their character and their role in a mystery. A burst of anger, a bark of nervous laughter . . . study these things well, Tibbs, but also keep in mind that a reaction may be as rehearsed as the dastardly deed itself.

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Mistaken Martyr

  Mary was splayed chest down on the table, a thin line of drool glistening along the cheek that wasn’t pressed firmly against the polished wood. A stain marred the back of her dress, like someone had pressed it with a wet cloth. One of her hands barely covered something beneath her. A hint of brass . . . her bracelet? No, that was wooden. The visible portion of her neck appeared to be reddened in places.

  Tabitha’s mind took a quick inventory of the scene as though she’d been preparing for such a thing since birth. Indeed, months of reading Inspector Pensive novels had her memorizing each individual’s stance and manner.

  Phillips, breathing hard, rubbing his head, and looking furiously around the room; a large, angry scratch on one of his cheeks

  Agnes, openly weeping and holding the tea tray, stepping on pieces of the broken violet vase

  Cook, breathing heavily and looking at Agnes with concern

  Viola, cradling her right fist in her left hand

  Edward, looking rather fascinated by the body, a pastry smashed over his face

  Barnaby, frightened and wild-haired

  Frances, fiddling with her purse and looking as though she might vomit

  Oliver, looking at the Countess’s hand

  The Countess, pale but calm, her right hand fidgeting slightly as it gripped and regripped a brass candlestick

  And myself, Tabitha added, with my left hand shoved protectively inside my apron pocket. Holding a mouse.

  Edward walked slowly toward Mary Pettigrew’s body. He picked up her wrist, and not a soul objected when he placed two fingers over her skin to take a pulse. Concentrating, he held very still for a full minute before shaking his head. Mary’s hand hit the table with a sickening thud.

  A second thud sounded as the Countess, having fainted, sank to the floor.

  “My God, that old woman’s dead!” croaked Cook, ignoring the Countess.

  “What do you know? You’re just the maid,” snapped Frances.

  “Cook,” Tabitha corrected.

  “Fine, she’s just the cook!”

  Viola clasped her hands together, then grimaced at her right fist, which appeared to be dripping. “And I’m bleeding.” She gasped. “Oh! Oh dear, I’ve gotten some blood on poor Mary’s dress!”

  “Barnaby’s hair grease is on the back of the dress as well,” Tabitha said quietly.

  “That it is,” Oliver said, bending down for a sniff. “Smells like it, anyway.”

  “He did it,” Frances announced firmly. “Barnaby Trundle killed the maid.”

  Barnaby, appearing panicked, tried to edge his body behind Edward. “I couldn’t see where I was going. I didn’t mean to knock into her! I didn’t—”

  Oliver frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous, Frances, she’s died of natural causes. None of us had a reason to kill Mary Pettigrew.”

  Tabitha cleared her throat, ignoring Pemberley, who was frantically scratching at her to keep quiet. “That’s probably the case, Oliver, but actually, we all have a very good reason. Mary Pettigrew may have had the ability to identify the true grandchild. With her dead, any of us might convince the Countess, thereby coming into one hundred thousand pounds.”

  “That money should go to charity!” Viola shouted. “And I don’t even want to live here.”

  “Neither do I,” Oliver seconded. “But—”

  “Quiet!” Everyone turned to Phillips. “Just wait a bloody minute while I have a think. Her high and mightiness, the Countess here, thought this might happen.”

  They all looked around, aghast.

  “She . . .” Agnes tried to control the tremor in her voice. “She thought Miss Pettigrew might be murdered?”

  Phillips eyed Mary and shook his head twice. “No, no. She was very sick, after the stroke. The Countess was certain Mary could die at any moment, having never said another word in her life. She had a cousin with a stroke, you see, who never regained any sort of understandable speech, so we thought—”

  “Are you familiar with the Countess’s history then?” Tabitha asked curiously. “Where she came from before buying Hollingsworth Hall?”

  Phillips reddened. “I believe the Countess said for you to restrict the number of questions you ask. And I’m not sure you’d like the answer to that one, anyway.”

  “The smallest shock can cause a second stroke,” Edward stated. “Even a physician telling you that you’ve just had a stroke could cause another stroke.” He shook his head sadly. “How’s that for a misguided treatment?”

  “Then perhaps you decided to give her a shock,” Frances said.

  “It could have been the small matter of the electricity going out twice, Miss Wellington.” Phillips surveyed the room. “Although there may have been foul play.”

  He bent over Mary Pettigrew and lifted her head. “I assume this lump at the front of her head was from the fall, but perhaps it was something more sinister.” He peered at her back. “In addition to this rather pungent cream on her back, there seems to be a bit of frosting.”

  Edward swallowed hard. “It was dark. There was pushing all over the place. I would never push an old lady, especially not a strokey one.”

  Viola nodded. “He wouldn’t, I’m sure of it. He’s only ever pushed me in jest.”

  Phillips pulled aside the back of Mary’s collar. “There’s some redness on her neck and a large mark on the side of her shoulder here, almost as though someone struck her with a fist. Is your hand quite all right, Viola?”

  Viola squeaked. “It was dark,” she whimpered. “And I thought there were ghosts. I must have hit the corner of an end table. I wasn’t anywhere near Mary Pettigrew, I swear!” Doubt crept around her mouth and downturned eyes. “At least I don’t think I was.”

  “And traces of powder here and there.” Phillip kneeled to the floor eyes drifted down. “It’s on the rug as well.”

/>   “Flour,” Tabitha guessed.

  Cook put both hands on her hips. “I was pushed and shoved as much as anyone, but I had no part in a murder. And a maid’s not the one I’d be after to get rid of, anyway,” she mumbled. “There’s others that’s making their way up my list, if you get my meaning.”

  “Fine, Cook. That’s enough.” Phillips gently moved Mary’s hair aside. “Let’s see, there’s more redness around her neck, and—”

  “It was her!” Frances bellowed, pointing a long fingernail toward Viola. “You all heard that lump at dinner. She’s obsessed with learning about the Countess’s charitable nonsense! She launched herself at the maid so that she could claim to be the grandchild and give away all the money. She caused the shock!”

  Viola’s lip and chin trembled. “I didn’t! I wouldn’t! And I’m not a lump. Mother says I’ve got a statuesque bone structure.”

  “That’s right.” Edward squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Large-boned and healthy as oxen, we both are.”

  Viola removed his hand. “I am not an oxen.”

  “Ox, then.”

  “Don’t call me that, Edward!”

  “No, I just meant that one of us would be an ox. Together we’re oxen, but just you alone would be a—”

  “It’s the butler!” cried Barnaby, backing away from Phillips. “It’s always the butler in these types of situations!” All traces of bully were gone from his persona, whisked away by circumstance. What was left, Tabitha noted, was nothing but a frightened and whiny little boy. She could hardly believe that she’d ever let him bother her before this weekend.

  “Settle down.” Phillips’s face had nearly reached the shade of a cherry. “We shall have a doctor in to determine the cause of death as soon as the weather allows. There’s nothing to be done.”

  “Not nothing,” Edward said. “You might take those knives out of the Countess’s purse before the lights go out again and she accidentally chops off someone’s—”

  A hush fell over the room as the Countess woke. She rubbed her head and sat up. Her eyes jerked to the body of Mary, still slumped on the table.