“She’s dead, then?” the Countess asked, her face a mixture of panic and fascination. Scanning the floor, she located and clutched her handbag, her eyes settling on Phillips. “Is she gone?”
Phillips stared straight into his employer’s eyes, and Tabitha thought she noticed his jaw tighten. “She is, Your Ladyship.”
Fingers playing with her necklace, the Countess eyed the tray in Agnes’s hands. “Was it you, dearest? Did you whack poor Mary?”
Agnes inhaled sharply. “I didn’t—” The tray fell from her hands. “I thought the ghost was attacking us all.” Her eyes fell to the candlestick that was still in the Countess’s hand. “B-begging your pardon, but you were trying to defend yourself as well.”
The Countess sent a searing glare in Agnes’s direction “The only thing I attacked was the vase, while you’ve killed a living thing. You were probably hoping to give me a thump. You and my terrible excuse for a cook have probably been plotting against me since your arrival, planning a mutiny with the stable boys.”
“The stable boys are gone,” the Cook said, “and all the house and kitchen workers have fled with them. That’s the other thing I was coming to tell you. Everyone’s gone, due to your hideous behavior and your horrible haunted house. If you’re not more careful, Countess, I do fear for your reputation.” She gave a conspiratorial nod to Agnes. “People hear things, you know. Rumors get picked up easily enough. Besides, how can I be expected to produce fine cuisine when the walls are rattling and I’m kept awake half the night by mysterious moaning?”
Agnes’s eyes widened, and she buried her head in Cook’s shoulder.
“The moaning is nothing. It’s the wind, nothing more. And what do you mean, ‘everyone’s gone’?” The Countess’s head snapped over to Phillips. “What does she mean?”
Phillips barely corrected a glower before answering. “She means that the rest of your staff seem to have taken the last working motorcar. The only one left won’t start properly.”
“Ridiculous,” the Countess spat. “We would have noticed a motorcar leaving the property.”
Despite her derisive tone, Tabitha had been paying close attention to the Countess and noticed the slightest tremble. Of fear, perhaps?
“It’s snowing quite a bit, and we’ve all been rather preoccupied.” Phillips cleared his throat. “Ridiculous or not, Your Ladyship, there remains the small matter of having no staff left at the manor house.”
“Well,” said the Countess, “we have Cook, however shoddy she is, and Agnes will be head of household. That will be sufficient. And you, of course, Phillips. You three may need to take on additional duties over the weekend until this blasted storm gets under control.”
Cook huffed. “And what if we choose not to work? You’ve made it quite clear my cooking isn’t up to your standards.”
“If you choose not to work, Phillips will throw you outside and lock all the doors so you can’t find shelter.”
Cook narrowed her eyes, but Agnes whimpered at the threat.
“Phillips,” the Countess said, “see to the body.”
“Yes, Your Ladyship. I’ll just . . . go check for a proper place to put her.”
“ ‘See to the body’?” Agnes asked as the butler left the room. Her cheeks turned ashen, then green. Tabitha sensed she was nearing a breakdown. “And what do you propose he do with her, Countess? Stick her in cold storage? Pack her in ice with Cook’s steaks?”
The Countess walked calmly over to Agnes and stood inches away.
“Sit her in the back garden and turn her into a snow statue?” Agnes continued. “There’s an entrance to the garden straight off the kitchen, so why not have him fix you an evening plate of something on his way back in?” She was babbling now, verging on hysteria. “Wait until she freezes solid and use her as a door guard to deter newspapermen?” Agnes blubbered herself to tears, only halting when the Countess’s slap silenced her into shocked, heaving breaths.
“You’re tense,” the Countess said. “I can see that, but there’s no need to be stupid. There’s no room in the cold storage. The back garden will do nicely for now. We can’t leave her in here or she’ll start to stink. She’s nothing but a shell, so don’t be squeamish.”
“Her spirit’s gone to join the other ghosts,” Viola suggested.
Agnes nodded miserably. “That’s probably true. The ghosts have banded together and now we’re all in for it.”
Tabitha put her hand up. “Do you think we should have a moment of silence, perhaps?”
The Countess stared blankly.
Clearing her throat, Tabitha tried again. “Don’t you . . . don’t you care at all that your beloved maid is dead?”
With a lengthy sigh, the Countess smoothed the top of her coiffed hair, tucking a loose strand back into the disheveled bun. “Of course I care,” said Camilla Lenore DeMoss, greatest philanthropist in the whole of England. “I care a great deal. Not that I killed her personally, but I’ve been waiting years for the old biddy to die. It’s dreadfully difficult being charitable to those you don’t like.”
For a moment, nobody moved. They waited, not daring to speak after such a statement.
The Countess stared back at them for a silent moment, a line forming between her eyebrows. “What? Do none of you value honesty? I’m not saying I wished her dead, I’m just saying it’s not the most appalling thing I’ve been a part of.”
“Right you are,” Edward agreed. “Just buying that one Jack the Ripper painting had to be more disturbing than having an already-sick maid die in your parlor. Quite disturbing the way he was creeping along that alley. Can’t say I was too upset when that part of the tour was cut short for dinner.”
Viola elbowed him. “Of course you aren’t required to like everyone, Your Ladyship. It must be very hard being kind to all types of people, but your generosity is so very appreciated. Perhaps you might donate toward a house workers’ union in Mary’s memory?”
“At the very least you needed her to help recognize your true grandchild, didn’t you?” Tabitha asked.
The Countess shifted her steely gaze back to Tabitha. “We’ll make do. I’ll use my own instincts in determining who’s best suited to the role.”
Role. Another odd word choice, Tabitha thought.
And that was when they all heard it. A low shuffling, like someone brushing leaves in the ceiling, and then in the wall along the mantel by a long, painted parlor scene.
A soft wailing accompanied the noise, almost as though someone was crying. Faintly, as though coming from even farther away than death itself, the sound was joined by smaller cries. High-pitched ones, like the sounds a pained child might make.
The trouble with motives, Tibbs, is that they are quite slippery, not unlike this plate of escargots. They have layers, you see, and you often have to look beyond the obvious hard shell and seek the heart of the perpetrator. The impetus of a crime often lies far deeper than expected.
—Inspector Percival Pensive,
The Case of the Cyanide-Crusted Crab
The cries subsided, leaving the room in terrible silence. Oliver caught Tabitha’s eye with a grim expression, Frances stroked a lock of hair with both hands, and Viola looked as though she were doing a mental inventory of the Countess’s charitable donations to remain calm. Barnaby fussed softly as Edward ate what was left of his chocolate wedges.
“The ghost!” Agnes cried. Her head jerked around, settling on the still body of Mary Pettigrew. “It’s Mary’s ghost, no doubt, joining the other spirits!”
“There are no such things as spirits,” said the Countess, walking to the fireplace. She drummed shaky fingers along the mantel, peering at the hearth. “No such things.”
Phillips entered once again, looking a bit gray in the face. “The telephone is out from the storm and the upstairs electricity is faulty.”
“Fine, it’s time to retire anyway,” said the Countess. “To the west wing with everyone. Candles only for the children. Cut them down to
nubs for the bedside holders and make sure they have no oil lamps. Breakfast is at nine o’clock.” She leaned toward Cook, managing to work up a sneer despite the ghostly turn of events. “Will I need to come show you how to poach an egg or do you think you can manage?”
“I can manage,” Cook answered. “And I’ll try my very best not to let any stones get into your food. Wouldn’t want you choking.”
“Stop that,” Agnes hissed, and stepped forward. “I’m so sorry, Your Ladyship, but it seems Jane had to prepare a room in the east wing as well.”
The Countess jerked her head around. “Which room? Those aren’t proper bedrooms.”
Agnes looked at the Countess as though Her Ladyship had lost her memory. “One of them is. The only door in that short hallway. It’s a bedroom, Your Ladyship. Thought maybe it was storage, but it looks to be a suitable bedroom for a less important guest, as I’m sure you know. I noticed it wasn’t being used and had Jane prepare it. I believe Tabitha Crum has that room.”
The Countess’s eyes flared with anger and confusion. “The door was unlocked? You were told not to enter that hallway, if I recall. That door is always locked. How did you open it? Have you opened the others? And where did you find the key? Give it to me immediately!”
One of the locked rooms. Oh dear, Pemberley. We’re to stay in one of the locked rooms.
Agnes blinked hard, as though stung. “But it wasn’t locked, Countess. Must’ve been loose all along. I just had to jiggle it. I was just trying to be thorough,” she managed to say through quivering lips. “Otherwise, there’s the servants’ quarters. With everyone gone, there’s plenty of beds to be had, though I can’t say much for the state of cleanliness.”
“I should think not, given the state of you and the rest of the worthless staff.” The Countess looked through the parlor doors and placed a gloved finger to her mouth. “The east wing room will have to do. I’ll check to make sure it’s suitable in appearance.”
Agnes balked. “Oh, no, Your Ladyship! It’s my job to see to the rooms, and I would never—”
“Silence. It is my house. I shall see to it, along with the girl.” The Countess raised an eyebrow at Tabitha, as though challenging her to refuse the company of a titled hostess. “But first I have something to attend to, so wait here. Phillips, come with me. Leave the body here for now. Mary and Tabitha can watch over things,” she said, smiling sickly. “You two.” She pointed to Cook and Agnes. “Get moving with the other children. Do sleep well, dears,” she said in a slightly sweeter tone. “I so look forward to our conferences tomorrow. Soon, for a lucky one of you, this will be your home. Your permanent home.” She frowned. “You all look frightened.” She turned to Phillips. “Am I frightening them, do you think?”
“Perhaps it’s the matter of the dead body, Your Ladyship,” Phillips answered.
“Oh,” she said, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “Well, that’s all over now. A shame, but one less person for Cook to poison.” She laughed a high-pitched cacophony of notes that died out when nobody joined in. “It was a joke, children. Good night.”
Tabitha waved good night to Oliver as he, Edward, Barnaby, Viola, and Frances were led out of the parlor. “Pemberley,” she whispered, trying hard not to stare at the corpse, “in more ways than one, it’s just you and me now.”
And the dead body of Mary Pettigrew.
And the ghost or ghosts.
“We’ve got better ways to spend our time than blubbering and pouting.”
Squeakity-squeak.
“Too right, Sir Pemby,” Tabitha said. “I adore when you bring up a Pensive maxim: ‘When hope has left your side, carry on with the assumption that it simply went to fetch a quick bite to eat and will return shortly.’ ” She nodded to her partner. “Quite appropriate, sir.” She felt much resolved in spite of the facts that no parent would ever love her and poor Mary Pettigrew was still quite dead and quite close by.
With a very deep breath, her motivation was rekindled. “This is our first serious and real mystery. I may not be heir to a fortune, and I might be heading straight for Augustus Home after this weekend, but we must rally, sir.” She stood. “In the words of my unloving nonfather, a game is afoot!”
Squeak! Pemberley scurried happily to Tabitha’s shoulder.
“Perhaps we’ll recount it to Scotland Yard at an interview one day if they ever decide to take women on. We must concentrate on scenes, clues, possibilities.
“So, Pemberley.” In the absence of a pocket watch chain, she nibbled one of her knuckles as she paced. “The question isn’t so much a matter of how Mary Pettigrew died. I’m guessing she was inadvertently startled into a second stroke. The question is why. Why, that is, did the Countess act as though Mary Pettigrew was a faithful servant, but seem indifferent, even glad, about her death? And what was Mary doing in her study when the first stroke occurred?”
Tabitha inventoried her knowledge of the Countess: a mysterious and death-ridden past, a philanthropic streak that began with her purchase of Hollingsworth Hall, an attraction to gruesome crime paintings, an affinity for knives . . .
Stepping over to the body, Tabitha once again noticed a glint of brass poking out near Mary’s overturned hand. “Why,” she asked, bravely leaning forward for a closer look, “did the Countess feel the need to keep such a close eye on this woman, even after she’d fallen ill?”
Cringing slightly and whispering apologies, she turned the woman’s wrist and stared at her wooden bracelet. The entwined heads of the carved creatures had separated, revealing that the tubelike design concealed a secret space.
“Pemberley, what a very clever clasp. When Mary fell, her body’s impact must have caused it to pop open. Exposing this.” The metal item she’d seen was a small key, the majority of it still hidden inside the bracelet’s hollow interior.
Quickly Tabitha slid the key from its hiding place and tucked it into her apron pocket. “Company for you, sir,” she said to her mouse. She closed the bracelet’s clasp around Mary’s wrist and backed away from the body, scooting around the sofa to study the parlor paintings. Breathing in and out to calm herself, she meandered around the room, peering at the paintings from a distance.
She concentrated her gaze on a gentleman with a bird perched on his shoulder. He had startlingly realistic blue eyes. They were painted in such a lifelike manner that they seemed to follow her around the room, as the two portrait paintings in the foyer had done. She glanced at the gentleman from three different spots, and his eyes always seemed focused on her. Tabitha had just stepped closer to examine the technique when footsteps approached.
“Come!” the Countess barked. Holding a large unlit candelabrum, she led Tabitha up the main staircase and along the east side of the manor, turning down the short hallway. She stopped at the door just as the lights went out for good. Cursing, the Countess fumbled with a match and lit each candle, the four flames casting a menacing gleam on her cheeks.
With the other children an entire wing away, they were very much alone. The Countess placed a finger under Tabitha’s chin and cocked it up. “My dear Tabitha Crum of the Wilting Crums. Are you the one, I wonder?” Her expression was not that of a rich, generous patroness or a warmhearted grandmother, but of someone who was after something.
When interviewing suspects, the most direct questions are best posed at unexpected times, Pensive would say. “You must miss them very much,” Tabitha said.
“What?” The Countess frowned. “Who?”
“Your husband and your son and your sister.”
“Yes, of course I do.” The Countess bent to examine the lock, peering doubtfully between the keyhole and her ring of keys.
“And you want a piece of them back, is that it?”
“Unlocked all along, was it?” she murmured. “What are you mumbling about?”
“Why do you want your grandchild?” Tabitha asked in an authoritative tone, crossing her arms for emphasis. “And why are you seeking us all out now?”
The Countess hesitated, and it was the manner of the hesitation that told Tabitha that it was certainly not love. Her Ladyship reacted to the question with what was almost a guilty start. Between that, the small hints at anger and impatience, and her lack of compassion for Mary Pettigrew, Tabitha felt certain that something else had motivated the invitations to Hollingsworth Hall.
Perhaps a grandchild was not wanted, but needed for some reason. But for what? A status symbol? Something to relaunch her reputation as a nurturing figure? Or for a darker purpose that she’d rather not think about, for dear Pemberley’s sake?
“Cheeky,” the Countess said. “That’s none of your business. At least not until your worth is determined.”
With a halting hand, the Countess reached toward the doorknob. Her shoulders tightened as the knob turned easily in her hand. She gave a dubious glance to the black room with a pinched expression, the candles’ flames allowing only three or four feet of view. “I want you to think seriously about what you shall say to me tomorrow. Your future depends on it. Pleasant dreams, dearest.”
Taking one candle from the stand, she handed it to Tabitha and walked back down the hall, her footsteps muffled by the roll of thick, exquisite carpet. Listening very hard, Tabitha thought she could hear the slightest metal-on-metal tinkling of the two knives scraping together in the Countess’s handbag.
Loneliness can be quite the stimulant in terms of producing criminal theories. Some, of course, must be dismissed as paranoia, which is to be expected from those who spend time talking only to themselves, walls, photographs, and their supper.
—Inspector Percival Pensive,
The Case of the Harried Hermit
The hallway was now pitch black, other than a lone glow. The Countess had forgotten to shorten Tabitha’s candle, and it would last an hour, maybe more. And the oil lamp by her bedside was half-full. Careful not to lose her flame, Tabitha ventured into the room and tilted the candle until the lamp was lit.
“I am alone in one of the locked rooms,” she said. A pocket shuffle argued otherwise. She pulled her furry friend out and held him to her cheek. “Of course I didn’t mean that, Pemberley. I’m so glad you’re here with me, and besides, we already established that the Countess keeps extra servant uniforms in the armoire, which is a perfectly valid reason to keep a door locked. I just meant that—”
Nooks & Crannies Page 11