Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  Tabitha backtracked to the main path and periodically checked the walls for more signs of a door, but found nothing. As she turned left, passing by what she guessed was the second parlor, another small block of wood caught her eye along the otherwise smooth passage walls.

  It twisted easily, revealing two small holes, and Tabitha found herself staring at Frances and Oliver. They were seated in the armchairs in the second parlor room, avoiding the sofa where Mary had been the night before.

  A sudden chill of realization crept up her neck, then sank down to her toes, numbing her into a frozen stance. Dear Lord, she thought. I’m looking out of a painting.

  “Now, Pemberley, just because this is here doesn’t mean that those were someone’s eyes I saw last evening. It doesn’t mean that only hours ago, someone was standing in this very spot. Painters can do amazing things with artwork now. Incredibly lifelike things.” Saying the words out loud, Tabitha felt her toes tingle back to life. After all, she had years of experience pretending things were quite normal when they clearly were not. Even so, Tabitha was very glad that she didn’t have access to dusting powder for fingerprinting that Tibbs had introduced in one of the later Pensive novels.

  “I’m hungry,” Oliver was saying.

  Frances sighed, as though bored with the conversation. “Why didn’t you eat more breakfast?”

  His heel tapped on the floor, and he shook his head. “Too nervous. And I’m a bit worried, I suppose.”

  Frances laughed. “Don’t be. I’ve already won the whole thing.” She frowned and picked up a crystal bowl. “My parents always say that nothing in life is more valuable and precious than a work of art. Nothing at all.” Her jaw tightened. “And now I’m worth one hundred thousand pounds, aren’t I? Serves them right. The Countess will be taking me on in no time with the load that I told her. She probably won’t even call you in.”

  “I’m not talking about that. A woman died last night, and it’s possible that she was accidentally killed by one of us. And the Countess seems to have lost any sense of true kindness. It’s not normal to demand that one of us leave our parents to live with her. It’s as though she’s got some sort of plan to . . . I don’t know what, but it’s eerie. And now Barnaby is missing.” He stared at Frances. “That doesn’t frighten you?” He shook his head and sighed. “I should have gone to the kitchen with him.” He stopped heel tapping and stood. “And besides all that, there may be spirits about.”

  “Nonsense. Just because you’re afraid to live with a woman of title doesn’t mean that I’m not up to the prize.” Frances twisted a finger through her curls. “Believing in ghosts is idiotic, and Barnaby is probably quivering in some corner, sucking his thumb. And if he’s not, my money’s on Cook. It was her kitchen and she’s positively foul.”

  “Perhaps it was the Countess,” Oliver guessed.

  “Perhaps Phillips’s dog ate him up,” said Frances lightly. “Not likely, though. He would have been far too sour to stomach. Barnaby was terribly low class, pretending to be high class. That’s the worst kind, I think, don’t you? At least Tabitha Crum knows she’s inferior.”

  “Tabitha is not inferior,” Oliver said, his face turning red.

  Thank you, Oliver.

  Frances dug through a small decorative porcelain box. “Mini eggs.” She wrinkled her nose. “How dull. And no, it doesn’t make me nervous because I didn’t do a murder and I didn’t stick that smelly Barnaby anywhere.”

  “What was your hair doing on her, then? On Mary, I mean. I saw long pieces of reddish hair on her back. You can’t pin that on anyone else.”

  Oh, well noted. Tabitha hadn’t observed that particular bit of evidence. Perhaps Oliver had the makings of an Inspector about him.

  Frances’s hands crept to her purse, and she began playing with the clasp. “We were all being shoved about. And there are no such things as spirits.”

  Now, Tabitha knew it was quite possible that Frances might have deep reasons for her horrid behavior, but the girl was still a bit of a nasty-pants. Before she could stop herself, she let out a ghostly moan. Frances nearly fell from her armchair.

  Tabitha’s hand jumped to her mouth. “Did I just do that, Pemberley?” she whispered. “I probably frightened her terribly. And poor Oliver went all flinchy.” She felt guilty for a long moment before a soft chortle slipped out. “Rather bold of me, wasn’t it? If only I’d known the satisfaction of executing well-timed mischief earlier in life, I daresay I might have had loads of fun with my unloving nonfather’s toupee.”

  But before Tabitha could fully enjoy her trick, the most delicate swish whispered behind her in the passage, and a light wisp of air moved past. She stiffened and listened, hearing nothing. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head both ways, seeing nothing in either direction by the low glow of lamplight. “Imagination,” she murmured, forcing herself to return to the peephole. “Nerves.” Nevertheless, she decided that perhaps it wasn’t the time and place to be impersonating ghosts.

  “It’s Oliver’s turn!” Edward called, stepping into the parlor with Viola. “I just ran into Phillips and he said to—oh! Wouldn’t figure you for a clumsy one,” he said to Frances, who had just bumped into the doorframe on her way out of the room. He bent to help gather the contents of her spilled purse.

  “Stop! Stop that helping!” Frances said. “Don’t touch my things with your filthy hands,” she snapped.

  Still visible on the floor were the hotel pen, one of Viola’s velvet dress buttons, the piece of decoration from the dining table, a large green jewel, a cigar, an ivory-carved heart, and the miniature eggs she’d just sneered at.

  Viola clapped. “You’ve found my missing button! I was wondering where it popped off to.” Her face fell. “Oh my,” she said, pointing at the rest of the items on the floor. “Some of those things belong to the house, don’t they, Frances?” Viola shook a finger at the foul girl. “That’s a bit cheeky, even for you.”

  “Seems spot-on to me,” chirped Edward. “Right on target for her lovely character.”

  Frances gave a furious toss of her curls. “Shut up, you filthy toad.”

  “Frances.” Oliver rose. “You must put everything back.”

  “Quiet,” Frances hissed. “I borrowed the jewel from my parents and those other things were lying on the floor. I picked them up absentmindedly to return later, I tell you. All of it will be mine at the end of the weekend anyway.” She straightened and walked a slow circle around the other three children. “This is all a misunderstanding, understand?” She pointed a finger in each of their faces. “If any of you say a word about this to the Countess, I will end you.” She stalked out of the room, leaving the rest of them to gossip.

  Though she desperately wanted to stay where she was, Tabitha thought it best to take advantage of the empty library to exit the passageway. She kept moving down the hidden path, thinking it might circle around.

  A right, up narrow stairs, straight for a bit, then a left. Down the stairs, around a corner.

  A dead end. And another door, complete with a locked latch, with an herbal, meaty smell wafting behind it. She’d found her way to the kitchen. She peered out of the keyhole, but could only see the far wall. A smidgen of storage cabinetry and a painting featuring a young boy leaning against a tree and staring at a lake.

  “Drat. If only I had more time to explore. And what is that smell?”

  Squeak!

  “No, not the kitchen odors, something else. It’s been all along the passage. Oh, never mind.” Tabitha backtracked toward the library, pausing only to see that Viola and Edward were still in the parlor room. Oliver must be with the Countess.

  She tripped right before reaching the library entrance, the oil lamp coming dangerously close to bursting into flames on the ground as her head banged and rubbed against the passage wall. Tabitha barely kept the lamp in her hand. Breathing heavily as she pushed herself up, she noticed a glint of metal on the passage floor. Bending, she picked up an earring.

&n
bsp; A bluebird earring.

  Hastily Tabitha found the inside latch, slipped back into the library, and shoved the bookshelf back where it belonged.

  The next half hour was spent deducing and feeding bits of cookie to herself and Pemberley.

  “So, Pemberley, Mary Pettigrew was in the secret passage earlier this week, shortly before her stroke. The Countess found her practically catatonic on Monday evening, so let’s say she was last in here around Monday morning.”

  Squeak.

  “Why? Because,” she said, scooping him into both hands and bringing him to eye level, “a woman, especially a maid, does not lose a beautiful earring and not notice for more than a day.” Tabitha stood and paced along the book-filled walls. “So she was in the passage on Monday and discovered in the Countess’s study that evening.

  “Sometime after that, the other staff arrived, but they’ve all left by now due to ghostly noises or because of the Countess’s cruelty. And on Friday we all arrived and were told that one of us is her grandchild. The grandchild is to live with her permanently and will receive an enormous trust fund.”

  She stopped at the row of books concerning human behavior. “We know that the Countess keeps gruesome paintings, has a nasty (but explainable) habit of keeping knives around her person, and locks her extra servant clothes in an upstairs room. We know that there are ghostly noises in the halls, that a Mr. Simmons, possibly a reporter, has been calling repeatedly, and that a maid, who knew about this hidden passage, has died. What else?”

  Squeak?

  “Ah, yes. There is a family photograph in my bedroom with something odd about it that I can’t pinpoint, and paintings of a boy in several places throughout the manor. And we mustn’t forget the disappearance of Barnaby, whether by his own design or due to something more sinister.”

  She stopped pacing. “And the Countess wants her grandchild, but not simply for the sake of having a loved one returned. What can we make of all that?” she asked, plucking a reference book from the shelf.

  It was no use. All the information was in a muddled pile. She couldn’t stack it into a discernible story. Not three seconds after she’d plopped onto an armchair with Psychology of Deviant Behavior, Volume 1, a shadow appeared in the doorway, followed by its owner.

  “Miss Crum,” said Phillips. “Do come along.”

  She returned the book. “Coming.”  Tabitha followed him, realizing a moment before she stepped into the Countess’s study what the particular smell had been throughout the hidden passage.

  Burned toast and rotting cinnamon.

  Barnaby Trundle’s smell.

  Defensive people use offensive maneuvers to buy time. That’s right, Tibbs, criminals often reach a point in their plan when they are quite out of control and are only stalling until their next move becomes clear. It is our job to catch them before it does.

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Swindling Sommelier

  Camilla DeMoss offered the briefest of false smiles as Tabitha entered the study. “Sit down,” she ordered, reaching for a glass dish of peppermints and popping one into her mouth. Between the deep furrow dividing the Countess’s eyebrows and her vigorous candy sucking, Tabitha guessed that she either hadn’t determined her heir yet or she was attempting to lose weight, and was becoming irritable with the effort, as Mrs. Crum did upon occasion. Perhaps both were the case.

  “What’s that?” the Countess asked, peering at Tabitha’s head. She reached forward and rustled a sprinkling of fine dust from her hair. “Dear God, I hope that’s not lice.”

  “No,” said Tabitha. It’s from your secret passage, she added in her mind. The one that you may not know exists. The one your maid, Mary Pettigrew, was bumping about in.

  “Well, what is it?” The Countess removed her gloves and reached for a silver container on the desk corner. Lifting the lid, she dipped her fingers into a thick lotion and began to rub it into her rough, dry-looking hands. “Go on.”

  “It’s just, um . . . well, y-you s-see—” Tabitha rummaged through her brain for the right words. She had to find out if the Countess was aware of the passages, without drawing suspicion. What had Pensive said about reactions revealing knowledge?

  The Countess squinted at her. “You’re not here to show off a dreadful stammer.” She sniffed. “Or your general lack of hygiene.”

  “Yes, Your Ladyship,” Tabitha said. “It must be a bit of wheat germ that Cook gave us to sprinkle on our oats this morning. Edward was playing around a bit. Speaking of playing around, wasn’t this a marvelous manor house for your son to grow up in? He must have loved exploring for hidden passages and such.” Tabitha watched carefully for quickly smoothed-over eye widening, any movement around the mouth, and what the Countess did with her hands.

  Had there been a total absence of reaction, that would have been an indication of deliberately masking a feeling as well, but instead the Countess looked distinctly bored. “That, my dear, is the most idiotic thing I’ve heard coming from your mouth thus far. Hidden passages,” she scoffed. “Those don’t exist outside of novels, and I don’t care for reading.”

  “But you have an entire library full of books,” Tabitha said, watching her hostess carefully. “I was so delighted to find that you had a shelf of mysteries.”

  The Countess waved a dismissive hand before putting both gloves back on. “I don’t touch the things. They were here when I arrived. But really, do children always talk this much? With Frances it was ‘How much is this worth?’ and ‘Can I get my money early?’ and with Viola it was ‘Oh, but you must feed the poor!’ I’ve fed enough people to last a lifetime, I’ll have you know, and none of them were sufficiently grateful, if you ask me.”

  So she doesn’t know about the passages. So Mary Pettigrew must have discovered them and used them for . . . Tabitha was at a loss.

  The Countess forced a pleasant expression to smooth its way up her cheeks. “Now, dear. Just tell me what you know. Might you be my heir?”

  Tabitha forced a smile of her own. “I know nothing. My parents said there was no token given when I was handed over. I’m afraid I’m not your grandchild.”

  It was as the Countess turned to refill her tea that Tabitha noticed the desk. It was the same one she had been staring at just hours earlier. Quickly searching the walls for any interior sign of the peephole that she’d looked through, Tabitha saw nothing. And the wallpaper was patterned, making it difficult to locate a keyhole.

  Hanging on a wall beside a rather large wardrobe (odd thing to keep in a study, Pemberley) was a framed oil painting of a small boy in a hand tub, being gently washed by a pair of arms that extended out of the picture. It was a profile image this time, and the child was much younger, but Tabitha was almost certain that the very same child had been in the painting in her bedroom. And the kitchen.

  “No token?” The Countess flipped through papers in front of her. “I would think your parents might have thought up a lie, but no matter, dear. I’m afraid I’ll just have to choose whoever I feel best fits my needs, other than Barnaby. I wonder where that dreaded boy escaped to. Not that you’re high on my list, but I wouldn’t try to run away like him. I don’t have to remind you that Phillips stuck Mary Pettigrew in the garden because he was certain she would freeze there. In this weather, you wouldn’t last one hundred yards beyond the manor. I do hope Barnaby’s not gotten himself frozen solid down the road somewhere.” She offered a strained grandmotherly smile. “Now run along and enjoy your day.”

  As Tabitha stood to leave, the painting caught her eye once more. It was at the right level to be covering the passage’s keyhole. She had to find out if the key in her apron belonged to the secret passage door. But how to knock the painting from the wall?

  Shuffle, shuffle.

  “Oh bother, my shoelace.” Tabitha knelt and squeezed Pemberley four quick times (Good thinking, sir). She set him on the floor and nervously cleared her throat to utter their secret cue phrase for distraction. She
and Pemberley had used it on occasion when they needed to sneak provisions due to Tabitha being forced to skip dinner for nonsensical reasons.

  She prayed for the ability to speak quickly, as the Countess seemed more the type to advance in violence than recoil in fear.

  “Inspector Pemby, on duty,” Tabitha announced in a clear voice.

  Immediately the clever mouse ran to a wall.

  “Inspector Who?” The Countess turned.

  Squeakity-squeak, squeak!

  “What’s this about an inspecto—mouse! Rat! Mouse!” Springing to her tiptoes, the rich philanthropist danced around the room yelling, “Kill it! Kill it!” while Pemberley dashed from the wall toward the desk.

  “A rat!” Tabitha echoed the words, adding, “Oh my, don’t touch it. It could have a horrible rat disease! Foaming pustule influenza or scabies!” She moved behind the desk, both to shield Pemberley a bit and to examine the painting. The woman’s hand gently scrubbed with a yellow cloth while the child tilted his chin up, gazing back at his mother.

  Who says it’s a mother doing the washing? the inner Tabitha argued. Has anyone ever lovingly bathed you like that?

  I’ve actually never had the occasion to ask Mother how she bathed me, and she’s gone forever now, so close your tea lid.

  Oh, stop with your ridiculous inner arguments! Does the painting cover the keyhole or not?

  Flailing wildly, Tabitha gave a little shriek and spun, successfully hitting the edge of the gilt frame. The painting landed picture side down while she frantically searched the wallpaper. There it was! Nearly blending into the pattern was a small keyhole. Now, if she could quickly reach into her apron and—

  “Move!” the Countess ordered. “I heard what Frances Wellington said about you. Use your disgusting affinity for filthy rats and lure it in so I can smash it. I’ll kill it myself!”

  A terrible thumping noise came from somewhere above them in the house.