The Countess let out a bark of annoyance. “Stop jumping on the beds, you awful, awful children!”
A crash followed.
“What’s going on!” the Countess shrieked as Pemberley tickled the back of her ankle on the way to a better hiding spot. “Bwah! Beastly thing! I’ll cook you for Cook’s dinner once I catch you!” She reached for her handbag and pulled out the larger of the two knives, throwing it fiercely at the wall and narrowly missing Pemberley’s tail. “Blast!” She threw the smaller knife, embedding the blade into the wall next to the first. “Double blast!” Bending at the waist, the Countess tried to pull her weapons from the wall, but blessedly, they were in too deep. She rummaged through her key ring impatiently. Her eyes were crazed and glazed with the prospect of mouse murder. With stunning efficiency, she tried several keys before shouting, “Aha!”
Twisting the key in the bottom left drawer and thrusting her hand inside, the Countess came out with a box. And reaching her hand into the box, she came out with a revolver.
The Countess turned to the door. “Phillips! Where are you? Get in here now and shoot this mouse!” She bellowed something incomprehensible, ran out the door, and slammed it shut behind her.
Jarred by the sight of a revolver, Tabitha was nonetheless clearheaded enough to know that
1. the Countess didn’t seem to be as confident in its use as she was with knives, and
2. she was likely to be gone long enough for a brief investigation to take place.
Tabitha contemplated the wise words of Inspector Pensive: Some people hoard secret documents in elaborate vaults, Tibbs, but you’d be surprised what you find simply lying around a common desk. Before diving into a hurried investigation, she slid the key from her apron and placed it in the passage keyhole.
It was a perfect fit, which meant Mary Pettigrew had been regularly creeping along the houses passages for some reason. Had she stolen the key or had it been passed down by other family maids or—
Squeak!
Yes, time for that later. The desk. Check for clues.
There were two files. One held a short stack of information about the Crum family and the other was thicker. Scanning its contents, Tabitha saw that it was a formal investigation report about the missing grandchild. There were search documents, interviews, and a background statement signed by the Countess of Windermere. It was basically the same information the Countess had shared with them the evening before. Tabitha dismissed the file and inventoried the rest of the desk.
There was wax for melting and an ink pot for dipping and three identical seals for stamping and cream-colored envelopes for addressing. Two drawers were on the right side of the desk, the bottom one battered, just as she’d seen from the passage. Up close, Tabitha could see that a considerable amount of banging had marred and dented the wood, and that the small keyhole had been tampered with, scratches on the side indicating that someone had been attempting to pick the lock. “Who’s been trying to get in here, and did they succeed?” Tabitha asked Pemberley. “Was it Mary Pettigrew, do you think?”
Squeak?
“Quite right: More importantly, what’s inside? But there’s no time to speculate now.” Unable to open the bottom, she opened the top drawer and found herself staring at two pieces of paper.
The smaller piece was simply a list in beautiful scripted handwriting that Tabitha recognized from the invitation:
Appleby, Oliver
Crum, Tabitha
Dale, Viola
Herringbone, Edward
Trundle, Barnaby
Wellington, Frances
The other paper looked to be a hastily drafted letter, the handwriting badly shaky and the paper crumpled in one corner as though it had been clutched in a fist.
My dear Hattie,
I’ve found the attendant and traced the delivery to Basil House, London. The list of children is comprehensive and contains the only possibilities. It is time to bring our speculation to an end. I must tell you that I have already contacted the adults, telling them to bring the children to Hollingsworth Hall. I have no doubt the parents will be pleased to hear about the one-hundred-thousand-pound trust fund that will be released to the family on the twelfth birthday.
Sweet Hattie, I know that you must have mixed feelings. I know what guilt you’ve harbored, but do remember that children are typically the most forgiving of people.
Before you say that I’ve acted in haste, know that I have grounds to be hasty. The doctor has said I don’t have much time left. I have grown weaker by the day (indeed, I feel weakness coming over me even now), and I don’t wish to leave this world before bringing our most important endeavor to a close. Grandmother is as important a title as Countess. I sincerely believe that Thomas would want this.
Yours always,
In glorious crime and justice,
Countess Camilla Lenore DeMoss
Tabitha replaced the list and letter, set Pemberley on the Countess’s chair, and began to pace around the desk.
Squeak.
Tabitha nodded at her partner and held out her palm for him to climb onto. “No, quite right, it doesn’t add up. Let’s review, sir.
“Firstly, Pemberley, why did she tell us that the money wouldn’t be given to the family? She must have changed her mind. Is it a simple matter of lack of trust?” she asked the mouse. “And she’s dying and wants guardianship to ensure that she’ll get plenty of personal time with her heir?”
Squeakity.
“Yes, moving on to point two, the Countess doesn’t appear weak at all. Crazy, but not weak. What was that she said at dinner—‘I’ve never been sick a day in my life.’
“And third, what’s that bit about justice? Crime and justice . . .” She lifted Pemberley to her shoulder and bent to examine the beaten drawer.
“I wonder . . .” With a thrill of investigative adrenaline dousing any nerves, Tabitha slid Mary Pettigrew’s key into the lock and held her breath. She turned it.
And heard a click.
Knowing her time was limited, Tabitha excitedly sifted through a series of carefully labeled files. Were these the family files? But no, they were larger and more formal-looking than the ones in the small black trunk had been. And there were more than thirty of them.
Each file was marked with the letters MPS followed by a single surname and date. Pulling out the first, she saw that it contained a short newspaper clipping and three sheets of paper. It was a typed report of some sort.
“Oh dear, Pemberley.” A young boy had run away from his home and was found in a back alley of London, his skull fractured and several bones broken. It was unclear whether he had fallen from a great height or if something else had caused the damage. The article mentioned that speculation was leaning toward murder. “How very sad. That poor boy and his poor parents.”
As she scanned the contents of the other files, a cold, cold feeling came over her.
Oh, how horrid . . .
Oh, my, but here’s another, more terrible than the last . . . .
Oh God, Pemberley, no, no, you mustn’t look . . . .
They were all murder files. Carefully documented, dutifully detailed accounts of murders that had taken place over a number of years. Elderly, young, males, females. Chokings, back-alley bludgeonings, poisonings, drownings, shootings . . . stabbings. Her heart became nearly audible in its booming as she checked the year on each one. Not a single murder file was after the year 1880. The year the Countess came to Hollingsworth Hall.
Which was the year that her charitable records started, according to Viola.
“Pemberley, why would someone start to be such a generous woman after years of not giving any traceable donations? And why would that same woman keep a gallery full of gruesome murder paintings?”
Pemberley made no sound whatsoever, no doubt struck speechless by the twisted turn of events.
No, Tabitha thought. It can’t be true. But it could, and she knew very well that the evidence was stacking up in support of t
he ugliest of conclusions.
Camilla Lenore DeMoss, Countess of Windermere, was a former murderess.
“Well,” Tabitha said, hoping for an explanation to strike her. “Perhaps she’s changed? Been rehabilitated?”
Squeakity. Squeak! Squeak!
“Oh dear, you’re right,” Tabitha said miserably. “Mary Pettigrew must have found the files and had a stroke. But maybe they aren’t the Countess’s files, Pemberley,” she said, hand shaking as she locked the drawer and stood. “Perhaps it’s a matter of interest. The crime paintings, the murder files . . . everyone needs a hobby, right? Something to pass the time?” She stared at the painting of the boy. Poor Thomas, who had grown up, who had run away, and who had died.
Oh God, who had died in a drowning accident. Had it really been an accident, or had the son been deliberately dispatched? Tabitha recalled the Countess’s words from the night before: Nobody will be dying accidentally.
“Pemberley, I don’t mean to frighten you, but this is very, very bad.” Tabitha sank into the Countess’s chair and let herself tremble. “We are trapped in a house with someone who has a penchant for murder. She could kill any of us at any moment. I mean, she hasn’t yet, and there are parts of her that seemed fairly normal, but—”
Squeak!
“I don’t know! I don’t know what’s going to happen! Just take a deep breath, Pemberley, and don’t panic. Oh dear. I don’t know what to do.”
But Tabitha did know what to do. Or at least Inspector Tabitha knew. She would act normally—as normally as possible under the circumstances. Any odd behavior would mark her as trouble that would best be disposed of.
“Pemberley,” she said, forcing three deep breaths into her lungs and pushing them out before continuing, “this is it. We are firmly entrenched in foul play of the most dangerous kind. This is Inspector Pensive territory if ever I’ve seen it, and while we are not actually in a mystery novel, we have seen this type of situation before. Our goal must be twofold: to provide occasion for an arrest and to do it without anyone in our party getting killed.”
Before Tabitha could deduce the best way to do that, the door handle jiggled madly. She jumped as the door burst open, but it wasn’t Phillips who swept inside. Instead the pallid face of Agnes appeared, lips pawing at the air as though trying to find words to grip. “Oh,” she finally said, sucking down a fresh breath of air. “Where’s the Countess? It’s terrible!”
Tabitha stepped quickly toward Agnes, grateful that she seemed to be hunting around the room for the Countess rather than appraising Tabitha’s previous position at the desk.
“What’s terrible, Agnes?” Tabitha asked.
The Countess hurried through the open door, the revolver still in her hand. “Yes, what’s terrible, Agnes, other than the state of you, and the fact that I can’t find Phillips, and the other fact that you’ve probably let a diseased mouse go flitting around the manor?” The Countess strode over to Agnes, looking her up and down (allowing Tabitha to scoop Pemberley into a quick recovery).
“It’s happened again, Your Ladyship. Another child is missing! I couldn’t get in! It was locked!”
Cook came running, as did Phillips and Burgess.
“What?” The Countess stared at each of them, baffled. “Who’s missing?”
“I was tidying your room, Countess, and went to the laundry for fresh sheets. When I came back, the door was locked. ‘Who’s in there?’ I asked, but nobody answered. And then there was a yell and she cried for help!”
“Who?” Tabitha asked.
Agnes clutched the desk with one hand and her chest with the other. “She said she was being taken! And then she stopped. Phillips came and broke your door down, but she was already gone!”
“Who?” demanded the Countess, this time shaking the revolver.
“Oh!” Agnes finally noticed the weapon and backed into the study wall, knocking her head and sinking to the floor. “Oh!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be stupid, the revolver’s for a mouse, not for you. Who’s missing?”
“Frances Wellington,” Agnes cried. And then, unable to take any more drama, she fainted onto the carpet in a rather crumpled pile of overworked maid.
Tabitha’s mind whirled with the new information. She gave a silent pat to her mouse, who no doubt felt the meaning and urgency in her fingers. The plot thickens, Pemberley.
When a member of a party dies, there is sadness and sometimes speculation. When a member of the party disappears, the speculation is accompanied by fear. When the members of a party turn to fear, Tibbs, quite anything can happen.
—Inspector Percival Pensive,
The Case of the Beleaguered Boatman
Within moments of Agnes’s recovery, the small party transferred themselves to the Countess’s enormous quarters, where there was, indeed, a sign of struggle. Drawers of clothing were open and dresses were strewn about and the closet door was ajar, revealing a most un-countess-like row of sensible shoes and Teagan McTeagle’s Best Foot-Soaking Salts. Every cream jar and makeup brush and perfume bottle appeared bothered, and three jewelry boxes on the dressing table were opened and in a state of disarray. The room was scattered nearly to bursting with an excess of personal items. But Frances Wellington was nowhere to be seen.
Cook patted a recovering Agnes on the hand. “There, there, dear. Do you remember anything else?”
Agnes shook her head miserably. “Miss Wellington seemed angry in her shouting at first. Then frightened.” The maid buried her head in both hands. “So very frightened. And then more noises—thumps and bumps—and a muffled cry, and then silence. It all was over in a matter of seconds, really. It was ghosts.” She nodded to herself. “They’ve spirited her away.”
The Countess seemed more upset at the invasion of her privacy than at the disappearance of a child. “What was she doing in here in the first place?”
While Phillips looked under the bed, the Countess began ripping aside all four sets of heavy curtains, checking behind each one and muttering to herself. She marched across the room to slam the closet door shut. “All I want is a horrid little grandchild. Why is that so difficult? Stop staring at me, Cook, and get out of here! Get out and start preparing your unpalatable excuse for a luncheon.”
Cook plastered an obedient smile on her face and curtsied in an exaggerated manner.
Tabitha felt ill, thinking of the horrid criminal acts she’d just read about. For the first time since she’d met him, she very much hoped that she would see Barnaby Trundle soon, and in one piece. Frances Wellington, too. She wouldn’t even begrudge them an insult or two. Stay calm, she ordered herself. Pay attention.
The Countess seemed as perplexed as everyone about the children’s whereabouts, but even if she was innocent of child snatching, Tabitha reasoned that anger and frustration and confusion and knives and murderous histories mixed up together in a manor house would not make for a pleasant outcome.
She felt Pemberley moving about and casually pinched at her sweater. Yes, that’s exactly what we need. A distraction. Inspector Pensive had been very clear about that in the very first novel in the series: Always give the suspects a decent length of rope with which to hang themselves, Tibbs, and shift your focus to someone else when possible. One who believes himself to be completely free of blame and attention will often relax to the point of idiocy, and thus prove himself guilty of all manner of things.
Oliver, Viola, and Edward appeared in the doorway, hesitantly peeking into the room.
“Does anyone need assistance?” Oliver asked. “We thought we heard a scuffle.”
“This room is absolutely huge!” Viola said, gazing around the Countess’s quarters. She clapped a hand over her mouth, then relaxed. Then her eyes grew wide and she let out an enormous sneeze.
“Frances has vanished,” Tabitha informed them gravely.
“Gone, is she?” Edward looked rather pleased. “That’s the two bad apples out, then.” He saw that nobody was smiling. “Well, wo
uldn’t you say so, Oliver? I mean, no offense to them, but the rest of us are decently pleasant and Barnaby and Frances are rather—”
“Oh, stop!” said Viola, appearing guilt-stricken. She grabbed Edward’s hand. “It’s awful enough that I used her as an example of how bad things happen when children are spoiled with an excess of money, and how, how . . .” Viola’s left eye twitched, and her mouth opened for a long second. “How . . . ahhhhhh-choo!!” She began an impressive series of seven full sneezes, before raising her head with watery eyes. “It’s even worse in here than in the Countess’s study! What on earth am I allergic to?”
“I suppose we can rule out Frances, her having been snatched by the ghosties,” Edward quipped.
Viola shook her head miserably, then tightened her grip on Edward. “Don’t you dare go anywhere without me from now on.”
“Must go to the facilities eventually,” Edward stated logically. “So, Phillips, what have we got here? What’s the what?”
Phillips clipped over in his black work heels, examining the four remaining children. “Sometime in the last thirty minutes, Agnes began cleaning the Countess’s room. After going to the laundry to fetch fresh sheets, she returned to find Frances locked in here. Do any of you know how that came to pass?”
“Maybe you should ask the Countess,” Edward suggested. “It being her room and all.”
The Countess came very close to slapping Edward, halting her hand inches from his face. “I didn’t do anything with the child, is that understood? I’m not hiding anything.”
Not hiding anything. That seems unlikely. The Countess’s behavior had been increasingly erratic since they’d arrived, as though some sort of facade was gradually melting to reveal an unknown truth. If Her Ladyship was on the verge of becoming unhinged, it was best to put her attention elsewhere. Tabitha watched her search behind the final curtain. It waved back and forth, its edge brushing against a painting.
A painting of a child.
Tabitha felt an Inspectorish tingling sensation. A deduction fluttered on the edge of her consciousness. What was it about the paintings featuring that small boy? There was something about the paintings and the Countess saying that she wasn’t hiding things. Hiding things . . . hidden things . . . hidden things like passages.
Nooks & Crannies Page 15