Nooks & Crannies
Page 18
“Thirdly,” she said, grimacing and crying out when she tried to stand on her twisted ankle, “thirdly . . . if our Countess is a murderess and her maid was Mary Pettigrew, how did Mary come to have this bracelet?” Was Mary a thief like Frances?
“Hmm,” Tabitha said. A fresh theory was laid in her mind. She concentrated hard on every clue available, and the idea’s shell began to crack.
“The Countess of Windermere has decided to take guardianship of her grandchild, having changed her mind about handing over the trust fund to the child’s family. She has a drawing room with cigars, but despises smoke. She walks in a clipped manner in her high heels and uses a foot soak and wears gloves over her rough hands and has mean eyes. And she has a library full of the most magnificent books in the world and claims not to read much. As for Mary Pettigrew . . .”
Mary’s hands were not those of a maid. Nor had her eyes been fraught with anything other than loneliness, panic, and pain. “Oh, dear God,” Tabitha whispered, touching the dead woman’s hand. “Are you the mysterious, reclusive Countess of Windermere? And you were trying to tell us all along?”
Tabitha felt certain the woman before her was not a murderer. But then why the horrific files, detailing murders?
“Think, Tabitha. What sort of person is interested in crime to the point of keeping a gallery of famous assassination paintings and keeping reference books about deviant behavior? To the point of having detailed files on horrendous criminal activity?” And, she thought, what sort of person signs a letter, In glorious crime and justice?
Inspector Pensive floated to the forefront of her mind, and as his imaginary self raised an imaginary pipe in the air and winked, the answer came.
“An investigator? No, that doesn’t make any—”
Before any further conclusions could be made, the shed door burst open behind her.
“I admire you, Tibbs, do you know that?” The inspector puffed on his pipe thoughtfully inside the weathered walls of the seaside restaurant. He ordered another port for himself, and a third dish of pickled herring for his partner. “Though you, Timothy Tibbs, toil tirelessly beneath my fame, I am intimately acquainted with your worth. And secretly, in the back cupboards of your mind, old chap, I suspect you realize that you are the cleverest of us all. Yes, I daresay, Tibbs, I’d be nothing without you.”
—Inspector Percival Pensive,
The Case of the Maudlin Mariner
Oliver rushed into the crowded shed, his breath emerging in bursts of white. “Tabitha! Tabitha, are you all right? We have to go! Phillips came back into the barn and I barely got aw—” His mouth opened at the sight of the frozen body.
Tabitha spoke for him. “Yes, it’s Mary. Or maybe not.”
Firmly grasping Tabitha’s arm, he pulled them both back through the door and into the snow. “Hurry, please. Oh!” Shoving her to the ground, Oliver collapsed on top of her and rolled them around the small building. “Shh! He’s there.”
The snowfall was now blessedly thick, and the wind spun it in erratic patterns, but Tabitha could still make out a tall figure standing outside the barn. Though she didn’t see a dog or the butler’s features through the world of white, she could see the man lift a hand to his brow, as though he was scanning the landscape. Tabitha tried to stand and gasped, sinking down again as the pain in her ankle returned with vigor. “Let’s go around by the kitchen, Oliver.”
“Wait,” he urged. “If we can see him, surely he’ll see us if we stand up.”
The two of them waited an impossibly long time until the obscured figure walked around the front of the manor, fully upright, marching as though the storm were nothing but a light breeze.
With effort, Oliver and Tabitha made their way to the kitchen, peeking through a window before pulling the door open to take shelter in the warmth. Rather than dashing blindly into the hallway, they both simply collapsed in what was, by far, the coziest part of the grand manor house. For a magical few seconds, the pain in her ankle lessened, and Tabitha let her senses drift about the place, soaking in the comfort.
Paved in large rust-red tile, the kitchen was swept clean. Shiny copper pans, ladles, and spoons hung from low beams, along with strings of garlic and onions and an abundance of thyme and sage. Though more modern conveniences were evident, a giant rustic hearth took up much of the west wall. Over a neat blaze hung a cast-iron pot, bubbling away with the gorgeous scent of stew. The lazy haze of pork, fowl, or beef broth wafted alongside a yeasty smell of freshly baked bread, and the odors both revived the children and melted their resolve to do much of anything.
The hypnosis broke, and Tabitha rubbed her foot, sighing deeply and trying very hard not to succumb to a fault of Inspector Pensive’s—despite his bravado, Percival was a rather sensitive chap who thought himself above pain, yet couldn’t handle a bit of it. Be like Tibbs for once, she urged herself. Hearty and healthy and full of restraint. “We should leave the kitchen, Oliver. Someone will come in at any moment.”
“We can rest for a bit. We’re probably as safe here as anywhere else. Smells good too. Maybe there’s some—” He frowned, seeing Tabitha’s grimace. “Your ankle’s twisted. What happened?” He reached out and touched her left foot.
Two small peeps escaped her. “Leave it. Just give it a minute to rest. I’ll be fine.” She found herself dearly longing for Pemberley. And, strangely enough, she longed for the safety of her attic room. That wouldn’t do.
Stop that. You asked for something exciting to come from the envelope. No pouting since it turned out to be a different sort of excitement. Concentrate on that stew smell—lovely, isn’t it? Takes your mind right off the searing pain in your ankle and the dead woman who might be the real Countess of Windermere.
While this internal lecture was going on, Oliver had roused himself enough to find that two fresh loaves sat on a stone cutting board in the center work slab. One of them was cut, so he nipped two pieces and plopped back down. “Here. It’s still warm. Didn’t see butter about.”
Tabitha took the bread gratefully. “Oliver,” she said, pressing her lips together. “I have to tell you something. A couple of things, actually. First, I may have imagined it, but I thought I saw someone in the nursery room window when we were outside. An image or a person.”
“Oh.” Oliver chewed slowly. “Barnaby or Frances?”
Tabitha nodded. “It’s possible, isn’t it? That they’re hiding up there. Or trapped?”
“Why would someone keep them up there? You think it’s Phillips or the Countess?”
Tabitha shook her head.
“Cook or Agnes?”
“No. Oliver, do you believe in ghosts?”
He swallowed. “Do you . . . do you suppose a ghost could do that sort of thing?”
“Don’t know,” she admitted. “It doesn’t truly matter. What matters is that we need to find a way out of here. Soon. And if Barnaby and Frances are trapped, we won’t leave them behind.”
Tabitha had been thinking about the small key in her apron pocket. If it opened a secret file drawer and hidden doors, was it possible that the key opened the locked rooms as well? The Countess herself had accused Agnes of having the key to Tabitha’s room, so clearly it wasn’t part of the brass ring. If her apron key did unlock the manor’s off-limits doors, perhaps they could find their way to the third floor without entering the possibly haunted passages again.
“Yes,” Oliver said, nearly reading her mind, “but what if the thing that’s trapped them is up there on the third floor as well?” He saw her determined expression and nodded. “Right. Must go either way.” He sighed and took another bite of bread, chewing deliberately as though it would delay the inevitable. “Do you know, I was rather excited about this whole weekend, and now I can’t wait to get home. Feed the cats, write school papers. That sort of thing.”
Tabitha said nothing. She had no home to return to.
“Don’t you want to go home? That’s right, though, you said you would be leaving the count
ry.”
“Just my parents are leaving. I’m orphanage bound,” Tabitha told him, studying the kitchen tiles. “I’m to be a washer girl at Augustus Home.”
“A washer girl?” Oliver blinked, incredulous. “You can’t mean it.”
Tabitha kept her eyes focused on the red squares, observing how they fit neatly together to form a single unit of floor. Her parents had taken away her ability to fit in anywhere. She felt the boiling sensation in her belly again, and she finally recognized it. It wasn’t sadness or fear or guilt. It was anger, and it wanted very badly to be released.
“No, I don’t believe you.” Oliver shook his head. “Nobody is that horrible.”
“They are,” Tabitha affirmed quietly. “They are horrible, horrible people and even worse parents.” She stared at him in wonder, letting a hot rush course through her. “Do you know that’s the first time I’ve said that aloud?” Her heartbeat quickened. “And I think perhaps they deserve my disfavor. They’ve earned it, the same way I tried for years to earn their love.”
Her breath came faster, inhales becoming gasps. Something painful and tight and icy inside her was finally breaking apart and melting. It freed itself from her chest, changing and turning into warm wetness that poured down Tabitha’s face like raindrops of relief. She let the tears come, feeling lightened as they left her.
Washed of the acute outrage she’d kept secret even from herself, Tabitha met Oliver’s sympathetic gaze. “Some people are just terrible and there’s nothing you can do to change them. And it’s not your fault.” She wiped her eyes and raised her head with resolution. “It’s not my fault.”
Oliver remained silent for a moment, then reached a hand out and took hers. “No, it’s not your fault at all.”
Tabitha sniffed and smiled. “I’m so sorry, but you have no idea how good that felt.”
He nodded. “Feel free to say it again. The hating your parents part, that is.”
“No, I’m done.” Tabitha grinned. “You see, they were hoping that I’d turn out to be pretty, so they could marry me to someone rich. That’s why they adopted a girl. What a disappointment I turned out to be.”
“Nonsense,” Oliver said firmly. “You’re already very decent-looking.” He touched the top of her head. “That haircut will grow out, you know.”
Tabitha gave his shoulder a light punch. Yanking her short hair, she remembered what her mother had said. “They wanted to keep me as ragged as possible until the time came to groom me. My twelfth birthday is coming up. I’m sure they were planning to unveil me as a swan any year now,” she joked. “They’d have had a time of it, that’s for certain.”
“Well, you’ve got a nice friendly face and clever eyes . . . hazel, aren’t they?”
She nodded. “Like yours.”
“Well,” said Oliver. “We’ll think of a proper plan to attack the problem of where you’ll live after we escape, but first, let’s take a look at that ankle. I never should have let you go to the shed alone with ghosts and vile countesses and dead bodies about. You don’t do that to a friend.”
What had Oliver just called her? He called me a friend. But surely he hadn’t meant anything by it—it was a slip of the tongue and nothing more. Children like Oliver didn’t collect friends, as they were already certain to be full up. Silly Tabitha.
She opened her mouth to respond, but he raised one finger to his lips. “Try to stay quiet, now.” He lifted the soaked shoe from Tabitha’s ankle, wincing along with her. “I wish Edward was here. He’s probably read a book on this sort of thing. Shall I cut off your stocking?”
Tabitha shook her head, taking deep breaths and trying to quell her shivering. The pain had faded for a while but returned fiercely with the jerking motion of her shoe being removed. Now it hurt too much to think, let alone to have Oliver cut her stocking with a knife. “Oliver, I must tell you something. I’m nearly certain that Mary Pettigrew is actually the—”
Footsteps approached. “Under that curtained butcher block,” Tabitha hissed, her voice coming out in breathy gasps. She was suddenly feeling a bit feverish. “Quiet. We must remain quiet.”
The children scuttled underneath the waist-high wooden counter and squeezed next to a bucket of potato and carrot peelings. There was another bucket, smelling fleshy and foul. They slid the curtain over and tried their utmost not to breathe.
Two sets of stockinged legs entered. Through a tiny break in the fabric, the thick and thin ankle sets were unmistakable, as was the quaver in the thin-ankled woman’s voice.
“Oh, do be quick with the chicken broth for Viola,” said Agnes. “She looked positively miserable.”
“She did at that. Can’t rush good broth, though. This will take at least a quarter hour, even with my base. Will you grab some chicken bones from under the corner block? I tossed them in a bucket.”
Agnes’s light, fast steps advanced toward them. Tabitha wrinkled her nose and tried not to shift, ignoring Oliver’s horrified expression. Agnes’s hand had just begun parting the curtains when Cook spoke sharply.
“Wait! Fetch me a chicken from the cold storage instead, please. Those bones have been sitting for too long, and the girl deserves better. If it were for the Countess, I’d say old bones were fine, but I’ll make the girl something fresh.”
The two bustled quietly about the kitchen, distinct sounds telling a story of chopping and reaching and scooting and stirring. It was several minutes before either of them spoke.
“Cook, are you frightened?” Agnes asked.
“There, there,” said Cook. “Chin up, eyes down. As long as we make it out of here without being bodies in the snow, we should count it as a successful weekend, don’t you think?”
Oliver raised a finger to his nose. His nostrils were flaring and his eyes watered.
No, no, no! Tabitha shook her head, willing him not to sneeze.
“Even the Countess has heard the ghosts,” Agnes insisted. “I heard her telling Phillips about cries and muttering behind the locked doors. She told him that perhaps selling the estate was in order.”
“Listen, dear,” Cook continued, “ghosts or no ghosts, the truth is, I think it’s time for us to—”
The door opened with a terrific bang. “There are no ghosts, you twits,” the Countess said icily, “except the future ghosts of your employment, which will be quite deceased after this weekend. Now, what have you done with the Herringbone boy and Dale girl? What have you two been up to?”
Oliver’s mouth twisted side to side, desperately trying to hold the sneeze in. Tabitha clapped two hands over his nose, then pinched it tightly, though not too tightly as she didn’t want him to cry out. After a moment, Oliver’s face relaxed and he nodded. Tabitha held in her sigh of relief.
“I’m making a broth with a specific blend of herbs, like young master Edward instructed.”
“I told you to treat them in the high parlor.”
“That’s where we left them. And we locked the door behind us, just as you instructed.”
“They aren’t there. Phillips is checking the house.”
The door swung open again. “I’ve checked it,” came Phillips’s voice, sounding hollow. “There’s no sign of them.” He walked around to the butcher block, stopping near the Countess. “They’re gone.”
Tabitha felt her heart drop silently to her toes. It hit the floor with a noiseless bump and lay there, carrying on with its numb thumping. Edward and Viola had been taken. She closed her eyes, imagining the parlor. Had the children been snatched from there? She tried to remember whether there was a painting of a child in the room, but couldn’t recall seeing one. No live, physical person could have entered that room secretly without a hidden door. Perhaps . . . perhaps there were powerful and vengeful ghosts at Hollingsworth Hall.
“Nonsense,” said the Countess. “NONSENSE! Nobody is gone! People don’t just get whisked away into nothingness! We have the other two—Appleby and Crum. Go get them. Now!”
Oliver sneezed.
With that, the Countess jerked Tabitha to her feet. Or foot, rather.
Noticing their soaked legs and shoes, the Countess sneered. “Been outside, have you? I wonder if your friends are all out there as well. Phillips! Check the back garden and the shed and the stables and the barn.”
“I’ve checked.”
“Check again, since you’re useless with doors. Cook, you and Agnes watch young Oliver while I deposit Tabitha in her room and see to a matter in my study. I’ll be back for you during the dinner hour, Mr. Appleby.” Yanking Tabitha out the door, the Countess marched down the hallway. “Hurry up,” she ordered. “Why is your shoe off and why are you dragging your leg?”
“It’s injured.”
“Good. No running away from the Countess for you, then.”
Up the staircase they went, the Countess huffing and dragging Tabitha with surprising strength. Tabitha’s ankle screamed in protest as it bumped a stair. She tried to hop but was being flung forward in a jerky manner, quite independent of her own power. “You’re not the Countess at all. You’re an imposter! You’re the maid, and the frozen woman in the shed is—”
“Shut up,” was the answer. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. Me, a maid? Idiot girl! I’m no maid, and you know nothing of imposters.”
But Tabitha knew plenty about imposters. Entire plots had been dedicated to the detection, unveiling, and punishment of them in at least four Inspector Pensive novels. And imposters, like all criminals, were always after something of value. One-hundred-thousand-pound trust fund that will be released to the family on the twelfth birthday . . .
“This is all about the money,” Tabitha said, in an Inspectorish voice that came out sounding much more confident than she felt. “You found that note, written by the real Countess, didn’t you? And now you’re planning on keeping her grandchild under false pretenses, so that when the trust is released, as legal guardian you can snatch it up along with the rest of the Countess’s money. Were you planning to dispose of the child immediately or wait a few months to avoid suspicion? Whatever your plan, it’ll never work! There are six of us, and the papers will find out what’s going on and you’ll be ruined and—”