Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  “Enough!” The Countess was wild-eyed and breathing hard. She stopped at the top of the stairs. Removing the butcher knife from her handbag, she began tossing it in the air, neatly catching the handle each time. Seeing Tabitha’s expression, she winked. “Learned to do it over the years. It relaxes my wrists for chopping.”

  Dear God, perhaps this faux Countess did all the murders in those terrible files. And she’s invaded the house to get back at the real Countess, who was so shocked by her appearance that she had a stroke. And now there will be a file on me with—

  Oh, stop! You’re hysterical and making wild claims!

  She’s going to chop me to pieces.

  Well, that one actually seems spot-on.

  “Phillips!” Tabitha cried. “Phillips will stop you!”

  For the love of Pensive, stop antagonizing her!

  I can’t help it! I’m a nervous talker.

  A nervous thinker, you mean.

  Oh, do shut up!

  “Phillips will do whatever I tell him to,” the faux Countess assured her. But she stopped flipping the blade and seemed content to let Tabitha remain in one piece. “He will hunt the rest of you horrible children down, and you will all stay here until I have what I want. And nobody will be talking to the papers. Now, move.”

  They arrived at the east wing’s short hallway, and the Countess halted at the sight of a chair firmly jammed under Tabitha’s bedroom door. “The chair’s still in place. Put it back after Oliver snuck you out, did you? Clever beasts. Unfortunately for you, I know how to jam a door properly, and nobody’s left to fetch you.” Her eyes darted up and down the hallway. “Nobody at all.” She moved the chair and opened the door, quivering a bit.

  No amount of money can save you from fear or madness, Tabitha thought. “She’ll haunt you, you know—the ghost of the real Countess. Ghosts always haunt those who wrong them.”

  The faux Countess’s eyes searched the midsize room, narrowing at each corner. “That’s poppycock. Vermin plop. Baker’s piss-pot pie.” She was breathing even harder now, bits of spittle spraying with every word she spoke. “She wasn’t humble a day in her life, do you know why?” Her hands gripped Tabitha’s sweater, shaking her. “I asked if you knew why she wasn’t humble?”

  Tabitha shook her head.

  “Because,” the Countess spat, “you can’t be humble and rich, not when—aaagh! My God, there it is!”

  Expecting to see a spirit floating in the air, Tabitha was even more shocked to see a glint of light flashing on the floor. Pemberley charged at Tabitha’s captor, the jeweled ring around his neck once more, courage and loyalty bursting from his tiny eyes as he leaped onto the woman’s ankle and sank his teeth in.

  The Countess shrieked. Tabitha knew this because of the hideous woman’s openmouthed expression, but sound had temporarily stopped. Seconds turned to hours as the Countess kicked her leg out with ferocity. Time came to a near halt as Tabitha watched in slow motion while Pemberley (her dear, dear Pemberley) was flung into the air.

  Was smacked onto the floor with the Countess’s gloved hand.

  Was crushed underneath the Countess’s awaiting boot.

  Was kicked to the wall, where his body lay quite still.

  Quite motionless.

  Quite dead.

  Suddenly eager to leave, the Countess thrust a candle and a set of matches into Tabitha’s hands. “Don’t get taken,” she advised, and slammed the door. A low grunting and scraping noise followed, the sound of the Countess jamming the chair underneath the knob.

  The force of the slammed door had sent a shock of cold air into the room. Along with the sound of the door closing and the sight of the room being plunged into darkness, Tabitha felt the blow of that frigid air both outside and within herself.

  Not bothering to mentally consult Pensive novels about what action to take, she lit the candle and searched the wardrobe until she found the right handkerchief to fashion into a blanket. “Oh, friend,” she whispered to Pemberley. “Oh, my dear friend.”

  No squeak or movement answered, and Tabitha placed the cloth over the mouse, a few tears slipping silently off her cheek and dropping onto the floor. The makeshift blanket was a rich mulberry. A book she’d read said that mice were color-blind, but Tabitha knew that Pemberley preferred mulberry.

  She picked up the soap dish he’d used for water, tracing its outline with a finger before blowing out the candle and setting its stand beside the bed. Then Tabitha’s own body became stiff and frozen, first by despair, then by anger, then by a thick emptiness, a heavy and draping sadness that enveloped her completely, covering and flattening her to the floor.

  An hour later, or perhaps two, something scratched near the wall. Tabitha groaned and lifted herself to a sitting position. “Pemberley?” she whispered, though the sound had come from the wall opposite the one where her friend’s lifeless body lay. “Do you hear that scratching?”

  The lump of him beneath the mulberry covering looked smaller. Deflated. Almost disappeared, as though his spirit had been such a large part of him that when it was released, his physical form became quite insignificant. Tabitha felt that a piece of her spirit was gone as well.

  The sound repeated.

  “The house is settling, Pemberley,” she said, rising. She wiped at the crusted bits of salt that tears had left on her cheeks. “Don’t be frightened. It’s not as though it’s a . . .”

  A ghost.

  The shuffling moved farther down the wall, and Tabitha recalled the ghostly stream of invisible air that had whooshed around her in the passage.

  Ghost. Ghosty. Ghost, ghosty, ghost, ghost.

  “Oh hush, Tabitha, there’s no such thing,” she scolded herself. “However, Pemberley, if that’s your ghost, do come over.” Hastily, she relit the bedside candle. In the process, she dropped the soap dish that she’d been cradling.

  “Blast,” Tabitha whimpered as it rolled under the bed.

  She bent, bringing the candle as close to the bed frame as she dared before sticking her head underneath. And there, beside Pemberley’s overturned dish, was a curious and tiny drawer, built right into the wall. “How funny,” she said, and opened it.

  Inside were a series of pictures. Drawings. Crude pencil sketches of faces and flowers and birds, and one that appeared to be a pony with a beak. At the bottom of each one, the same names were carefully written in the hand of a child.

  For Thomas, from your Elizabeth.

  Something happened then. A prickle, but not from the bed or the candle flame or one of Pemberley’s tiny claws. It was an instinctual prickle that caused Tabitha to stand up. She studied the wall, following the progress of a fresh shuffling noise.

  Slowly, with some dread, she saw exactly what that small prickle had been telling her to look for. The door to the hidden passage began to jiggle.

  And then, as though a scene was unfolding in one of her very worst nightmares after reading a particularly suspenseful bit in an Inspector Pensive novel, the hidden door began to move.

  Though she jumped up and ran to the bedroom door, freshly twisting her ankle in the process, Tabitha knew very well what she would find. It was, of course, still blocked. There was nowhere to hide. She had no choice but to turn and watch in horror as the hidden door moved again.

  As the hidden door pushed open.

  As a very ghostly figure entered the room.

  Stressful situations cause alterations in behavior that reveal true character, Tibbs. If a person gradually begins acting like someone else altogether, you may very well find that they are someone else altogether.

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Picklemouthed Priest

  Tabitha hadn’t even the breath to gasp. Inspector Pensive was mistaken. Ghosts clearly existed, and directly before her was the proof. Ever so slightly thinner in the afterlife, the form of Mary Pettigrew stood dimly in the candlelight. Death had been kind, and the droop of her face and slump of her shoulder were noticeably abs
ent. The ghost seemed shocked to see Tabitha as well, and then looked . . . relieved. And then there was the same heartache, the same desperation in her eyes that had been present when Tabitha met her living counterpart only a day before.

  “Oh my, child,” the ghost whispered. It set down the lamp it was holding, placing it neatly on the dressing table. Its eyes looked misty, but that might have been a trick of the light.

  Having never dealt with spirits before, Tabitha thought it wise to address intentions, even while trembling uncontrollably. “Are you here to harm or haunt me?”

  “Harm you? Haunt you? Of course not. Neither.”

  “Oh. Well, good then.” Tabitha stayed close to the door, turning the knob back and forth. Filling her chest with air twice, all the while aware of the specter’s eyes upon her, she drew courage from a small reserve that had hidden itself somewhere so as not to be noticed until such an occasion arose. “Well, since you are not here to harm me, what can I do for you? I might add, I was awfully sorry that you died. You seemed a kind woman.”

  The figure’s eyes turned watery, and a single tear fell down each cheek as she nodded.

  “Oh my, that’s interesting and somewhat odd,” Tabitha chattered nervously, standing on her toes and drumming her heels alternately to the floor. “Your tears look quite real. I’ll have to tell Oliver, assuming he doesn’t get a visit from you. Will you go see him next, do you think?”

  Through her fear, Tabitha realized it was the first time she’d thought of needing to tell anything to anyone, other than Pemberley. Oliver, who had raised a glass to toast with her. Who had squeezed her hand in a darkened foyer for comfort. Oliver, who had called her a friend. And he had meant it. He had. Does Viola feel the same? And perhaps even Edward? The flicker of hope that still burned within her, that Tabitha had guarded with care her entire life, said, Yes. Yes, I think perhaps they do.

  Infused with the thought that she had a friend to report to and friends needing to be found, Tabitha gave herself a mental slap for clarity and gathered her wits. Although the ghost seemed emotional, there was a logic and an authority to its speech thus far. She must respond in a similar manner.

  Summoning the assurance of Inspector Pensive, she composed a short speech. “I am Tabitha Crum. If I’m to believe the current lady of the house, you are the spirit of Mary Pettigrew.”

  The spirit shook her head, waiting.

  “No,” Tabitha said, “You are the spirit of . . .”

  The spirit gave an encouraging nod.

  “Camilla Lenore DeMoss,” Tabitha said. “Countess of Windermere.”

  “That’s right.” The spirit frowned. “Well, no, it’s not, as I’m not technically a spirit. Or at all deceased. But I am half of the Countess of Windermere.”

  “Half?” Tabitha stepped sideways. “How can a person be half of a Countess? I don’t understand.”

  “Please.” The figure stepped forward, reaching for Tabitha’s hand. “Tabitha, please.”

  The voice had a soothing effect. And the woman’s face was so very gentle and open and kind. And there was something else as well. A weariness and sadness and desire for connection. A quiet desperation and heartache. In a way, it was like looking in a mirror.

  Instead of recoiling, Tabitha let the hand touch her own. It was the same kind of soft skin that the dead maid had been graced with. She thought hard. Her eyes drifted to the woman’s face, where she found a familiar nose and high cheekbones. The same blue eyes. Each of the woman’s ears held a delicate silver bird with ruby jewels dotting the wing. Red jewels, not blue ones. Tabitha’s gaze sank to a very familiar wooden bracelet.

  “Half of the Countess.” With her free hand, she reached for the woman’s bracelet and twisted until she was staring at the duo of swans. “Two swans. There are two of you. I thought you looked rather too solid for a spirit, but I’ve never encountered one and . . .” Tabitha tried to clear her mind. Be like Pensive, get your facts. “So you’re not a frozen block in the garden?”

  “No. I never was.”

  “So,” she said slowly, “the dead woman is—”

  “Is my sister, Millicent. I am Henrietta—Hattie Darling. We’re twins, you see.”

  “Twins.” Tabitha nodded. “It was there all along, and I simply didn’t think of it. I’m terribly sorry if this is rude, but before you tell me who exactly is the Countess, by half or otherwise, you haven’t happened to see four missing children, have you?”

  Hattie smiled. “They’re all quite safe on the third floor, my dear. And we are both the Countess of Windermere. We take turns, you see.”

  Tabitha relaxed, then stiffened again. She eyed the area between her and Hattie Darling. Only after devising a clever way of jumping onto the bed and around the woman to access the passage did she ask her next question. “The files, madam. Can you explain the files in your study?” Tabitha tightened her muscles, prepared to spring at the slightest sign that the woman was guilty of the deaths. “The murder files.”

  Hattie burst out laughing, then stopped suddenly, seeing Tabitha’s petrified eyes. “Oh my, dear, those are work files. It’s what we do—my sister and I. We look at old cases that—well, never mind all that. But rest assured, those violent acts happened without my involvement whatsoever. The worst Millie and I could be accused of is fanning the ghostly rumor flames that surround Hollingsworth Hall.”

  Deductions flooded Tabitha’s brain. “The noises. It was you, frightening the servants.”

  Hattie’s eyes twinkled. “Sometimes Millie, depending on the month. Or the royalty—they’ve been known to get loose in the passages.” She sighed. “Terribly mischievous, the royalty are.”

  “Royalty?”

  “Millie’s cats, all named majestically and deferentially for the royals of England. You should see Henry VIII—spitting image of the lumpy king. But yes, I suspect wandering cats contributed to the ghost rumor. They sometimes slip into the passages, and their howling can be quite haunting. And a few have dreadful hairballs. We were looking for Anne and George and Victoria for nearly a week once. Albert kitten was inconsolable. Albert’s our calico, and he dotes on Victoria.”

  “Cats! Why didn’t I think of that?” Tabitha felt much better having assigned the whirling air in the passage to a member of the feline royal family. “This room does have a faint odor like Mr. Tickles.”

  “Who dear?”

  “My parents’ cat.”

  “Ah. We mostly restrict them to the nursery, but they like it in this room as well. And in our own bedroom.”

  “Of course. Viola’s been sneezing all over the place, and she had a terrible fit when I sat next to her at breakfast. I must have collected some stray hair on my clothing. And she had another fit when we went into the Countess’s, er, your room.”

  “Oh dear. And Viola’s just been left in a room with several cats. Do come join your friends, and I’ll shoo them all away. I must decide how best to handle Miss Pettigrew.” She picked up The Case of the Duplicitous Duke’s Doorway and peered at Tabitha for a long moment. “You enjoy Pensive novels, do you?”

  Tabitha blushed. “Yes, but I’m hardly an Inspector. I seem to have gotten everything muddled up. So, the woman posing as the Countess is Mary Pettigrew?”

  Hattie nodded grimly. “Yes,” she said, ducking into the wall. “Mary was our cook. She and Phillips have been with us for two years. We got weary of having to personally orient all the staff every six months, so we chose those two to stay on and do the kitchen and house training themselves.

  “I should have known something was amiss when I went to fetch food for myself earlier this week and she’d ordered enough delicacies for a king’s feast. Though Mary does love to indulge in sweets and rich food, she would certainly never have the cook order a dozen lobsters and fairy cakes beyond count. No, that cheeky Mary was always wanting to try out the most expensive things possible, and I suppose she got her chance. Now, I need to quickly fetch a letter from my manor room’s jewelry case. Follow me, de
ar.”

  Stepping lightly into the passage, Tabitha favored her right foot and held the two walls to help keep pressure off her injury. Hattie moved slowly, trying to make her footfalls as noiseless as possible. She slid open a wall panel and continued along the second floor toward the west wing.

  “You were talking about Mary,” Tabitha whispered as they crept.

  “Yes, I never liked her much and threatened to fire her all the time. Millie was a more trusting soul. Loved the woman’s cooking. She was too trusting, as it turned out.”

  Hattie bit her wrinkled lip and shook her head. “I was preoccupied in the nursery with paperwork from a recent trip to London that ended several days earlier than expected. On Wednesday when the new staff arrived. Millie didn’t even know I was back at the manor, and I didn’t realize she’d had a stroke. Not until I heard all of you booming about in the house yesterday evening and came down from the nursery to investigate.”

  “But how did you get on the property without notice?”

  “I wore a driver’s uniform. We keep disguises in a locked closet in the barn and in the bedroom you were given. We have the cars serviced often and make a point to have deliveries made as an excuse for vehicles to be coming in and out. Then we can slip in as kitchen workers or maids. The staff always report sightings of an unfamiliar person to whomever of us is playing Countess—that’s often how we know that we’re both in the manor. We normally meet at least once a week for tea and work meetings, but depending on the switching calendar, sometimes we go a month without seeing each other, so I wasn’t in any particular hurry to check in. We sometimes leave each other notes in the study and catch up that way. Again, I had no idea all you children were here. Millie must have discovered a new lead and arranged the whole weekend, bless her heart.”