Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  “Hmm.” Hattie looked thoughtful. “That’s true, a strange man would give them a fright. And then there’s the issue of Mary having large knives and my revolver. I assume she’s quite skittish at this point, and we don’t want any messy accidents.”

  Tabitha wished her own Tibbs were available for collaboration. Collaboration. What they needed was a team effort with solid distractions. “I think I may have an idea,” she said. “You’re certain Mary Pettigrew doesn’t know there were two of you?”

  “I hardly think she’d be impersonating me otherwise.”

  Tabitha nodded. “Good.” Drawing on techniques from The Duplicitous Duke’s Doorway and neatly accounting for the altered environment and available materials, she outlined her plan.

  “Well done!” Hattie clapped her hands again, a hint of rosy life coming to her cheeks. “Tabitha, follow me down the hidden passage with Simmons, please. The rest of you stay here.”

  “But why does she get to go with you?” Frances griped.

  Hattie walked over and patted Frances’s hand sympathetically. “Because, dear,” she said, “you’ve been a frightful annoyance thus far, and I can’t imagine that will be cured anytime soon. And because Tabitha thought of it”—Hattie winked at Tabitha—“with the help of Inspector Pensive. I do favor children who read rather than prattle on.”

  “I read! I read in French! But what about your heir? When are you going to tell us who is the—”

  “All in good time. I do think you’re all in for a bit of a shock where that’s concerned. Come along, Tabitha. Into the passage, dear. Simmons, bring King Richard the Lionheart along. He’s hiding under Millie’s bed—see his tail there? And Millie’s cigars are hidden under her desk.” Her eyes became glassy before she shook herself free of some memory.

  Simmons found the cigar box, plucked a large tawny cat from beneath one of the twin beds, and followed them into the wall.

  A ghost is a ridiculous excuse for a poorly executed boat party, Tibbs. The “disturbances” can more likely be attributed to resident rats than angry spirits. Though I daresay I’d be angry too if I had to haunt this odorous nightmare. Smells like bad tuna and feet. Do take my extra hanky for your nose.

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Galley Ghost’s Gumption

  Agnes was audible through the wall long before they reached the secret entrance to the kitchen. Leaning down to the peephole, Tabitha solidified her bearings. The hidden door would come out right between the cold storage and pantry. Cook was directly opposite her, chopping onions as though she were punishing them. Agnes lingered by the door to the hallway. Oliver was seated in front of a large wooden support beam that ran from floor to ceiling, his arms disappearing behind him.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but can’t one of you loosen these?” he called.

  “Oh, is it very awful?” Agnes cried, rushing over to him. “She’s tied them so tightly, I can’t loosen them a bit. I’m so very sorry!” She tugged at his wrists. “Cook, can’t you simply cut through them?”

  Cook shrugged. “I could, but the Countess has gone mad. You saw her, raving about wretched children disappearing and who she’ll be ransoming once they’re found. She won’t kill the boy, though. He’s the only one left at the moment, and she seems very intent on this grandchild business. She’s got a revolver and she’s taken over Phillips’s hound, who’ll track us down if we go anywhere. I don’t care to die by either means this weekend. I’d rather be taken by ghosts.”

  Tabitha took a steadying breath and opened the passage door. “Nobody will have to die, and you needn’t fear ghosts. Not even this one.” She stepped aside for Hattie and Simmons, ignoring Agnes’s gasp of delight, knowing what would follow. “Now, Agnes, let me explain about—”

  But Agnes had caught sight of Hattie, as evidenced by a low moan and a spasm that swept her entire body. She muttered noiseless words while her eyes traced every contour of the twin. Her eyes then moved to Tabitha and widened in sorrow. “Oh, dead! All of them must be dead!”

  “Tabitha!” Oliver exclaimed.

  “Oliver.” She nodded back.

  “Aggie?” Cook said, then followed her friend’s eyes. Cook clutched the butcher knife in her hand, moving between Tabitha’s trio and Agnes. “Don’t move, Aggie. Spirit or not, I’ll put up a fight.”

  “Cook, it’s fine!” Tabitha insisted. “She’s the Countess’s sister.”

  “Whose sister?” asked Oliver.

  Cook glared, her frown wrinkles deepening. “Then why’s she the spitting image of Mary Pettigrew? And who’s he? And where are the children?”

  “The children are all fine, Simmons is with Scotland Yard, and the mad woman you think is the Countess is the former household cook.” Tabitha walked to Agnes and took her hand. “I’m quite fine, you see. And look.” Tabitha hefted Richard the Lionheart, who’d been weaving between her legs, into the air. “Your wall ghost—well, one of them, anyway.”

  With considerable effort, Agnes held off fainting.

  Hattie set a grim look on her face and approached. “Hello, Cook. Agnes. Let me explain. I’ll keep this brief. My sister and I have been sharing the role of Countess for years, one of us in disguise while traveling on business or living in quarters in the nursery while the other ran the household. My poor sister had a stroke, and I’m afraid that Mary, who was one of two trusted servants who stayed with us always, took advantage, declaring herself to be Countess and my poor sister to be a maid.”

  “So I’ve been working for a cook?” Cook asked. “No wonder she was so bleeding picky.”

  “We need to subdue her quickly,” Hattie said. “Where is she?”

  Agnes looked quite ill. “She’s in her, erm, your study. She’s just asked for soup.”

  Tabitha smiled at the bit of serendipity. “Excellent. Cook, can you prepare the foulest bowl of soup possible?”

  Cook grinned and bowed. “My dear, I thought you’d never ask. You’d be amazed at what floor sweepings and an excess of salt can do to a dish.” Reaching for a clean bowl, she busied herself, humming a low, cheerful tune.

  “Where’s Phillips?” Tabitha asked, handing Agnes a kitchen towel.

  Agnes smiled gratefully and blew her nose into the plaid pattern. “He said he’s been sent to search the grounds again with that hound of his for signs of the children. The poor man’s been following her orders like a trained automaton. She’s been horrible to him.”

  Tabitha wasted no time explaining the plan.

  Only Simmons seemed dubious. “Are you absolutely certain you want me in the wall?” he asked. “I’ll tell you again that I rather think you and the boy should be protected.”

  “She has a revolver,” Tabitha reminded him. “She might shoot you, and that wouldn’t do. And you’re the strongest physically, which will be imperative. And Mary’s far less likely to shoot a future investment like a grandchild. True, she only needs one of us, but for all she knows, the parents will produce some sort of unexpected proof and she’ll be ruined if she shoots the wrong child. This way, nobody gets hurt. Agnes, deliver the soup, please.”

  With an obedient bob, Agnes picked up the soup, eyes focused on the very shaky bowl she carried. She backed through the swinging door, muttering, “If I don’t come back, I suspect she’s done away with . . . but no, oh please, oh no, oh . . .”

  Tabitha hoped Agnes would hold her tongue and spill only soup in front of their target, and not plans. “Cook, cut Oliver’s bindings, and Oliver, stay put until Hattie frees you.” Feeling flushed with excitement and nervous about the impending brush with danger, Tabitha directed Hattie to the pantry. “Wait for my cue.”

  “I will,” Hattie said, closing the door behind her.

  Tabitha turned back to the Yard man. “Mr. Simmons, don’t light the cigar until I say the word ‘fire.’ We must wait until Mary is in position.”

  Simmons frowned, but nodded and disappeared into the passage.

  “Places, everyone!
The order will be soup, cat, me, Hattie, Oliver, then smoke. Got it?”

  Oliver saluted enthusiastically, then tucked his hands behind him with a wink. Tabitha hid herself behind the butcher block just as the faux Countess blasted into the room in a fit of anger.

  “Fired!” Mary Pettigrew shouted, a wild look in her eyes. “You’ll never work again!” One hand pointed the small revolver at Cook. The other held a barely touched bowl of soup, which she flung into a corner where it splattered, landed, and shattered.

  Agnes scuttled in behind her, eyes locked in genuine fear and panic.

  Distraction number one, Tibbs, Tabitha thought.

  “I should kill you for that texture. And the salt! It was like drinking the ocean, you idiotic, pestilent, plague-ridden excuse for a—” Mary Pettigrew froze, her gaze shifting to the large feline resting on the side counter. “Is that a cat? You brought a filthy cat into my manor! Shoo!”

  Distraction number two.

  Richard the Lionheart recognized hatred for his species and rose to the occasion. He hissed and snarled, lifting a paw in the air with a terrific meow that was silenced as Mary smacked him off the counter.

  “The cat isn’t hers,” Tabitha said in a clear voice, popping up from behind the butcher block.

  Distraction three.

  Mary stared in bewilderment from the cat to Tabitha, her expression quickly changing from confusion to anger. “I knew it! The children have been hiding this whole time. Get over to that pole, you little beast. I should have tied you up to start with. I should have tied you all up! Against the wall, Cook. You too, Agnes. Phillips! Where are you? Fetch a rope!”

  “You sent Phillips outside to search for us,” Tabitha reminded her, “and the cat belongs to the real Countess.”

  Mary smiled and let out a maniacal peal of laughter. “Oh? Well, the real Countess is dead! Dead, dead, dead!”

  “She might be dead,” Tabitha said, “but I think she wants her cat back anyway.” She pointed toward the pantry.

  Hattie slowly walked forward. “Been looking in my file trunk, have you, Mary?”

  Distraction four.

  “But you’re dead,” Mary whispered to Hattie, her voice wavering. To her credit, Mary only shook very hard but did not drop the revolver. “You’re . . . you’re a figment of my imagination,” she whispered to herself. “I’ve been under duress.”

  “You do not run this manor, Mary Pettigrew,” Hattie bellowed. She lifted a long arm in Oliver’s direction. “You are free, Oliver Appleby.”

  Distraction five.

  Oliver’s eyes filled with surprise, and he jumped up and wiggled his arms. “I’m free! The spirit has powers!”

  As Tabitha predicted, Mary was disoriented, looking in horror between her freed prisoner and the ghost of the woman she was impersonating. Scooping up Richard, Tabitha held the cat outward so that he could see his adversary. He hissed and snarled, causing Mary to spin in a circle.

  “Keep that cat away,” she shouted at Tabitha, then spun again to face the ghost. “Stay away, spirit!” She caught sight of Cook, who had reached into a cabinet. “Put that frying pan down, you stupid wench! Don’t even think about whacking me with it. You’ll be dead so fast you’ll taste worms.”

  “Worms?” Agnes asked.

  “She means I’ll be dead and in the ground, dearie,” Cook said, not lowering the skillet. “Which isn’t likely.”

  Hattie slowly advanced. Tabitha and Richard created a barrier on one side, and Cook wielded the pan across the room. Mary’s revolver shook as she pointed it in various directions.

  “I didn’t kill you!” she cried to Hattie. “You just died! It’s not my fault!”

  “It is your fault. As punishment, I will burn down the manor. I shall set the house on fire!” She stepped forward again, forcing Mary another three steps backward.

  “What? No! No, don’t! You’ll ruin my plan! I was going to live here or sell the place for a fortune! I was—” Mary stopped and sniffed. “It doesn’t smell like fire. It smells like . . . cigar?” Crazed with fear and anger and confusion, Mary Pettigrew was further disturbed to see a thin line of smoke floating into the room, seemingly from nowhere.

  Distraction six.

  “What’s going on?” she blubbered. Gazing at the air in front of her, Mary lifted a finger to trace the line of floating smoke back to the peephole. Stepping closer to examine the phenomenon, her face came within inches of the smoke’s source. “It’s almost as though the walls were smoking ciga—”

  With a swift and sickening thud, the hidden door swung open, knocking Mary Pettigrew straight between the eyes. As she fell to the floor, the door to the back garden opened and Phillips entered, his hands red and mouth open to speak.

  “I’ve found a motorca—” His face drained of color as he stared at Mary on the floor, the passage door leading into the wall, and the imposing figure of Simmons. A squeak of shock exited his lips, followed by an audible clearing of the throat. He caught sight of Hattie and sank to the tiles, openmouthed and twitchy-lipped.

  It was Simmons who spoke, while gazing appraisingly at the butler. “I’m with Scotland Yard, and I imagine it’s my motorcar you’ve found. And this,” he said, gesturing to Hattie, “is the real Countess, as you know. Half of her anyway. The other half is in the garden shed, where you left her on orders from Mary Pettigrew. The children have told us everything that’s been going on here. You must be under considerable strain.”

  Phillips stared between Simmons and Hattie. “I d-don’t understand,” he stammered.

  “There were two of us, Phillips,” Hattie said, an apologetic tone to her voice. “We’re twins. We trusted you and Mary enough to stay on a bit longer than the other servants because it was so frustrating having to retrain the entire staff each six months. I personally found Mary to be rotten from the start. It seems even I underestimated her. You’ve done a lovely job as butler, but I’m afraid my sister and I had a rather large secret that we had to keep from you. I’m so sorry, Phillips, this must be a terrible shock.”

  “Oh!” Phillips said, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Two of you, yes, of course,” he said. He stared around the room, rather dazed. Seeing Mary Pettigrew on the floor again, he stood, lips twisting as though he were trying very hard not to cry with relief, as it would be a very unbutlerlike thing to do.

  Hattie patted his shoulder. “The children have informed me that the Countess has been awful to you. That said, do you care to explain why you did nothing to remedy this situation? Otherwise, I’m left to assume either pure cowardice or direct involvement.”

  “Thank God this nightmare is over,” he blubbered. “Mary went completely mad. The threats she made on my life were rather . . . gruesome. She’s quite good with knives, you see. I swear, I only went along with it because I feared she would hurt the children. Is she . . .” He twiddled his fingers over his mouth. “Is she dead?”

  “Miss Pettigrew’s only knocked out for a bit,” Simmons said, scooping the revolver into one capable hand. “She’ll come around shortly enough.”

  “Too bad,” Cook said with a snort. She leaned over Mary, large bosom heaving menacingly. “Not everyone cooks things your way, you mean thing.”

  “Simmons,” said Hattie, “can you see Mary and these others to another room? Someplace rather less full of knives, perhaps? Tabitha and I will fetch the rest of the children from the nursery and meet you in the library. Poor Viola must be scratching herself to pieces up there.”

  Simmons nodded and eyed Mary’s body, gauging the best way to heave her into his arms.

  Agnes seemed to have recovered herself and was sneaking glances at Simmons. “We’ll do just as you say, madam.”

  “It would be a pleasure to help secure Miss Pettigrew,” said Cook, smiling at Mary as though she were a particularly nasty chicken whose time at the chopping block had finally come. “Well done, Tabitha!”

  “Hear! Hear!” Oliver said with a grin.

  “And w
ell done knocking her out, Mr. Simmons!” Agnes said with a blush as the Yard man picked up Mary’s limp form.

  “Yes, well done, Simmons,” Hattie agreed.

  “Yes, quite well done,” Phillips said.

  “Wish I’d gotten to do it,” Cook grumbled.

  When making final deductions, one must have a solid grasp on all the fine details. Having a solid grasp on a fine glass of sherry is a nice touch as well.

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Dastardly Double Cross

  Cook leaned against a bookshelf and smiled triumphantly as Tabitha, Hattie, and the rest of the children emerged from the hidden passage. She waved a hand toward Mary Pettigrew, who looked terribly uncomfortable. Mary was bound and gagged, seated in an armchair that was scooted so close to the library’s fireplace that it was uncertain whether Cook meant to restrain or roast her.

  Hattie gestured for the children to sit once again. This time, Tabitha joined Oliver on the sofa with Viola and Edward, leaving Barnaby and Frances to squabble over the one available armchair. Barnaby soon lost and stood awkwardly and miserably for a moment before sinking to the floor, cross-legged. Tabitha was surprised he didn’t begin to suck his thumb.

  “Look and see what we’ve caught,” Cook said. “Finally shut her up, didn’t we? We’ve tied her up like a suckling pig, my sweet Agnes. Oh, Aggie, do lighten your load. The witch will get her due course, and that bump on her head is nothing compared to the blackness of her heart.”

  Mary Pettigrew struggled toward Cook, her eyeballs nearly popping out. Her head shook back and forth and she tried to scoot the chair forward, succeeding only in nearly knocking herself to the floor.

  “Let me finish my story, dears,” Hattie said, ignoring Mary and taking a seat next to Oliver on the sofa. “Where was I?”

  “You were saying something about a cruel joke,” Tabitha told her.