Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  “Ah, yes. The cruelest joke is that Millie and I, investigators by trade, could not even track down our most important case. Not for years.”

  “And yet you set up a trust fund for the child,” Viola said, “not even knowing if you’d find him or her. One hundred thousand pounds,” she mused. “I wouldn’t even begin to know who to donate all of that to.” She reddened. “If I turn out to be your grandchild, of course.”

  “Well.” Hattie smiled. “It would really only be fifty thousand, wouldn’t it?” She reached into her pocket for the framed photograph from Tabitha’s bedroom and raised it for general view. “I was sent this picture just over twelve years ago. I kept it in Thomas’s old bedroom to remind me that an unforgiving heart becomes a lonely one. It’s my Thomas and his Elizabeth and—”

  “Hang on,” Frances demanded. “What do you mean, only fifty thousand pounds?”

  “This is what I mean.” Hattie pointed to a spot on the image. The bassinet.

  Tabitha looked closer and saw only the feet spread apart, peeking out of the blanket’s edge. And then she saw it and inhaled sharply. It was barely noticeable if you weren’t paying very close attention. “Two left feet,” she whispered. There must have been another child nestled inside. She stared at Hattie in wonder. “Two babies?”

  Hattie nodded and perched the photograph on the mantel. “So the six-month-old twins were given away. A boy and a girl. I knew their approximate birth date, and Millie finally discovered that they’d been adopted from Basil House. I found correspondence in Millie’s desk between her and the orphanage head. The woman said she was terribly sorry that she couldn’t identify the specific children left by the attendant or even tell Millie which ones were siblings. When babies are left, she said, they’re simply logged as male or female and given an approximate age, if one is not indicated by a note.

  “She had to go through old records to find out who the children were given to, but said that she remembered May of 1895 because it was so unusual to have three sets of twins dropped off within a matter of weeks. Few people want to adopt a pair of children so you were all given away individually.” She clasped her hands to her heart. “I’m so pleased that Millie sent for you all. And just so you know, the intention was never to keep you here. Only . . . only to meet you. To know you.”

  Even Frances looked properly gobsmacked. “Wait, do you mean that—”

  “Oh quiet, Frances,” Tabitha said. “Let Miss Hattie finish.” Her mind spun with the unraveling chain of mysteries. She stared at her fellow invitees, doing a quick mental calculation.

  Hattie smiled. “I think you all can guess the rest.”

  Barnaby and Frances still looked puzzled, their heads tilted at a similar angle.

  Viola smiled enormously. “Oh, Edward! Can you imagine, we’ve known each other our whole lives and never knew!” She rushed to him and threw her arms about his thick frame. “Won’t our parents be absolutely thrilled? We’re twins!”

  “Are we?” Edward asked, pulling away from the embrace, his lips shifting until a studious grin appeared. He straightened his glasses and nodded. “Makes sense, we’re very compatible. I couldn’t have picked a better sibling if I tried, dear Viola. But I feel like the older twin, just so you know.” He winked at Tabitha. “That’ll mean I’m in charge.”

  “Oh, what an awfully nice surprise,” Viola continued. “And Barnaby and Frances being redheads,” she said. “I expect they’re a set as well.”

  “Me? Sister to that?” Frances, horrified, drew herself farther into the armchair, as though those precious inches would make the truth false.

  Hattie nodded. “It would seem so, dear. You two do look awfully similar.”

  Edward nodded sagely. “Awful indeed. Now that you mention it, those two make even more sense than Viola and me. Franny and Barney are two rotten peas in a spoiled pod.”

  “B-but I’m a Wellington,” Frances sputtered.

  Barnaby perked up. “I’m a Wellington too?”

  “And she’s a Trundle,” said Edward pleasantly.

  “I most certainly am not a Trundle,” Frances said. “I refuse to be associated with him. It’s simply not true. The only person I could possibly be twins with is myself.”

  “Bit dim, those two,” Edward informed Miss Hattie. “Nasty tempers as well.”

  But if Barnaby and Frances are truly a pair, and Edward and Viola are a pair, then that means . . .

  “So Oliver is my brother.” Tabitha looked to Hattie for confirmation.

  Hattie looked them over, and Tabitha tried to see herself and Oliver from an outsider’s perspective. Both tall, gangly, dark-haired children. One well-dressed, one not. One from a loving family, the other . . . not.

  Siblings.

  Family.

  Tabitha felt emotion build behind her eyes at the thought of the word she’d held so dear for so long. It had taken the awfulness of being abandoned for her true family to become clear. Family, it seemed, was not always a matter of who one was born to, or even who one’s parents were. A person’s family, Tabitha realized, was the thing that held them up, so that life could still be illuminated in the darkest of times. A family member could be a mouse. A family member could be an Inspector that nobody would ever meet outside the pages of a novel. Depending on the circumstance, a family member might even be discovered in a person you just met.

  “Oliver is my brother.” Tabitha let the realization wash over her like a warm bath. I am not alone.

  With moist eyes, Hattie smiled. “Yes, you two are similar as well.”

  “Nearly the same haircut,” Oliver joked shyly.

  “But which pair of us is related to you?” Frances demanded. “Who are your grandchildren? Who gets the money?”

  Hattie fixed each of the children with a solid stare, pausing at one face, going back to study another, her brow furrowed in concentration and effort.

  All breaths were held.

  “Oh dear.” She sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t be sure.”

  “You what?” Frances shrieked. “Now, you listen here, whatever your real name is, I’ll have—”

  Simmons entered the library and straightened his coat. “The motorcars have made it through and will be ready to escort Miss Pettigrew to the police station when you’re ready. I’ll just see to the butler. He appears to be quite shaken but is briefing the other Yard men as best he can. Apparently the imposter woman has stolen a few things. He mentioned missing gallery paintings and a few household items that he suspected she’d taken. The other inspectors have been to the cottage. I’m afraid the Trundles and Crums are gone. They stole one of the motorcars together.”

  “Gone?” exclaimed Barnaby. “But where?”

  Tabitha raised a finger. “You might try Spain.”

  “Gone,” repeated Barnaby, bewildered.

  “We’ll be after them, never fear,” Simmons said. “An inquiry has been placed with the head London constabulary regarding their financial activities. Mr. Trundle was fond of gambling with other people’s money, it seems. Spain, you say, Tabitha? I don’t suppose you have any other information or documents?”

  Tabitha hesitated. The mention of Spain had been a poor slip of the tongue, but she supposed an entire country was roomy enough to keep the Crums at large. Lawfully, she had more information to share, but it seemed wrong to mention documents that were certain to send her parents to jail, were they ever found. After all, Mr. and Mrs. Crum had raised her. Surely, a logical and moral person like her beloved Inspector Pensive would not act out of spite.

  Because spite could be a slow poison to the heart. If there was a lesson to be learned from Hattie, it was that forgiveness was a blessing. It would be a hard, stubborn thing to harbor ill feelings forever, even toward those who deserved it . . . .

  Then again, Tabitha suspected that her parents might logically and morally benefit from being punished. So she nodded. “Bank statements and more. In my carpetbag in the bedroom.” Perhaps the authorities would allow
her parents to keep Mr. Tickles in jail with them. After all, the Crums were very fond of him.

  “Good for you, Tabitha,” Oliver said, patting her arm. “Any parents who plan to send their child to an orphanage belong in jail anyway.”

  Miss Hattie looked sharply at Tabitha. “What? Is that true?”

  “Please, it doesn’t matter.” But, of course, it did matter, and Tabitha felt her shoulders sink beneath the weight of Hattie’s concern. She inclined her head and spoke softly to the floor. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Well,” Agnes said, breaking an awkward silence, “I’ll just show Mr. Simmons to Tabitha’s room.” She smiled shyly at the Scotland Yard man. “If that’s quite all right, sir.” She gave a little curtsy while Cook frowned at the space between the two of them.

  Oliver coughed. “And mine? My parents?” He glanced at Hattie and Tabitha.

  “The Applebys and Herringbones and Dales are cooperating fully.”

  “My parents as well, I’m sure,” Frances stated confidently, tossing her hair.

  Simmons shifted uncomfortably. “Actually . . .”

  Frances stomped her foot. “Actually what? Out with it!”

  Simmons grimaced. “The Wellington woman got a little agitated while the investigative conversation was taking place. She let it slip that the only crime that’s occurred is that someone’s stolen the large emerald they were in possession of. She described the stone in detail.”

  Miss Hattie raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t talking about the Lady Envy stone that was stolen from the British Museum recently? That’s all over the papers.”

  Simmons nodded. “The very same.”

  “You might ask Frances about the missing piece,” Viola said jovially. “A big green sparkler, right? I think she might have some answers for you, Mr. Simmons.”

  “Jail?” Frances’s head shot back and forth between Hattie and Simmons. “You’re putting my parents in jail for a stupid jewel?”

  Well. It seemed that Frances wasn’t the only thief in her family, and either by coincidence or pure subconscious instinct, Tabitha had suggested that very thing to the false Countess just hours before. Points to Inspector Crum.

  The library door opened again. The moment Phillips came into the room, a brown dress coat draped over his arm, Mary Pettigrew began flailing and fussing as best she could, wound up in her cocoon.

  Still jarred by the presence of his former employer’s twin, Phillips did a double take at the sight of Hattie, then bowed. “Madam, the authorities have informed me of the whole situation. I’m so sorry about your sister. Believe me, I was only going along with Mary’s ruse under penalty of murder.” He looked at Mary Pettigrew and gave a distinct shudder. “You can see that she has no respect for life.”

  Tabitha thought mournfully of Pemberley.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Hattie said, looking at Mary Pettigrew. “Simmons, please remove the gag. Let’s see what the traitor has to say for herself.”

  But Mary Pettigrew had no words for Hattie. The first thing she did was work up an impressive amount of saliva and spit it across the floor at Phillips. “She died of a second stroke, you imbecile! I didn’t even care by then if the right child was identified, and that smug, rich vulture had it coming, but someone bumped me before I could properly strangle her and then I missed with the candlestick and hit the vase, not her head, didn’t I? So nobody killed her.”

  Phillips shrugged. “Nevertheless, you intended to kill her, and you were the only one in the room who didn’t feel a smidgen bad about the death.” He glanced at Frances. “Well, perhaps her as well. The children are very lucky,” he added to Simmons. “She was planning to off the one who stayed at the manor after getting the inheritance money released.”

  Mary’s voice grew even more shrill and nasty. “You told me you loved me, you worthless piece of gristle! This whole thing was your idea! You’re the one who found her with that crumpled letter. And yes, maybe I was the one playing a role, but you went along with it. You told the new staff I was the Countess and . . . and you said I looked nice in her dresses.”

  “Self-preservation, Mary. You threatened me with knives during the day and tied me up at night.” He rubbed his wrists, winced, and nodded at Simmons. “It’s true.”

  “Liar!” Mary struggled against her binding. “We’ll be rich, you said! Bloody rich enough to have . . . to have . . .” Her voice had developed a quaver, and her angered posture had lost some of its feeling. She collapsed, as much as a woman tied to a chair can collapse. “To have a life together.”

  It’s just like Pensive said in The Gilded Guardian, Tabitha thought. Money, power, and love, all muddled together.

  “Mary, dear,” said Phillips. “Stop lying. I would never have wanted a life with you, even less so after you tried to suck me down into your, how should I phrase it”—he sniffed—“ ‘vortex of filth.’ And to think, you told me my accent was charming. Said it was a pity I had to hide it for work. I’d rather have come from a hard place in the East End of London and turn out to be just a butler than be born into the Lake District cooking scene and wind up a would-be murderer. It’s you who turned out filthy, Mary.”

  Mary wept loudly.

  East End of London, Tabitha thought. The posh one isn’t his real accent.

  And what is it about that dress coat . . . ?

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’m putting the gag back in,” Cook said, flexing the cloth. She paused only very slightly before bending to the hearth to rub the gag with dirty floor ash.

  “Well, I’ll just be off now,” Phillips said, tipping his brown hat and swinging his suitcase with a certain amount of effort. “Haven’t had a proper holiday in fifteen years. No need to drive me, I’ll just take the last motorcar.”

  Haven’t had a proper holiday in years . . . why did that sound familiar?

  “You’ll need to be available for questions over the next day or two,” Simmons warned him.

  “Oh?” Phillips paused, though his feet continued to alternately shuffle up and back as though he were dancing in place. “Of course, of course. Whatever the investigation calls for, sir. You’ll be able to find me at the Hotel McAvoy, glad that I’m no longer having my life threatened. I’m surprised I haven’t already fainted from stress.” His steps echoed down the hall.

  And fainting . . . what of fainting . . .

  “Wait!” Tabitha shouted, rushing to Simmons’s side. “If Phillips’s life was being threatened, why didn’t he do something when the Countess fainted—after Millie died?” She turned toward the retreating butler. “As Edward pointed out, he could have easily taken away her knives and tied her up in that moment.”

  And the Hotel McAvoy, Tabitha thought. What was it about the Hotel McAvoy?

  “And Phillips doesn’t have a suitcase here,” she said. The Jacket & Hat fellow’s telephone voice from the Hotel McAvoy had clicked fully into place. “He left his behind just in case.”

  “In case of what?” asked Viola.

  “Yes, in case of what?” echoed Hattie.

  A bitter but anguished cry broke from Mary’s throat as she jerked her head back and forth, dodging Cook’s gag-filled hands. “Yes, yes, in case of what, Phillips? Phillips, you weren’t going to leave me, were you?”

  Simmons took three steps toward the library’s entrance. “Come back for a moment,” he called to Phillips, who obediently paused at the doorway. “Where’s this suitcase, Tabitha?”

  “At the Hotel McAvoy. Waiting to be picked up on the chance that things didn’t work out. So he could make an escape, I presume. He was there spying on us the day we all arrived.” She looked pointedly at the butler, who had hesitantly stepped back into the library. “You were wearing fancy brown dress shoes when we came to Hollingsworth Hall, Phillips. They matched the jacket and hat you have on right now. At the time, your shoes were all squelchy because you’d been out in the weather. You changed your clothes when you returned to the Hall but neglected to put on your butler s
hoes when you greeted us, because Mary Pettigrew had shined them up for you and you couldn’t find your proper ones. You’re wearing them now.” She pointed to the simple black pair on his feet.

  Hattie frowned. “Whose suitcase is that in his hand, then?”

  “That would be my extra one,” Frances said. “Cheeky of him.”

  Oliver let out a cry. “And the motorcar! Phillips must have jammed it—he’s already stashed stolen goods in the trunk.”

  Tabitha clapped him on the back. “That’s the way, Tibbs!”

  Oliver looked at her. “Tibbs?”

  “Never mind, brother. Go on.”

  He nodded and held up a deducing finger. “He stashed the gallery paintings behind that length of canvas—it’s him that’s going to steal them.”

  Barnaby gave a triumphant whoop of glee. “I told you the butler did it! I said it from the start, didn’t I?”

  “For God’s sake, shut up, Barnaby,” Frances said. “Somebody stop Phillips. He’s nearly out the door with my suitcase!”

  For a moment, the only response was an increase in the pace of Phillips’s retreating heels. Simmons sprinted to the library door, but before he reached it a decidedly unmanly scream echoed in the foyer, followed by a crash of armor, followed by a cry of pain.

  Everyone rushed out to see Phillips flopped on the floor among the scattered metal, his suitcase knocked open, jewelry and small works of art scattered across the floor. The butler rose to his feet, moaning in agony, hands grasping at a glint of metal lodged firmly in his cheek.

  “Get him!” shouted Viola.

  “Knock him flat,” called Edward, wearing a huge grin.

  “Death to the butler!” Barnaby joined in, blushing when the others frowned at him.

  “Idiot,” Frances scoffed, possibly referring to every individual in the manor house.

  Simmons tackled him easily. “Got you, naughty fellow. I must say, an escape is no time to be clumsy.” Simmons blanched at the sight of Phillips’s right cheek. “My God, man. What in the world . . .”

  “Rat!” Phillips barked, shivering as his gaze flitted across the floor.

  “Rat!” cried Frances, clutching Barnaby’s shoulder.