Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  “Rat?” said Tabitha, puzzled.

  “Rat,” Phillips affirmed ruefully. “I was startled by a nasty, filthy rat. And then I was stabbed by this. Give me one of my hands back or yank it out yourself.” With considerable whimpering, the butler remained still while Simmons pulled the offending object out and held in the air.

  The bittern pin.

  Tabitha gasped at the sight of it and watched as Hattie pushed through the throng of excitable children to stare at the brass bird. The old woman’s mouth dropped open slightly, and her breath made a small rushing noise, not unlike the sound heard when wind changes direction.

  “Oh dear,” said Hattie, raising a hand to her mouth.

  “Oh dear,” said Tabitha. Before she could take responsibility for the pin’s presence and apologize for the pin-lodged-in-butler’s-cheek incident having shocked the poor woman, her stockings caught on the fallen knight’s armor. Bending down to free herself, she came nose to nose with an enormous diamond ring. And jammed snugly into the ring was a rather happy-looking mouse.

  “Pemberley! You’re alive!” Forgetting herself, Tabitha scooped him into her hands, cradling him into her neck as she twirled and cooed and kissed. “Oh, I cannot believe it! You weren’t crushed after all! You were just knocked out! But how?”

  Oliver came over, tickling Pemberley on the back. “Must have been the ring. Nobody could crush his head with a diamond that big sticking up around his neck. Lovely to meet you, Pemberley.”

  “Oh, you gorgeous, marvelous little mouse! I love you so!” Tabitha brought him close to her lips and whispered soft promises of happy endings and cheese.

  “Rat girl,” Barnaby said to his sister Frances, pointing at Tabitha. He snorted. “Tabitha Crum is a rat girl.”

  Frances snorted back to her brother. “And Oliver Appleby is a rat boy,” she agreed. “What a nasty pair they make.”

  While Simmons tied Phillips up with some kitchen twine fetched by a delighted Agnes (“Can I get you anything else, Inspector?” “I do hope you’re staying for the evening meal, Inspector”), the children shuffled back to the library.

  Two suited men came in, deftly picking up the chair with Mary Pettigrew and carrying it out as though it weighed no more than a cup of tea.

  “What excitement,” Viola said, cheeks flushed. “Mummy and Daddy will be thrilled with the whole story!”

  “You played quite a role,” Tabitha noted, pleased to see her friend turn even more pink. “Tell them everything.”

  “We’ll have to discuss a few things before anybody shares anything about this weekend,” Hattie said.

  “Oh?” Frances asked. “And what are you going to do to stop me? You received a title from the King of England under false pretenses, and you expect us to keep our mouths shut?”

  “That’s right, shut tight. Just like the bad clam that you are,” Cook said. “You know, Miss Wellington, I believe I rather hate you more than the false Countess.”

  “So do I,” Viola blurted out with a mixture of nervousness and delight. “I hate you too!”

  “Hear! Hear!” Edward cheered. “Well said, Viola.”

  Hattie nodded at Simmons, who had appeared in the foyer with Agnes. “Thank you, Cook and Viola, that’s much appreciated, but nobody will believe any of this madness, and the Yard will take care of any isolated problems. Cook, would it be awfully troublesome to set up a meal in the dining room?”

  Edward leaped up. “I’ll help.”

  Cook gave him a rare smile. “I hope you know how to chop and read a recipe as well as you eat, young man.”

  “I’ll come too,” Viola offered.

  Cook eyed the remaining children. “Best bring the trouble twins as well. Come along, Frances and Barnaby.”

  The children followed Cook out of the library, leaving Oliver and Tabitha alone with Hattie. Tabitha eyed Frances Wellington as she left. “I’ve been thinking, Miss Hattie. And I believe I know where your missing envelope is.”

  “Where?”

  “Behind your Wordsworth. Frances stashed something there.”

  “Oh? Let’s fetch it, then.”

  Stepping lightly on the ladder, Tabitha pushed herself over to the poetry shelf. There, behind the poetry of William Wordsworth, she found the envelope, which contained a thick stack of paper money.

  “There’s a letter in there. Why don’t you read it?” Hattie suggested, watching Tabitha carefully.

  Folded and placed at the end of the bundle was a sheet of paper, yellowed with age. It could almost be mistaken for another bill, and Tabitha guessed that Frances hadn’t even noticed it. Unfolding the paper, she read the words aloud, hands and voice having a hard time remaining steady.

  Dear Mrs. Darling,

  I know that you disapproved of your son choosing to marry me, but you see, when we grew up together and fell in love, we weren’t aware of the challenges of class structure. Thomas never meant to hurt you by running away with me, and I never meant to hurt or disrespect you by loving him. We only wanted to start a family of our own. Knowing what I do of your disapproval of the match, I don’t wish to burden you with further contact.

  Not that it is any of your concern, but the babies are lovely. A boy and a girl who would very much enjoy the company of a grandparent. Perhaps you will meet them one day, if your heart can look beyond your feelings toward Thomas and me. They need a grandmother who can love them as dearly as they deserve, which is an infinite amount.

  The post came yesterday, and with it came the enclosed photograph we sat for just one month ago. Please accept it as a remembrance of me, Thomas, and your grandchildren. I wish you and Aunt Millie the very best. Also, Thomas and I wish to return the complete sum of my wages, in hopes that it will help your disappointment to fade.

  —Elizabeth

  Tabitha felt the weight of the words. “Forgiveness,” she said softly. “They only wanted forgiveness. For wanting a family.”

  A gentle hand touched Tabitha’s shoulder. “I never gave it. Elizabeth acted with such grace, and I never responded to the letter,” Hattie said. “I acted so shamefully. And Millie knew how guilty I felt about the whole thing. That’s why she didn’t consult me before inviting you children. I once told her that if we found my grandchildren, I would have mailed the inheritance rather than face my shame.” She shook her head, hands rising to wipe her eyes. “And to think the bittern was here all along. Perhaps she sent it back and Millie never told me . . . .”

  Tabitha stiffened. “Do you mean the pin?”

  “Yes, I had it sent to Elizabeth when Thomas came to me with his decision to marry her.” Hattie shook her head. “It was . . . a symbol of the fact that something beautiful was no more. That she’d taken my son from me forever. I suppose I thought it terribly, fittingly poetic at the time. I thought it would make her rethink the marriage. I can’t imagine how it came to be here.”

  Tabitha’s heart quickened. “My mother gave it to me. She couldn’t remember where it came from.” Her mouth opened. “Miss Hattie . . . might it be my token?”

  The color left Hattie’s cheeks, and she squeezed Tabitha’s hand very tightly. She swallowed twice before speaking. “The bittern belongs to you?”

  “No.” Tabitha shook her head. “It belongs to you. And I brought it back, so you see, the bittern isn’t a sign of leaving at all. We were both wrong about that. Elizabeth proved us wrong.”

  “Pardon, Miss Hattie, but is this yours too?” Oliver slipped a hand in his trouser pocket and took out the small multi-tool, the outside carved with the initials TSD. “It was with me at the orphanage. My parents told me it belonged to my father.” He squirmed a bit under Tabitha’s curious stare. “My parents and I agreed that I shouldn’t tell the Countess, in case it was a revealing token. They weren’t sure they could trust her.” He grimaced. “Seems they were right.”

  “I don’t blame you one bit,” Hattie said, reaching for the tool and turning it over in her hands. “Yes. Thomas Sebastian Darling.” The smil
e turned her face into a mass of bittersweet wrinkles, a furrowed garden of regret and delight. “This belonged to my son. The Yard had them made for all the field men. Reginald had one specially made for Thomas the same year that he was killed.”

  She walked to the fireplace mantel, where she’d set the framed photograph. “And there you two are,” she said, placing a finger next to the bassinet. “There is no doubt in my mind now. Tabitha, you are the spitting image of a twelve-year-old Elizabeth. I thought maybe I was just hopeful before. I didn’t want to show favoritism. But with the bittern, I feel certain. You are my granddaughter and Oliver is my grandson.”

  Tabitha’s breath caught in her throat as she thought back to dinner the evening they’d arrived. El . . . beh. Millie hadn’t been telling Tabitha to get her elbows off the dining table, she’d been saying the name Elizabeth.

  Hattie leaned down until her old tears touched the young cheek. “And I am most glad to finally meet you,” she whispered. “And you, Oliver,” she said, taking his hand. “You are a fine young man, indeed. You have your father’s eyes, my dear boy.” She wiped Tabitha’s face. “So sorry, dear. There seems to be an extraordinary amount of dust in this room. You may still call me Miss Hattie as we’re getting to know each other. All right?”

  Tabitha nodded, her own eyes suddenly feeling itchy and moist. “An extraordinary amount of dust,” she echoed. Looking at the photograph again, her heartbeat fluttered like a bird.

  Like a bittern come back to life.

  “Tabitha? Sweetheart, are you well? Is it your ankle? You’ve been limping.”

  “My ankle’s fine.” Tabitha took her grandmother’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I think that perhaps this is what happiness feels like.” She looked at her brother’s eyes for confirmation, finding it in the flecks of amber and mahogany and grass and honey. “You see,” she said softly, “I was very much hoping there would be someone like you both and that we’d find each other one day. I knew it was an impossible hope, but I couldn’t seem to give it up.”

  “Stubbornness,” Hattie nodded. “A trait you picked up from your father and grandfather, no doubt.”

  “What now?” Oliver asked.

  “Now? Well, Tabitha will be with me, and Oliver, you will stay with your parents, but I do hope you’ll visit. I really don’t deserve it, but if you can find it in your hearts to forgive me, I would be eternally grateful. Are you two ready to be a family of sorts once more?”

  Tabitha smiled. “I am.”

  Oliver nodded, relief flooding his cheeks. “I am.”

  “Good. Because I need help. I’ve got a most beloved sister to put to rest and a funeral to plan for Camilla Lenore DeMoss, Countess of Windermere. I find that I’ve grown weary of having this false identity. It’s dreadfully tiresome to keep one’s true self hidden.”

  “And we might think of what story we’ll be telling to the papers,” Tabitha said.

  Hattie frowned. “The papers?”

  Oliver nodded. “Oh yes, the Times wrote a story about the invitations. No doubt they’re chomping at the bit to see what’s happened. You’d never had visitors, you see, and everyone wants an explanation.”

  “Ah, yes. Well I suppose I should be grateful, since the Yard wouldn’t have sent Simmons if there hadn’t been some sort of public fanfare.” With a sigh, Hattie tapped at her chin. “I suppose we’ll have to write up a statement. I’m not feeling very creative at the moment. Tabitha, you’ve read enough Pensive to come up with something plausible. I don’t suppose you’d do it?”

  Tabitha paused, then smiled a very large smile. “I’d be delighted.”

  All’s well that ends in a good meal, eh, Tibbs? Or in your case, a few good meals and a tankard of milk. Honestly, Tibbs, what kind of fully grown inspector drinks milk from a tankard?

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Fresh-Faced Foundling

  Two weeks later another snowstorm blanketed the Lake District. Green and red Christmas decorations adorned Hollingsworth Hall’s interior, pine scent from endless garlands filled the air, and the drawing room Victrola was turned up to its highest volume, carrying holiday cheer throughout the manor. Tabitha’s grandmother sat beside her on the library’s sofa, reading the newspaper, taking care not to lose the place in the overturned Inspector Pensive novels scattered along the cushions.

  “What are you knitting, Tabitha?” Hattie asked. “Oliver and Viola and Edward will be over for the weekend soon. Cook said the luncheon is nearly ready, so you can go wash up. She made an enormous cake, just like the one she made for your birthday. Oh! Hello, Pemberley,” she said, stroking the head of the mouse who was seated on an end table, nibbling from his very own dish.

  “Will they be here soon? I’ve lost track of the time.”

  Frances and Barnaby would be unable to attend the small reunion, to the delight of the others. Barnaby had been taken in by an uncle who’d promptly sent him to boarding school, and Frances had only one distant relative, a missionary who was overjoyed to learn that fresh help would be sent to live with her in a remote South American village.

  Tabitha lifted the length of blue scarf. “And this is for Oliver—a late birthday present.” She turned at the creaking of the library’s double doors. “Oh, hello, Cook. Hello, Agnes. I’m just coming.”

  “We’re just checking to see that you weren’t lost in a book again,” said Agnes. “You’ve missed five meals in the last fortnight.”

  “Sorry about that. What’s the cake for, Cook? Are we celebrating something?”

  “We’re celebrating the demise of Camilla DeMoss, of course. Nasty woman, at least the one I knew.” Cook blushed. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. You and your sister would have been quite different, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, Cook,” said Hattie with a smile. “And I do hope you and Agnes will join us wherever we end up. I’ll pay you generously, and we can discuss any benefits you have in mind. Tabitha was quite right in telling me that your cooking is divine.”

  The blush deepened, and Cook exchanged glances with Agnes, who was nodding an emphatic yes. “We’ll certainly discuss it, ma’am.”

  “Wisely done,” Tabitha said after the two left the room. “They seem an awfully close pair.”

  “Yes, and I thought it prudent to keep them nearby for a bit. Don’t want any secrets getting out. Tell me, Tabitha, what do you think of their natures? Your grandfather had wonderful instincts for reading people.”

  Tabitha sighed and frowned a little. “I suppose I’m not good at reading people at all. I had all sorts of things running through my head two weeks ago. I would have let Phillips off the hook, though I suppose he gave me a funny feeling right from the beginning. A tingle of some sort. And the Countess—Mary Pettigrew—as well. She seemed off, but I got the whole business dreadfully mixed up.”

  “First cases are meant to be bumbled a bit.” Hattie leaned over her, reaching for a small handle attached to the side table. “Just a moment.” She pulled a blank envelope from the drawer and waved it in the air. “For you, Miss Tabitha. A late birthday present.”

  “What is it?”

  Hattie winked. “Could be anything. But before you open it, read this.” She handed Tabitha the newspaper. “They’ve run your statement in the Times again with another article.”

  “Have they?” Tabitha took the paper and smiled at the headline.

  BRITAIN STILL BAFFLED OVER COUNTESS’S STATEMENT, LACK OF HEIR, GIFTED INHERITANCE, DEATH

  In what can only be described as the most anticipated news story of 1906, Camilla DeMoss, Countess of Windermere, invited six young children to her manor last month. Rumors have abounded as to the cause, with speculation ranging from Countess DeMoss naming an heir to her fortune, to an obscure form of lunacy, to a failed mass murder plot.

  The attendees have been sworn to silence, and eyewitness accounts by those who have broken the Countess’s request have been deemed false and inadmissible by the Metropolitan Police Servic
e. The only thing the Times can report with certainty is that the weekend has resulted in the Countess’s death, the jailing of six citizens, and a very large sum of money being given to the Dale family of London.

  In a fateful and bizarre turn of events, the Countess of Windermere wrote the following formal statement only hours before her unfortunate demise:

  I, Camilla Lenore DeMoss, have invited several children and parents to Hollingsworth Hall, and I’m certain that the whole of England is wondering what such an eccentric old woman could be up to. In the event of my untimely demise, I shall set it down on paper so that the truth may eventually be known about me.

  The truth is that I am a lonely soul. Since the death of my husband, sister, and son, I have felt anger and fear at times. I have no heirs, and my solitary place in life is my own creation. My only solace is in giving money away to charities, in hopes that the pounds will do the good that I have failed to do myself over the years.

  I find myself nearing the end of my days, and I question what it is that I find important. The answer is family. Though I am rich and titled, the one thing I long for cannot be bought or earned. I invited the children because I missed witnessing life. I missed my family and I hoped to catch a glimpse of them in others.

  I write this note on Sunday morning, after a highly successful weekend. In a world beset by crimes committed in the name of money and power and love, it can be tempting to trade hope for seclusion. This weekend I’ve been lucky enough to mingle with the better side of human nature. I have seen compassion, loyalty, courage, and friendship. Most importantly, I’ve found peace and release in the most difficult of acts: forgiveness.

  Do follow my lead, dear Britain, and forgive me my reclusive ways. In the name of family and forgiveness, I have earmarked the bulk of my remaining monies, one hundred thousand pounds, to begin a progressive foundation that people can apply to for help, servicing a variety of organizational and individual needs. I hereby name Miss Viola Dale as chief executor of the funds.