Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  “Or perhaps you’re allergic to anything with a smattering of class,” Frances suggested.

  Phillips cleared his throat until he had everyone’s attention once again. “As you can see, the library contains the most ornate of the manor’s seven working fireplaces. And the Countess owns more than two thousand volumes covering a variety of subjects.”

  Only seven fireplaces, Tabitha thought. But there were ten chimneys total. She’d counted.

  “Nobody gives a fig about fireplaces or books,” Mr. Crum murmured.

  “I’m so sorry to be boring your unrivaled intellect, sir,” Phillips said with an attentive lip twitch. “Is there anything at all related to the manor that you would give a fig about?”

  “What about the ghosts?” Viola asked. “Will we be needing to say prayers against seeing ghosts this weekend?” She tugged on her mother’s sleeve.

  “Shh,” said Mrs. Dale, smoothing Viola’s hair and placing a kiss on her velvet bow. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart. Please continue, Mr. Phillips.”

  While Tabitha tucked away the fantasy of having her own hair smoothed in a similar manner, she remembered to watch Phillips for his reaction to the word ghost.

  To her surprise, the butler did not smile. Not a whit. Instead his lips turned inward and pressed together in what was either a grimace in regard to the question or a grimace in regard to the ghosts themselves. “I regret to inform you that rumors of ghostly occurrences in the Hall are not an approved tour subject. Nor is the reason that you’ve been invited. That you’ll have to wait for.”

  While Phillips summarized the library’s contents and the parents listened with thinly disguised impatience, Tabitha’s eyes drifted to the view outside, which had taken a turn toward the ominous. An outdoor gas lamp must have been secured close to the windows, because Tabitha could see sleet pouring down. Bare, twisted branches of wisteria whipped back and forth in the wind, tapping against the glass with insistence. The center window was marked by three panes of diamond-shaped colored glass, reminding Tabitha of the three small windows she’d seen at the manor’s highest point. That gable also had a chimney atop it.

  Never hold back when the opportunity arises to address an oddity, Tibbs, Pensive had said in the very book Tabitha had brought in her carpetbag. Unless it’s concerning a woman’s choice of hat, of course. By God, never address that sort of oddity.

  “What about the other chimneys?” she heard herself blurt out. “You said there were seven fireplaces, but there are ten chimney stacks.”

  Phillips stood on his tiptoes to locate the speaker. “Observant, aren’t you?” he said, not phrasing it as a compliment. “Three of the fireplaces are in the locked rooms.”

  “Locked rooms,” Edward said, elbowing Viola.

  “Locked rooms!” Frances repeated, stepping closer to Oliver.

  “Locked rooms,” Tabitha murmured, nudging Pemberley to make sure he had heard.

  “Locked rooms,” Phillips affirmed.

  “What locked rooms?” Barnaby asked.

  “The ones that have just been mentioned,” Phillips said. “There are several rooms in the manor that the Countess keeps locked. They are not needed and are no longer in use and are not meant to be disturbed.”

  Mrs. Crum licked her lips and tapped Phillips. “And what exactly is in these locked rooms?”

  Phillips wrinkled his nose at the touch and straightened his posture once again. “I wouldn’t know, madam. They’re locked, you see, which indicates that one cannot get inside. Her Ladyship has mentioned that one of the doors leads to the third floor, which is her son’s former nursery, but that’s the extent of my knowledge, I assure you.”

  Tabitha raised her hand, only to have it yanked down again by her father.

  “Stop speaking, you twit,” Mr. Crum quietly ordered.

  But Tabitha couldn’t halt questions from forming in her mind. Were the rooms all of sentimental value? Did servants enter them to clean off the dust now and then?

  “And now for the gallery . . .”

  Phillips’s voice faded with the group while Tabitha dawdled in the library, her eyes petting the beautifully stained shelves. “See, Pemberley,” she whispered, tucking a finger into her pocket. “That’s two solid mysteries. What is in the locked rooms and what is the truth behind the ghost rumors mentioned by a maid and not refuted by Phillips. Oh, and why have we been invited, bringing us to a trio of mysteries.”

  Squeak!

  “Yes, quite right, duly noted: And we still need a crime.”

  Squeakity-squeak.

  Tabitha smiled. “Yes, other than Frances Wellington swiping hotel pens.”

  Footsteps clipped across the marble floor. Agnes, the maid who’d taken their coats, bowed her head and curtsied. “The Countess wishes you to sit for dinner. Oh! Where is everyone, miss?”

  “The gallery. I was just heading there. Sorry. I was mesmerized by the books, you see.” Tabitha gestured around the room. “I love to read, mysteries mostly, but I could spend hours exploring in here.”

  “Yes, well, you needn’t look in the library to find mysteries at Hollingsworth Hall,” Agnes said, her shoulders shuddering with some invisible chill. “Let’s find the others, miss. The tour will have to be cut short. The Countess is still in her room, but she requested that you be seated for dinner.”

  The dining room was dominated by a long, dark table with an autumn centerpiece of silken leaves and golden acorns, nineteen places set with gold-and-maroon settings, and more cutlery than Tabitha had ever seen. Dainty place cards marked the seating, with parents placed next to their child. Everything would have been quite lovely if it weren’t for the rather shell-shocked elderly woman slumped in an armchair that was scooted up to the far end of the table.

  Tabitha’s end of the table.

  “Is that the Countess? The maid said she was still in her room. What’s the matter with her?” Barnaby said to his mother. It was a rude set of questions sandwiching an obvious statement, but everyone seemed to be wondering the same thing.

  “Quite the sloucher,” Mr. Crum murmured, nonetheless smoothing his toupee and plastering on a smile.

  Phillips’s head didn’t turn to acknowledge the woman, but Tabitha noticed his nostrils flaring with some emotion. Disgust, perhaps. “Please do sit down,” he said. “The Countess will join you shortly.”

  “This one must be nobody of consequence, then,” Mrs. Crum said, sitting next to Tabitha, who was seated next to the sloucher.

  The woman appeared to be drooling a bit, and one side of her face was wilted into a frown. Her long-sleeved gray dress was simple and slightly wrinkled. Other than a marvelous head of snow-white hair, her only adornment was a thick, almost tubelike wooden bracelet, coarsely carved with some sort of intertwined fantasy creature, serpents or some such thing. It was the sort of unique, inexpensive item that you might find in a craftsman’s market stall.

  Everyone took their seats and began sipping from crystal water glasses and quietly gossiping. Nobody acknowledged the old woman, who did not have a place card to identify her. She sat limply, one arm tucked into her body at an odd angle and her head tilted to one side. Her blue eyes, however, seemed firmly locked on Tabitha’s face.

  “Hello,” Tabitha whispered in a friendly voice while her parents argued over the cost of the table setting. “Can I get you anything?” She saw that the woman had only one earring, a tiny jeweled bluebird. It was a silver bird in profile, with three blue stones dotting the wing and a single jewel for the eye. The detail was impeccable. Tabitha wondered if the woman had had an accident while putting in the second one or was simply elderly and forgetful.

  The woman’s eyes lowered to her lap, where her hands were piled on top of each other. A grunt of effort escaped her as she turned one palm over. The other remained quite still. Her eyes swiveled back up, and they became the loneliest things Tabitha had ever seen, like baby swallows whose mother had flown away, never to return.

  “There now,” Tabit
ha said softly, patting the woman’s hand. It was a soft hand. Soft and smooth, with long fingers and short, clean nails. Tabitha patted again and watched as a tear came dangerously close to spilling from one of the woman’s eyes.

  Tabitha unfolded her napkin to dab at the soon-to-be-shed tear, sensing that the woman couldn’t do it for herself. “There now. I don’t know your name, but we’re at a lovely dinner party, and I . . . I feel lucky to be beside you.”

  Tabitha noticed Oliver looking her way and nodded at him. He was far down the table, in between parents who were chatting away with the Herringbones. Oliver shifted his eyes toward the woman beside Tabitha and raised his eyebrows in question. What’s her story? he seemed to be asking.

  Tabitha slowly shrugged her shoulders in response. Haven’t a clue.

  Oliver raised his glass and tipped it her way. Cheers, he mouthed.

  Tabitha lifted her own water, letting the glass linger in the air for an extra moment while she committed Oliver’s grin and raised glass to memory. She wondered very briefly what it might be like to be a girl who did not have a list of far worse things in respect to not having friends.

  “Ehhllz,” the old woman whispered. The dry rasp of a sound coming from her throat was what Tabitha imagined a mummy at the British Museum might sound like, if mummies were prone to speaking.

  “What’s that?” Tabitha asked. “What did you say, madam?”

  As the woman’s chest rose and sank with effort, a soft wind blew from one side of her lips. “El . . . behh.”

  Nodding encouragingly, Tabitha took her elbow off the dining table. “Oh, thank you for the reminder. I’m Tabitha Crum.”

  Two tears sank freely then, dripping down her seatmate’s left cheek. Confusion clouded the blue irises, a trace of fear overlaying the sadness.

  “I wish I could hel—” Tabitha began, but stopped at a peculiar whining sound. At first she thought it was coming from her tablemate. From the curious set of heads turning toward the mystery woman’s part of the table, so did everyone else.

  There it was again. A low moan.

  Barnaby’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood, peering from the other end of the room. “Is she trying to say something?”

  Another sound. This time it was a muffled struggling noise, almost like someone being strangled.

  “What the bloody hell is that?” Mr. Crum asked, moving his head back and forth as though someone were hiding in the air.

  By the second mysterious uttering, Tabitha had confirmed that the sound was coming distinctly from the space behind the elderly woman. A static silence filled the room, each guest straining to hear something while also hoping very much not to.

  “What is she saying?” asked Barnaby. He turned to his mother. “Why can’t she speak properly?”

  “It’s not her,” Tabitha told him.

  “Ghost,” Mrs. Herringbone whimpered.

  “Shh, dear,” Mr. Herringbone said. “Surely not. Noises from the kitchen, perhaps.”

  “Yes,” Edward agreed, looking eagerly toward the serving entrance. “Maybe they’re doing lobster and we heard the death scream.” He smiled at Frances, who looked ill. “Read about that in one of Mum’s cooking books. It’s actually the air coming out of its stomach through its mouth parts. Sounds quite exciting to witness.”

  Before anyone could comment further, Phillips entered with an echoing click that startled everyone’s attention to the opposite end of the room.

  “Eh-hem,” he said, gesturing to the grand doors. “May I present a patroness of England and your hostess, Camilla Lenore DeMoss, Countess of Windermere.”

  “With the known tension among those present tonight, this dinner party will be absolutely bursting with information, Tibbs,” noted Pensive, arranging his ascot in the mirror. “Aside from the food, I’d say there’s a decent chance that the conversation will be poisoned as well. So in addition to your very capable mouth, please keep your eyes and ears open during the meal.”

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Salmon Surprise

  Perfume wafted into the room, filling the dining area with a swirling mélange of lavender, rose, and Devon violet. The Countess appeared soon after her scent, and everyone in the room stood and quieted to a respectful silence.

  Her blue dinner gown was complemented by matching gloves and a fashionable webbed evening hat, and around her neck hung an enormous sapphire, cut in such a way that it glimmered beneath the chandelier’s glow like lake water touched by sunlight. The Countess inclined her head with a graceful nod and stared appraisingly around the room until she had taken in every guest. And then, quite suddenly, her face broke into a delighted smile.

  “Welcome, everyone!” she cried, clapping and laughing in cascading tones of delight. “Welcome to my home! I, of course, am Camilla DeMoss, and I simply couldn’t be happier to see you all here.”

  The Countess’s hair was a gray-brown that was elegantly fading in color, and she wore it swept up in a delicate knot. Her face was flawlessly powdered, eyes lined in a light charcoal, and her lips were glazed with color that brought to mind the most brilliant russet leaves of autumn.

  “My goodness,” said Edward, elbowing his father and nodding appreciatively at his hostess. “You’re beautiful for an oldish person,” he told her.

  “And you’re very kind, young sir.” The Countess beamed benevolently at the group and moved toward the head of the table, carrying an oversize handbag. A large brass ring hung from her silk belt, strung with a variety of keys that numbered into the twenties.

  “Younger than I would’ve thought,” Mr. Crum said loud enough for the entire table to hear, clearly liking what he saw. He straightened his posture and smoothed his shirt.

  The Countess’s makeup was rather thick and heavy, Tabitha thought, as she got a closer look. The effect was a bit unnatural, but perhaps it was standard fare for women of title. Goodness knows her mother had come home raving about how this and that wealthy woman had the latest in powders, rouges, or false eyelashes. Or perhaps there was another reason. Tabitha put on her invisible Inspector hat and resisted the urge to take a pensive chew on her invisible pocket watch chain. A burn victim, perhaps, who is self-conscious of scars. Or she used to be a circus performer and holds nostalgia for strongly applied blusher and eye shading.

  “Introductions are in order, I suppose,” said the Countess, her voice low and warm, “but we can all read the place cards, can’t we?” She bent to set the handbag on the floor next to her chair and rose slowly, her arms coming to rest on the back of her chair. “I assume you’re seated in your spots, and I know most of what I need to through your family’s files. Now, sit, sit!”

  Viola’s eyes widened, and she mouthed the word files to her parents as they settled into their chairs. Everyone seemed equally taken aback by the word, but Tabitha was delighted at the mention of investigative work by the Countess. Her Ladyship hadn’t randomly sampled the British population to come up with the six children at the table; it had been a deliberate choice. Tabitha tapped softly on Pemberley’s head to make sure he was listening. What sort of file could anyone have possibly filled with information about the Crums?

  “Have files on us, do you?” Edward asked. “Glad to be sitting next to you, by the way. Edward Herringbone’s the name, and enjoying this meal’s my game.” He smiled widely.

  The Countess patted him on the head. “Aren’t you a charming little gentleman? I do admire frankness, young man. Such a loud voice, which is perfect, since I’m just the slightest bit hard of hearing and this table is rather long, so please speak up, everyone, or I won’t hear a word. And I am so looking forward to this meal.”

  Between the heavenly odors wafting behind the service door, the lighting dimmed for evening, and the Countess’s gracious manner of speech, it was as though a relaxing enchantment had been placed over the gathering. Expressions of irritable impatience had smoothed into content curiosity. Even Phillips, who had stiffly posit
ioned himself next to the dining room doors, seemed captivated by Her Ladyship.

  “I do love charity, but another great love of mine is fine food,” the Countess said. “I hope you all will indulge me a little excess in the form of a ten-course meal. Do you approve of excess, dear?” she asked Viola.

  Viola nodded quietly. “Yes, Lady DeMoss, thank you.”

  “And the rest of you children? Do you mind being spoiled a bit?”

  They all responded with hesitant head shakes, and Tabitha noted that even Frances was subdued under the presence of Camilla Lenore DeMoss.

  “Oh, good. And I’m so glad your parents are joining us. Good children can’t exist without good parenting, isn’t that right . . .” She leaned forward and peered down the table at the place card next to Tabitha’s. “Mrs. Crum.”

  Mrs. Crum gave a vigorous nod of affirmation. “Yes, Your Ladyship. That’s what I always say.”

  “Is it? How wise of you. Let’s get on with the meal, then, shall we? After all, explanations are best served along with a full stomach. Now, now, don’t look so disappointed! I promise you, it’s something worth waiting for.” As though the words were a summoning charm, the cook appeared and directed two kitchen servants as they served a first course of oysters.

  A sigh of lament came from beside Tabitha.

  “Can I get you anything?” Tabitha whispered to her seatmate.

  The elderly woman didn’t respond, but her eyes watered again and her hand twitched as though it very much wanted to be held. It was such a real manifestation of Tabitha’s own feelings from time to time that she reached over to twice squeeze the poor hand before addressing the food being served.

  The meal was delectable, with courses of consommé and leeks, cold poached salmon with bergamot mousseline sauce and cucumbers, curried game meats, mutton joint with savory stuffing, roasted duckling and pheasant and squab with herbed root vegetables, and so on. Tabitha, whose finest meals had consisted largely of tinned meats and powdered custard, nearly wept at the smells and textures and tastes flooding her senses.