Bits and pieces of carefully rehearsed conversation were attempted by all the parents, but it was rather like watching a boatful of fishermen scattering lines into the water with confidence, then reeling them in again when nothing of substance cared to take the bait. Tabitha noticed that the few times her mother tried to field a question, her response was thrown back like an underweight smelt.
It wasn’t until the second fish course was presented by the cook herself that the room expressed any sort of intense animation. Banging through the service door with her tall, sturdy frame, the cook heaved the dish onto the center of the table in front of the Countess. The fish lay on a bed of dressed spinach and onion shavings and was surrounded by small glass dishes of both a clear and a light-pink gelatinous substance. Its lidless eyeball was as large as a sovereign, death causing it to stare at nothing and everything at once. Its expired mouth was open, and a row of sharp teeth was clearly visible.
Wiping a sweaty arm across her brow, Cook gestured to the platter. “May I present,” she said in a deep voice, “the broiled perch with choice of rose or champagne jelly, Countess.”
Mrs. Crum gave an involuntary shudder. “The head’s still on it,” she murmured.
“Good Lord, the size of it,” Viola whispered, then smiled across the table at Tabitha. “What has it been eating, do you think? Look at it, Edward.”
“I am looking, and it’s looking right back.” Edward grinned hugely, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “Well done, Cook!”
Cook blushed and gave a small curtsy. “Eighteen inches long, head to tail, straight from Lake Windermere.”
“I don’t like my food staring at me,” Barnaby said. “Ow! Sorry, Mother, but I don’t.”
“Nor do I,” said Frances, whose timidity and manners seemed temporarily frozen by disgust.
Yes, it might catch you nicking the silverware, Tabitha thought, switching her gaze to the Countess, who was making a small, unsatisfied grumbling noise in the back of her throat.
Cook frowned. “Is it not to your liking?”
The Countess touched her forehead and sighed deeply. “You’ve done it whole, Cook. I specifically said the presentation was to exclude the head, which you were supposed to have used to enliven the flavor of the lead consommé.” Her fingers tightened around her napkin.
“Apologies, Your Ladyship. I’ll fix it right up.” Grunting, Cook reached forward to grab the dish.
“Just go,” the Countess ordered a bit coldly. She dropped the napkin beside her plate, and her lips did an odd dance that ended in a half smile. “That is, you’ve worked so very hard, Cook. And being worn out, you might slash the flesh to pieces, leaving it looking like a stabbing victim. That wouldn’t do.” She smiled at her guests and once again, her beauty and flashing jewels seemed to cast an assuaging spell. “After all,” she added meekly, “I may be a countess, but I’m not too high and mighty to get my hands a bit dirty. I’ll do it myself.”
And while her party members exchanged puzzled glances, the Countess of Windermere reached into her oversize handbag, produced a rather large knife, stood up, took careful aim, and with a single flash of metal, beheaded the fish.
Sitting delicately, the Countess wiped the knife on her linen napkin and returned it to the handbag. She nodded toward the divided fish. “You may take the head back, Cook.”
Cook stared at her employer, her mouth hanging open, not unlike the beheaded perch. “Yes, Your Ladyship.” She eyed the handbag. “I was wondering where the ten-inch blade had gone.”
“It’s with me, along with the paring knife,” the Countess answered, holding up a small blade. “I always have them on me.” Seeing the baffled expressions of her guests, the Countess tilted her head and smiled softly. “Oh, I know it must seem odd, but a widow likes to feel protected at all times, you know. It’s the same reason I always lock my study and have my staff sign confidentiality papers. I’ve been a bit jumpy since the deaths of my loved ones. Anyway, I’m awfully fond of my knives.”
It was a reasonable, if disturbingly eccentric, admission. After all, one must get terribly paranoid after having a husband killed. Though she seemed awfully comfortable with that knife. Not a moment of hesitation, Tabitha noted.
“Makes perfect sense to me.” Edward nodded. “That was a lovely beheading, by the way. Human ones can be messier, you know. Did you know that the Countess of Salisbury was whacked eleven times at the Tower of London in 1541? Inexperienced axman, they say. Gashed her shoulder first, then took ten more blows to finish her off. Sixty-seven years old at the time, poor girl. Executions and Medical Mishaps. Rather nasty book, that one.”
Nobody responded. Viola was kind enough to steer the conversation toward the Countess’s philanthropic gifts to Lake District interests, and as the perch was rather delicious, the knife incident was slowly forgotten. But gradually, an uncomfortable silence settled around the table.
“Does anyone have any general questions about Hollingsworth Hall while Phillips fetches a little surprise?” the Countess asked. She gave a curt nod to the butler, who bowed and exited the room.
Barnaby Trundle, who had been sneaking glances at Tabitha’s end of the table throughout the meal, was eager to oblige by blurting out, “Who is that?” while pointing to the elderly woman. He winced, no doubt suffering from a thick pinch given by his mother.
The Countess appeared pleased by the question. “Oh, I’m so glad someone’s finally asked about dear Mary Pettigrew,” she said. She rose and stepped the length of the table. She had a wonderfully determined, if slightly jerking, walk, Tabitha decided. Short, clipped steps.
Moving directly behind Mary, the Countess placed her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “Perhaps you’ve heard of my tendency to switch out all my help every six months.”
“But Phillips doesn’t leave,” Edward said. “He said in the tour that he’s been here two years.”
The Countess cocked her head. “Did he now? What else did he share with you? I wonder. Anyway, I was in between staff on this past Monday evening when Phillips found my dear, dear maid Mary slumped over my desk. She’d had a stroke, poor thing, that much was obvious.”
Tabitha couldn’t keep her hand from rising. “Pardon me, but what was she doing at your desk? I thought you said you always locked your study.”
“Precisely what I was thinking”—the Countess squinted to read the place card—“Tabitha Crum. Rooms that are locked are clearly meant to remain private.”
Private for what purpose? Tabitha supposed that a study might hold the Countess’s paperwork, something adults seemed to place a great deal of importance on. Pensive detested the idea of keeping private rooms and vaults. What better way to announce the location of your valuables and secrets than to gather them up behind a locked door, Tibbs? he’d said in multiple novels.
“But Mary wasn’t in a state to be questioned,” the Countess continued, “so I had Phillips take her to the servants’ quarters for rest. I feel sorry for her, really I do.”
“Let me see if I understand this, Your Ladyship. Your maid is joining us for dinner?” Mrs. Trundle asked with a frown. “Isn’t that . . . kind.” Her lips moved up and down, forcing themselves to end in an upright position. “You’re so very kind. A maid . . . at dinner.”
“She’s not really eating,” Tabitha quietly noted. The maid hadn’t been served a single course. Pemberley shifted in Tabitha’s pocket, poking her tummy repeatedly with his snout. Yes, Inspector Pemby, she thought, we need more information. “I’m terribly sorry to bother Your Ladyship again, but do you know what sort of thing would cause a stroke?” Tabitha asked, enduring a harsh foot stomp from her mother.
The Countess lifted her hands from Mary and fixed Tabitha with an expression that adults often did when too many questions were asked. “I suspect it was the fault of too much sausage and bacon. Love the rich stuff, don’t you, Mary?” She caught Mary’s pale cheek with the palm of her hand in a delicate double pat. “She would try skip
ping the heavy items every other month or so, but in the end, I’m afraid too much pig is simply too much pig.” Clucking her tongue, the Countess lifted her head to the group and smiled.
“Perhaps she saw a ghost,” Viola suggested.
Edward wiped a lingering bit of champagne jelly from his chin and raised a hand.
A furrow formed between the Countess’s thin eyebrows. “Yes”—she squinted once again to see the hand-raiser’s name—“Edward Herringbone?”
Edward cleared his throat and gave a nod to the room in general. “It’s true that strokes can be caused by clogged arteries due to an unbalanced diet consisting mainly of fats,” he recited. “They often result in confusion and disorientation and one side of the body failing to react to basic muscle commands, from motor skills to speech. Read that in Mason’s Anatomy and Diseases. It’s also true that stressful or frightening situations can increase the possibility of strokes, and um . . .” A slip of pink tongue brushed his lower lip, and his gaze rolled to the ceiling in thought. “That’s all I remember.”
“How awful,” Tabitha murmured, briefly considering whether a stroke on the part of either of her parents might improve their personalities. A stroke would explain what a strain it was for her to produce the word ‘elbow,’ she noted, politely ignoring another series of grunts escaping from Mary.
Frances let out a single snort. “Fatty diets?” she said softly, so that the Countess couldn’t hear. “Then you had better watch out, hadn’t you, Edward? And your best friend Viola as well.”
While all eyes turned to the Dales and Herringbones to see their response to such rudeness, Tabitha watched Frances’s hand shoot forward to the centerpiece. A golden leaf disappeared, presumably into the beaded bag.
“We’re just large-boned,” Edward declared while his friend and mother and father blushed. “And we get plenty of vegetables, so a stroke’s not likely for us.” He pounded on his belly and grinned hugely at the room and then at his mother. “No worries, Mum.”
“Shouldn’t you fetch a doctor for your maid?” Mr. Appleby asked.
The Countess dabbed at Mary’s mouth with the maid’s untouched napkin. “I wouldn’t really know about fetching someone. I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”
Tabitha watched the Countess meet Mr. Appleby’s bewildered expression and shift her indifference to concern.
“I phoned a doctor, of course, and he said there’s nothing to be done except rest. She’s been with me for years, so of course I would never send her to the streets, begging for work. That”—she pinched Mary’s cheek—“would have been very cruel indeed.” The Countess’s hand rose, smoothing her hair. “But enough about the maid. Is everyone having a lovely time?”
Hesitant nods went all around.
“Then I suppose I should tell you why your children were summoned. You must be curious.”
Every parent and child shifted in their seat, their legs and eyes nervous with expectancy.
“Oh, good, you are! In that case . . .” The Countess paced slowly around the table, playfully raising and wagging a finger. She paused, mid-wag, and cracked the double doors a smidgen. “Phillips! Bring in the—”
Backing up, the Countess made way for the butler, who was carrying a very small trunk. “Well done, Phillips, quite prompt. On the table with it, then out with you.”
After a long glance at the Countess, Phillips bobbed an obedient bow and made his exit. The black trunk sat, all eyes glued to it.
Countess DeMoss seated herself once more. “Children, I’m afraid I have some shocking news. Your parents have been naughty liars.”
Any warmth in the room disappeared immediately, as though an unexpected eclipse had blackened the sun. There was a slight flicker in the electric light.
Perhaps this was it, Tabitha thought. A thrilling crime was to be revealed. Steady now, she told herself. Recalling hours of training spent at the literary sides of Inspector Pensive and Timothy Tibbs, she took inventory of the adults who had just been accused of unspecified deceit:
A guilty start from her father
A choked cough from her mum
An impressively raised eyebrow from Mr. Wellington
A small, confident smile from Mrs. Wellington, who was checking her face in a pocket mirror
Polite but strained interest from both Herringbones
Puzzlement bordering on worry from the Dales
Panic from the Trundles
Confusion from the Applebys
Carefully sifting through the enormous brass ring, the Countess came upon a small silver key. With a dramatic flick of the wrist, she unlocked and popped open the trunk’s lid, revealing a neatly organized series of folders.
Mrs. Trundle and Mrs. Crum lifted themselves up a bit, craning their necks to get a better look.
“As I said earlier, there’s a file on each family present.” The Countess took in a lengthy breath and let it out evenly. Then she chortled and raised a hand to cover her mouth, though her eyes remained sparkling. “Oh dear, that was unladylike, wasn’t it, but this is going to be such good fun.” With considerable effort, she adopted a more serious expression once more.
“Your parents, children,” the Countess of Windermere informed them, “have been keeping secrets from you.”
Money isn’t everything, Tibbs, especially to those who already have it. That said, offering large sums to people can have a variety of effects: shock, suspicion, or pure joy, though the joyful ones ought to check their happiness, Tibbs. Nothing comes without attachments or a sacrifice of sorts, not even free money.
—Inspector Percival Pensive,
The Case of the Bilious Banker
Secrets, the Countess had said. The word echoed mutely around the table, overpowering the lingering smells of butter and roasted meats. Chandelier bulbs darkened, then fluttered back to life overhead, and the Countess eyed the flickering lights while sucking a small bit of lower lip into her mouth. “Storm,” she murmured.
Lifting a piece of paper from a file, she paused, eyes reading over some sort of report. “But before we get into your family secrets and such a lovely piece of fun as well, you may wish to know a bit about my own sad history.”
Edward lifted his spoon, swiping it across his neck and aiming a wink at Frances. “Double murder,” he whispered loudly.
Frances shot her hand in the air. “Your Ladyship, with all due respect and humility, I’d prefer if you’d skip over any double murder.”
The Countess stared blankly for a moment. “Are you talking about my husband and brother-in-law?” she said. “I’ve heard that rumor myself, though I’m not sure if I believe it. People slap the term ‘murder’ on everything these days, don’t they?” She stared at the page. “Are you all ready to listen?”
The room’s silence seemed an acquiescence.
“Twelve years ago my son Thomas ran off and eloped with a woman of no education or connections, embarrassing me to the point of estrangement. She, of course, was with child when they ran away. He fully embraced the estrangement, the fool, changing his name to God knows what. A little over a year later, they both died in a boating accident. Their six-month-old child was reportedly onshore with an attendant who clearly had no clue about my son’s background. She sent the babe to an orphanage, a fact that took years to confirm.”
Tabitha was reminded of Augustus Home. That’s where I’m headed. But there are far worse things than living in an orphanage, Pemberley.
• living in a toilet
• living in Barnaby Trundle’s room
• living in a haunted manor with vengeful ghosts
“You see, when Thomas and his wife died, I immediately put people on the hunt for my grandchild, but the attendant had disappeared, and I couldn’t find anyone who knew where the child was taken. Only recently have I received solid evidence.”
The Countess took a paper from the first file and read aloud. “The investigation has traced the point of abandonment to Basil House, London’s Oldest
Home for Orphaned Infants and Children.” Dropping the paper, she pointed around the room at each of the children in turn. “You six children were the only ones dropped off at Basil House in May of 1895, at approximately six months of age. You were all adopted by your charitable and childless parents shortly thereafter.” The Countess held both arms out and smiled hugely. “Tra-laa, children, surprise!”
An audible gasp, sounding very much like it came from Barnaby Trundle, echoed throughout the dining room.
Viola turned to Mr. and Mrs. Dale, dropping the spoon she’d been clutching with a harsh silver-on-china clank. “What was that? Mum? Dad?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Edward said pleasantly. His smile faded when the words sank in, and he turned to his mother and father. “What did she say? I’m . . . not your son, then? Well, whose son am I?”
Frances Wellington choked on her drink. Both hands flew to her neck, and her eyeballs became wide, white, straining things until she coughed up the water.
Oliver was silent, a slight grimace appearing on his face as though he’d had one too many dinner courses.
Tabitha did not gasp or ask questions or choke or grimace. Instead her hand drifted down to cup the lump in her apron, and she felt a slow compression occur within her. A sense of being squeezed and drained. Whether it was a healthy loss, like a snakebite being purged of poison (I am not truly a Crum, Pemberley), or a harsh loss, like feeling even smaller in the world (I am not truly anyone at all, Pemberley), she wasn’t certain. Perhaps a bit of both.
“So you see, one of you is my heir.” The Countess lowered the files. “Now, because I’ve been desperately looking for my relation all these years, I set up a substantial trust fund long ago on the off chance that I would one day find my beloved grandchild.”
The room went abuzz with raised eyebrows and taken-aback facial expressions and the repeated words “trust fund,” and the Countess clapped her hands rather gleefully. “Oh lovely! You’re all surprised and thrilled to pieces, I can tell! You six are the only possibilities, and I absolutely can’t wait to find out which one of you is my grandchild, so I can spoil the dickens out of you. You can stay the entire summer next year! I’m really quite sentimental, you see, and find myself in the sad situation of having every member of my family dead.”
Nooks & Crannies Page 7
