“Well?” the Countess demanded. “Out with it!”
Still unable to speak, Agnes flapped her jaw uselessly, her eyes watering with panic.
Tabitha touched her hand, thinking it might calm the young lady into words. “Thank you again for the water this morning,” she said. “It was very kind.”
“B-B-Barnaby,” Agnes whispered.
“Yes, where is Barnaby Trundle?” the Countess repeated.
Agnes jerked her hand back wildly. She fell to her knees, staring Tabitha directly in the chest. “He’s missing! He’s been taken! The manor’s spirits have claimed him for their own and there’ll be no getting him out ever and he’s been turned to a ghost himself and I swear I heard the poor child moaning away when it happened but I thought it was a horrid dream so I did nothing!” It all came out in one large burst that left her chest heaving considerably.
“He’s missing?” asked the Countess.
Phillips arrived, out of breath. He held a short leash on the large, mean-looking hound from the previous night. “I’ve just finished looking, madam. There’s not a trace of him anywhere. Burgess here couldn’t find the boy, and that was after sniffing his bedsheets. He was in the kitchen for certain. Burgess seemed frustrated to no end and kept going in circles as though Barnaby had disappeared.”
“What do you mean, disappeared? Why is no one making sense? What was he doing in the kitchen?” The Countess marched to the serving door and pushed it open. “Cook! Cook! Stop burning things and get in here this instant!”
“The boy is gone,” Phillips said, still breathing hard. “Burgess is completely reliable. He could track a thick wallet in a crowded square . . . .” He stopped talking, turning red.
Tabitha eyed him with curiosity. He looked flustered from the search, uniform slightly askew and properly matching black shoes shifting up and back along the floor with anxiety or nerves.
Cook entered the dining room, glaring at the Countess while her mouth curved up in a frozen smile. “And what can I do for you now, Your Ladyship? Make you a special dish?”
“Ghosts!” Agnes clutched at Cook’s apron. “The spirits have taken Barnaby!”
“Have they, do you think?” Viola said, likewise clutching at Tabitha’s sweater and nearly squeezing Pemberley’s head off in the process. “Have they taken him?”
“I couldn’t say,” Tabitha replied.
“I could,” said Oliver, distinctly whiter than he’d been minutes before.
All eyes turned to him.
Oliver focused on the table as he spoke. “He came into my room last night, to see if I fancied a late snack. Said he couldn’t sleep. I let him go downstairs alone.”
There was a brief silence, followed by soft, breathy whimpers from Agnes. Unease filled the room like an invisible fog, wrapping around each child in a stealthy manner until they were all paralyzed.
“Interviews begin shortly and will each last 30 minutes to an hour,” the Countess said, her voice weak and cheeks paled. “Barnaby, it seems, will be forfeiting his chance to be my heir due to his pointless decision to hide himself. The boy is frightened of me for some ridiculous reason and is clearly trying to remain out of sight until his mummy and daddy arrive. Nobody’s been snatched. Burgess will sniff Barnaby out eventually.” She cupped one hand around the absurdly large diamond, emerald, and sapphire peacock brooch on her chest. “There’s no one here, other than us.” She turned to leave, but paused at the door. “No one at all.”
Another beat of quiet pulsed through the room.
“Edward Herringbone,” the Countess said, “come to my study in ten minutes. The rest of you, find a way to amuse yourselves. Keep to the lower rooms and Phillips will find you when it’s your turn. The order will be Edward, Frances, Viola, Oliver, then Tabitha.”
While the others wandered the manor’s parlors, drawing room, and gallery, Tabitha waited her turn in the library, gently petting Pemberley in her skirt pocket, occasionally knitting a bit of scarf, and attempting to whistle. The sight of the books helped her to relax, and she let her eyes drift over the shelves until her heartbeat became slow and steady once again.
She was used to cruelty, so the Countess’s rather callous behavior didn’t put her off nearly as much as it did the others. And she was shaken and saddened by Mary’s death and Barnaby’s disappearance, that was true, but there was a nagging feeling that all could be explained if she could just put the pieces together. She tapped her finger to her temple. That sort of thing appeared in Pensive novels and always seemed to help the tapper, though Tabitha was uncertain why. Perhaps it jarred the area of the brain assigned to clue retention.
Having had a few hours of what Inspector Pensive would call observance of character, Tabitha found the Countess’s indifference to her maid’s demise most curious, and it led her to wonder at the history between the two. It’s dreadfully difficult being charitable to those you don’t like, the Countess had said. But why would she need to be charitable at all in those cases? Perhaps Mary Pettigrew had been a family maid, passed down from a previous generation, and therefore deserved a hint of special consideration.
Oliver walked into the library with his hands shoved deep in both pockets. He glanced around the room. “No rogue kidnappers here,” he joked weakly. His face was paler and more drawn than it’d been the night before. “Hullo.”
Tabitha stopped pacing and pulled her hand away from Pemberley. “Oh, um. Yes, same to you.” Stop being awkward.
“Know what you’ll be saying to the Countess?”
“No,” Tabitha said, smoothing her skirt and taking a seat.
Oliver sat beside her. “You don’t talk very much, do you? You’re rather quiet and shy.”
Tabitha couldn’t help but smile and think of her conversations with Pemberley. “Not really.”
Standing in a fidgety manner, Oliver plucked a book from a shelf and flipped through it without glancing at the pages. “I once got mad at my parents and threatened not to speak to them ever again.” His eyes crinkled. “How long do you think I lasted?”
Tabitha shook her head.
“Three hours. My father says that if you stay quiet too long, you’ll lose your voice. Funny sort of thing to say, isn’t it?”
She shook her head again. “I think I know what he means.” Keep talking. That’s what people do, so say something else. “I don’t think it matters much what I say to the Countess.”
Oliver stepped toward her. “What do you mean by that?”
Don’t say the wrong thing, and for God’s sake, don’t say a word about Augustus Home! Tabitha let her shoulders lift and drop. “Just that I’m not the heir. If I was, my parents would have flung themselves on the opportunity to take advantage of it, I’m certain. They were fixed to leave the country before the invitation arrived, and I daresay their plans haven’t changed. And what will you say to the Countess?”
Oliver shrugged and studied the shelves. “Do you think she’s read all these books? Maybe I’ll ask her about them. Or about those gallery paintings.” He frowned. “Do you think she’s a bit . . . mad? And is that sort of thing inherited, do you think?”
“I couldn’t say. Edward might know.” And if madness could be inherited, Tabitha thought, perhaps it could be acquired by life experience as well. What sort of life would drive a woman to lunacy?
Shuffle.
Yes, agreed, Pemberley. It certainly wouldn’t be a pleasant one, but we don’t know anything about the Countess’s past, and would you mind very much not pestering me with thoughts right now, please, as I’m attempting to interact with another human?
Carefully avoiding the topic of Barnaby Trundle’s disappearance, they spoke of other things, namely what sort of cake they would have for their birthdays the following month when they turned twelve. Tabitha hesitantly played along, enjoying herself and placing orange slices and candy flowers on her imaginary treat. She knew very well there would be no birthday celebration for her. Oliver stayed for a half hour or so, then
decided to explore the manor.
“Sure you won’t come?” he asked. “Perhaps none of us should be alone after . . . you-know-what.”
He’s just being kind. He’d probably rather be by himself. “No, thanks. There’s plenty for me to explore in here.” She waved him away, secretly wishing that no one else would come in. A whole library all to herself, and with no tour to catch up with this time.
But without another presence in the room, thoughts of Barnaby’s disappearance kept her company. The Countess’s increasingly odd behavior idled around her mind as well. And the feeling that there was something not quite right about Hollingsworth Hall.
“Secrets, Pemberley,” she said. “This house is full of secrets.”
The mouse nuzzled her thumb. Squeakity.
“Yes, let’s do explore anyway. Perhaps we’ll discover something about our illustrious hostess.” Nervously glancing about every time the wisteria branches brushed the library’s windows, Tabitha gave herself a tour of the room. The lovely furniture, exotic rugs, paintings, and sculptures took fifteen minutes. An enormous standing globe took ten minutes more to spin and admire. And then, of course, there were the books, which overpowered her unease by sheer number and scope.
The Countess’s books were all wonderfully organized, accessible from floor to ceiling by marvelous rolling ladders attached to the shelves. Taking care to peek once into the hallway, Tabitha made a running start toward a ladder and leaped onto the second rung from the bottom, sending herself flying across the back shelf. She ignored Pemberley’s squeaks.
There were historical tomes on the Romans and Greeks and British. Thick volumes on philosophy and science. Architecture and useful crafts like woodworking and knitting. A section on scientific methods and forensics. Almanacs of weather patterns, atlases of the Far East and the Near East and Europe and America. Psychology and human behavior. Plays and art and poetry. Epic poems of Homer. A thin copy of short verses and Shakespearean sonnets. An even thinner book of parlor limericks and humor.
One shelf near the floor held a number of children’s picture books. How very odd for someone who doesn’t seem to like children at all. Perhaps they had belonged to her son long ago. That must be it. Perhaps the Countess had not always been so cold. Could life change you and turn you cold without your permission? Or was it a matter of whether you let it?
“I say, sir, now that’s a curious book.” Tabitha tilted her head to study a chest-high shelf. The rest of the books were strictly in place, but there, buried in the middle of a set of Inspector Pensive novels (how wonderful!) was a book that clearly didn’t belong. It was faded, for one thing, and slightly more worn than the others. And the title was in a dull silver color. She peered closer—no, it actually was silver. Unshined, but still some sort of metal. Turning her head, she read, “The Case of the Dowager’s Descendant. Never heard of that one.”
With a glimmer of excitement over the discovery of a new Pensive novel, she started to pull the book out and gasped. It wasn’t a book at all, but a solid piece of wood. Pulling harder, Tabitha watched in amazement as the entire shelf came forward. There was a slight popping noise.
The shelf released from the wall.
Often overlooked is the fact that secret passages are not necessarily meant to hold secrets themselves, but to permit a person to hear and see the hidden agenda of others.
—Inspector Percival Pensive,
The Case of the Speckled Spyhole
Just inside the wall, there was a low bench and a shelf with several lamps, candle stands, and matches. Hidden passages were something that every great lover of mystery novels longed to encounter, and Tabitha’s reaction was no exception.
“Magnificent,” she said softly, struck by the unexpected gift and grateful to be alone with it. Before she could peek her head in even farther, footsteps echoed in the front hall. The sound stopped abruptly, and Tabitha thought she heard the armor being adjusted.
In or out? Bold or timid?
Feeling rather like Tibbs after listening to one too many brilliant deductions about the necessity of good timing, Tabitha eyed the clock. Assuming each meeting would take at least half an hour, there would be nearly two hours until her turn arrived.
“Being badgered into submission by my sensible voice has not brought much excitement over the years, Pemberley,” she whispered, slipping behind the open shelf and shoving it back into position until she heard a satisfying click. Sitting on the bench in total darkness, she felt her way to the matchbox, grateful for all the hearth fires she’d been told to start in the complete darkness of early winter mornings. With a scrape and a sizzle, the flame burst to life, settling into a yellow-orange glow that Tabitha quickly transferred to a lamp.
“I do hope we don’t get smoke sickness, Pemberley. Now,” she said, lifting him to her shoulder, “whose passage do you suppose this is?”
Approximately six feet high and three feet wide, the passage was quite passable indeed. Tabitha supposed that manor houses, even renovated ones, might have passages that went unnoticed and unused for years. Did the Countess even know about it? Making a note to address that question during her interview time, she reached a hand to one of the spare lamps and gave it a hesitant finger swipe. No thick layer of dust.
“Well, somebody’s been here relatively recently. Thank goodness ghosts and those up to no good prefer the night hours, Pemberley,” Tabitha murmured. “Otherwise we might be frightened. No reason now, though. No reason at all, right? Right.”
“Oliver? Viola?” The voice rang into the passage clear as a bell. “Is anyone in here?”
Frances.
“Good,” Frances said to herself, her shoes clicking into the library. “Now where shall I put it?”
Tabitha saw small points of light shining at intervals from the shelf she’d closed behind her. Peepholes.
“Shh, Pemberley,” Tabitha whispered. “No squeaking.” Sticking an eye against a hole, Tabitha made out the back of Frances Wellington as she sauntered along the bookshelves.
She moved to a corner, and Tabitha saw her profile, grimacing. “Where to put it?” she muttered again. “Poetry. No one reads this rubbish.” She pulled a book aside. “William Wordsworth. Never heard of him.”
Frances took a very thick envelope that had been tucked into her skirt. She shoved it quickly behind the book, just as Viola walked in.
“Hello. What are you doing?”
“Well, Viola,” Frances said, spinning casually and walking deliberately to the opposite shelf. “This is what they call a library. I was contemplating reading a book. I don’t suppose they teach you about reading in the charity circles your people belong to.”
Viola kneaded her hands as though she’d very much like to offer Frances an uncharitable greeting with her fist. “If nobody gave money to charity, hope would be gone for a large number of people. Not that you’d care, Frances. But now that you know we were both orphans once, we have that in common, at least. I would think you would have some sympathy for those who are without.”
Frances let out an unladylike cackle. “Don’t flatter yourself, dear. I’ll never be grouped with you for any reason, parents or no parents. And don’t fool yourself either. Just because you’re not poor doesn’t mean your parents are actually accepted by the rich people they invite to their gatherings. Asking people for money is terribly low class, no matter who you’re asking for.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“See, there you go begging again. What are you doing, anyway? If you’re here for that tray of cookies Agnes left, then you might as well say so.” Frances clomped out of the room.
Viola sat on the sofa and grabbed a cookie.
Cringing, Tabitha realized that she wouldn’t be able to pop back out without creating a bit of a scene. There was no choice except to explore further and hope a different exit presented itself. After a few paces down the passage, a spiral staircase curled up beyond view. “That goes to the second floor, Pemberley.”
Shuffle-shuffle.
“Yes, and perhaps the third floor that Phillips said was a nursery. I think we’ll stay away from there, as we’ve spent quite enough time exploring our own attic.” There were two routes on the main floor, each one branching off within yards.
Following the second passage in a cautious manner, Tabitha found that it matched the walls perfectly, curving around the library shelves. Remembering her yarn, she trotted lightly back to where she’d started. Bending down, she placed an empty lamp on the ground and tied one end of the skein around it. In Inspector Pensive novels, there were always twists and turns to hidden passages.
“We don’t want to get lost in the walls,” she reminded Pemberley.
The two investigators moved forward cautiously. Every now and then, a tiny hole allowed Tabitha to see smidgens of a room or hallway.
“Stinky in here,” she whispered to Pemberley. “It’s almost a familiar smell, like . . . oh, I don’t know. Let’s go.”
She took a right, then a left, and down a few steps (underneath that high library window, she deduced), then up, across, and down a staircase that seemed to mimic the room divisions. The path branched off, and the left side went on fifteen feet before leading to a dead end. The candlelight flickered as Tabitha searched the wall, finding a small square of wood. She touched it, and the wood rotated to reveal a single diamond shape. Another peephole.
Peering through it, Tabitha saw a large desk, messy with piled papers and teacups. Its bottom right drawer was badly battered and scratched, as though it had been attacked with a fire poker. Backing away, she raised the candle and saw the outline of a door in the passage. She pushed against it to no avail, then squatted, looking for a keyhole and finding only a latch that was turned to a locked position. Whatever room she’d looked into held another entrance into the secret passage, perhaps with a keyhole on the other side.
Squeak.
“My thought exactly,” she said, patting the key in her apron pocket. “But I don’t know what room it is, Pemberley. Best to leave it alone for now. Let’s try the other way.”
Nooks & Crannies Page 13
