Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  Tabitha scoured the walls for disturbances that might indicate a passage door. One wall, two walls, three walls . . . wait! The rug! A rich Oriental square near the dressing table was slightly off its mark, revealing a small dust corner. Tabitha followed the rug’s length, keeping an eye on the wall, and there it was. The rich wood paneling was such that the dividing lines weren’t noticeable unless one was looking hard for such a thing. And periodic bits of ornate carving let the keyhole blend seamlessly into the darkly stained images of wings and feathers.

  But it was there.

  At that moment, Tabitha was certain. She was certain the same way that Pensive was taken by sudden inspiration to make wild connections. There had been a painting of the boy in the library and the study and the kitchen. Pemberley, don’t you see? Each room with a child painting holds a door into the hidden passage. The disappearances were no coincidence. The children were being taken by someone. Or, she thought, thinking of the ghosts, something. And if the passages could be used to make people disappear, perhaps they could aid the children’s own escape.

  “The Countess didn’t snatch Frances,” Tabitha agreed.

  “Then who was it?” asked Viola.

  “Don’t tell me,” Agnes whispered weakly. “I don’t have the energy to faint again.”

  “She came up here on her own.” Tabitha took a deep breath, mentally weighing the card she was about to play. “Frances was stealing. She has a bit of a problem.”

  “She’s right,” Oliver said, looking at Tabitha with wonder. “That must be why Frances came up here.”

  The Countess turned to Tabitha, who’d led the accusation. “Explain,” she ordered.

  Tabitha eyed her audience, silently summoning the wisdom and confidence of her literary mentor. “Well,” she began, “Frances has a habit of thievery. She was found with certain household items in her reticule.”

  Agnes gasped. Oliver and Viola and Edward stared at her with puzzled curiosity, no doubt wondering how she knew about the stealing when she’d been absent from the parlor at the time Frances’s purse had spilled.

  All eyes were on Tabitha with marked attention for perhaps the first time in her life. “Phillips, did you actually hear Frances’s voice?” she asked.

  He frowned. “Well, no. But Agnes said—”

  “I fear that Agnes,” Tabitha said, feeling a bit bad about her next words, “may have misheard something. She’s been under a good deal of strain. I believe that Frances is safe and sound, probably hiding with Barnaby Trundle along with a bundle of stolen items.”

  The Countess clenched her hands and jaw. She swallowed hard. “Go on.”

  “I believe, Your Ladyship,” Tabitha continued, “that Frances responded to your invitation with the sole intent of grabbing every valuable you possess. She even brought a spare suitcase to smuggle things out,” she added. “You’d best check her room thoroughly.”

  This was not altogether false. Frances had brought a rather light extra suitcase, according to one of the drivers. It was probably filled with harmless items by now—napkins and knickknacks and such, as well as the occasional item of small value. But checking Frances’s room wouldn’t distract the Countess for long. Tabitha would need more time with the others if they were to assemble a plan. “And you might check any areas of the manor her parents were in. I believe they became acquainted with the Hall’s gallery during the excellent tour that Phillips gave.”

  The Countess pulled Oliver forward from the line of children. “Is this true? Oliver Appleby, you attest to this behavior on the part of Frances?”

  “I know that she’s swiped a few trinkets,” Oliver said, glancing at Tabitha. “I couldn’t say about the rest.”

  While Agnes, Phillips, and the Countess all faced Oliver, Tabitha took a step out of their lines of vision and innocently reached a hand out, tapping the clock on the Countess’s dresser. We need time, she mouthed to the other children.

  Viola took the hint. “I believe her parents spent a good deal of time in the library as well.”

  Tabitha shook her head furiously. No!

  “Er, the drawing room, I mean,” Viola said.

  Tabitha gave a quick nod.

  The Countess spun toward Viola. “Well, where was it? The library or drawing room?”

  “The drawing room! They were in there when you gave us time to speak with our parents, you see. And they were also in the . . . second parlor?”

  Tabitha grinned. The drawing room and second parlor were perfect. Far enough away that nobody would hear children meeting in the library.

  Or slipping out of it.

  “The second parlor,” Viola repeated, with more confidence.

  The Countess released Oliver and began pacing. “Why, that little devil child! And to think I believed she might be related to me. Well, all that matters is that I clearly did nothing wrong. I didn’t lock her in my room. Phillips! Agnes! Come with me. We’ll be doing a thorough search of Frances’s room, the gallery, the drawing room, and the second parlor. Note anything unusual, or anything that appears to have been taken.”

  They swept out of the room, leaving the children behind.

  “What’s going on, Tabitha?” Oliver asked. “Do you really believe what you just said?”

  Without stopping to think about being odd or inappropriate, Tabitha latched onto Viola with a vigorous embrace. “You brilliant girl! You are altogether marvelous!” She released her hold, reddening. “Sorry. It’s, um, that was very well done.”

  Viola fairly glowed at the compliment. “It was nothing.”

  Tabitha beckoned the rest of them into a huddle. “And no, I don’t believe everything I said about Frances. That was a distraction.”

  “But what about Frances disappearing?” Viola asked. “Aren’t we very worried about her and Barnaby, even horrible as they are? And the Countess is mad. If she turns out to be my grandmother, I’ll run away, I swear it!”

  “We should all run away.” Tabitha told them what she had seen in the study, ending with her theory that Mary Pettigrew had discovered her employer’s secret and had a stroke as a result.

  “Murder files?” Viola asked, her chin quivering. “Maybe she’s looking into the funding of wrongly charged prisoners. It’s possible,” she snapped at Edward, who was sadly shaking his head.

  “And it’s also possible she’s been stacking bodies in those locked rooms,” he said. “Don’t you all think it’s rather interesting that she waited until after our parents were gone to divulge her plans to keep one of us permanently? Any bodies in your bedroom closet, Tabitha?”

  “No, it’s a very normal room, Edward. Neatly organized, no bodies. But yes, her breakdown has been conveniently timed. Your parents would never have left you behind if they suspected anything like this.” Unlike my parents, Tabitha thought, who have already left me forever.

  “No, they wouldn’t have,” Oliver said, opening and closing his pocket tool attachments. “So, the murder dates were all before she purchased Hollingsworth Hall? Do you think she’s probably”—he swallowed uncomfortably—“stopped killing people?”

  Tabitha considered. She wasn’t ready to fully make that deduction yet. “I couldn’t say.”

  “Sounds right to me.” Edward clucked his tongue. “And now she’s gone off the wagon and wants a grandchild to kill. Clever of her to lure us in with money. Mother and Father would hand me right over, thinking they were doing me a kindness, poor sots. Meanwhile I’d be chopped to pieces.”

  Viola shivered and wrapped both arms around herself. “To think that my entire philosophy on charitable giving revolves around the Countess of Windermere’s donations . . . and now it turns out she’s a filthy murderer. But maybe she wants the grandchild to live with her because she’s trying desperately not to go on another killing spree, and she thinks the influence of a family member will halt her urges. Maybe she’s—” Her nose wiggled up, up, up, in preparation for another sneeze, then sank. She managed a half grin before her eyes widen
ed and she released an explosive sneeze. “Oh, blast, you’re right, she’s a raving lunatic. Why would she even give money away in the first place?”

  “Perhaps she gave all that money out of a sense of guilt,” Tabitha suggested. “As a penance.”

  “It disgusts me, the entire business.” Viola nibbled her nails. “Think of all those thank-you letters.”

  Oliver snapped his fingers. “The letters! The letters ‘MPS’!”

  All eyes turned to him with uncertainty.

  He nodded at Tabitha. “You said the files were all marked ‘MPS’ along with the victim’s name. The same letters were on the pocket watches of those chaps hanging in the foyer. Their portraits are hanging, that is, not their deceased selves,” he added. “I saw that they were engraved and looked closer to . . . check on something.” He took out his multi-tool and began opening and closing attachments again. “Perhaps they’re relations of the Countess’s.”

  “Did she have two dead husbands?” Viola asked.

  “No, but she had a sister who lived with her in the manor,” Tabitha remembered. “Perhaps one of them is her husband. M and P and S . . . what might they stand for?”

  “A family name, perhaps?” Edward suggested. “From before she halted her murderous ways?”

  Tabitha cleared her throat. “Evidence speculation aside, we ought to find a way to leave, and we’re running out of time to talk,” she said grimly. “Between these murder files and the disappearances, I think it wise to leave Hollingsworth Hall before we’ve no longer the choice. I’m afraid that this manor house isn’t as pleasant as it first seemed, and that’s even without the ghosts.”

  “I’d forgotten about the ghosts,” Edward said. “Pity you brought them up again. But Oliver’s right. What’s worse, do you think, staying near the Countess, who may go on a killing rampage any moment, or facing whatever’s snatched Barnaby and Frances?”

  At that moment, the electricity went out once again. As it was early afternoon, the windows still provided a bit of light. The children’s eyes were drawn to the glass. Last night’s snowstorm was back, very much in full force.

  “We’re going out in that?” Oliver asked, squinting and peering into the powdery downpour of snow.

  “We are,” said Tabitha resolutely. “Best get on with escaping. I’m certain the ghosts will keep to themselves and not bother us a bit.” She, of course, was not certain of any such thing, but Pensive was always spouting off speculation with authority and ended up being right a good 60 percent of the time. I call it bolstering the team, Tibbs, he’d say. “Lying” is such an ugly word.

  “It’s time we stopped waiting around to be saved,” she told the others. Saying it out loud felt right. Pensive-like. A surge of rallying and satisfaction arose deep inside her, scouring the fear from Tabitha’s veins and replacing it with something that felt like a rush of high-quality ink, the kind that might be used in the printing of exceptional mystery novels.

  Her pulse quickened. She had wasted years doing nothing about her mistreatment, confronting no one, simply accepting her life. Simply waiting for some sort of miraculous change. The time had come for her to take action. “Do you want to do nothing?” she asked the children.

  They shook their heads, and Tabitha realized with surprise that they were listening to her. They were truly listening. “Do you want to just sit here while people treat you like mindless objects to be used?”

  “Nope,” said Edward.

  “No, thank you,” whispered Viola, rubbing at her eyes.

  “No, I don’t,” Oliver said.

  Tabitha thought of the “Dish Duty” sign. She thought of her attic space, and of her parents telling her that an invisible child was the very easiest kind to tolerate. She thought of the word ingrate. “While you’re made to feel like an inconvenience, until you very nearly believe that you are one? Like you’re cursed and can never, ever do anything about it? Do you want to feel that way forever?”

  Though Tabitha saw that they were slightly taken aback by her sudden passion, the trio shook their heads again.

  An unexpected wetness began to soak her eyelashes, and Tabitha sponged it away with a firm wipe of her sweater sleeve, nodding. “Good. Neither do I. Oliver, do you think you might be able to fix the motorcar? Phillips said there was one left.”

  “But I told you—the snow—”

  Tabitha held a hand up. “We must try. The stable isn’t too far, and there’s no telling what she’ll do with us if we stay here. She’s only planning on keeping one of us as her grandchild, and she said the rest of us could just disappear for all she cares.”

  “Disappear?” asked Edward.

  “Disappear,” breathed Oliver.

  “I don’t want to disappear,” Viola said. “I’ve got things to do and people to find sources of financial assistance for. If I can ever stop this blasted sneezing,” she added, sneezing once again.

  Tabitha didn’t want to disappear either, not when she was just starting to feel a bit as though she existed in the world. She placed both hands on Viola’s shoulders and squeezed. “Viola. Wonderful, brilliant, confident Viola.”

  Viola eyed her suspiciously. “Yes?”

  “Do you think that you and Edward might find a way to distract the Countess while Oliver and I are out tinkering with the remaining motorcar? Edward, you play a bit of doctor and come up with a plausible sickness for Viola. Or an injury that wouldn’t have noticeable signs on the body. Viola, do you think you’re up for a bit of acting?”

  Viola squirmed. “My voice got all shaky at the charity play we put on for the local orphanage.”

  “But you were amazing just now, telling the Countess where the Wellingtons went! Trust me, you’re a natural.”

  “It was quite good,” Oliver agreed.

  “Much better than the mess you made onstage,” Edward agreed, tapping his nose. He shifted his gaze to Tabitha. “We will both be brilliant,” he said seriously, switching the tapping finger to his temple. “I’ve got four or five things rolling around up here that could be drastically wrong with her.”

  “Excellent. There’s not much time, but—”

  A voice sounded down the hall. “Phillips, get upstairs! I can’t have another rotted child disappearing. Come and lock them in their rooms. You’ll have to jam a chair under Tabitha’s door, as I can’t find the rotted key.”

  Tabitha couldn’t hear the reply. “Edward, use all five of the possible ailments if you have to. We’ll just do a quick check to see if the car is fixable. We’ll need an hour, maybe two. If it’s something Oliver can fix, we’ll all break out tonight.” The alternative was hiding in the passages, and Tabitha, while logical in the most logical of ways, couldn’t help but think about the mysterious rush of air that had passed behind her while she had observed the second parlor. Perhaps she would come up with a suitable explanation for the creaks and noises and air currents of Hollingsworth Hall in the next hour or so, but until then, it seemed best not to dwell in the passages longer than necessary.

  “Oh, this itching is ridiculous!” Viola said, scratching madly at her neck and head and clothing.

  “A bit much, Viola,” Edward said with concern. “Best tone it down a mite.”

  “Quick, take these!” Tabitha picked up four hairpins from the dresser and pressed them into Oliver’s hand. “Can you use them to unlock your door? You said you were handy.”

  He summoned a brave smile. “In fact, I can, and I don’t need hairpins. I only need this.” He held up his pocket tool, then frowned for a moment and looked sheepishly at Edward. “I do have a personality, you know . . . .”

  “Of course you do!” Edward said. “You’re a lock-picking car thief now. Wish I could say the same. Brimming with personality, you are.”

  “Good,” Tabitha said. “Oliver, wait a few minutes after we’re locked in, then go get Viola and Edward out. Viola and Edward, go find the adults and keep them busy in a far room. A room away from the library. If asked, say that Phillips d
idn’t lock either of your doors properly. Oliver, I’ll meet you in the library. I’ll wait behind the long curtains.”

  “But how will you get out of your room? Don’t you need me to fetch you as well?”

  Tabitha shook her head and raised her eyebrows in a manner that would have made Inspector Pensive proud. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “A man needs but two things: a reliable moral compass to guide him and a strong dose of integrity to see him through all manner of troubles,” Pensive said, raising his utensil with a wink. Tibbs stared doubtfully at the fork and said, “That’s not integrity. That’s boiled potato with cream sauce.” Pensive paused before answering, taking a delicate bite and dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Nary a whit of difference, Tibbs,” he said decidedly. “Nary a whit.”

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Faithful Footman

  Once locked in her room, Tabitha refilled Pemberley’s water dish and placed a cookie, half a savory pastry, and a cheese cube next to it. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a more balanced diet at the moment, Pemberley. You’d best stay here. No telling how chilly it will be outside.”

  With that in mind, she pulled on a second sweater. The children’s coats were still in the front hall closet, and it wouldn’t be worth the risk to fetch one. She gave Pemberley a kiss on his fur. “You’re an excellent Tibbs, Pemberley, and I shan’t ever think of replacing you as my go-to man-mouse, but would you mind very much if I consulted our most excellent colleague, Oliver Appleby, while determining the best course of action to take in solving this peculiar circumstance and getting us out alive?”

  Squeak.

  “Thank you. You may feel free to play with your fancy collar.” She nudged the jeweled ring toward him. “Now, to find the passage.” Tabitha patted the key and blew a kiss to the painted child. “Where to, please?” she asked him. A moment of silence passed. “No response? How very rude. What’s that? I’m the rude one?”