Nooks & Crannies

by Jessica Lawson

  Squeakity-squeak.

  “Very well, Pemberley. You’re right, that’s quite enough nonsense.”

  The oil lamp flickered in her hand, lending life to the room’s nooks and crannies. She gazed along the wall, looking for a keyhole at a similar level as the one in the Countess’s room. There was no paneling here, only wallpaper with intricate images of grasses and trees, meadows and lakes, rabbits and birds. The effect was rather dizzying.

  Crouching, she reached a hand out, feeling the smooth paper up and down, skipping the spots behind the bed and wardrobe and dressing table, slowly making her way around the room until . . .

  There.

  Tucked snugly into a corner, right in the middle of a group of rabbits nibbling sweetgrass, she found it. Holding her breath, Tabitha placed the key inside. It was an exact fit, and for the briefest of moments, she had the odd wish that she could be key-shaped and could find a space where she fit so perfectly.

  “Good-bye, Pemberley. With any luck, I’ll be back soon with a way for us to flee.” And laying another kiss on his mousy back, she opened the secret door and dipped into the passage with a lit lamp, hoping very much that it led to the stairwell that led to the library.

  One set of winding narrow stairs and several twists later, Tabitha peered into the library to see a very nervous boy poking around the curtains. Popping the shelf open, Tabitha gave a low whistle and watched as Oliver jumped nearly out of his skin. “It’s only me,” she assured him.

  “Oh, a hidden passage! What a neat trick! How’d you find it?” With a final glance through the cracked library double doors, Oliver slipped behind the bookshelf and handed her something. “I risked getting your coat, madam.” He grinned, bowing awkwardly in the space. “Didn’t want you to think I was too dull to give it a try.”

  “I found the passage earlier today, by chance.” She took the coat. “And you could never be dull, Oliver. You are an exceptional escapee.”

  He blushed. “Go on, then. Which way?”

  Tabitha eyed the passage behind her. “If we follow the main path around, it’ll take us to the kitchen.”

  “I thought we were going for the motorcar, not to get food. Do you fancy a snack first?”

  “Excellent question,” Tabitha said, patting his shoulder and thinking that Oliver was doing a bang-up job as a Tibbs/Pemberley replacement thus far. “And no, I’m not hungry. Agnes mentioned a garden entrance off the kitchen. Follow me.”

  Oliver took the oil lamp and trod lightly behind her. He paused by the winding staircase.

  “That goes to the second floor,” Tabitha told him. “And the third. The nursery, Phillips called it.”

  “Tabitha,” Oliver whispered as they wound their way to the kitchen. “What do you think is in the locked rooms? Other than the one you’re in, of course.”

  I’d rather not think about it right now, thank you very much. “Hopefully nothing more than memories,” she said.

  Whatever sense of adventure the two had been feeling was quickly extinguished at the very real realization that kidnappers or ghosts or whatever had been making children disappear might presently be somewhere along the passage. It had crossed her mind that the remaining children might just squat in hidden wall spaces until their parents arrived on Sunday, but that no longer seemed wise.

  Tabitha had lost the wherewithal to falsely suggest that the disappearances were innocent in nature. A sinister unease had crept onto her shoulders like a creeping spider that refused to be shaken off. Using the passages to escape was a risk that was best taken in a hasty manner. Still, she pointed out eyeholes along the way, trying to make things interesting rather than frightening. As the Pensive of this excursion, she owed it to her Tibbs to be calm and confident.

  A single peephole gave her a view of the kitchen, which appeared empty.

  Oliver sniffed twice. “Does something smell queer? I would swear there’s been a familiar smell in the passage . . . almost like—”

  “Barnaby Trundle,” Tabitha confirmed. “It’s his cologne and hair crème, still lingering from last night.”

  “Maybe he and Frances found the passages on their own?” Oliver said hopefully.

  Recalling Barnaby’s night scream and the struggle in the Countess’s room, Tabitha thought not. “Maybe. If that’s the case, let’s be doubly quick and hope they haven’t already fixed and taken the motorcar themselves.”

  Unlatching the lock and being careful to shut and secure the passage door behind them (it was cleverly masked by a carved block made to hold ladles), the two children crept to the garden entrance off the kitchen. Through a window, they watched the snow blow violently. Oliver insisted that Tabitha wear his gloves.

  “At least our footprints will be quickly covered. Ready?” Tabitha put her hand on the doorknob. “ ‘Into the fray, together we go.’ ”

  “ ‘Out of the warmth and into the snow,’ ” he agreed.

  The wind slammed the door behind them, and Tabitha was flung onto Oliver’s back by a strong gust. His knees buckled and they both tumbled into a drift. The oil lamp buried itself in a bundle of white beside them.

  “Oh! I’m sorry! Get up, get up.” Tabitha yanked Oliver with all her strength, which was difficult in the thigh-high drifts that had formed against the back of Hollingsworth Hall.

  Wind whistled around the outer corners of the house and the high gables, catching on stone, rushing down through branch and bush, swirling and moaning a haunted tune.

  Oliver jerked his head toward the manor. “What’s that noise?”

  Tabitha shielded her eyes to look toward the top of the Hall. “Just the wind. But it almost sounds like children’s cries, doesn’t it?” She saw three diamond-shaped windows, along the back side of the highest point, which matched the ones she’d seen on the front of the manor. The nursery, Phillips had said. One of the locked rooms.

  Squinting, she thought for the briefest of brief moments that she saw an image appear in the center window. All this talk of ghosts has me seeing spirits, she thought, wishing Pemberley was closer. “Let’s go.”

  Through the snow they waded and stumbled, past a garden shed, past the stables, and over to the barn, which housed motorcars instead of horses. There was more snow than Tabitha had ever seen, with more on the way. But now that they were outside, it was evident that a good deal of the “blizzard” was really just drifts being blown about.

  When they arrived at the right structure, Oliver reached for Tabitha’s gloved hand. His eyes were bright, and he pointed to the road leading away from the estate. “The drifts are in our favor, do you see?”

  Tabitha did see. Very faint but discernible tire tracks traced parallel lines in the snow. “I’m surprised they aren’t completely covered by now.” She followed the lines back to their origin, but instead of leading back to the barn, the lines seemed to go down a short hill toward Lake Windermere. “Do you think that’s even the road?” She blinked and tried following the tracks again, losing the slight indentations as a fresh blast of wind shot snow into her eyes.

  Oliver yanked open the barn door and ushered Tabitha inside, smiling at the remaining car parked at the rear of the building. The car’s hood was popped and perched open, as though someone had been tinkering. Shutting the barn door behind them, Tabitha reveled in the silence and lack of wind and slight scent of motor oil. They both shook themselves like dogs, bits of snow flying onto the floor and melting immediately.

  “This is the brand new Daimler model. She’ll get us through.” Oliver rolled up his sleeves and peered around. “Best light a few of those lamps.” He squatted beside an open box of curious metal instruments, appearing to recognize some. “Tools, excellent!”

  Tabitha dodged boxes to fetch the lamps. Even having worn gloves, her hands ached with cold, and she did finger-bending exercises for a moment before lighting a match.

  Oliver scooted a wooden crate over to the car and stood on it. He was soon making clacking sounds and grunting like a happy pig.
Tabitha almost warned him to be quiet, but there seemed little danger of being caught. She highly doubted the Countess would venture into the outdoors.

  “That’s it!” Hopping down, Oliver took both of her cheeks in his oily hands. “I found the problem. It was jammed.” He held up a tiny hammer. “This was stuck down deep in the thingamajig,” he said, then blushed slightly. “I haven’t quite learned all the proper names for parts yet.”

  Tabitha grinned and squirmed away from his dirty grip, wiping at her face. “Oliver Appleby, I have a hard time seeing you running a top jewelry company.”

  “As do I.” He sighed. “There’s not much of a chance they’ll let me be a car doctor, though, is there? It’s as though they’ve got my future already planned for me. Sometimes I feel like they’d be better off with a completely different child.”

  Tabitha stared at him. “Oliver, do you think your mother and father love you? Have they ever told you that?”

  He looked embarrassed. “Yes, of course.”

  Wiping a hand on the side of her apron, Tabitha tapped a finger to Oliver’s temple so that her words would stick. “Then they are perfect parents, no matter their shortcomings in understanding. And if we get out of this, I’m sure you’ll find the courage to tell them that you want to turn your back on the jewelry business and pursue what you’re truly interested in: stealing cars.” Tabitha smiled. “You’re very lucky to have them, you know.”

  After a brief silence, he snapped his fingers and winked. “You’re absolutely right. And what will you be doing, while I’m a great engine man?”

  Tabitha laughed, thinking of the possibilities. “A teacher, maybe . . . but no. Don’t want to deal with bad eggs. An Inspector, I think, for the Metropolitan Police. Scotland Yard for me, thank you very much.”

  Oliver nodded approvingly. “You’d be wonderful.” He motioned to the car again. “All the valves are loosened too. I just need a proper wrench and we should be zooming through the snow with ease. Nothing on my multi-tool is the right size.” He rummaged through a pile, examining each item before tossing it aside. “Hmm, seems to be missing. Maybe there are extra tools in the boot.”

  Slipping around the back of the motorcar, he lifted the lid of the attached luggage trunk. Plucking something from the depths, his two hands emerged, clutching a matching pair of Siamese cat statues, their blue-jeweled eyes glittering in the lamplight. “Horrid-looking, aren’t they? Bunch of junk in here.” He closed the trunk and smiled at Tabitha. “Help me look around for another tool set, will you?”

  Though sheltered from the wind, the building was exceedingly cold. Still, Tabitha thought there were far worse things than searching for escape tools with a new acquaintance who smiled at you. Worse things included:

  • searching for escape tools with Barnaby Trundle

  • having been snatched by a ghost

  • having been snatched by something other than a ghost

  • being a file folder in the Countess’s secret drawer labeled “Crum, Tabitha”

  Tabitha checked shelves and pulled out drawers but found nothing of use. Piles of blankets, extra furniture, old stalls filled with the lingering scent of horse and straw, stacks of books, bound boxes, ropes, and yard equipment. A large piece of canvas was draped over a dark corner of the barn. Tabitha lifted the heavy cloth and stumbled back.

  “Oh my!”

  “What is it?” Oliver called.

  “It’s paintings.” Tabitha had missed the gallery tour, but she was certain these belonged with the historical crime paintings in the manor. She sifted through the five frames, quickly wishing that she hadn’t. “There’s a tavern scene that’s quite brutal-looking.” The oils depicted a tall figure in the foreground overlooking a setting of overturned tables, broken bottles, a blazing hearth fire, and a set of barmaids, identical in their positions, necks turned unnaturally, blood pooling at their sides.

  Oliver grimaced. “That’ll be the murders at The Buckled Duck. One of those was hanging in the gallery as well. Edward said that the medical examiners never figured out what killed them first, the broken neck or the stab wounds.”

  Tabitha covered the paintings, tucking the canvas around the frames as though they might get up and try to sneak into her sleep to cause nightmares. “Well, I’m out of places to look. Shall I run out and check the shed?”

  A noise at the back of the barn halted Oliver’s reply.

  A rather distinct noise.

  A rather distinct noise that sounded exactly like a door opening.

  On instinct, Tabitha blew out the oil lamps.

  “Tabitha,” Oliver whispered in the very faintest of whispers. “Did you close the door very firmly behind you?”

  “I think so.”

  Their eyes met in fear, and Tabitha stabbed a finger toward another corner. They hurried behind a set of crates and huddled together. The door creaked open once more . . . and was that a long shadow moving into the stables? It was. The long shadow gave way to a long body with black shoes, a black uniform, and a formidable chin.

  “Phillips,” Tabitha whispered. “What’s he doing here?”

  A long, taut chain in Phillips’s hand indicated that he had Burgess in tow. He looked around the barn slowly. “Could have sworn I saw a glow in here, Burgess. Well, let’s just have a quick check of things, old boy, and—” Phillips was jerked off his feet with a muffled thump as the dog ran off. “Burgess!” he called, standing and shouting into the storm. “Get back here!” Phillips waited a half minute before reappearing, cursing his dog and the cold. He lit the lamp that hung next to the entrance and closed the door behind him.

  “What’s he checking? I thought he was inside, looking for stolen goods,” Oliver muttered.

  “Shh! He’s probably searching for Barnaby and Frances.” Indeed, Phillips appeared to be doing just that. He gazed around the entire space, then checked the horse stalls. He poked his head into the motorcar’s attached trunk, leaving it wide open as he continued his search.

  Walking deliberately over to the canvas, Phillips tore off the cloth. Tabitha waited for his exclamation of shock when he saw the disturbing images. Instead he picked up a painting and studied it, brushing off a rogue piece of hay and tucking the frame under his arm. The frame dropped to the ground at the sound of Burgess, who was frantically barking somewhere in the distance.

  “What is it now?” Phillips called. He put the painting back with the others and threw the canvas over them. “Good God, what are you barking about? Probably Her Ladyship, ready to order me around more,” he grumbled, walking back to the door. “I do believe that being a countess has gone to her head. She’s gone mad with power. We don’t want to get ourselves killed for talking back, though, do we? A nasty one with knives, that woman is . . . .” The door opened quickly, then slammed shut.

  Tabitha and Oliver waited several minutes, but Phillips didn’t return.

  Oliver tapped her. “Is it all clear, do you think?”

  Tabitha shivered but didn’t answer. The light outside the barn’s windows was growing less white and more gray. Evening was setting in. “Do you think the motorcar can be fixed?”

  “Almost certainly.” He held up a finger. “But I still need a tool that isn’t in that box.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ll check the garden shed while you keep working.”

  Oliver nodded and described the wrench he needed. “Take a lamp,” he told her.

  The shed door was quite sticky and Tabitha nearly gave up, finally forcing it open with a tremendous yank. Hoes, rakes, shovels, and other garden implements were stacked neatly in a row, and a series of watering cans lined a wall, just below a charming display of birdhouses. It was a large shed, full of pots and organized seeds and a metallic dresser of sorts. A chair in one corner was lumpy with something, covered with an embroidered picnic blanket.

  When she had checked the tools in plain sight, Tabitha turned to the blanket. Perhaps there’s another box under there.

  Instead o
f finding a box, she let out a short, piercing scream at the sight of something that was very much the opposite of what you might expect to find in a garden shed. She had found Mary Pettigrew’s body, slumped with her hands crossed neatly over her frozen lap.

  Backing away, Tabitha slammed into the watering cans and fell, her ankle twisting in an awful way. Tears of pain squeezed out, blurring the image of the missing dead maid. Poor Mary was still in the clothes she had worn only one night before.

  Of course she’s wearing the same clothes. Did you think she would get up and change for the weather?

  Tabitha stared at the body. “Nobody should be treated this way. This goes beyond foul.”

  Avoiding the dead woman’s face, Tabitha fixed her attention on the carving on Mary’s wooden bracelet. In her haste to remove the brass key at their last meeting, she hadn’t taken care to really look at the carved creature. Even the smallest items can be clues that give an indication of character, Pensive lectured in her mind. Mary’s dress sleeves were exposed enough to see a glimpse, but she would need to get closer.

  Calm breath, calm thoughts, calm decisions, she said, repeating Inspector Pensive’s mantra for the most intense of discoveries. She took several deep breaths.

  “First, a body cannot hurt you, and you’ve already been close to it once. It’s her who’s been hurt, so have compassion. Secondly, it’s actually quite logical that she’s here. She would have started to stink and rot. It’s best for the sake of any family members who claim her that she stay frozen.” Tabitha wondered about that. Did Mary have any family? What was she doing, sneaking along passages? Had she suspected the Countess of foul play, and had she been in the midst of planning an escape when the first stroke hit?

  With trembling fingers, Tabitha reached for the bracelet and turned it over. Staring back at her was something unexpected. The long, intertwined carving ended in two avian heads at the clasp. What she’d thought was a fantastical serpent was, in fact, a duo of swans, just like the wax seal on the invitation. Their heads were exactly the same size. Friends, not a mated pair, Tabitha thought, recalling Edward’s words.