Nooks & Crannies (17 page)

Loneliness can be quite the stimulant in terms of producing criminal theories. Some, of course, must be dismissed as paranoia, which is to be expected from those who spend time talking only to themselves, walls, photographs, and their supper.

—Inspector Percival Pensive,

The Case of the Harried Hermit

T
he hallway was now pitch black, other than a lone glow. The Countess had forgotten to shorten Tabitha's candle, and it would last an hour, maybe more. And the oil lamp by her bedside was half-full. Careful not to lose her flame, Tabitha ventured into the room and tilted the candle until the lamp was lit.

“I am alone in one of the locked rooms,” she said. A pocket shuffle argued otherwise. She pulled her furry friend out and held him to her cheek. “Of course I didn't mean that, Pemberley. I'm so glad you're here with me, and besides, we already established that the Countess keeps extra servant uniforms in the armoire, which is a perfectly valid reason to keep a door locked. I just meant that—”

A low creak sounded in the room or in the hall, Tabitha couldn't tell. She froze and waited. “The wind moving the house a bit, I think. It's turned into quite a violent blizzard, Pemberley. I do hope the motorcars made it to the cottage without incident. And I hope the other children aren't very frightened.”

Squeak.

“Oh, all right, I suppose Frances could do with a bit of a shock. Perhaps there'll be a mirror in her room, and she'll insult the person she sees before realizing it's herself.”

Squeakity?

“What? Oh! Yes, the key.” Tabitha reached into the apron pocket and pulled out the small brass item. “Now, whatever might this open? Hmm. In Inspector Pensive novels, people hiding keys and such generally kept three things in mind:

1. Hide the item in an unlikely place.

2. Hide the item somewhere personal enough to remember.

3. Hide the item in a room where you'll go naturally and often, so as not to appear odd when retrieving it.”

Squeak.

Tabitha sighed. “That's true. Mary's key was hidden in her bracelet, which means the keyhole it belongs to could be anywhere at all. Well, I think a thorough deducing session can be best done in the light of the morning.” She brought the carpetbag to one side of the bed and fetched Pemberley's mustache tonic tin. Switching quickly into her one nightdress, Tabitha cleaned her face and hands in the small alcove containing a half-full water pitcher and washing basin.

“Here, Pemby. Wash up, as good dreams are seen more clearly when your dirt's been scrubbed away. Shame there's not a mouse-size basin. Perhaps when we set up our own Inspector agency, we shall get you your own alcove. Here,” she said, pouring a bit of water into the soap dish, “use this.” She watched, amused, as Pemberley scrubbed his muzzle and looked up expectantly. “Much better. Aren't you glad you have me to play mother?”

As she crawled under the heavy sheets and rich comforter, Tabitha again noticed the photograph on the bedside table. By all accounts, it appeared to be a quite normal and happy family of mother, father, and baby. What was odd about it? Once more, she had the distinct impression that
something
wasn't quite right. Was it something about the bassinet, or . . .

She looked at the painting of the boy on the wall, ignoring a gentle chill that seized the muscles in her neck and shoulders. “Hello, boy. You've probably been facing this photograph for years. Can you tell me what's odd about it?”

Squeak, shuffle, squeak.

“Yes, Pemberley, I know the boy is in a portrait and won't answer.” With heavy eyelids (it had, after all, been an extraordinarily emotional and busy day), Tabitha looked more closely at the beautiful, long-haired, full-figured woman next to the bassinet. Her eyes held hope and love. A handsome man had his arm around her, and his smile was wide enough to stretch off his face.

“Pemberley, will we ever be this happy, do you think, now that we have no family?” Tabitha cupped her cheekbones.

Squeak.

“Yes, I'm being overly sentimental. Anybits, Mum and Daddy won't miss me at all.” Tabitha bit her lip deeply and stared until the image became blurry. “But they aren't my parents anymore, and I mustn't care. I mustn't.”

Squeak.

“Sir Pemberley,” she said, cradling him. Bundling him. “Listen to me carefully.” She kissed him softly, lifting the little mouse until they were nose to nose and she was quite certain he was paying close attention. “I found you on a Tuesday evening last November, after having been locked in my attic for burning supper. I was feeling cold and alone and frightened, and then I heard a rustling noise coming from one of the beams. When I found you nestled among your brothers and sisters, my heart filled up and my sadness was forgotten. Your existence brought me joy from the moment I met you. I shall never forget that day or think it ordinary. You made that day special.”

Squeak?

“Yes, really. Pemberley, don't ever let anyone tell you that you're a dirty thing. Or an unwanted thing. Or a useless thing, do you hear me?”

Pemberley sniffed Tabitha's hand, looking for food.

“You are very much adored and very much needed. You are a gallant knight among mice, and my only friend to speak of, and I love you. Isn't that good to hear? I love you.” She held up a crumb. “Will you twirl?” The mouse made himself go around in a circle one way, then the other, before standing on his hind legs to reach the nibble. “Bravo!”

Making a pile of her sweater on the bed beside her, she tucked Pemberley's tin far inside, where it wouldn't be immediately visible, in case anyone should come into the room before she could hide him the next morning.

“A story?” Tabitha yawned and placed the mouse into his bed. “Oh, fine. I'll read you a bit from
The Case of the Duplicitous Duke's Doorway
.”

Squeakity.

“Oh, I'm so glad, it's one of my favorite Inspector Pensive novels too.”

With three layers of blankets, it was a heavy lift to raise all the bedding at once in order to reach for the book in her carpetbag. She dug around for the familiar shape, but instead of grasping a book, her hands settled around the sheath of loosely rolled papers that her mum had stashed in the bag back in Wilting.

Smoothing the papers on her lap, Tabitha soon realized she was looking at several bank documents covered in numbers and figures. She didn't much understand the documents, other than to know they were probably not approved by Mr. Crum's employer. There was also a description of a villa on the coast of Spain and some accompanying financial gobbledygook.

“Travel papers,” Tabitha told Pemberley. “They're leaving us for sunny Spain. Oh, Pemberley, why do you think—”

Squeakity-squeak!

“You're right, you're right. No point in dwelling. It's probably best to try for some sleep, anyway. You look awfully tired out from the day. Tomorrow we'll work on this key business.” She clapped her hands together for a quick prayer. “Dear God, please bless poor Mary Pettigrew and everyone else who needs blessings, and thank you for Pemberley and Inspector Pensive, the end, good night.”

Presently Tabitha's breath began to slow and soften. She was nearly asleep when an unmistakable cry of terror broke through the room's walls.

Bolting upright, Tabitha snatched Pemberley to her breast and ran to the door, where she listened intently. Hearing nothing, she opened the door a crack. A series of thuds and a scattering of objects tinkled faintly up the staircase. The noise was coming from far below. Somewhere else in the house entirely. She crept to the end of her short hallway. The west wing rooms appeared black and silent. No other child had awakened.

Silence.

Awful, deafening silence.

Tabitha tiptoed to the landing at the top of the staircase, searching the darkness below and waiting.

Not a single soul stirred.

“Did that just happen?” she asked Pemberley. “Did I imagine it?” She breathed in and out, calming her heart. “Was it all a nightmare? Am I sleeping?”

Pemberley remained silent, but Tabitha felt him shaking. Or perhaps that was her own body.

“I've heard of such things,” Tabitha told herself. “Waking nightmares.” Giving herself a quick pinch, she was disappointed to feel no different. “There are
far worse things
than having a waking nightmare, right? Shall we list a few?” But she could think of nothing worse at the moment than having an odd nightmare attached to a disturbingly realistic scream. “Logically, we should go back to bed, right, Pemberley? And it's best to be logical. Inspector Pensive values logic.”

Part of Tabitha cursed her cowardice in not investigating matters further. It was very easy to be adventurous when reading books, but rather more difficult to address perilous situations off the written page.

“Don't be frightened,” she said, returning to her room and setting a chair beneath the doorknob. Tibbs was prone to doing that in nearly every Pensive novel she'd read.
Ridiculous, Tibbs,
Pensive would say.
If a murderer is going to murder us, a silly chair won't stop him. Most likely we'll simply be poisoned in the morning.

“I'm afraid that I'm unsure how to comfort you,” Tabitha whispered to Pemberley as she tucked them both beneath the covers, feeling the mouse's trembling form. “I'm afraid that I'm feeling rather trembly myself. From the nightmare, you see.” She nodded in the dark. “From that silly, silly nightmare. It's a shame neither of us have our parents' bed to run to.” She frowned, sadness tugging on her fear. “I suppose I never did.”

Soon after, stimulated to the point of exhaustion, Tabitha Crum fell asleep with images of her fellow invitees, an imposing duke with secrets, cold carriage rides, calculating Countesses, East London accents, Hollingsworth Hall, orphanages, ghosts, and poor Mary Pettigrew all swirling about in the disappearing fog of Inspector Pensive's pipe smoke.

I'm not dismissing the possibility of spirits, Tibbs. What I'm
saying
is that the majority of spirit-related activities that I've encountered can be traced to those who are in possession of rather still-beating hearts and ill-smelling body odor.

—Inspector Percival Pensive,

The Case of the Grimauldian Ghost

T
hree firm knocks awakened Tabitha. She pushed the comforter to her waist, stretched up to the ceiling, then reached out to her still-covered toes. The knowledge that it was a new morning and the sight of elegant canopy curtains took away a bit of the previous night's eeriness. What a horrible and lifelike nightmare she'd had.

“Wake up, miss,” Agnes called, cracking the door open. “I've come to bring you fresh water. Breakfast is nearly ready, and I daresay you could use something in your stomach. You didn't eat any of your parlor sweets last night, not that I blame you.”

“Very observant of you. Thank you, Agnes,” Tabitha said, rubbing her eyes.

The maid lingered in the doorway with a pitcher. “Miss Mary has been moved, so you won't be running into her. I was worried about that myself,” she said. “The poor, poor woman. I hope she didn't die in much pain.” The pitcher dipped a little, threatening to spill over.

Tabitha could see that reassurance was in order if she was to be given her washing-up water. There were ghosts and mysterious keys and unclear motives to be dealt with. “I'm nearly certain she died of a second stroke, Agnes. Natural causes. Any other disturbance was unfortunate, but not ultimately intentional.”

Straightening with a pained smile, Agnes switched the room's pitchers. “Thank you for saying so, miss. Do you think you might be the Countess's grandchild?”

“Thank you, and no. I'm afraid that I came with no token or other information that might be of use. I'm not sure the Countess is the type of grandmother I'd like to claim, though. She seems to have . . . secrets. Do you know of any?”

Agnes startled, spilling some water and bending to mop it with a hand towel. “Clumsy, clumsy Agnes,” she breathed. “No, miss, I don't know a thing.” With a wavering smile, she curtsied and left the room without closing the door.

Tabitha watched the maid's shadow retreat before addressing Pemberley. “Time to get up, sir. Are you ready to face the day?”

Squeak.