Nooks & Crannies (19 page)

“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

J
ust 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.