Nooks & Crannies (21 page)

“Yes, Your Ladyship,” Tabitha said. “It must be a bit of wheat germ that Cook gave us to sprinkle on our oats this morning. Edward was playing around a bit. Speaking of playing around, wasn't this a marvelous manor house for your son to grow up in? He must have loved exploring for hidden passages and such.” Tabitha watched carefully for quickly smoothed-over eye widening, any movement around the mouth, and what the Countess did with her hands.

Had there been a total absence of reaction, that would have been an indication of deliberately masking a feeling as well, but instead the Countess looked distinctly bored. “That, my dear, is the most idiotic thing I've heard coming from your mouth thus far. Hidden passages,” she scoffed. “Those don't exist outside of novels, and I don't care for reading.”

“But you have an entire library full of books,” Tabitha said, watching her hostess carefully. “I was so delighted to find that you had a shelf of mysteries.”

The Countess waved a dismissive hand before putting both gloves back on. “I don't touch the things. They were here when I arrived. But really, do children always talk this much? With Frances it was ‘How much is this worth?' and ‘Can I get my money early?' and with Viola it was ‘Oh, but you
must
feed the poor!' I've fed enough people to last a lifetime, I'll have you know, and none of them were sufficiently grateful, if you ask me.”

So she doesn't know about the passages. So Mary Pettigrew must have discovered them and used them for . . .
Tabitha was at a loss.

The Countess forced a pleasant expression to smooth its way up her cheeks. “Now, dear. Just tell me what you know. Might you be my heir?”

Tabitha forced a smile of her own. “I know nothing. My parents said there was no token given when I was handed over. I'm afraid I'm not your grandchild.”

It was as the Countess turned to refill her tea that Tabitha noticed the desk. It was the same one she had been staring at just hours earlier. Quickly searching the walls for any interior sign of the peephole that she'd looked through, Tabitha saw nothing. And the wallpaper was patterned, making it difficult to locate a keyhole.

Hanging on a wall beside a rather large wardrobe (
odd thing to keep in a study, Pemberley
) was a framed oil painting of a small boy in a hand tub, being gently washed by a pair of arms that extended out of the picture. It was a profile image this time, and the child was much younger, but Tabitha was almost certain that the very same child had been in the painting in her bedroom. And the kitchen.

“No token?” The Countess flipped through papers in front of her. “I would think your parents might have thought up a lie, but no matter, dear. I'm afraid I'll just have to choose whoever I feel best fits my needs, other than Barnaby. I wonder where that dreaded boy escaped to. Not that you're high on my list, but I wouldn't try to run away like him. I don't have to remind you that Phillips stuck Mary Pettigrew in the garden because he was certain she would freeze there. In this weather, you wouldn't last one hundred yards beyond the manor. I do hope Barnaby's not gotten himself frozen solid down the road somewhere.” She offered a strained grandmotherly smile. “Now run along and enjoy your day.”

As Tabitha stood to leave, the painting caught her eye once more. It was at the right level to be covering the passage's keyhole. She had to find out if the key in her apron belonged to the secret passage door. But how to knock the painting from the wall?

Shuffle, shuffle.

“Oh bother, my shoelace.” Tabitha knelt and squeezed Pemberley four quick times (
Good thinking, sir
). She set him on the floor and nervously cleared her throat to utter their secret cue phrase for distraction. She and Pemberley had used it on occasion when they needed to sneak provisions due to Tabitha being forced to skip dinner for nonsensical reasons.

She prayed for the ability to speak quickly, as the Countess seemed more the type to advance in violence than recoil in fear.

“Inspector Pemby, on duty,” Tabitha announced in a clear voice.

Immediately the clever mouse ran to a wall.

“Inspector Who?” The Countess turned.

Squeakity-squeak, squeak!

“What's this about an inspecto—mouse! Rat! Mouse!” Springing to her tiptoes, the rich philanthropist danced around the room yelling, “Kill it! Kill it!” while Pemberley dashed from the wall toward the desk.

“A rat!” Tabitha echoed the words, adding, “Oh my, don't touch it. It could have a horrible rat disease! Foaming pustule influenza or scabies!” She moved behind the desk, both to shield Pemberley a bit and to examine the painting. The woman's hand gently scrubbed with a yellow cloth while the child tilted his chin up, gazing back at his mother.

Who says it's a mother doing the washing?
the inner Tabitha argued.
Has anyone ever lovingly bathed you like that?

I've actually never had the occasion to ask Mother how she bathed me, and she's gone forever now, so close your tea lid.

Oh, stop with your ridiculous inner arguments! Does the painting cover the keyhole or not?

Flailing wildly, Tabitha gave a little shriek and spun, successfully hitting the edge of the gilt frame. The painting landed picture side down while she frantically searched the wallpaper. There it was! Nearly blending into the pattern was a small keyhole. Now, if she could quickly reach into her apron and—

“Move!” the Countess ordered. “I heard what Frances Wellington said about you. Use your disgusting affinity for filthy rats and lure it in so I can smash it. I'll kill it myself!”

A terrible thumping noise came from somewhere above them in the house.

The Countess let out a bark of annoyance. “Stop jumping on the beds, you awful,
awful
children!”

A crash followed.

“What's going on!” the Countess shrieked as Pemberley tickled the back of her ankle on the way to a better hiding spot. “Bwah! Beastly thing! I'll cook you for Cook's dinner once I catch you!” She reached for her handbag and pulled out the larger of the two knives, throwing it fiercely at the wall and narrowly missing Pemberley's tail. “Blast!” She threw the smaller knife, embedding the blade into the wall next to the first. “Double blast!” Bending at the waist, the Countess tried to pull her weapons from the wall, but blessedly, they were in too deep. She rummaged through her key ring impatiently. Her eyes were crazed and glazed with the prospect of mouse murder. With stunning efficiency, she tried several keys before shouting, “Aha!”

Twisting the key in the bottom left drawer and thrusting her hand inside, the Countess came out with a box. And reaching her hand into the box, she came out with a revolver.

The Countess turned to the door. “Phillips! Where are you? Get in here now and shoot this mouse!” She bellowed something incomprehensible, ran out the door, and slammed it shut behind her.

Jarred by the sight of a revolver, Tabitha was nonetheless clearheaded enough to know that

1. the Countess didn't seem to be as confident in its use as she was with knives, and

2. she was likely to be gone long enough for a brief investigation to take place.

Tabitha contemplated the wise words of Inspector Pensive:
Some people hoard secret documents in elaborate vaults, Tibbs, but you'd be surprised what you find simply lying around a common desk.
Before diving into a hurried investigation, she slid the key from her apron and placed it in the passage keyhole.

It was a perfect fit, which meant Mary Pettigrew had been regularly creeping along the houses passages for some reason. Had she stolen the key or had it been passed down by other family maids or—

Squeak!

Yes, time for that later. The desk. Check for clues.

There were two files. One held a short stack of information about the Crum family and the other was thicker. Scanning its contents, Tabitha saw that it was a formal investigation report about the missing grandchild. There were search documents, interviews, and a background statement signed by the Countess of Windermere. It was basically the same information the Countess had shared with them the evening before. Tabitha dismissed the file and inventoried the rest of the desk.

There was wax for melting and an ink pot for dipping and three identical seals for stamping and cream-colored envelopes for addressing. Two drawers were on the right side of the desk, the bottom one battered, just as she'd seen from the passage. Up close, Tabitha could see that a considerable amount of banging had marred and dented the wood, and that the small keyhole had been tampered with, scratches on the side indicating that someone had been attempting to pick the lock. “Who's been trying to get in here, and did they succeed?” Tabitha asked Pemberley. “Was it Mary Pettigrew, do you think?”

Squeak?

“Quite right: More importantly, what's inside? But there's no time to speculate now.” Unable to open the bottom, she opened the top drawer and found herself staring at two pieces of paper.

The smaller piece was simply a list in beautiful scripted handwriting that Tabitha recognized from the invitation:

Appleby, Oliver

Crum, Tabitha

Dale, Viola

Herringbone, Edward

Trundle, Barnaby

Wellington, Frances

The other paper looked to be a hastily drafted letter, the handwriting badly shaky and the paper crumpled in one corner as though it had been clutched in a fist.

My dear Hattie,

I've found the attendant and traced the delivery to Basil House, London. The list of children is comprehensive and contains the only possibilities. It is time to bring our speculation to an end. I must tell you that I have already contacted the adults, telling them to bring the children to Hollingsworth Hall. I have no doubt the parents will be pleased to hear about the one-hundred-thousand-pound trust fund that will be released to the family on the twelfth birthday.

Sweet Hattie, I know that you must have mixed feelings. I know what guilt you've harbored, but do remember that children are typically the most forgiving of people.

Before you say that I've acted in haste, know that I have grounds to be hasty. The doctor has said I don't have much time left. I have grown weaker by the day (indeed, I feel weakness coming over me even now), and I don't wish to leave this world before bringing our most important endeavor to a close. Grandmother is as important a title as Countess. I sincerely believe that Thomas would want this.

Yours always,

In glorious crime and justice,

Countess Camilla Lenore DeMoss

Tabitha replaced the list and letter, set Pemberley on the Countess's chair, and began to pace around the desk.

Squeak.

Tabitha nodded at her partner and held out her palm for him to climb onto. “No, quite right, it doesn't add up. Let's review, sir.

“Firstly, Pemberley, why did she tell us that the money wouldn't be given to the family? She must have changed her mind. Is it a simple matter of lack of trust?” she asked the mouse. “And she's dying and wants guardianship to ensure that she'll get plenty of personal time with her heir?”

Squeakity.

“Yes, moving on to point two, the Countess doesn't appear weak at all. Crazy, but not weak. What was that she said at dinner—‘I've never been sick a day in my life.'

“And third, what's that bit about justice? Crime and justice . . .” She lifted Pemberley to her shoulder and bent to examine the beaten drawer.

“I wonder . . .” With a thrill of investigative adrenaline dousing any nerves, Tabitha slid Mary Pettigrew's key into the lock and held her breath. She turned it.

And heard a click.

Knowing her time was limited, Tabitha excitedly sifted through a series of carefully labeled files. Were these the family files? But no, they were larger and more formal-looking than the ones in the small black trunk had been. And there were more than thirty of them.

Each file was marked with the letters
MPS
followed by a single surname and date. Pulling out the first, she saw that it contained a short newspaper clipping and three sheets of paper. It was a typed report of some sort.

“Oh dear, Pemberley.” A young boy had run away from his home and was found in a back alley of London, his skull fractured and several bones broken. It was unclear whether he had fallen from a great height or if something else had caused the damage. The article mentioned that speculation was leaning toward murder. “How very sad. That poor boy and his poor parents.”

As she scanned the contents of the other files, a cold, cold feeling came over her.

Oh, how horrid . . .

Oh, my, but here's another, more terrible than the last . . . .

Oh God, Pemberley, no, no, you mustn't look . . . .

They were all murder files. Carefully documented, dutifully detailed accounts of murders that had taken place over a number of years. Elderly, young, males, females. Chokings, back-alley bludgeonings, poisonings, drownings, shootings . . . stabbings. Her heart became nearly audible in its booming as she checked the year on each one. Not a single murder file was after the year 1880. The year the Countess came to Hollingsworth Hall.

Which was the year that her charitable records started, according to Viola.

“Pemberley, why would someone start to be such a generous woman after years of not giving any traceable donations? And why would that same woman keep a gallery full of gruesome murder paintings?”

Pemberley made no sound whatsoever, no doubt struck speechless by the twisted turn of events.

No,
Tabitha thought.
It can't be true.
But it could, and she knew very well that the evidence was stacking up in support of the ugliest of conclusions.