Nooks & Crannies (29 page)

“Who is Simmons? Oh, and Oliver is in the kitchen, being watched by Cook and Agnes until the dinner hour.”

“Good, the kitchen is convenient to access. Simmons is a bit of help who arrived just hours ago. He's checking the grounds now. Apparently the papers seem to have whipped London into a frenzy about this little gathering, and our employer was concerned enough to have him telephone. When he couldn't get in touch with me or Millie, he was dispatched to investigate. We'll launch a rescue for Oliver once he reports back.”

Dispatched?
What sort of employer did a countess need to have
dispatched
?

“Come,” Hattie said. “There's more to tell. So much more. Up the staircase we go.” And with that mysterious sentiment, Hattie returned to the hidden passage.

More to tell.
Well, if there was one part of a Pensive mystery that Tabitha would never skip over, it was the solving of them. Besides, had dear Pemberley been alive at that moment, Tabitha felt certain he would have uttered a squeak of excitement.

“Let the revelations and final deductions commence, dear friend,” she whispered. A murmur in the back of her mind was the only thing that dampened her spirit a bit. That particular voice reminded Tabitha of Mary Pettigrew's increasingly volatile behavior. The voice tugged at her with another disturbing development. “Miss Hattie,” she called softly.

“Yes?”

“You should know that Mary has a revolver.”

Twins are a particularly interesting type of phenomenon, Tibbs. They are able to act undeniably well as a single unit, despite differences. For instance, this curiosity on my plate came with two completely individual yolks, and one even has that funny red spot, but if I close my eyes, I'd swear it was one extra-large breakfast egg. Pass the salt, please, and stop staring at me like that.

—Inspector Percival Pensive,

The Case of the Tempestuous Twins

F
erocious sneezing greeted Hattie and Tabitha as they climbed out of the wall and into the third floor. What had been a young boy's nursery was now a comfortable living area with a small kitchen and pantry and a rather thrown-together but elegant parlor. One corner of the room held desks, one scattered with papers and the other neatly organized. In the opposite corner, twin beds were pushed matter-of-factly against the walls, one of which held a cowering, snuffly, blotchy-faced Viola.

At least six cats roamed the open space, winding around table legs or plopping themselves on various pieces of furniture. “Out with you all!” Hattie cried, plucking up three and herding the rest down the staircase. “I'm so sorry, Viola. Tabitha told me about your allergy. We'll get you out of here as soon as possible.”

Viola lifted her watery eyes and blinked at the doorway. “Oh, Tabitha! Hello! Yes, and sorry, Miss Hattie, but Edward and I were a bit too wound up to say anything after we were snatched—I mean, rescued.” She rubbed her eyes. “He's cracked a window and I feel better already.”

Edward crunched on something and swallowed, pointing to three steaming mugs on the table. “We made cocoa, Miss Hattie. I hope you don't mind. Found some crisps as well.” He handed a mug to Tabitha and tilted his head toward a nearly catatonic Barnaby and a suspicious-faced, rigid-backed Frances. “Weren't good enough for those two, apparently. All the more for me, I say.”

Hattie pulled a pocket watch from the depths of her dress and checked it. “Of course. Help yourself to anything, dear.”

“Where is Oliver?” came a hollow voice. “Is he all right, do you think?”

Tabitha stared at her school nemesis, Barnaby Trundle. To think he would be the first to inquire about the only missing child. The boy was full of layers. In fact, if there was one thing Tabitha had learned from the weekend thus far, it was that people had all sorts of facades about them, covering tucked-away bits of badness and goodness. Fear and courage. Helplessness and hope.

Hattie reached over to pat Barnaby's hand, ignoring his momentary flinching. “Yes, I'm certain Oliver will be fine. Now, I don't want to panic any of you further, but Simmons will be here shortly, and he and I will need to gather our wits into some semblance of a plan to address the situation downstairs. In the meantime, please try to settle yourselves while I do a bit of explaining.” She gestured for Tabitha and the children to seat themselves on less fancy versions of the main house's furniture.

“What's to explain?” Frances spat. “This place is like a failed sanatorium for idiots and crazies. All those lies the Countess told us about inheriting one hundred thousand pounds. And I was sure I was the grandchild.” She sniffed at Tabitha. “God knows
you're
not. I wonder what she even invited us for.” She pointed rudely to Hattie. “This version of that dead maid has told us nothing. Who knows what her st—”

“Frances, do try to keep up,” Tabitha said. “She's not a maid, you mean thing. She and the maid are the real Countess, the fake Countess is Mary Pettigrew, and Mary Pettigrew was the cook.” She gave a small smile to Hattie.

“The Countess? Mary was who?” Frances frowned but put her nails quietly in her lap and sat up straight.

Hattie smiled in a nearly patient sort of way. “I believe you were pouting in the bathroom when I mentioned those things, Frances. Rest assured, the inheritance is quite real, as is my status as a grandmother. Now pay attention.”

Viola and Edward took winged armchairs next to Hattie, both of them smiling at her nervously. Frances and Barnaby took up a rouge-colored salon sofa with twin pillows, sitting as far from each other as the cushion length would permit. Tabitha picked a delicate carved bench near the fire, stretching out one foot so that her sore ankle soaked up the warmth of the flames.

“You see, once upon a time, I was a happily married woman. My husband and my sister Millie's husband were agency men with the Yard. Their portraits are in the foyer.”

Tabitha inhaled so quickly and deeply that she certainly would have choked had the chocolate drink already been sipped. “Scotland Yard?
The
Scotland Yard?” She slapped her forehead. “The murder files,” she said, knocking a fist against her brain for not giving her the information sooner. “They were marked ‘MPS' for Metropolitan Police Service—also known as Scotland Yard. I can't
believe
I didn't think of it before. And the watches in the portraits were marked ‘MPS' as well,” she added. “Oliver noticed the engraving.”

Hattie clapped thrice and held up the watch she'd just checked, tapping the engraved letters. “That's exactly right. My husband Reginald was brutally killed in 1879, along with Millie's husband. Our son Thomas was only three years old.

“The double murder is true then?” Edward asked. He whistled. “That's terrible. I suppose that lovely batch of crime paintings belonged to them?

Hattie paused a moment before answering. “Yes and yes. That gallery was their pride and joy. They were both collectors and historians, you see. They requested that Millie and I keep it up and donate it upon our passing, hence the more current Whitechapel paintings. They both agreed that contemporary crimes could often be solved by looking to the past.”

“Inspector Pensive says that!” Tabitha cried, rising from her seat, then slowly returning, embarrassed.

“He does.” Hattie winked. “Reginald and Humphrey were both fond of those novels as well. Anyway, Millie and I devised a way to keep from being witless old widows by taking on secretary work for the Yard men. Very soon, with a little insistence on our part, we were given the murder cases that had run into dead ends. We reviewed old case files and found ways of interviewing people who didn't even know they were being interviewed. After all, who would suspect an aging female to be doing detective work? We were quite good at it, as it turns out. And very well paid for our silence and willingness to give the Yard credit.”

A delicious chill stole up Tabitha's back and neck. “The Yard allowed you to work actual cases?”

“Yes, but neighbors notice things, and our activity level began to attract attention. A series of newspaper articles were written about violent acts against the Metropolitan Police Service and our names came up time and time again as widows of high-profile victims. So in 1880 we claimed we were moving to the Continent, and we disappeared. I became Camilla DeMoss, a recent widow with a young child. And Millie posed as my sister, equally grieving from the recent loss of her husband. She had quite a bit more bulk about her in those days, and nobody suspected we were identical. We had more inheritance money than we could spend, even after buying Hollingsworth Hall. Hence my charitable donation record.”

The small hearth flickered, and the crackling wood and comfortable room made Tabitha feel as though she were wrapped up in the warm pages of a just-about-to-be-read novel.
Don't relax too much,
she warned herself. Each Pensive novel she'd read had a confrontation scene with the criminal in question, and Tabitha felt as though her rushed accusation in the hallway hadn't been quite dramatic enough to qualify.

Yes, there was still a menacing confrontation with Mary Pettigrew to be had, Tabitha was certain. She patted her empty apron, aching for the wise and whiskery consultant it once held.

Hattie pressed her lips together. “One year later, Thomas left us in 1894. The king gave me that blasted title to impress a woman friend who was babbling about how charitable I was. With the title, people started paying more attention to the household and my and Millie's travel. The title complicated everything. No longer were we able to travel freely to conduct investigative work. And at home, even our staff started snooping about for something Countess-related to sell to the press. Sad as it is, with women's rights finally starting to gain some attention, had someone found out that Scotland Yard was employing women to investigate murders, it would have caused a terrible scandal. Well, we had to do
something
, or our investigative days would be over. We didn't want to pick up and disappear again. So we killed off Millie that year.”

“I knew it!” Barnaby said. “I knew you were a killer.” He ran to the door and started shaking the handle.

“They didn't
really
kill her, Barnaby,” Tabitha said. “She was sitting with us at dinner one night ago.”

“Oh. Right.” He came back to the parlor area and chewed nervously at his lips. “Go on, please.”

Please? I didn't know Barnaby even knew the word “please.”
Tabitha wondered if the weekend would change him. Not that she'd be around to notice. She was still bound for Augustus Home.
Quiet, now,
she told herself.
Just enjoy the story, as it's more real than any Pensive novel you'll ever read.

“After her unfortunate demise, Millie began a weight-loss regimen until the two of us looked exactly alike. One of us could be out investigating in disguise and the other could play a proper countess. That way, there was no chance of anyone discovering our connection with MPS. We had two specialty keys made for the rooms we chose to lock, the passages Thomas had found as a boy, and our work files.

We were so diligent about keeping our secret. Really, it was the only thing we had left to live for. The only thing giving our lives purpose.” She looked at Tabitha. “Though Millie appears to have slipped up and left Thomas's old bedroom unlocked going to and fro. My sweet, forgetful girl. The cruelest joke,” Hattie said, “is that—”

An impressive-looking gentleman dressed in a dark suit blasted through the passage door, soaked with melted snow. He looked very much like a man who got things done. Even his freshly trimmed hair looked efficient.

“Murderer!” yelled Barnaby, rushing to grab a fire poker and cower in a corner.

Hattie gave him a queer look. “Points to you for securing a weapon, Barnaby, as you were no doubt prepared to defend us all, but there's no need. This is Simmons.”

“Simmons?”

“Yes, he's with Scotland Yard. Simmons, the last boy is in the kitchen being watched by Cook and the maid, Agnes. Fetch him, won't you, and have the ladies stall while we think of the best way to restrain Mary Pettigrew. She's armed, and I want all the children safe in the nursery before we go after her.”

“As you wish. And more Yard men are on the way, both to Hollingsworth Hall and Clavendor Cottage as you suggested.”

“Excellent work, Simmons.”

“Are our parents in danger too, then?” Barnaby asked, eyes still darting around the room for threats. “Does that place have a deranged maid or cook as well?”

Simmons placed a hand on Barnaby's shoulder, taking it abruptly away when Barnaby let out a startled cry. “I stopped by the cottage on the way here and they're all fine, though the Crums seemed quite shaken up by my visit. I assured them that more Yard men would be coming to check on them.”