Nooks & Crannies (34 page)

The blush deepened, and Cook exchanged glances with Agnes, who was nodding an emphatic
yes
. “We'll certainly discuss it, ma'am.”

“Wisely done,” Tabitha said after the two left the room. “They seem an awfully close pair.”

“Yes, and I thought it prudent to keep them nearby for a bit. Don't want any secrets getting out. Tell me, Tabitha, what do you think of their natures? Your grandfather had wonderful instincts for reading people.”

Tabitha sighed and frowned a little. “I suppose I'm not good at reading people at all. I had all sorts of things running through my head two weeks ago. I would have let Phillips off the hook, though I suppose he gave me a funny feeling right from the beginning. A tingle of some sort. And the Countess—Mary Pettigrew—as well. She seemed off, but I got the whole business dreadfully mixed up.”

“First cases are meant to be bumbled a bit.” Hattie leaned over her, reaching for a small handle attached to the side table. “Just a moment.” She pulled a blank envelope from the drawer and waved it in the air. “For you, Miss Tabitha. A late birthday present.”

“What is it?”

Hattie winked. “Could be anything. But before you open it, read this.” She handed Tabitha the newspaper. “They've run your statement in the
Times
again with another article.”

“Have they?” Tabitha took the paper and smiled at the headline.

BRITAIN STILL BAFFLED OVER COUNTESS'S STATEMENT, LACK OF HEIR, GIFTED INHERITANCE, DEATH

In what can only be described as the most anticipated news story of 1906, Camilla DeMoss, Countess of Windermere, invited six young children to her manor last month. Rumors have abounded as to the cause, with speculation ranging from Countess DeMoss naming an heir to her fortune, to an obscure form of lunacy, to a failed mass murder plot.

The attendees have been sworn to silence, and eyewitness accounts by those who have broken the Countess's request have been deemed false and inadmissible by the Metropolitan Police Service. The only thing the
Times
can report with certainty is that the weekend has resulted in the Countess's death, the jailing of six citizens, and a very large sum of money being given to the Dale family of London.

In a fateful and bizarre turn of events, the Countess of Windermere wrote the following formal statement only hours before her unfortunate demise:

I, Camilla Lenore DeMoss, have invited several children and parents to Hollingsworth Hall, and I'm certain that the whole of England is wondering what such an eccentric old woman could be up to. In the event of my untimely demise, I shall set it down on paper so that the truth may eventually be known about me.

The truth is that I am a lonely soul. Since the death of my husband, sister, and son, I have felt anger and fear at times. I have no heirs, and my solitary place in life is my own creation. My only solace is in giving money away to charities, in hopes that the pounds will do the good that I have failed to do myself over the years.

I find myself nearing the end of my days, and I question what it is that I find important. The answer is family. Though I am rich and titled, the one thing I long for cannot be bought or earned. I invited the children because I missed witnessing life. I missed my family and I hoped to catch a glimpse of them in others.

I write this note on Sunday morning, after a highly successful weekend. In a world beset by crimes committed in the name of money and power and love, it can be tempting to trade hope for seclusion. This weekend I've been lucky enough to mingle with the better side of human nature. I have seen compassion, loyalty, courage, and friendship. Most importantly, I've found peace and release in the most difficult of acts: forgiveness.

Do follow my lead, dear Britain, and forgive me my reclusive ways. In the name of family and forgiveness, I have earmarked the bulk of my remaining monies, one hundred thousand pounds, to begin a progressive foundation that people can apply to for help, servicing a variety of organizational and individual needs. I hereby name Miss Viola Dale as chief executor of the funds.

Camilla Lenore DeMoss

Countess of Windermere

The Countess of Windermere was found dead of natural causes on Sunday afternoon by the children, who have no doubt been scarred into the realm of making up fantastic stories.

“Fantastic stories,” Hattie said, leaning over Tabitha's shoulder. “That, my dear, is true enough.”

Tabitha gave a final glance to the article. “It's a shame about my parents, isn't it? Pity they were both assigned to work in the prison kitchen. Mum and Daddy hate dish duty.”

The Crums had been caught boarding a ship to Spain and were charged with years of petty theft and bank fraud. There had been a riotous chase scene up the gangplank and Mrs. Crum had toppled overboard, breaking her nose and shoulder when she belly flopped into the ocean. Mr. Crum had left her and made it aboard the
Lady of Spain
, where he collided with a shoe-shine boy, resulting in a most unfortunate lodging of the boy's polishing brush in a most unfortunate place on Mr. Crum's person.

“It was very lucky, though, that the lead policeman's daughter wanted a cat. They'll take comfort in knowing that Mr. Tickles is well cared for. And the Trundles are only a few cells over. Surely they'll have meals together now and then.”

“Well, sometimes fair is fair, Tabitha,” Hattie said. “And now, for your envelope. Several weeks ago you received one from my sister, because she knew that I might not have the courage to send it myself. So here's one that I've put together on my own.”

Tabitha smelled the paper, just as she had done with the first envelope. What was it she had wished for?

A summons from Scotland Yard to become an Inspector-In-Training.

An invitation from King Edward to attend and gamble on a horse race.

Notification from a long-lost relative who actually wants me and wouldn't view me as an imposition.

One wish fulfilled out of three wasn't bad at all. She held her breath a moment before tearing the seal open. At the sight of the envelope's contents, her mouth dropped fully open.

“Let me guess,” Hattie said. “It's a written declaration from me, saying that you can be my Inspector-in-Training.”

“Please tell me that you're being perfectly serious,” Tabitha whispered.

Her grandmother smiled. “Well, it's a bit unofficial for now,” Hattie allowed. “Just you and me. But since, in addition to devising a successful plan to disable Miss Pettigrew, you were instrumental in bringing in the Lady Envy thieves, I think you're ready to learn a few tricks of the trade.”

Tabitha nodded happily.

Hattie patted her hand. “Now, I want it to be perfectly clear that I'm not forcing you into the family business. A proper guardian wants only health and happiness for their child, even if that means they stray from the paths we try to set for them. A lesson learned too late for me, due to a mistake I don't intend to repeat. Some parents try to create small version of themselves—a ploy at an extended life, I suppose. But”—she held up a finger—“a child is ultimately and always their own person with their own choices, and I would never presume to—”

“Rest assured, Grandmother, I
choose
to be an Inspector,” Tabitha said, hugging the note to her chest.
That's two of the three. Hmm.
“Grandmother, just how well do you know King Edward?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I just thought maybe you might fancy a horse race and a little gambl—”

A door knocker sounded, and Tabitha jumped up. “They're here!”

“So.” Hattie clapped her hands. “Quickly, one more piece of business before you young ones tear up my secret passages and mess about with the disguises in Thomas's bedroom. The paperwork has come through, and the will of Camilla DeMoss sends our remaining funds to a numbered account in Switzerland. I caught word of their splendidly quiet banking and chose a small outfit in Zurich. That shall be our first stop. We'll sell Hollingsworth Hall and all of its contents during our absence. Millie was always fond of buying nonsense for the house, including that dreadful front door knocker, but I'll be glad to leave it all behind. Having done away with my alias, I think it's best to make a fresh beginning somewhere else. After all, there are far worse things than starting over.”

“
Far worse things
,” Tabitha murmured. “Do you know something? I actually think it's not a very good use of my time to think of
far worse things
. From now on, I shall keep a list of
few better things
.”

“Sorry?” Hattie turned in her couch seat.

“Yes,” Tabitha continued. She placed a pen in her mouth as a pipe and paced back and forth. “For instance, there are
few better things
than:

• unexpectedly receiving an envelope on a foggy day

• being thrust into a genuine mystery

• finding out that the people you've been spending time with are
friends
 . . .”

“Any others?” Hattie asked, a bemused look upon her face.

Tabitha took a puff of her pen and nodded decidedly. “Yes,” she said, marching within inches of Hattie. “Finding a grandmother. There are
few better things
than finding out that you have a grandmother. Especially one who's not a reformed or current murderess.” She darted forward and placed a playful kiss on Hattie's forehead.

“Well,” Hattie said, a delighted flush making its way to her cheeks. “Well.”

“Can Pemberley come to Zurich?”

“Of course! We shall have to get him a friend. Perhaps a lady mouse. You're certain Pemberley is a he?”

Tabitha blushed. “I really wouldn't know anything about it. He always seemed like a he.”

Her grandmother winked. “We'll have someone find out. If that appears to be the case, perhaps we'll get Pemberley a companion and see if we can't breed a new generation. Yes, Tabitha Darling, I'm awfully fond of new generations, and I'm far more fond of mice than cats. Cats were always Millie's preference. I'm so glad the Herringbones and Dales thought of giving the royalty to orphanage children.”

“Sorry, what did you call me?”

“Tabitha Darling. Do you mind very much taking on your original last name?”

Tabitha shook her head. “Not at all.” It was hard to believe that she was no longer an unloved Crum. But really, she had never been unloved. Just misplaced for a bit. “Though once I make it as a Scotland Yard inspector, I may have to change it to Tabitha Mysterioso or Tabitha Clevertop.”

“Tabitha Clevertop?” Hattie frowned.

“Only joking.” Tabitha leaned into her grandmother, curling into the welcoming warm body like a child who was making up for lost years. Which she was. “I know names aren't important. It's the person behind them.”

“That's right, love.”

“But just so you know,” Tabitha clarified, “it feels awfully nice to be a Darling.”

And with that, Tabitha Darling pecked her grandmother's cheek and dashed away to join her friends. If everything went according to plans made via vigorous letter writing the week before, they would spend a glorious weekend eating splendid food, pelting one another with snowballs, exploring passages, and perhaps, if Oliver was still up for it, sneaking a motorcar out for a drive.

Thanks to a case of overwhelming gratitude, I am pleased to share a nonexclusive list of the dear people who helped mold an idea into a manuscript, then signed on to transform that manuscript into this book. They are, in no particular order:

Heir to a jumble of innumerable, yet-unsent, messages asking for advice on everything from story ideas to pizza suggestions, this literary agent is exceptionally quick-witted, good-natured, and wise. She is known to have vast reserves of patience that she keeps in a secret vault somewhere in New York City.

A Michigander and selective hoarder of authors and illustrators, this fiercely intelligent editor spends her time poring over pages and finding magical ways of improving them with a keen eye and open heart. She is a literary detective whose ability to boldly untangle stories, discovering their essential threads, is admired and coveted by many. She is also very kind and very funny and very fond of animals.

This book designer is known for taking marvelous amounts of care with stories and artists, combing over pages, sketches, photographs, and layouts to create unique reading experiences. Her savvy and style impact an incredible breadth of books. It is a gift to have her expertise touch these pages.

An artist of many talents, this woman has an uncanny ability to read about characters and bring them to life on the page. Her eye for color and line is unparalleled, and her depiction of a rather motley young girl and a beloved mouse has brought the author of this book countless grins of delight.

Innovative and adventurous, here is a group of people who dedicate themselves daily to both readers and writers. The book lovers of the world (and the author of this novel in particular) are fortunate to have them in the publishing business.

These cheeky, brilliant, lovely, honest, story-loving ladies were early readers of this tale and are well known throughout the author's household for their ability to induce giggles, admiration, and much revision. They are, in no uncertain terms, the very best sort of society.