Nooks & Crannies (5 page)

Mrs. Crum sighed, as though having to purchase an excess of poverty for Tabitha had been a terrible burden. “You'll get the sympathy vote, that's for certain.”

“Let's go, then.” Mr. Crum picked up the trunk he and Mrs. Crum were sharing.

Tabitha lifted her carpetbag and followed her parents down the hallway precisely at a quarter to three. At the last moment, she'd fastened the tiny bittern pin to the edge of her dress collar to look a bit festive. Tabitha fancied the pin was good luck. Good luck needed for what, she hadn't the slightest idea.

The newspaperman in the telephone booth had been curious about the children, which was reason enough to believe that something very interesting could occur during the weekend ahead. Six children chosen to visit Hollingsworth Hall, seemingly at random, was apparently a story worthy of poking about for details. And from reading Inspector Pensive novels, Tabitha knew that small details often came full circle.

She took a very deep breath and watched her mum and dad descend the staircase to the hotel lobby.
Pay attention. Anything can be a clue,
she reminded herself. But a clue to what? The mysteriousness of this particular mystery was frustrating beyond pleasure until she realized what was missing—what was part of every Inspector Pensive mystery novel she'd read over and over again.

A crime.

Pay attention, Tibbs, to what is precious to people. Do they cling to paintings or pastimes or money? Do they shun the gifted items of others by shoving them into drawers instead of putting them on display? Remember that when a person leaves their home quickly, what they leave behind might be as important as what appears to be missing.

—Inspector Percival Pensive,

The Case of the Disappearing Dachshund

T
he Hotel McAvoy's lobby rustled and murmured as women in full skirts and feathers mingled with men in their dress coats and homburg hats. The doorman and desk attendant busied themselves with afternoon arrivals, and there was a decided feeling of anticipation to the place, marked by a corner of bunched luggage and flocked parents awaiting transport to Hollingsworth Hall. Even hotel guests who were not bound for Hollingsworth paid tribute to the milling group with silent stares and appraising glances.

Tabitha journeyed the steps slowly, observing the four children seated beside the reception desk, lined up along a bench like expectant soldiers. Clearly they were her fellow invitees.

Nearest the window sat a pleasant-looking tall boy with dark hair and a half grin directed at a flash of silver in his hands. The seat next to him was taken by a cherub-faced blonde with a cheery glow, and next to her, a yellow-haired boy slouched. He wore delicate spectacles and rested a book on his belly, his mouth moving silently along with the words. The seat beside the marble length of desk was taken by an elegantly postured but sour-faced child with lovely auburn curls who kept eyeing the front desk attendant as though she wished he would disappear.

All four children were immaculate, with the tall boy and sour girl wearing the finest clothes.
Oliver Appleby and Frances Wellington, based on Daddy's notes,
Tabitha guessed,
leaving the others to be Viola and Edward. Though it's best never to determine a person's identity solely by their exterior, Pemberley. Goodness knows what they make of me.
Tabitha took a very deep breath, determined not to show embarrassment over her own appearance.

“Frances,
do
put a pleasant look on your face, like the delightful child you are,” a stylish woman called from across the room.

“Yes, Mother.” A charming smile appeared immediately on the sour girl as she stood and curtsied to her mother, though her eyes remained annoyed.

The tall boy put away the pocket tool he'd been fiddling with and caught sight of Tabitha lingering on the fringes, but still standing solidly within the bubble of the Hall-bound gathering. He beckoned her to join the rest of the children. With no small amount of surprise, she hesitated, looked behind her, and finally nodded.

Don't bob your head like an idiot,
she heard her mother's voice say.
A woman should nod demurely.
But Tabitha wasn't sure how to nod demurely, so she simply blushed at her own awkwardness and walked toward the bench.
None of them want to be friends, so that takes the pressure off,
she told herself.
And I've got my best friend with me already,
she added, giving Pemberley a quick pat.

The beckoner grinned and held out a hand to Tabitha. “I'm Oliver. Look a bit stiff, don't we all?”

Pleased to have been right about names, Tabitha sat. “Yes, you do all look a bit stiff,” she whispered back to Oliver. “That is, I didn't mean to insult you, I'm sure you're all harmless, I just meant . . .”
Oh, bother! Why can't you behave normally?
“I just meant that I'm Tabitha.”

Oliver's gaze shifted across the room as Barnaby Trundle's family made a noisy appearance. “I wouldn't be too certain about all of us being harmless. Some seem fit to win a game that hasn't even been announced yet. I say,” he said, taking a fleeting but not unnoticed glance at Tabitha's apron, “you look quick-witted enough to know what the sport is. You're not some sort of spy, meant to throw us all for a loop, are you? If a sinister event occurs over the weekend, I shall blame you immediately,” he promised, eyes twinkling.

Tabitha blinked. “Sorry?”

He smiled at her kindly. “Joking.”

“Oh. Right. It's just that I'm very used to getting blamed for things, you see.” She gave herself a mental slap for saying another idiotic thing. Oliver was joking, so she should joke as well. “Er, um, do I look the guilty type, then?” she asked.

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Hard to say, hard to say.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps we're all guilty of something.”

Tabitha let out a fumbled laugh and felt herself longing for the simple glares and whispers of the school yard. At least those were straightforward. Why, oh why, was it so much easier to interact with Pemberley than with people? It was desperately confusing to both yearn for others to include you and half wish that they wouldn't.

As observation was familiar enough, Tabitha settled into Inspector mode.
Character study, Tibbs, is an integral and constant part of an invest
igator's modus operandi.
She watched the auburn-haired girl curiously from the corner of her eye. Ignoring the chitchat around her, Frances Wellington had lifted her hand casually to the marble desk. Her finely manicured fingers crept toward a small pile of short pens, which were next to an ink pot, which was next to the large leather guest book. She snatched a pen and stashed it in her elaborately beaded reticule before a full second had passed.

What would a rich girl want with a silly hotel pen?

Barnaby Trundle continued to stand next to his parents. His father, who wore a larger, bolder version of his son's signature sneer, was gripping Barnaby's arm. Quite tightly, it would seem from the pained expression on the boy's face. Raising a finger and jabbing it repeatedly into Barnaby's chest, Mr. Trundle gave some sort of instruction and then shoved his son toward the other children.

Barnaby bumbled over in a just-been-smacked-for-piddling-on-the-floor puppy manner that Tabitha had never seen from him. The sailor suit his mother had chosen for him was unfortunate. He aimed a hesitant smile toward Frances, nodding at the small open space between her and the front desk.

Lips pinched together as though appearing pleasant was becoming an intolerable and loathsome task, Frances scooted over so that all six were seated on the bench.

“Might as well introduce ourselves,” said Oliver. “The name's Oliver Appleby and I'm eleven, near twelve. From London, attend Abbott Academy. My father is the head of Appleby Jewelry, so if you ladies are in need of a nice necklace or bracelet, he's your man.” He winked and rolled his eyes.

Nobody laughed.

Oliver gave an embarrassed grin. “He likes to have me say that. I'm lined up to take over the business, though I'd rather be an engineer. I want to work with motorcars.” He pulled the silver tool from his pocket and held it up for general view. “I nearly fixed a faulty engine just last week using the knife and metal toothpick from this.” His lips twisted to one side. “Didn't work out too well, actually. Anyway, I'm pleased to meet you all.”

“I'm Viola Dale,” said the sweet-faced blond. Her voice was light and breathy, but confident. She had a lovely green velvet bow in her hair and a smile that seemed eager to please. Her dress was a generous cut of matching green velvet, complete with buttons and lace from her neck to her knees, where the whitest of wool stockings were worn with a darling pair of black dress shoes. On any other girl, all those buttons might look excessive, but Viola wore the dress with such a casual manner that Tabitha liked her immediately.

“I'm eleven too,” Viola said. “I go to St. Stephen's with Edward. We live in London, next door to each other, actually. Our mums and dads know each other quite well. And, let's see, what else? I love to research social services, and I'm learning French.”

Frances tossed her hair, snorting like an amused piglet. “You're ‘learning French.' How
new
money of you. My mother would love to take your parents on. She runs a finishing business for young ladies. Not that class or grace can be taught.”

Nor can humility, Pemberley.

“Frances Hortensia Rathbourne Wellington, also age eleven, near twelve. I already speak French. I have a private tutor and live in London as well. The second we got the invitation, my mother used her connections to hire a former servant of Hollingsworth Hall. For a price, the woman blabbed everything.” She frowned. “Which wasn't much.”

“Out with it then,” Edward said.

The others nodded.

Frances's mouth tightened. “Fine. She locks herself into her bedroom some nights, and she supports the women's movement, though not openly. Oh, and she talks to her staff like they're actually people—how ridiculous is that?”

Tabitha covered her laugh with a cough.
Scandalous,
she tapped onto Pemberley's back.

Next in the introduction line was Barnaby Trundle, who did not mention attending school with Tabitha or say a word about his tendency to be awful in general. Tabitha was tempted to add a bit to his introduction, but made do with realizing his sailor outfit was perhaps more of an embarrassment than her own clothing.

“Hullo,” Edward said next, straightening in his seat. “Edward Herringbone. My parents work with the Dales. Like Viola said, they've all been the best of friends for years. We've spent enough Christmases and holidays together to be one big family. I like animals and poking bugs and reading thick books on history and medicine.” He nodded at Oliver. “That little knife and toothpick of yours would have worked wonders on medieval battlefields. Instead people mostly had their wounds jabbed at with rusty nails or sizzled with hot irons or . . .” He trailed off, sensing a general lack of enthusiasm. “Anyway, not a clue what we're doing here.” He rattled off a few sentences in French and awaited Frances's response.

Frances stared blankly.

“I asked if you knew why we're here,” Edward told her. “You being a bit of a know-it-all.”

“Perhaps Frances's old-money French is a little rusty,” Oliver said, with a wink in Tabitha's direction.

“Shut up. I don't speak
peasant
French. Speaking of peasants,” Frances added with a smirk, “who exactly are you?” She looked pointedly at Tabitha.

Simple is best.
“I'm Tabitha Crum. I live in Wilting. My father works at a bank. I'm eleven as well.”

“Tabitha keeps rats,” Barnaby blurted. “I saw her playing with one at outdoor invigoration one day.”

Tabitha glared at Barnaby and placed her hand over her pocket. “It wasn't a rat.”

“It
was
a rat,” Barnaby insisted. “You were feeding it something, like it was a proper pet.”

“A filthy rat?” Frances said, recoiling to Barnaby's side of the bench. “Are you perfectly serious? You can't be, of course, but I can certainly imagine it. My God, Tabitha Crum, you are officially the most disgusting member of this party. You've edged Edward out of the spot completely.”

“Edged me whatsies?” Edward asked, popping a pocket chocolate into his mouth.

“It was a mouse,” Tabitha said softly. Perhaps the admission would cause her to lose any chance of making a close acquaintance among the group, but loyalty was owed to Pemberley. Tabitha had forgotten many of the rules of friendship, but that was one she felt certain of. “And he wasn't filthy at all.”
And he's listening to us at this very moment.

“I'm
sure
. Lovely brooch, Tabitha,” Frances said, clearly not meaning it at all. “What is it? Some kind of insect?”