Nooks & Crannies (14 page)

The Countess took two steps toward Tabitha and crossed her arms. “You ask a lot of questions. If it turns out to be you, I'd like you to stop. Especially as the chosen child will be living with me after the weekend.”

“What?” Oliver coughed and pulled at his collar with a finger. “I'm sorry, Your Ladyship, but did you say that your grandchild will be
living
with you?”

The Countess peered across the room to a window, which was being pelted by heavy snowfall. “If this horrid storm wasn't about, I'd have the signing papers here already.”

“Um, papers?” Viola asked politely, her shaky teacup returning to its saucer with a rattle.

“Yes, papers to make me the child's legal guardian. Permanently.”

There was a moment of shocked silence at the remark. Tabitha, having been told of her definite non-heir status, was able to take in a more clear, Pensive-like view of the room. Oliver and Viola both looked as though they'd eaten a bad piece of fish, Edward was openmouthed, and Barnaby appeared to have lost several shades of pigment.

The Countess frowned and rubbed her necklace jewel. “Well, really just until he or she comes of age, of course, and then the child can do as they please. Barring a nasty case of accidental death, of course.”

“Accidental death?” A piece of chocolate wedge fell from Edward's hand. “What's that now?”

“I'm
joking! 
”  The Countess smiled and laughed, until Frances and Barnaby weakly joined in. “Nobody will be dying accidentally. I was just trying to provide a little levity for you young ones, but I can see that none of you have a sense of humor.” She whirled at the sound of a high-pitched squeak, relaxing when she saw it was only one of the children. “What?” she asked. “What is it, Viola?”

Viola squirmed in her seat. “Well, it's just . . . I suppose I'm not certain that I would want to leave my parents.”

“And I won't leave my parents,” Edward said firmly. “Though,” he belched quietly, “I'd be happy to stay with you on the odd weekend if you are, in fact, my granny. Grand food and setup you've got here, despite the noises in the walls and rumors of ghosts and ominous locked rooms and collection of horrific murder paintings.” He uttered an uneasy laugh. “Anyway, you can't legally force our parents to sign us over.”

“Oh, but I
can
.” A slightly manic grin wobbled on the Countess's lips. “And I
will
. Connections with the king allow you to get away with all manner of things, don't they? Yes, I believe they do.” She stared at each of them as though daring anyone to disagree.

No one did, and Tabitha suspected that each child was attempting to process the change that had come over England's finest philanthropist. Even Frances, stiffly maintaining her elegant posture, wore a disquieted expression. All sense of hospitality had disappeared from the Countess's face. It was as though the celebration had ended for the evening and someone had turned off the festive twinkle lights, replacing them with uncertain shadows.

Viola raised a shaky hand. “I feel as though . . .” But at the sight of her hostess offering a skeptical smirk, Viola did not finish her sentence.

The Countess smiled her approval. “Ah,
quiet
,” she said. “That's much better. I don't really care how any of you
feel
. Do you think a chance like this comes along every day?”

“No?” Oliver guessed.

“That's right, Mr. Appleby. I fully intend to reclaim one of you as my own. And one hundred thousand pounds is a great deal of money. I need to be certain the money goes where it's supposed to and not into any of your parents' pocketbooks just because it was released to their child's name. If I'm the child's legal guardian, I can be certain where the inheritance goes.” She paused, closing her eyes while taking a deep breath. When she looked upon the room once again, her features had morphed into a kinder expression.

Tabitha squeezed Pemberley to ensure he was paying attention to the personality shift.
She's back to the kind Countess. She's either unusually moody, social awkward, or . . . something else.

Frances raised a delicate hand for attention. Her chin was held at a high, determined angle, as though she were still resolved to “win” despite the unexpected and rather dubious development. “Your Ladyship, I'm certain that my parents wouldn't mind who I belong to on paper. They often say that their focus is on artistic vision, and that legal business is beyond their concern.”

“Do they? I do believe we'd get along grandly. Here's hoping it's you, dear. I've
so
missed out on being a grandmother. The arrangement is to the advantage of everyone, so if you'd cooperate, that would be lovely. Now
do
eat your sweets, children. Sweets for the sweet, that's what I say.” She raised a cookie as though it were champagne and started chatting at a terrified-looking Barnaby.

The rest of the children were equally unsettled, exchanging apprehensive glances. Viola's fingers worried themselves around a bit of her velvet skirt as she turned to Tabitha. “I suppose she's just . . . very floundering with people,” she whispered. “And she's used to directing her money, that's all.” Nibbling a corner of hardened pink frosting, she managed a smile and nod. “Yes, that's all.”

Tabitha nodded back. “I'm sure you're right. And the Countess can't
really
keep a child whose parents want him or her.” She didn't mention that in her own case, it was a moot point, as her parents clearly didn't fit that mold. “That can't be possible.”

“No, I can't believe King Edward would sanction that sort of thing,” Edward said. “Viola's right, the Countess has just gotten herself worked up about the money.”

And perhaps she's right to keep control of the money. Goodness knows my parents would have taken it with them on holiday. And speaking of control, isn't it odd how the Countess seems to be losing a bit of hers?

The Countess clapped her hands as Phillips and Mary appeared. “Ah, here she is! Sit her right next to me, Phillips, and then you may leave. I'm not afraid of mingling with filthy commoners like Mary, am I? Only kidding, pet.” She pinched the nearly catatonic woman's cheeks. “You can look at the pretty vase if you're not up for talking.”

Mary looked helpless as ever, slumped to one side, leaning on the arm of the sofa with her head tilted until it was nearly touching a large violet vase. She was clearly unable to speak, but her eyes . . . her eyes were slowly rolling around the room. Lingering on Oliver as he politely smiled back. Focusing for a moment on Tabitha. Studying Edward, who had momentarily stifled his face stuffing. Staring at Viola. Examining Frances and Barnaby, whose matching freckles made them look like nasty siblings.

A few heavy breaths sent a thin spray of Mary's spittle onto the vase.

“Poor thing,” the Countess said, gritting her teeth. “I'm afraid she's not going to make it too many more days.”

“She's right there,” Tabitha said softly. “You needn't say such things.”

The Countess smiled. “We're going to play a little game. It can be called either ‘You needn't say such things' or ‘Tell me all the nasty things you know about each other.' Speculation or truth, I don't care.”

“Funniest grandmother I've ever met,” Edward muttered, picking up a mechanical dragonfly on a side table. He wound it and set it on the floor, where it buzzed in circles until Frances stood up and crushed it beneath her foot.

Frances's hand flew to her mouth. “So sorry, Countess,” she said. “I was startled into thinking it was a rat,” she said. “Tabitha Crum keeps rats, you know.” She curtsied and sat down.

“Rats?” The Countess stood, looking almost murderous. “I despise rats even more than I despise cats and smoking.”

Viola's mouth fell open. She sneezed twice, then raised a hand. “But you gave three thousand pounds just last year to Feral Feline Fancies Street Cat Rehabilitation, didn't you? Or was that a misprint in the donation records?”

The Countess rolled her eyes. “A mistake, clearly. I get so many requests that sometimes funding for idiotic causes slip through.”

It's also funny for someone to have cigars available when they can't stand smoke,
Tabitha thought.
Perhaps they're only for guests who indulge.
Pemberley squirmed and squeaked softly.
Or for would-be victims of the Countess's kitchen knives?
Tabitha gave him a gentle squeeze.
Pemberley, I don't know where you get these awful ideas. I shall have to stop reading you mystery novels.

“Rats are spreaders of disease,” said the Countess. “Phillips hates rats as well. He jumps like a schoolgirl just at the sight of mice. Plague-ridden terrors. I would like nothing better than to gather all the rats and mice of the world and make a large stew of them, and then feed it to anyone who thinks well of a rodent.”

She's getting raw now that the parents are gone,
Tabitha noted. Pemberley shuffled upward, and she poked him back down.
No, I'm not sure I'd want her to be my relation either, Pemberley.

Mary lurched a little. Her eyes rolled around, locking onto the children in turn. She was pleading for something, Tabitha was sure. The elderly woman looked desperate.

The Countess moved back to the sofa and patted her maid on the head. “No opinion yet on who's to be my future companion? Well, perhaps a night's rest will bring some clarity.” The Countess tapped Mary's knee and turned to the parlor door. “Agnes! Get in here.”

Agnes scurried into the room and Phillips followed close behind, uncertainly holding a short chain attached to an enormous boarhound. His eyes drifted to the Countess's handbag. “There's another telephone call for you, Your Ladyship,” he said, slightly out of breath. His lip fluttered several times before he managed to calm it down with his free hand.

The Countess shook her head. “Probably a reporter. Tell whoever it is that I'm entertaining for the weekend. We agreed that I wouldn't be taking phone calls.”

“I've already done so, Countess,” Phillips said. “But this gentleman is rather
insistent
that he speak with you. It's not a reporter, it's a Mr. Simmons, Your Ladyship. The second time he's called. He wishes to speak with you ‘immediately, if not sooner.' Seems rather concerned and claims to know you personally.”

A small crease appeared between the Countess's eyebrows. “Tell him I'm indisposed. Terribly rude, these random callers, lying about knowing me and whatnot. Probably trying to guilt me into handing over money for some ridiculous cause.”

Repeated telephone calls from someone named Simmons, creaking in the front hall.
If she could only be allowed into a room, Tabitha would spend any time alone jotting down the oddities of the evening, excluding any interaction with her parents. Yes, all she needed was a piece of paper and a pen and that business about being forever abandoned could be properly forgotten. Tabitha swallowed hard. For once, she would have something more interesting to list than
far worse things
. Instead she would list
noises heard at the manor 
:

• Phillips's squelchy shoes during the tour

• Muffled strangling sounds from somewhere in the dining room or kitchen

• Creaking and soft moaning in the foyer

• Ghostly voices heard by a servant calling for Anne, Victoria, and George

Cook entered the room, her apron and hands floury, her expression harried. She carried two candlesticks and placed them on the center table along with several long matches. “Electricity has gone out in the kitchen, Your Ladyship. I thought you might need these if the same happens in here.”

“And what did you need me for, Your Ladyship?” Agnes asked.

“I want you to—”

But Camilla DeMoss didn't finish saying what she wanted, because once again, the entire manor was plunged into darkness.

It took three long seconds before the screaming began, and then the room turned into a wild place full of grunting, shuffling, bumping, sneezing, fluttering, banging, crashing, gasping, and shrieking.

“Don't bloody push me!” yelled a boy.

“Aaaaeeee!” shrieked a girl. “Get off me! Get off!”

“No!”

“Come on, then!”

“Ghost! It's a ghost!”

“My hand!”

“It's got me! Who's got me? Dear God!”

“It's not God, it's me Edward! Who is—aaaaaaaaah!”

Attempting to avoid the banging and slamming and whacking, Tabitha knelt on the floor, where she'd heard one of the candlesticks roll. Trying not to absorb a rather colorful string of street swear words that she wouldn't have guessed Cook capable of, she reached around and felt for it.
There, got it.
Perhaps she could find the matches on the table. A dry hand tore the candlestick from her grasp, and a foot (belonging to the same body or not, Tabitha wasn't sure) kicked her to the side. A raucous crash sounded close by, its sheer volume momentarily halting all human noises.

When the lights flickered back on several moments later, a motionless body lay draped across the center table.