Nooks & Crannies (15 page)

People's reactions to the unexpected or the upsetting say so much about their character and their role in a mystery. A burst of anger, a bark of nervous laughter . . . study these things well, Tibbs, but also keep in mind that a reaction may be as rehearsed as the dastardly deed itself.

—Inspector Percival Pensive,

The Case of the Mistaken Martyr

M
ary was splayed chest down on the table, a thin line of drool glistening along the cheek that wasn't pressed firmly against the polished wood. A stain marred the back of her dress, like someone had pressed it with a wet cloth. One of her hands barely covered something beneath her.
A hint of brass . . . her bracelet? No, that was wooden.
The visible portion of her neck appeared to be reddened in places.

Tabitha's mind took a quick inventory of the scene as though she'd been preparing for such a thing since birth. Indeed, months of reading Inspector Pensive novels had her memorizing each individual's stance and manner.

Phillips, breathing hard, rubbing his head, and looking furiously around the room; a large, angry scratch on one of his cheeks

Agnes, openly weeping and holding the tea tray, stepping on pieces of the broken violet vase

Cook, breathing heavily and looking at Agnes with concern

Viola, cradling her right fist in her left hand

Edward, looking rather fascinated by the body, a pastry smashed over his face

Barnaby, frightened and wild-haired

Frances, fiddling with her purse and looking as though she might vomit

Oliver, looking at the Countess's hand

The Countess, pale but calm, her right hand fidgeting slightly as it gripped and regripped a brass candlestick

And myself,
Tabitha added,
with my left hand shoved protectively inside my apron pocket. Holding a mouse.

Edward walked slowly toward Mary Pettigrew's body. He picked up her wrist, and not a soul objected when he placed two fingers over her skin to take a pulse. Concentrating, he held very still for a full minute before shaking his head. Mary's hand hit the table with a sickening thud.

A second thud sounded as the Countess, having fainted, sank to the floor.

“My God, that old woman's dead!” croaked Cook, ignoring the Countess.

“What do you know? You're just the maid,” snapped Frances.

“Cook,” Tabitha corrected.

“Fine, she's just the cook!”

Viola clasped her hands together, then grimaced at her right fist, which appeared to be dripping. “And I'm
bleeding
.” She gasped. “Oh! Oh dear, I've gotten some blood on poor Mary's dress!”

“Barnaby's hair grease is on the back of the dress as well,” Tabitha said quietly.

“That it is,” Oliver said, bending down for a sniff. “Smells like it, anyway.”

“He did it,” Frances announced firmly. “Barnaby Trundle killed the maid.”

Barnaby, appearing panicked, tried to edge his body behind Edward. “I couldn't see where I was going. I didn't mean to knock into her! I didn't—”

Oliver frowned. “Don't be ridiculous, Frances, she's died of natural causes. None of us had a reason to kill Mary Pettigrew.”

Tabitha cleared her throat, ignoring Pemberley, who was frantically scratching at her to keep quiet. “That's probably the case, Oliver, but actually, we all have a very good reason. Mary Pettigrew may have had the ability to identify the true grandchild. With her dead, any of us might convince the Countess, thereby coming into one hundred thousand pounds.”

“That money should go to charity!” Viola shouted. “And I don't even
want
to live here.”

“Neither do I,” Oliver seconded. “But—”

“Quiet!” Everyone turned to Phillips. “Just wait a bloody minute while I have a think. Her high and mightiness, the Countess here, thought this might happen.”

They all looked around, aghast.

“She . . .” Agnes tried to control the tremor in her voice. “She thought Miss Pettigrew might be murdered?”

Phillips eyed Mary and shook his head twice. “No, no. She was very sick, after the stroke. The Countess was certain Mary could die at any moment, having never said another word in her life. She had a cousin with a stroke, you see, who never regained any sort of understandable speech, so we thought—”

“Are you familiar with the Countess's history then?” Tabitha asked curiously. “Where she came from before buying Hollingsworth Hall?”

Phillips reddened. “I believe the Countess said for you to restrict the number of questions you ask. And I'm not sure you'd like the answer to that one, anyway.”

“The smallest shock can cause a second stroke,” Edward stated. “Even a physician telling you that you've just had a stroke could cause another stroke.” He shook his head sadly. “How's that for a misguided treatment?”

“Then perhaps
you
decided to give her a shock,” Frances said.

“It could have been the small matter of the electricity going out twice, Miss Wellington.” Phillips surveyed the room. “Although there
may
have been foul play.”

He bent over Mary Pettigrew and lifted her head. “I assume this lump at the front of her head was from the fall, but perhaps it was something more sinister.” He peered at her back. “In addition to this rather pungent cream on her back, there seems to be a bit of frosting.”

Edward swallowed hard. “It was dark. There was pushing all over the place. I would
never
push an old lady, especially not a strokey one.”

Viola nodded. “He wouldn't, I'm sure of it. He's only ever pushed me in jest.”

Phillips pulled aside the back of Mary's collar. “There's some redness on her neck and a large mark on the side of her shoulder here, almost as though someone struck her with a fist. Is your hand quite all right, Viola?”

Viola squeaked. “It was dark,” she whimpered. “And I thought there were ghosts. I must have hit the corner of an end table. I wasn't anywhere near Mary Pettigrew, I swear!” Doubt crept around her mouth and downturned eyes. “At least I don't think I was.”

“And traces of powder here and there.” Phillip kneeled to the floor eyes drifted down. “It's on the rug as well.”

“Flour,” Tabitha guessed.

Cook put both hands on her hips. “I was pushed and shoved as much as anyone, but I had
no
part in a murder. And a maid's not the one I'd be after to get rid of, anyway,” she mumbled. “There's others that's making their way up my list, if you get my meaning.”

“Fine, Cook. That's enough.” Phillips gently moved Mary's hair aside. “Let's see, there's more redness around her neck, and—”

“It was her!” Frances bellowed, pointing a long fingernail toward Viola. “You all heard that lump at dinner. She's obsessed with learning about the Countess's charitable nonsense! She launched herself at the maid so that she could claim to be the grandchild and give away all the money. She caused the shock!”

Viola's lip and chin trembled. “I didn't! I wouldn't! And I'm not a lump. Mother says I've got a statuesque bone structure.”

“That's right.” Edward squeezed his friend's shoulder. “Large-boned and healthy as oxen, we both are.”

Viola removed his hand. “I am
not
an oxen.”

“Ox, then.”

“Don't call me that, Edward!”

“No, I just meant that one of us would be an ox. Together we're oxen, but just you alone would be a—”

“It's the butler!” cried Barnaby, backing away from Phillips. “It's always the butler in these types of situations!” All traces of bully were gone from his persona, whisked away by circumstance. What was left, Tabitha noted, was nothing but a frightened and whiny little boy. She could hardly believe that she'd ever let him bother her before this weekend.

“Settle down.” Phillips's face had nearly reached the shade of a cherry. “We shall have a doctor in to determine the cause of death as soon as the weather allows. There's nothing to be done.”

“Not nothing,” Edward said. “You might take those knives out of the Countess's purse before the lights go out again and she accidentally chops off someone's—”

A hush fell over the room as the Countess woke. She rubbed her head and sat up. Her eyes jerked to the body of Mary, still slumped on the table.

“She's dead, then?” the Countess asked, her face a mixture of panic and fascination. Scanning the floor, she located and clutched her handbag, her eyes settling on Phillips. “Is she gone?”

Phillips stared straight into his employer's eyes, and Tabitha thought she noticed his jaw tighten. “She is, Your Ladyship.”

Fingers playing with her necklace, the Countess eyed the tray in Agnes's hands. “Was it you, dearest? Did you whack poor Mary?”

Agnes inhaled sharply. “I didn't—” The tray fell from her hands. “I thought the ghost was attacking us all.” Her eyes fell to the candlestick that was still in the Countess's hand. “B-begging your pardon, but you were trying to defend yourself as well.”

The Countess sent a searing glare in Agnes's direction “The only thing I attacked was the vase, while you've killed a
living
thing. You were probably hoping to give me a thump. You and my terrible excuse for a cook have probably been plotting against me since your arrival, planning a mutiny with the stable boys.”

“The stable boys are
gone
,” the Cook said, “and all the house and kitchen workers have fled with them. That's the other thing I was coming to tell you. Everyone's gone, due to your hideous behavior and your horrible haunted house. If you're not more careful, Countess, I do fear for your reputation.” She gave a conspiratorial nod to Agnes. “People hear things, you know. Rumors get picked up easily enough. Besides, how can I be expected to produce fine cuisine when the walls are rattling and I'm kept awake half the night by mysterious moaning?”

Agnes's eyes widened, and she buried her head in Cook's shoulder.

“The moaning is nothing. It's the wind, nothing more. And what do you mean, ‘everyone's gone'?” The Countess's head snapped over to Phillips. “What does she mean?”

Phillips barely corrected a glower before answering. “She means that the rest of your staff seem to have taken the last working motorcar. The only one left won't start properly.”

“Ridiculous,” the Countess spat. “We would have noticed a motorcar leaving the property.”

Despite her derisive tone, Tabitha had been paying close attention to the Countess and noticed the slightest tremble.
Of fear, perhaps?

“It's snowing quite a bit, and we've all been rather preoccupied.” Phillips cleared his throat. “Ridiculous or not, Your Ladyship, there remains the small matter of having no staff left at the manor house.”

“Well,” said the Countess, “we have Cook, however shoddy she is, and Agnes will be head of household. That will be sufficient. And you, of course, Phillips. You three may need to take on additional duties over the weekend until this blasted storm gets under control.”

Cook huffed. “And what if we choose not to work? You've made it quite clear my cooking isn't up to your standards.”

“If you choose not to work, Phillips will throw you outside and lock all the doors so you can't find shelter.”

Cook narrowed her eyes, but Agnes whimpered at the threat.

“Phillips,” the Countess said, “see to the body.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship. I'll just . . . go check for a proper place to put her.”

“ ‘See to the body'?” Agnes asked as the butler left the room. Her cheeks turned ashen, then green. Tabitha sensed she was nearing a breakdown. “And what do you propose he do with her, Countess? Stick her in cold storage? Pack her in ice with Cook's steaks?”

The Countess walked calmly over to Agnes and stood inches away.

“Sit her in the back garden and turn her into a snow statue?” Agnes continued. “There's an entrance to the garden straight off the kitchen, so why not have him fix you an evening plate of something on his way back in?” She was babbling now, verging on hysteria. “Wait until she freezes solid and use her as a door guard to deter newspapermen?” Agnes blubbered herself to tears, only halting when the Countess's slap silenced her into shocked, heaving breaths.

“You're tense,” the Countess said. “I can see that, but there's no need to be stupid. There's no room in the cold storage. The back garden will do nicely for now. We can't leave her in here or she'll start to stink. She's nothing but a shell, so don't be squeamish.”

“Her spirit's gone to join the other ghosts,” Viola suggested.

Agnes nodded miserably. “That's probably true. The ghosts have banded together and now we're all in for it.”

Tabitha put her hand up. “Do you think we should have a moment of silence, perhaps?”

The Countess stared blankly.

Clearing her throat, Tabitha tried again. “Don't you . . . don't you care at all that your beloved maid is dead?”

With a lengthy sigh, the Countess smoothed the top of her coiffed hair, tucking a loose strand back into the disheveled bun. “Of course I care,” said Camilla Lenore DeMoss, greatest philanthropist in the whole of England. “I care a great deal. Not that I killed her personally, but I've been waiting years for the old biddy to die. It's dreadfully difficult being charitable to those you don't like.”

For a moment, nobody moved. They waited, not daring to speak after such a statement.

The Countess stared back at them for a silent moment, a line forming between her eyebrows. “What? Do none of you value honesty? I'm not saying I
wished
her dead, I'm just saying it's not the most appalling thing I've been a part of.”