Nooks & Crannies (31 page)

“What? No! No, don't! You'll ruin my plan! I was going to live here or sell the place for a fortune! I was—” Mary stopped and sniffed. “It doesn't smell like fire. It smells like . . . cigar?” Crazed with fear and anger and confusion, Mary Pettigrew was further disturbed to see a thin line of smoke floating into the room, seemingly from nowhere.

Distraction six.

“What's going on?” she blubbered. Gazing at the air in front of her, Mary lifted a finger to trace the line of floating smoke back to the peephole. Stepping closer to examine the phenomenon, her face came within inches of the smoke's source. “It's almost as though the walls were smoking ciga—”

With a swift and sickening thud, the hidden door swung open, knocking Mary Pettigrew straight between the eyes. As she fell to the floor, the door to the back garden opened and Phillips entered, his hands red and mouth open to speak.

“I've found a motorca—” His face drained of color as he stared at Mary on the floor, the passage door leading into the wall, and the imposing figure of Simmons. A squeak of shock exited his lips, followed by an audible clearing of the throat. He caught sight of Hattie and sank to the tiles, openmouthed and twitchy-lipped.

It was Simmons who spoke, while gazing appraisingly at the butler. “I'm with Scotland Yard, and I imagine it's my motorcar you've found. And this,” he said, gesturing to Hattie, “is the real Countess, as you know. Half of her anyway. The other half is in the garden shed, where you left her on orders from Mary Pettigrew. The children have told us everything that's been going on here. You must be under considerable strain.”

Phillips stared between Simmons and Hattie. “I d-don't understand,” he stammered.

“There were two of us, Phillips,” Hattie said, an apologetic tone to her voice. “We're twins. We trusted you and Mary enough to stay on a bit longer than the other servants because it was so frustrating having to retrain the entire staff each six months. I personally found Mary to be rotten from the start. It seems even I underestimated her. You've done a lovely job as butler, but I'm afraid my sister and I had a rather large secret that we had to keep from you. I'm so sorry, Phillips, this must be a terrible shock.”

“Oh!” Phillips said, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Two of you, yes, of course,” he said. He stared around the room, rather dazed. Seeing Mary Pettigrew on the floor again, he stood, lips twisting as though he were trying very hard not to cry with relief, as it would be a very unbutlerlike thing to do.

Hattie patted his shoulder. “The children have informed me that the Countess has been awful to you. That said, do you care to explain why you did nothing to remedy this situation? Otherwise, I'm left to assume either pure cowardice or direct involvement.”

“Thank God this nightmare is over,” he blubbered. “Mary went completely mad. The threats she made on my life were rather . . . gruesome. She's quite good with knives, you see. I swear, I only went along with it because I feared she would hurt the children. Is she . . .” He twiddled his fingers over his mouth. “Is she dead?”

“Miss Pettigrew's only knocked out for a bit,” Simmons said, scooping the revolver into one capable hand. “She'll come around shortly enough.”

“Too bad,” Cook said with a snort. She leaned over Mary, large bosom heaving menacingly. “Not everyone cooks things your way, you mean thing.”

“Simmons,” said Hattie, “can you see Mary and these others to another room? Someplace rather less full of knives, perhaps? Tabitha and I will fetch the rest of the children from the nursery and meet you in the library. Poor Viola must be scratching herself to pieces up there.”

Simmons nodded and eyed Mary's body, gauging the best way to heave her into his arms.

Agnes seemed to have recovered herself and was sneaking glances at Simmons. “We'll do just as you say, madam.”

“It would be a pleasure to help secure Miss Pettigrew,” said Cook, smiling at Mary as though she were a particularly nasty chicken whose time at the chopping block had finally come. “Well done, Tabitha!”

“Hear! Hear!” Oliver said with a grin.

“And well done knocking her out, Mr. Simmons!” Agnes said with a blush as the Yard man picked up Mary's limp form.

“Yes, well done, Simmons,” Hattie agreed.

“Yes, quite well done,” Phillips said.

“Wish I'd gotten to do it,” Cook grumbled.

When making final deductions, one must have a solid grasp on all the fine details. Having a solid grasp on a fine glass of sherry is a nice touch as well.

—Inspector Percival Pensive,

The Case of the Dastardly Double Cross

C
ook leaned against a bookshelf and smiled triumphantly as Tabitha, Hattie, and the rest of the children emerged from the hidden passage. She waved a hand toward Mary Pettigrew, who looked terribly uncomfortable. Mary was bound and gagged, seated in an armchair that was scooted so close to the library's fireplace that it was uncertain whether Cook meant to restrain or roast her.

Hattie gestured for the children to sit once again. This time, Tabitha joined Oliver on the sofa with Viola and Edward, leaving Barnaby and Frances to squabble over the one available armchair. Barnaby soon lost and stood awkwardly and miserably for a moment before sinking to the floor, cross-legged. Tabitha was surprised he didn't begin to suck his thumb.

“Look and see what we've caught,” Cook said. “Finally shut her up, didn't we? We've tied her up like a suckling pig, my sweet Agnes. Oh, Aggie, do lighten your load. The witch will get her due course, and that bump on her head is nothing compared to the blackness of her heart.”

Mary Pettigrew struggled toward Cook, her eyeballs nearly popping out. Her head shook back and forth and she tried to scoot the chair forward, succeeding only in nearly knocking herself to the floor.

“Let me finish my story, dears,” Hattie said, ignoring Mary and taking a seat next to Oliver on the sofa. “Where was I?”

“You were saying something about a cruel joke,” Tabitha told her.

“Ah, yes. The cruelest joke is that Millie and I, investigators by trade, could not even track down our most important case. Not for years.”

“And yet you set up a trust fund for the child,” Viola said, “not even knowing if you'd find him or her. One hundred thousand pounds,” she mused. “I wouldn't even begin to know who to donate all of that to.” She reddened. “If I turn out to be your grandchild, of course.”

“Well.” Hattie smiled. “It would really only be fifty thousand, wouldn't it?” She reached into her pocket for the framed photograph from Tabitha's bedroom and raised it for general view. “I was sent this picture just over twelve years ago. I kept it in Thomas's old bedroom to remind me that an unforgiving heart becomes a lonely one. It's my Thomas and his Elizabeth and—”

“Hang on,” Frances demanded. “What do you mean, only fifty thousand pounds?”

“This is what I mean.” Hattie pointed to a spot on the image. The bassinet.

Tabitha looked closer and saw only the feet spread apart, peeking out of the blanket's edge. And then she saw it and inhaled sharply. It was barely noticeable if you weren't paying very close attention. “Two left feet,” she whispered. There must have been another child nestled inside. She stared at Hattie in wonder. “Two babies?”

Hattie nodded and perched the photograph on the mantel. “So the six-month-old twins were given away. A boy and a girl. I knew their approximate birth date, and Millie finally discovered that they'd been adopted from Basil House. I found correspondence in Millie's desk between her and the orphanage head. The woman said she was terribly sorry that she couldn't identify the specific children left by the attendant or even tell Millie which ones were siblings. When babies are left, she said, they're simply logged as male or female and given an approximate age, if one is not indicated by a note.

“She had to go through old records to find out who the children were given to, but said that she remembered May of 1895 because it was so unusual to have three sets of twins dropped off within a matter of weeks. Few people want to adopt a pair of children so you were all given away individually.” She clasped her hands to her heart. “I'm so pleased that Millie sent for you all. And just so you know, the intention was never to keep you here. Only . . . only to meet you. To know you.”

Even Frances looked properly gobsmacked. “Wait, do you mean that—”

“Oh quiet, Frances,” Tabitha said. “Let Miss Hattie finish.” Her mind spun with the unraveling chain of mysteries. She stared at her fellow invitees, doing a quick mental calculation.

Hattie smiled. “I think you all can guess the rest.”

Barnaby and Frances still looked puzzled, their heads tilted at a similar angle.

Viola smiled enormously. “Oh, Edward! Can you imagine, we've known each other our whole lives and never knew!” She rushed to him and threw her arms about his thick frame. “Won't our parents be absolutely thrilled? We're twins!”

“Are we?” Edward asked, pulling away from the embrace, his lips shifting until a studious grin appeared. He straightened his glasses and nodded. “Makes sense, we're very compatible. I couldn't have picked a better sibling if I tried, dear Viola. But I feel like the older twin, just so you know.” He winked at Tabitha. “That'll mean I'm in charge.”

“Oh, what an awfully nice surprise,” Viola continued. “And Barnaby and Frances being redheads,” she said. “I expect they're a set as well.”

“
Me?
Sister to
that
?” Frances, horrified, drew herself farther into the armchair, as though those precious inches would make the truth false.

Hattie nodded. “It would seem so, dear. You two do look awfully similar.”

Edward nodded sagely. “
Awful
indeed. Now that you mention it, those two make even more sense than Viola and me. Franny and Barney are two rotten peas in a spoiled pod.”

“B-but I'm a Wellington,” Frances sputtered.

Barnaby perked up. “I'm a Wellington too?”

“And she's a Trundle,” said Edward pleasantly.

“I most certainly am
not
a Trundle,” Frances said. “I refuse to be associated with him. It's simply not true. The only person I could possibly be twins with is myself.”

“Bit dim, those two,” Edward informed Miss Hattie. “Nasty tempers as well.”

But if Barnaby and Frances are truly a pair, and Edward and Viola are a pair, then that means . . .

“So Oliver is my
brother
.” Tabitha looked to Hattie for confirmation.

Hattie looked them over, and Tabitha tried to see herself and Oliver from an outsider's perspective. Both tall, gangly, dark-haired children. One well-dressed, one not. One from a loving family, the other . . . not.

Siblings.

Family.

Tabitha felt emotion build behind her eyes at the thought of the word she'd held so dear for so long. It had taken the awfulness of being abandoned for her true family to become clear. Family, it seemed, was not always a matter of who one was born to, or even who one's parents were. A person's
family
, Tabitha realized, was the thing that held them up, so that life could still be illuminated in the darkest of times. A family member could be a mouse. A family member could be an Inspector that nobody would ever meet outside the pages of a novel. Depending on the circumstance, a family member might even be discovered in a person you just met.

“Oliver is my brother.” Tabitha let the realization wash over her like a warm bath.
I am not alone.

With moist eyes, Hattie smiled. “Yes, you two are similar as well.”

“Nearly the same haircut,” Oliver joked shyly.

“But which pair of us is related to you?” Frances demanded. “Who are your grandchildren? Who gets the money?”

Hattie fixed each of the children with a solid stare, pausing at one face, going back to study another, her brow furrowed in concentration and effort.

All breaths were held.

“Oh dear.” She sighed. “I'm afraid I can't be sure.”

“You
what?
” Frances shrieked. “Now, you listen here, whatever your real name is, I'll have—”

Simmons entered the library and straightened his coat. “The motorcars have made it through and will be ready to escort Miss Pettigrew to the police station when you're ready. I'll just see to the butler. He appears to be quite shaken but is briefing the other Yard men as best he can. Apparently the imposter woman has stolen a few things. He mentioned missing gallery paintings and a few household items that he suspected she'd taken. The other inspectors have been to the cottage. I'm afraid the Trundles and Crums are gone. They stole one of the motorcars together.”