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  For Christopher Mallory Lawson,

  who loves old houses

  There are only three motives for all crimes, Tibbs: money, power, and love. Sometimes those things get muddled together, of course, and you could argue that hunger is a bloody good motivator as well, but one might lump that in with love of self or love of others or love of food, and—well, never mind all that. Pass the pickled radishes.

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Gilded Guardian

  THE TIMES

  EXCLUSIVE REVEAL OF WINDERMERE SIX

  Thanks to an anonymous source, the Times is pleased to share an exclusive list of the six children who were transported yesterday evening to Hollingsworth Hall, the magnificent and secluded home of Camilla Lenore DeMoss, the Countess of Windermere. They are, in no particular order:

  OLIVER APPLEBY

  Heir to the Appleby Jewelry fortune, this young chap is known to be an excellent student who also excels at rowing and cricket.

  VIOLA DALE

  The Dales are well known throughout London for their dedication to social reform and relief for those in distress. Young Viola has been a presence on the charitable event circuit since the age of two.

  FRANCES WELLINGTON

  Miss Wellington’s parents are internationally known art collectors who have an impeccable eye for up-and-coming talent in sculpture and painting. They also delve into gems of historical value. Frances is privately tutored, and her deliciously expensive introduction to London society is already being buzzed about.

  BARNABY TRUNDLE

  Young Barnaby attends school in South London. His father works in the textile industry. One of his teachers says Barnaby is “occasionally quick-tempered with other boys in his form.”

  EDWARD HERRINGBONE

  The Herringbones are close acquaintances with the aforementioned Dales, their own admirable interests lying mainly in reducing poverty by increasing educational opportunities. Edward has been called “an indubitable library of a boy” by one of his teaching masters at St. Stephen’s.

  TABITHA CRUM

  Miss Crum’s father is employed by the Wilting Bank of South London. A neighbor of the family says that the lucky child “talks to herself” and calls the Crums “socially famished.”

  The Times will be following this story with all due fortitude, and will be devoutly providing England with further reports as trustworthy divulgences become available.

  Remember, my dear Mr. Tibbs, that mysterious circumstances frequently begin with an arrival: Unexpected letters or visitors or poisoned meat pasties are often indications that one will soon be forced into mental and/or physical strain.

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Petulant Postman

  Just past three o’clock in the afternoon, when schools across London were releasing much-adored children by the bucketful, Tabitha Crum was ushered into the cold as well. She tarried at the edge of St. John’s gate, threading an arm through the bars and observing the world for a moment, ignoring the jostling of boys and girls who seemed in such a hurry to return to the places they belonged. “Today,” she whispered to a small lump in her satchel pocket, “we find ourselves in a curious situation, sir.” Slipping an envelope from her bag, she lightly tapped it against the obtrusion. “Off we go.”

  The cobblestone streets in the village of Wilting were made eerie and muted by thick November fog, and clip-clopping carriage horses snorted up and down the road, emerging and disappearing into the mist. Almost like ghosts, Tabitha mused. She clutched and rubbed the pretty envelope, letting one fingernail linger along the seam. The hand-delivery messenger had passed two letters to the teacher, glaring severely and emphasizing three times that they were not to be opened, but given to the parents of the children. What she and beastly Barnaby Trundle had done to deserve the elegant envelopes was unknown. The only certainty was that the glue was of a stubbornly good quality and Tabitha’s nails were of a woefully short length.

  “It’s as though they’ve sealed it together with spite,” Tabitha muttered to the pocket lump, earning an offended glance from a passing elderly lady. Whether it was the muttering, the remark itself, her outgrown uniform, her worn grayish schoolbag that resembled a mangy rabbit, or a combination, Tabitha couldn’t be sure. Perhaps the woman was offended by children as a whole, rather like her mum and dad.

  Licking chapped lips as she passed the corner bakery with its beckoning aromas, Tabitha felt a stirring in her belly unrelated to having eaten only broken crackers and cheese rind for lunch. Ludicrous or not, it was impossible to ignore the tiniest possibility that the envelope might contain . . . a small bit of light. Hands shaking from chill and an unfamiliar amount of prospect, she lifted the paper to her nose and took a long sniff. It smelled faintly of flowers.

  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.

  “What’s that, Pemberley?” Tabitha whispered to the lump, which was now squirming and fretting about. Mouse whiskers poked out, followed by a mouse face. “I don’t know how you manage to read my mind, but I suppose that’s what best friends do. And yes, those are all unlikely scenarios, but it’s nicer to imagine such things than to rip into the paper and find an advertisement for tooth powder or elocution lessons, isn’t it?”

  Not caring to dwell on the possibility of such disappointing contents, Tabitha was grateful when a distracting bellow sounded behind her. Oddly enough, the bellower seemed to be calling her name from the street. Before she could turn, a familiar bicyclist veered close to the curb and sprayed Tabitha with filthy water left by a midday storm.

  “Your invitation is bound to be a mistake. There’s no way she’ll let you in!” yelled a horrid voice.

  Wafting alongside the insult were the scents of burned toast and rotting cinnamon. There was only one boy at St. John’s who wore such pungent odors. Sure enough, she turned to see Barnaby Trundle pedaling a slow circle in the road.

  “Best to stay home, Drabby Tabby! I’ve heard the place is haunted and the spirits are hungry for filthy, ratty girls like you.” Barnaby stuck his tongue out as far as it could go.

  Tabitha wiped a muddy water streak from her face and flushed, both at the insult and the realization that he had opened his envelope and she had no idea what he was referring to. She thought of exactly seven things that she would like to do to her classmate, one involving a rather nasty collision with a refuse wagon.

  Barnaby took one hand off the handlebars to send her a mocking wave before smoothing his reddish locks and disappearing around a corner.

  Squeak!

  Tabitha pulled Pemberley from the satchel pocket. “Nice and dry, are you? It was clever to tuck yourself away like that.” She nodded seriously. “And yes, Pemberley, you’re right. I should have defended us.”

  Squeak?

  “Oh, I don’t know, something like, ‘Believe me, Barnaby Trundle, I won’t be staying home. I rather think you should, though. I’ve heard most spirits have a fondness for repulsive boys with no manners and an excess of their father’s hair crème. And an obscene amount of completely unnecessary af
tershave. Any ghosts will smell you out in a minute.’ ” She let Pemberley sniff her hand for crumbs, run up her sleeve, and burrow under her shirt collar. “It’s a shame I’m not just a bit bolder, isn’t it? One day you and I shall make good on a bit of mischief.”

  Even soaked and unavenged as she was, a flutter of excitement warmed its way up Tabitha’s back and neck, tickling the tips of her ears. So, he’s opened his. And according to Barnaby, her envelope was a mistake. Based on the boy’s despicable nature, his claim must mean that the contents were sure to be something quite good. (Well done, Inspector Crum.)

  Tabitha put a pencil in her mouth as she walked along. Instead of reading through reports at the Scotland Yard office of the Metropolitan Police Service, Inspector Percival Pensive always did his deducing in a corner booth of his favorite pub, puffing a pipe or chewing pensively on his pocket watch chain. Neither pipe nor pocket watch was practical for an inspector of her youth and means, and so Tabitha made do with pencils. “Now, Pemberley,” she whispered, “what could it be? Let’s review the clues. Barnaby said to stay home, so that would make it an invitation to go somewhere . . . .”

  Squeak.

  “Yes, yes, a place owned by a woman . . . haunted, he said, though that bit was clearly rubbish.” It would be easy enough to find out more. There was a moment, one brief moment, where the act of disobedience hung in the air like a buttered crumpet, waiting to be fetched and gobbled up. Tabitha’s hand lifted as though of its own accord, and her free fingers rose to meet the envelope’s edge. Carefully, deliciously, she held her breath and began a tiny tear at the corner.

  And stopped.

  She dropped both hands, holding the note to her side as she continued toward her home. Tabitha Crum, she scolded herself, they’ll never grow to love you if you can’t even follow a clear and simple rule, especially one that was emphasized three times and accentuated with a glare. A second voice, that of her mother, snuck in to repeat the answer to a much younger Tabitha’s question. You want us to love you, is that right? Love, Tabitha Crum, is to be earned, not given away to just anyone like a festering case of fleas.

  She’d been seven when her mother had made the comparison of love and irritable itching. Tabitha remembered the statement quite well because it was the same year children at school had suddenly gotten it in their heads that she had a case of head lice. That had been a difficult time and nobody had gotten close to Tabitha since. Of course, with the addition of a pet mouse over the last year, her lack of friendship could perhaps be further explained by the misapprehension that she spoke to herself. Pemberley was a most excellent consultant in all matters, but he tended to stay out of sight, so Tabitha could somewhat understand the slanderous comments.

  Or it might have been the unfortunate, uneven, unattractive, blunt-scissored haircut her mother was so fond of giving her.

  Or it could have been the simple truth that making friends can be an awkward and a difficult thing when it’s a one-sided endeavor and you’ve a pet mouse and you’ve been painted as odd and quiet and shy, when really you’re just a bit misunderstood.

  In any case, nobody at St. John’s seemed lacking for companionship except her. But Tabitha reminded herself that there were far worse things than not having friends. In fact, she often made a game of listing far worse things:

  • eating the contents of a sneeze

  • creatures crawling into her ear holes

  • losing a body part (Though that one was debatable, depending on the part. An ear or small toe might be worth a friend or two.)

  While Tabitha stopped to stare at fresh scones piled in the window of Puddles Tea & Confectionery and speculated whether the envelope’s contents would outdo last year’s Christmas box of used tights, two passing men knocked her to the ground, as though she wasn’t worth moving for.

  “Two more are floating around somewhere!” one of them said, stabbing a finger at his newspaper and not noticing her in the slightest. “It’s simply unfathomable. After all this time? That place has got to be like heaven above! Gilded soaking tubs and secret rooms filled with money and the like. And to ask children, of all people. I say, Rupert, life is simply beyond unfair . . . .”

  Tabitha picked herself up, slightly rattled. She sighed at the careless bumpers and at the memory of Barnaby Trundle’s last words. Under normal, unsprayed circumstances she wasn’t filthy, but she was skinny and knobby-kneed and wearing a uniform far too small for someone who’d grown several inches in the last six months. And apparently those elements combined to make her the sort of person who was prone to being callously clipped down without notice or apology.

  “Oh, Pemberley,” she said aloud, rounding the final corner before reaching her home and tugging on the end bits of her hair, wishing it would grow several inches, “if only life were like a book, and I could choose precisely what part I played.” She ignored the puzzled glance from her neighbor, Mrs. Dullingham, who was leaning out of her door to fetch a grocery delivery. “If only the envelope contained a—”

  And at precisely half past three, Tabitha stopped musing and walking, having spotted a curious sight outside her modest brown brick home: her father’s briefcase, her parents’ traveling trunks, and a jewelry case crowded together at the front entrance.

  None of her things were among the pile.

  The trouble with disagreeable people, Tibbs, is that the majority of them seem to be either one’s direct relations or part of one’s daily job. Present company excluded, of course.

  —Inspector Percival Pensive,

  The Case of the Haughty Housemaid

  Tabitha opened the door. “Hullo,” she called. “I’m home.” Mr. Tickles was the only one immediately visible, and he didn’t bother to acknowledge her entrance or presence with so much as a meow or yawn. Even so, Tabitha found him to be the most agreeable member of the household. He was lazy and well fed enough to cuddle in her lap on occasion, and though he sometimes seemed to smirk in the manner of a favored sibling, Mr. Tickles left Pemberley alone and had a lovely purr.

  She sidestepped a box full of new blue-and-white-swirled teacups and saucers. As far as Tabitha knew, the whole of her mum’s existence was divided between eavesdropping on wealthy women at shops, buying things at shops in front of wealthy women, returning things to shops when the wealthy women were not around, and taking finishing classes. There’s nothing more desperately wretched than being stuck firmly in the middle class, she often told Tabitha.

  Peeking into the kitchen, she saw that her mother had done the weekly food shopping: ingredients for Tabitha to make a standard (and very boring) hash, wilty vegetables, a round of cheese, tinned ham, and a small settlement of cheap candies. Tabitha snatched a licorice whip from the pile for Pemberley’s sweet tooth and placed her satchel in the wooden bin labeled TABITHA’S THINGS—DON’T GO LEAVING THEM ANYWHERE ELSE OR YOU’LL GET DISH DUTY. Mrs. Crum didn’t allow clutter in the first-floor living area, on the off chance an important guest might drop by. It was a pointless note, as she had little to clutter with and she did the washing up every evening regardless of her things. And the only one who Tabitha had ever seen drop by was Mrs. Dullingham, who was looking to borrow an egg or two.

  “Hullo? Mum? Daddy? Are you both well? Why are all of your things piled at the—”

  “Tabitha!” Mrs. Crum screeched from upstairs. “Get up here and don’t you touch those teacups, for goodness’ sake! That Sapphire Delight pattern is the height of fashion! I heard Mrs. Davies-Hildebrande herself say so just the other day.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Making sure Pemberley was firmly under her collar flap, Tabitha climbed the narrow set of wooden stairs and stood in the bedroom’s doorway, watching her parents. She stared at the unusual packing going on, momentarily disregarding the envelope.

  Her mother stood in front of a mirrored bureau, plucking items from another jewelry case. Some pieces were thrown on the floor in disgust and others were stuffed into a deep-blue bag of velveteen. Shoes and hosiery were f
lung everywhere, and pieces of white paper lay strewn across a small desk in the corner, spilling over to the floor.

  Mr. Crum scowled. “What is she doing home already? Was she sick again?”

  “I’m never sick, Daddy,” said Tabitha. And if I am, Mum makes me go to school anyway.

  “Oh?” Mr. Crum raised a thick eyebrow. “Then why don’t you eat the liverwurst I leave on your plate each Sunday?”

  Tabitha considered the question. “That’s Mr. Tickles you give the liverwurst to, Daddy. Not me.”

  “Ungrateful, either way,” he muttered back. Mr. Crum stopped struggling with a suitcase’s fasteners and studied Tabitha. “Your mother and I have something to discuss with you. Do move your spindly little legs and get in here. We’re in a bit of a hurry.” He yanked on his pocket watch. “The hansom cab should be here at four o’clock.”

  “Are we going somewhere?” The winter break wasn’t for another three weeks. Tabitha bent to examine a fallen pin. “This is pretty.”

  Mrs. Crum bumped Tabitha to the floor with her hip. “What have you got there? What are you taking?” Her angry eyes relaxed when she saw the small brass bird in Tabitha’s hand. In a rare moment of charity, instead of administering a shrewish lecture, she nodded her head and patted Tabitha’s shoulder.

  “You can keep that ugly thing,” Mrs. Crum said. “I’d completely forgotten I still had it. The only thing I remember is that the bird is called a bittern. It’s bad luck to carry bitterness around, that’s what I say, but I daresay it suits you. Pins are so out of fashion these days—all the store ladies say so.” She moved back across the room, trying on a feathered hat. “And you’re not going anywhere,” her mother said, peering out the window. “Your father and I have decided to travel. We’ve been terribly full of stress lately, and a holiday will be just what we need. You’ll be staying at Augustus Home. It’s been arranged.”