“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.

The only certainty was that the glue was of a stubbornly good quality and Tabitha’s nails were of a woefully short length. What she and beastly Barnaby Trundle had done to deserve the elegant envelopes was unknown. 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. She clutched and rubbed the pretty envelope, letting one fingernail linger along the seam. 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.

“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. 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. 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. 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.

Nooks and crannies jessica lawson