by Tedd Hawks
Beatrice
Or
An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe
By Earhart Kentworth
Edited by Tedd Hawks
Beatrice or An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe
Copyright © 2021 by Tedd Hawks
ISBN: 9781736505908
Cover design by Sarah Lavere
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
Tedd Hawks
www.teddhawks.com
[email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Dedication:
For JJ, who is always wonderful enough to ask,
and my dad, who encouraged me to laugh.
Table of Contents
Cast of Characters
A Note from the Author
A Note on the Author’s Note
A Note on the Note about the Author’s Note
Prologue: The Complex History of the Hawsfeffers
Chapter 1: The Solicitor and His Assistant
Chapter 2: Beatrice
Chapter 3: A Suspicion
Chapter 4: The Last Arrivals
Chapter 5: Lucinda’s Last Words
Chapter 6: An Indigent and a Lady
Chapter 7: A Voice in the Dark
Chapter 8: The Pot Boils
Chapter 9: A Perfect Night for Murder
Chapter 10: The Aftermath
Chapter 11: The Vault
Chapter 12: A Prime Suspect
Chapter 13: Sleuthing
Chapter 14: May’s Secret
Chapter 15: A Shot in the Dark
Chapter 16: Detective Lucian Lucretian Pimento
Chapter 17: Tick Tock
Chapter 18: Portraits of Death
Chapter 19: Toward the Climax
Chapter 20: Bixby Ex Machina
Chapter 21: Pimento, Triumphant
Chapter 22: Brontë at the Brink
Chapter 23: Crockett’s Confession
Chapter 24: A Murderer’s Monologue
Chapter 25: The Battle of the Tiddlymouth
Chapter 26: Martha
Chapter 27: The End of the Affair
Chapter 28: The Danube Mob
An Afterword and Apology
Cast of Characters
Crockett Cook—19-year-old junior solicitor, anxious around danger and the female sex
Petrarch Bluster—master solicitor, rotund and joyful
The Von Bunsons
The Baron (deceased)—created the estate which fell to the Hawsfeffer family, died mysteriously
Gladys (deceased)—classically pale and sickly Victorian, (also) died mysteriously
Bixby (ex-patriated)—theatrical and garish, moved to the United States to seek his fortune
The Hawsfeffers
Bixby (deceased)—patriarch of the Hawsfeffers, recently died in a boating incident
Lucinda (deceased)—first wife of Bixby Hawsfeffer, (also) died in a boating incident
Pip (Bixby Hawsfeffer, Jr.)—homosexual son from Bixby’s first marriage, now in Paris
Corinthiana—second wife of Bixby Hawsfeffer, classist, loves prolonged vowels
May—youngest daughter of Corinthiana and Bixby Hawsfeffer, failed nun
Robert Edward Harrington—second cousin of Bixby Hawsfeffer, odd face and accent
The Winterbournes
August—married to June, family is known for dying under non-nefarious circumstances
June—eldest daughter of Corinthiana and Bixby Hawsfeffer, really quite ordinary
Brontë—eldest daughter of June and August, prone to wearing trousers, speaking her mind
Kordelia—youngest daughter of June and August, arsonist, dramatist, oddball
The Hawsfeffer Staff
Martha Smith—family maid, served the house since Bixby Hawsfeffer’s first marriage to Lucinda
Dexter Fletcher—family groundskeeper, prone to theatrics and being forgotten
A Note from the Author
14 January 1913
To Whomsoever It May Concern:
It behooves the author to warn the reader that the following is based on entirely almost-true events. There was an encounter with Mrs. W——’s barrister which led to the “almost” portion as select occurrences had to be altered to protect the identities of certain persons. If the true nature of the crime were to be public, it could tarnish the reputation of the W—— and H—— families forever. As their position in West Hampminstershireshire society is rather tortured as is, I have agreed to write this almost account on behalf of Mrs. W—— and her family. The family’s need for total privacy was overshadowed by the hope that the following text would generate a small income, enough to provide for their youngest daughter at her new French finishing school, as opposed to the Swiss institution which had made her almost entirely unbearable on the subject of cheeses.
But that aside, certain events are absolutely true.
There was a grisly murder.
There was a love story.
There was, indeed, a plot of much cunning to conceal all.
I have recorded as much of the incident as truthfully as possible. When Mrs. W—— appeared at my door, weeping about the loss of her dear friend and asking how much a good mystery book could earn a fair, gentle, middle-aged woman, I promptly assured her that it directly correlated to the amount of gruesome details that could be included therein. Between sobs she assured me that there was a large amount of such things and that, if needed, additional, tasteful gore could be added in order to heighten tensions.
That was the beginning of our story, the adventure. I write this to you at the end of it all, the barrister’s extensive notes taken into account (“Does blood really ‘burst with geyser-like zest’ from a papercut?”). I present to you the, henceforth named, Windham and Hogsdish families and the death of their dear friend. It is not for the faint of heart, or those afraid of lawyers as there are several included in the following pages, but I sincerely hope that I do the whole complicated debacle justice.
Your servant,
Earhart Kentworth
A Note on the Author’s Note
17 March 2020
Dear Reader,
It also may behoove you (in a rare instance of double behoovement) to know that this text was discovered by dumb luck while I was visiting a bookshop in London.
I mentioned to the store owner that I was working on my third book, a mystery novel. His interest was immediately piqued, and he told me about his distant cousin, who had written a draft of a novel a long time ago based on events which occurred in a large family. The story he described included deaths, betrayals, fallen nuns, and ghosts. He said that his cousin who wrote the novel was prone to drink and flights of fancy and that he only sold one novel to a publisher during his entire career, a romance about a pirate and a mermaid. The book in question sold only forty-five copies, thirty-seven to the author’s mother, Adelaide Earhart, and one to Ms. Kordelia Hawsfeffer, who went on to recommend the author to her mother to tell their family’s story.
As the shopkeeper told me more about this unsuccessful writer, I couldn’t help but feel a certain connection. I, too, was an unsuccessful writer who was prone to flights of fancy and drink.
After a long chat, the owner agreed to give me the manuscript to clean up and publish. I have to say that Earhart did (mostly) an excellent job
on the initial draft. My main contribution was toning down scenes of horrific violence that, from the previous note, seem to be a device used for increasing sales. There were some questionable pieces added which I have largely edited out, but for the most part, I think the text is fine in its own right and his characterizations are actually very good. In the end it took two bad writers to get this text to the public, but we hope that you will find the time well spent.
Sincerely,
Tedd Hawks
A Note on the Note about the Author’s Note
2 January 2021
Reader,
The complexity of the given case makes it important to mention that the H—— and W—— family, upon discovering that their story was going to be published so many years after the initial crimes were committed, have reneged upon their first request for anonymity. At this point in time, they are grateful for any attention or publicity sent their way.
They kindly asked for their real names to be restored to the text, which is presented before you as the Hawsfeffer and Winterbourne families. The heiress of what little fortune remains, Ms. Kinzay Sprout née Winterbourne, also asks that you follow her Instagram @badgrrlKinzay47.
Sincerely,
Herman Schloop, Esq.
Prologue: The Complex History of the Hawsfeffers
Hawsfeffer Manor sits in stately, smug assurance at the edge of the Tiddlymouth River. The house was built in the middle of the nineteenth century, the great Baron Von Bunson constructing it for his new wife, the sickly and pale Gladys. The two had only one child, Bixby, who chose to move to America rather than keep the grounds and heritage of his family. The estate then fell to his cousin Bixby Hawsfeffer (the author apologizes, there are several Bixbys, but the name was the rage of the time), who would make it his family home.
It is important to note that the fate of Baron Von Bunson is the subject of much local myth. After Gladys’ death and his own late-life ailments, he turned over his estate to Bixby Hawsfeffer, who, local rumor conjects, kept his uncle locked in the attic until the poor man’s death. To this day there are legends that the ghost of Baron Von Bunson roams the grounds at night. It is a common pastime for youths from the area to set up a camp at the edge of the Tiddlymouth and see if the Baron’s ghost flits over the surface of the water during the midnight hour. Many have claimed to have seen him floating over the waves, singing an old German nursery rhyme, which roughly translates to “Duck Man of the Old Hat.”[1]
Bixby Hawsfeffer made the most of his uncle’s fortune, investing in ventures in America via his cousin, Bixby Von Bunson, who went into the American West. Gold was struck and both Bixbys reaped the benefits. Hawsfeffer Manor went from a ten-room, two-story mansion to a twenty-room, double-winged monstrosity. The locals looked on in wonder as the once subtle, stately home turned into “an Americanized terror.” All over the house, Bixby Hawsfeffer put Western-themed memorabilia, inspired by the stories told by his American ex-patriot cousin Bixby Von Bunson during Von Bunson’s visit back to the Hawsfeffer estate in 1869. The ballroom is still decorated with murals of cowboys, Indians, and covered wagons.
The Hawsfeffer family went from condescended-upon middle class to egregiously pompous upper class in a matter of months. With the new money, Bixby’s son Bixby, Jr. (another Bixby, yes; for the sake of the reader, however, this Bixby shall be referred to by his childhood nickname, “Pip”) was sent to a private school in France, where he took a liking to powdered wigs and other men. Shortly after this disgrace came out to the family, Bixby the elder’s wife, Lucinda, passed away. The countryside was filled with gossip on whether she took her own life, died by accident, or was murdered. She vanished into the river just as the Baron had many years before. Local children are also said to camp at the river to watch for her ghost, who sings a beautiful harmony of “Duck Man of the Old Hat” with Baron Von Bunson.
Our story centers on Bixby Hawsfeffer, who received the manor and estate (not his son, the homosexual French Pip-Bixby, or his cousin, the American ex-patriated Bixby Von Bunson). His eldest daughter (from his second wife, Corinthiana, whom he married after Lucinda’s death), June Hawsfeffer, stayed in the mansion with her mother and father into her adulthood. In the spring of 1887, she married another local, landed gentleman, Mr. August Winterbourne, who agreed to cede his less monstrous mansion to live on his wife’s family’s estate. They had two daughters, Brontë and Kordelia, who were raised as best they could be, despite the disappearances, ghostly harmonies, and general malfeasance manifest in the house.
Our story begins at the foot of this gnarled family tree, its branches so twisted it’s difficult to tell a Hawsfeffer from a Von Bunson from a Winterbourne.
After the remodeling of the family home, the death of Lucinda, and the birth of the two girls, the Hawsfeffers lived in relative ease. There were no new tragedies and no additional German nursery rhymes sung by ghosts on the edge of the river.
But in 1912, the patriarch, Bixby Hawsfeffer, died, leaving his will and his grief-stricken second wife, Corinthiana, to deal with his entombment. There was no body, the elder Bixby having lost his balance and plunged into the Tiddlymouth River.[2] The river itself is a tributary to the nearby Blustenwich River, which eventually leads farther out to the deeper and bluer waters of the English Channel. The hope of ever finding his body was gone when Corinthiana sat down at her small secretary and began writing notes, the first to her solicitor, Petrarch Bluster, the second to her youngest, childless daughter, May. A third letter was sent late the same day, the contents a mystery to all, even to the old maid, Martha, who slipped out in the middle of the night to post it under the cover of darkness.
This is all very confusing but necessary information. The author humbly suggests if one has questions as to the lineage of the Hawsfeffers or the number of Bixbys, they please direct their inquiries to the character list at the beginning of this text.
In most cases a cliffhanger of sorts would now be suspended before the reader to keep momentum into the next chapter, but after ghosts, two possible murders, correspondence delivered under the cover of night, and several drownings, it may be best to leave just a moment of solace before moving into the horrific details of the death which is the subject of this novel.
Chapter 1: The Solicitor and His Assistant
The carriage was stuck a mile from Hawsfeffer Manor. Petrarch Bluster, not yet having emerged from the interior of the coach, was already slick with sweat—neat, fat droplets covering his large, moon-like face. Beads of perspiration had accumulated in his thick, bushy eyebrows, so that his vision was slightly blurred. Dabbing his forehead, he called to his young assistant, Crockett Cook, who was assessing the wheel buried in mud.
“Crockett, how is it looking, my boy?”
Crockett pushed back his bowler and scratched his head. “Petrarch,[3] it doesn’t look good. Any more pressure and it could break all together.”
“Oi!” The carriage owner hobbled around the back of the vehicle to get a better look at Petrarch. He shook his fist up at the old man. “Think it was yer fat arse that buried it in the mud. Ther’s not even a lot of muck, but it’s stuck like I’m haulin’ ‘round a whale.”
Petrarch laughed. “You and my late wife would likely have a thorough conversation about that. She liked to call me ‘King Arser, the Knight of the Round.’”
The carriage owner was not amused. “Well, it’s too late for you to be unwhalin’ yerself, so I suggist you walk on from ‘ere or wait with me for the nixt passing cart for some hilp.”
Crockett looked up at his master, his gaze full of concern. “Petrarch, it’s a mile. Do you think you can walk with all your luggage?”
Petrarch steeled himself. “Of course! If I can still work, then I can still walk!” He quickly reached out to grab the door of the carriage.
What followed was a chaotic moment, the rotund solicitor pitching forward and falling out of the carriage into the mud. Crockett and the carriage owner looked at each other uncomfortably as
the old man rolled back and forth trying to fetch his balance.
“I’m all right! Fine here! Be up in a moment,” Petrarch gasped. “This actually is a bit of my morning calisthenics routine.”
Crockett hesitated a few moments before gingerly stepping forward and extending a hand. Petrarch’s great girth, however, was too much for the young law clerk. He ended up hurtling forward, sliding headfirst through the mud, his bowler launching under the carriage. The carriage owner sighed and crossed his arms as the two adult men embraced and flailed in the muck.
It took Crockett sitting on his knees, placing his hands firmly on Petrarch’s buttocks, and pushing with all his might, to get the old lawyer back onto his feet. Once he was stable, Crockett nimbly raised himself up and tried his best to wipe off the grime from the roadside and relocate his hat.
“This whole routine part o’ yer service?” the old carriage master asked. “I’d laugh if yer girth’ness hadn’t broken my means of livin’.”