by Tedd Hawks
Crockett and Petrarch, rivulets of mud running down their faces, shrugged politely.
“We’ll give you a touch more compensation to make amends,” Petrarch said. “We’re on the way to Hawsfeffer Manor, and it should prove to be a lucrative job for my assistant and me. It’s a will reading, marking the death of the family patriarch.”
“Oi!” The carriage master’s mood immediately altered. “Old Hawsfeffer is dead?” He ran a hand through his slicked back, gray hair. “You think the mistress, Lady Hawsfeffer, is lookin’ for a new man o’ the house? I once cleaned out the horse stables for ‘em when ther houseman, Dexter, was under th’ weather. While I was shovelin’ shit into the rubbish, she said I looked rather ‘gratesquen.’ She was always makin’ eyes at me, she was.”
“I think she may have said ‘grotesque,’” Crockett posited, eyeing the growth on the carriage master’s neck.
“Ha ha!” Petrarch interjected. “Well, we can put in a good word for you, my man. Corinthiana and I have long been friends. Mark my words, I’ll find out her interests toward you and your unpalatable societal position.” As he finished the insult, he winked at the carriage master and slipped a bank note into his hand.
“Ah!” The carriage master grew docile. “No need to lie about me being unpa’tatoed socialistically, sir. I have plenty o' compleyments on me ‘tatoes.”
Crockett lost all direction in the conversation and feigned looking at a bird flying in the distance. Petrarch continued using words easily mistaken for compliments until the carriage master unloaded their things and waved an enthusiastic good-bye.
As they moved away from the carriage on the muddy path toward the manor, Crockett grew inquisitive.
“What are tatoes, Petrarch? I was lost immediately after it was brought up.”
“I’m prone to guess he was talking about his potatoes, but to be honest, your guess is as good as mine. In general, as you’ve just witnessed, a very important skill in human relationships is being able to level insults with great gusto. If you keep a smile and use a clever word, most people assume it’s something complimentary. I’ve had numerous clients in my office who I have insulted egregiously, but they have left paying me my full bill and a handsome tip. Directness with some panache feels honest and satisfying. There is nothing wrong with a little candor.”
“Candor, yes…”
Petrarch patted his great belly in approval.
The road was long and unpleasant; between the mud and the rolling hills, both Petrarch and Crockett were winded halfway to the mansion. Crockett was surprised that, in spite of his great spherical appearance, Petrarch was quite nimble in his old age, the heaviness of his physique giving him increased momentum on their journeys down hills. It was he who resumed conversation between them.
“Now, Crockett, let’s go over the details again, at the very least, names. It’s always very flattering to know everyone’s name.”
“Candor and names.”
“My boy!” Petrarch glowed. “Now, the matriarch, what do we know?”
“Corinthiana Hawsfeffer, second wife to the late Bixby Hawsfeffer. She is known to always be dressed as if ready for conference with King George, and she absolutely adores hanging onto her vowels.[4] Her beloved pet herring, Beatrice, is her pride and joy.”
“Most excellent.”
“Petrarch…” Crockett faltered.
“Yes, my boy.”
“Could we…discuss again why she has a pet fish? I don’t see how it could drive the grandiose emotional attachment which you said it brings her.”
“Well, Crockett, you have to remember she was raised as a shy, country girl. It may remind her of her childhood paddling in ponds or,” Petrarch stroked his beard, “it could be the general eccentricities of the wealthy. Once you get into certain circles, inbreeding does complex things. Even though Corinthiana isn’t from the upper classes herself, it could be a kind of aspirational incoherence.”
“Perhaps I should be grateful for my own austere upbringing.”
“Indeed.” Petrarch nearly tripped over a deep rut in the road. “Regardless, since Corinthiana has ascended in rank, she tends to have an even more classist view of the world than most. For some reason, those who come from nothing are the most judgmental of the lower classes. Corinthiana was originally Lizzie Crankship before marrying Bixby Hawsfeffer. Her jewels and garbled speech try to conceal her very inauspicious beginnings.”
“I’ll refrain from speaking about my time on the London streets, then.” Crockett smirked.
Petrarch’s eye sparkled. “Indeed, an intelligent course to take! Now, what can you tell me about the daughters of Corinthiana?”
“June and May. May has never married and was going to become a nun until unknown circumstances arose.”
“Get thee away from a nunnery.”
Crockett laughed.
He held a deep admiration for Petrarch’s wit and joyful presence. It was this that drew the young solicitor to him when he was homeless in his early teenage years. They met at a fortuitous time; the thirteen-year-old Crockett, in his attempt at joining a wild street gang, intersected with the old lawyer. He had been tasked to rob the old man as part of his initiation, but after shadowing him for a few hours and finding him charming and disarmingly humorous, he decided to not pilfer from him, the two sharing a cup of tea instead. The old man, caring for his sick wife, and the young Crockett, who had never had a home or family, found an immediate esprit de corps which bound them together. Crockett, always more of a lover than a fighter, gave up street shenanigans for books and began his tutelage under the old solicitor.
“The other daughter, June,” the young man continued, “is the mother of two daughters, Brontë and Kordelia. She is the most level-headed of the lot, married to August Winterbourne, who agreed to move into Hawsfeffer Manor.”
“And August?” Petrarch asked.
“Loves going shooting in his free time. He is also widely reputed to be boastful, arrogant, and obnoxious.”
“Well done, my boy! I knew you had talent, but even I am still impressed by your memory at times.”
“I try.” Crockett tipped his hat.
“There is one last matter I want you to be cognizant of during this affair. It’s not gossip, of course, but I think something to be very tactful about.” Petrarch pulled out a handkerchief to dab his brow. “I’m sorry to bring it up, but I know that a few times you have been caught by surprise and reacted rather rashly because of it.”
“I am still very sorry for throwing that cat from the window,” Crockett said sadly. “But I didn’t expect him in the office, and he did rather look like a tiger.”
“I suppose after the amount of gin we had that evening, even a barstool would look like a tiger—forgive and forget!” Petrarch gently patted Crockett on the back. “In this case, there are no domestic feral cats, however there is a domestic secret. When I went over the will with Master Hawsfeffer just a fortnight ago, there, shall we say, were not many things to leave to the family.”
“You mean, perhaps, a bad investment?”
Petrarch sighed. “Many bad investments. Additionally, their wealth connection to America with Bixby Von Bunson deteriorated.”
“You know, I have never heard the name Bixby until you brought me onto this particular case.”
“It was common for a brief moment. I myself have four cousins named Bixby or Bixbiana. You, having no family, perhaps missed having Bixby connections.”
“Very plausible.”
“Very—but!—returning to the family, all the money is dried up. The America connection is gone, and they have made a number of poor investments, one in a diamond mine under a French bakery and another in searching for the Loch Ness Monster after John Macleod’s sighting in 1908.”[5]
“They had no help managing the money?”
“Bixby Hawsfeffer was…shall we say…hard-headed. He made a plan and stuck to it, regardless of how intelligent or plausible it was.”
“In some ways that is a trait to admire.”
“Indeed. I complimented him on it the day he was in my office.” Petrarch tried to suppress a smile.
“So, there’s no money?”
“All that’s really left are physical items—the jewels, the family heirlooms, the house. If anyone asks you about anything in the will, we are, of course, to keep it confidential, but tensions may rise. I’m honestly surprised the family doesn’t know; the only staff kept in the house are the maid and groundskeeper, both, most likely, kept on due to the length of their tenure in the house. I’ve also heard rumors that the family hasn’t taken a holiday or made expenditures more than the hiring of a roofer or cobbler in years. Either way, the family, aside from Corinthiana, appears to be in the dark about the lack of any inheritance. Bixby took that secret with him to the bottom of the river.”
“Drownings really are such tragedies. There is never closure.”
“And this family is full of them. There was Baron Von Bunson, who mysteriously died near the river, Bixby Hawsfeffer’s first wife, who also vanished into the water, and now Bixby himself.”
“Perhaps the rumors of a haunting are true. There is a long list of foreboding incidents in this place.”
Petrarch let out a loud, emphatic laugh. “Crockett, trust me, there is nothing supernatural to worry you. You’re new to the eccentric-country-folk part of our business, but, more often than not in these places, you simply have a number of odd characters with large, ugly houses. Ghosts are merely open windows; rattling chains are shaken by bored housekeepers; and the local townsfolk, heads full of vivid images from gothic novels, impose a haunted history based entirely on conjecture.”
At that moment, as if kismet, the house appeared before them. The local descriptions of its monstrous nature were not embellished; it was clear it could elicit a number of wild theories and stories based on its incongruous construction. In the center, the original house glowed in classical glory—large and white with Corinthian columns lining its entrance. The wings extending to the east and west, however, were uneven, an odd smattering of architectural styles. On the west was a large brick structure that collided with what looked like a sad version of the American White House. The east wing appeared completely unfinished, a rickety, wooden structure leading to a large folly, the castle turret halfway completed, the brick on the top raw, and undulating like jagged teeth.
“You can look and see as the money went away.” Petrarch sighed. “That wooden plankway on the east side leading to the folly was supposed to be beautiful stone and masonry work. Bixby Hawsfeffer was still talking about completing it when he was in my office two weeks ago.”
Crockett looked on in stupefied wonder. It was hideous, to be sure, but there was something about its attempt at greatness which had to be admired.
“It is a gaudy mess, but it has character.”
“Indeed,” said Petrarch. “It is one of the most well-known houses in West Hampminstershireshire.”
Crockett sighed. “I’ll never get used to the naming conventions out this way.”
“Yes, it was all the rural areas outside of London fighting for tourism money. There was quite the naming war to prove just how arcadian they could sound. That’s what got us East Shelfsheepminstead, North Joyfuncharmington, and, of course, East-Westward Portminstershireshiresheadheath.”
“My fingers are cramping thinking of writing that on an envelope.”
The two carried on in silence farther up the private lane to the house. The track was not well worn, with chunks of grass spread intermittently throughout the gravel. As Crockett assessed the shoddy groundskeeping work, he suddenly remembered a question.
“You said we had to be tactful about the lack of money,” he said, “but why does it matter? I assume Bixby’s funeral has already taken place or will very soon. I can keep my mouth shut for a day, Petrarch.”
Petrarch shook his head. “Just before we left, I received another letter from Corinthiana. Had I gotten it sooner, I would have delayed our trip.”
“What did it say?”
“Well, she admitted that full funeral arrangements have not been made. She is still holding out hope the local police will be able to find the body—or, at the very least, it will wash ashore.” Petrarch patted his large belly, as was his reaction when discussing something that provoked joy or thought. “She implied we should delay coming. The whole family will be gathered, and she isn't precisely sure when the entombment will take place. It is imperative she have Bixby’s casket stowed away before they talk of money—she’s very superstitious, you know—so she said she wanted him at peace before they discussed how little of everything was left.”
“Oh, dear,” Crockett said, “so we may be in the middle of a large, raucous family gathering with no entombment date in sight.”
“Precisely.”
“And the longer we are there the more questions will arise about the will and the assumed fortune of Bixby Hawsfeffer.”
“Indeed.”
Crockett, again, looked at the large mansion, deep in thought. They had made it to the main boulevard approaching the home, a mere twenty yards from the main entrance.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something odd. A figure emerged from nearby shrubbery, large pruning shears in their grasp. The person, however, met no description of male or female that he had ever encountered. From the neck up, he would guess male, a grizzled, masculine face, topped with a large, American cowboy hat. But from the neck down the individual wore a mix of odd garments including a leather, Western-style jacket on their torso and (what could only be described as) a woman’s head scarf around their legs.
“Petrarch…” he muttered. “What—who?”
The old solicitor looked up and squinted his eyes. The figure, sensing being watched, bolted into the shrubbery and vanished from view.
“I believe,” said Petrarch, “that is the groundskeeper, Mr. Dexter Fletcher. Both he and the head of house, Mrs. Martha Smith, are said to be senile. They are about the age of the departed Master Hawsfeffer, old, that is to say—in or near their seventh decade of life. Dexter is said to enjoy wearing outfits of varying styles. Martha is regarded as just plain batty.”
“And,” Crockett said slowly, “we may be spending several days with everyone in this house—the oft-disguised groundskeeper, the two, maybe three, lake ghosts, the arrogant father, the insane housekeeper, and the rejected nun.”
Petrarch laughed loudly. “Now, Crockett! Aren’t you tired of the usual office solicitor paperwork? This is a chance to have an adventure. There aren’t many of these in the law field.”
Crockett was about to respond, however his train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a gun and shattering glass.
Chapter 2: Beatrice
Petrarch, in a continued display of his amazing, girthy nimbleness, dropped to the ground directly. His apprentice, meanwhile, froze so severely that he toppled backwards like a stunned goat.
“Crockett!” Petrarch rolled over to his assistant and shook him. “My dear boy!”
The young man came to his senses quickly, but his face was pale, his pupils the size of saucers. “Petrarch! What was it? It wasn’t another house tiger, was it?”
But before his master could respond, another figure emerged from the shrubbery. This was not Mr. Fletcher, the groundskeeper, but a well-kept gentleman of important bearing. His hair was pomaded and shone black with streaks of gray in the late morning light. One of the most impressive mustaches Crockett had ever seen bedecked his face.
“Hullo,” he said curtly. “Just missed.”
Petrarch, trying to regain some professional standing, was rolling himself back up to a standing position. Crockett pulled himself up and blinked several times before responding to the mysterious gentleman.
“What were…you missing?” he asked.
“You didn’t see it?” The man’s mustache shook as if of its own free will. “Londoners probably wouldn’t. A beautiful thrush j
ust flew in the line of my gun.” He crossed his arms and thrust out his chin. “You must be the solicitor and his poor assistant.”
“Poor…?” Crockett pondered to himself.
The man extended his hand to Petrarch (who had successfully risen to his feet). To Crockett, he did a haphazard salute.
“Augüst Winterbourne, at your service.”
“August,” Petrarch said, “delighted to meet you.”
“No, Augüst.”
“Awwwgust?”
“Augüst,” the man said matter-of-factly.
Petrarch threw a confused glance at Crockett.
August looked more closely at Crockett and Petrarch, his mustache dancing amusedly. “Seems you’ve had trouble on the road. Unless mud is now couture in the city.”
Both men had forgotten the earlier entanglement in the muck.
“Indeed. Our carriage was stuck and then, you know, there was an incident.”
“Well, I suggest you come inside then. You will have rooms in the east wing turret set up to receive you.”
Crockett looked sadly up at the crumbling tower.
“It looks deplorable in a very cozy way. Thank you very much,” Petrarch said, his eyes twinkling.
August looked at Petrarch in confusion before turning toward the house.
They walked in silence up the front walk, a cobblestone pathway very poorly kept. Weeds poked through the stones and shook in the warm summer breeze. Crockett took in the scene with morbid curiosity. In general, the bizarre groundskeeper seemed to have shirked his duties, the front walk not the only part of the mansion grounds in disrepair. Large chunks of the shrubs surrounding the front entrance were dead or yellowed. A large tree near the folly, where he and Petrarch would be housed, was dead, its branches extending like the claws of an old crone.
Just visible, directly west of the house, Crockett saw, what appeared to be, a tomb. It was made of dark green marble and far larger than any he had ever seen. The heavy metal doors looked as if they led into a large underground cellar.