Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe

by Tedd Hawks

  “AwwwGOOST?” he asked their host. “Is that the tomb over there?”

  “It’s Augüst, but yes. That is where we will lay the remains, or, more appropriately, the imaginary remains of our dear patriarch.” His mustache made an erratic, almost angry movement. “It hasn’t been opened for years, since the death of his first wife, Lucinda.”

  Petrarch’s eyebrows rose. “That long? How very interesting.” He looked to his suitcase, as if gathering his thoughts, then continued, “It seems that your family has been the center of a number of shocking tragedies through the years.”

  “Well,” August boomed, “not my family. My wife’s. My family is perfectly normal, and no one has died under mysterious circumstances for generations.”

  “You must be very proud,” Crockett said.

  “We are! It’s on our family crest—Winterbourne, we die naturally, naturally.” August’s mustache emphatically punctuated this with a side-to-side jaunty dance.

  Nearer the house, Crockett was able to see beyond the tomb to the ripple of the Tiddlymouth, which ran behind the dilapidated mansion. It was brown and greasy, an unsettling, disgusting ribbon cutting through the countryside. He felt an odd sensation looking to the house’s east and west sides—the river seemingly ran through the mansion, as if the crumbling home was a broken heart and the river a quivering artery.

  Crockett contemplated the ramshackle, disconcerting nature of their residence and its river as they arrived at the front door. August leaned forward to open it, however the great wooden portal flew open on its own accord just as his hand lifted to push it. Not expecting the door handle to disappear, August toppled forward sprawling into the entry foyer.

  Crockett was relieved to see that the door had not opened by magic but rather by the hand of the homely housekeeper, Martha Smith. Homely is perhaps generous, as the older woman could have been a relative of Victor Hugo’s beloved hunchback. She was stooped low, wearing a blue and white striped dress and apron. Her hair skewed in an innumerable number of directions—had someone divulged that she had been hit by a lightning bolt that afternoon, it would have been more probable than her hair naturally falling in the way it did. The most shocking part of her appearance, however, was the bulging left eye, the iris of which appeared to spin slowly with the reliability of a clock.

  “Ehhh,” the woman said, assessing the two men with disdain. She took just a moment, her iris doing one full rotation around her eye, before turning her back to them and trudging out of the foyer.

  Crockett watched her amble away then threw his gaze on August whose mustache was twitching fitfully.

  “Is everyone here fit for a Shakespeare play?” Crockett asked Petrarch in a strained whisper. “We have Richard II as the maid and a man in women's clothing as the groundskeeper…” But he was unable to finish his assessment, as the great, looming frame of the house’s matriarch appeared on the stairs.

  To describe her as dripping with jewels was an understatement—it was a deluge of glittering white diamonds which hung from her neck and wrist, and danced along golden threads in her high, white hair. Her face was pleasant, wrinkled, and white as freshly floured dough, the red slice of her lips a garish stroke in her alabaster countenance.

  “Hellooo!” she called down to them. “Hellooo, Petraaarch!”

  Melodramatic was the only way to describe her approach toward them. She waved slowly as her stockinged feet gently stepped down the large, twisting staircase. The motion was slow, painfully so. Crockett wondered if there was perhaps something wrong with her knees, the steps were so tiny, so deliberate, so theatrical. As she came toward them, no one moved. It was as if all gathered were sucked into the vortex of her entrance—the momentum of the morning impossible to accelerate until Corinthiana was present. The only lively thing about her entrance was the small bowl she kept cradled in her left hand, the contents, her beloved fish Beatrice, swimming happily in a small circle; her right hand deliberately and grandiosely waved back and forth in slow time like a half-broken metronome.

  It was a dozen or more minutes before she took her final step off the staircase. When she settled her feet on the tiles of the entryway, she moved forward, like a great, drunken bear, her right hand clawing for an embrace from Petrarch.

  “My deeear! How lovely tooo seee yooou—not under theeese circumstaaances, ooobviously, but yooou know I dooo love our chaaats, Petraaarch!”

  Petrarch returned the embrace warmly. “My dear, how are you? It’s always a shock—even at his age—a drowning!”

  “AWRK!”

  Crockett stumbled backwards. The sound, the verbal explosion of Corinthiana’s “AWRK!” stupefied him.

  “It is terrible. TEEERRIBLE!” Great heaving sobs came from the grieving woman. Just as with the “AWRK” her vocalizations resembled that of a seal with asthma. Corinthiana's outburst had led Beatrice to thrash slightly, her bowl throwing water to the floor. “Ooohhh! Ooooh!”

  August came forward and gently lifted the fishbowl from her arms. The fish, despite having no capacity to register emotion, somehow looked upset. Its dead eyes appeared perturbed.

  “The constabulary came out and had a look at the scene,” August said. “Their chief inspector is a bit of a dolt, if you ask me. They’ve been parading up and down the river looking for a body. Since they’ve found none, the inspector is grasping at incoherent theories.”

  “Tooo beee true,” Corinthiana wailed. “They suggested Bixby haaad beeen kidnaaapped by nefaaarious caaarnival folk.”[6]

  “Which is ridiculous, obviously.” August’s face turned red. “The carnival hasn’t been here in years!”

  “Well, these small-town constables often prove too overzealous in their investigations, I believe,” Petrarch said.

  August snorted in agreement as he turned and carried Beatrice out of the room.

  It was then that Crockett saw her.

  The young lady stood in the doorway to the dining room, her long, brown hair shimmering in the morning light. Her eyes sparked, two orbs of hazel fire; her face, somehow both angular and soft, smiled, not at him, but at something distant, just out of sight.

  “Grandmother putting on her grief show for you all?” Her voice rang out like a bell. “She does this every so often to make sure we know she’s grieving.”

  Corinthiana responded with an emphatic “AWRK!”

  “Um…” Crockett couldn’t avert his gaze from the young woman as she came closer. “Hello,” he said softly. “Hello. Hello.”

  “Good morning and good morning,” she said. Her eyes scanned Crockett’s mud-stained suit, a flash of amusement expressing itself in the slight upturn of her mouth.

  Crockett was not handsome, not in the general, accepted sense of the word. Everything about him was just slightly off-center, yet the features of his face connected together in such a manner as to make them interesting, if not pleasant, despite the fact that on anyone else they would have been completely hideous. His large nose stood out against his long, thin face, drawing attention away from his tiny, bowlike mouth. A lack of testosterone rendered it impossible for him to grow anything like a beard or mustache, but his eyebrows were thick, curious, like caterpillars in a constant state of motion upon his brow. His eyes were perhaps the most distinguishing feature, one blue, one green.

  Brontë, the young woman in question, could not quite decide what to think of Crockett as he stood, awkwardly, awaiting her approach.

  “Has anyone caught you up on the family’s current state?” she asked.

  “You may have to be more specific about the term state,” Petrarch said warmly.

  “Brontë, pleeease,” Corinthiana bellowed, “with your sister praaacticing her haaalf-baaaked Aaaustro-Hungaaariaaan draaama and your mother’s uneeemotional reeeaction tooo your graaandfaaather’s death, the laaast thing weee neeed is yooou stirring up Mr. Bluster and his impoooverished friend.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hawsfeffer,” Crockett said, “but I’d appreciate if we could exclu
de the pejorative statements about my financial status moving forward.”

  “Oh deeear!” Corinthiana put her hand to her mouth, the jewels on her wrist tinkling merrily. “I thought I waaas uuusing theee correct nomenclaaature. Dooo yooou preeefer finaaancially copitulaaated?”

  “I believe the term, Grandmummy, is müllesser, the German. It is more accepted.” This was uttered by another household member, a waifish, spritely girl, who had entered unseen. Her wide unblinking eyes danced between Petrarch and Crockett.

  “Awrk!” Corinthiana uttered softly. “Thaaat does sound better.”

  “And if it sounds better, inevitably it is better. That’s why people, at large, prefer the sound of cows over the laughter of spiders,” the girl said resolutely.

  Petrarch blinked twice. His mouth moved to speak but then settled, confounded and open, looking at the young girl.

  Brontë swiftly took the arms of Crockett and Petrarch and led them out of the room. “I’ll catch them up, Grandmother. I don’t want you to worry about it.”

  “I'll gooo check on deeear Beeeatrice then with your mother. Herring dooo grow aaagitaaated when guests aaare present.”

  Brontë sighed and led Petrarch and Crockett into a formal sitting room adjoining the foyer.

  The room itself was cozy, a large pink couch serving as the centerpiece, turned so it faced a marble fireplace. Crockett let out an accidental laugh as he gazed upon a large portrait of the beloved Beatrice hanging over the mantle. It was a painting of the fish’s face. No emotion or anthropomorphic features had been given to the aquatic creature, so that it was just a large fish head with empty eyes staring upward. Had the room been less colorful, it may have created an ominous feeling but, combined with the hues of pink and blue, the effect was simply bizarre and humorous.

  As Crockett continued his inspection, he also noted that everything had a patina of dust over it; it all seemed aged and forgotten, despite the opulent fixtures scattered throughout—silver candelabras, a soaring crystal chandelier, and a colorful, enormous vase full of fresh flowers. Another incongruous item was a large elephant gun hanging over the fireplace—the violence of the weapon at odds with the floral, rose-colored hues which surrounded them.

  The oddest piece, however, was a large, opulent cage placed in the corner of the room. Instead of bars, strings of jewels skirted the outside, while inside there were thick, lush satin pillows and a long, silk bedsheet.

  “What is that?” Crockett asked pointing to the magnificent monstrosity.

  Brontë threw a cursory glance to the corner and then shrugged her shoulders. “Beatrice’s bed,” she said. “Grandmother had a shaman come into the house who suggested Beatrice’s dyspepsia was caused by sleeping next to Grandmother and her assortment of perfumes and powders.”

  “Fish get dyspepsia?” Crockett scratched his head, looking into the coal-like eyes of Beatrice’s portrait.

  “Honestly,” Brontë said, “when it comes to Beatrice, I don’t ask too many questions. They tend to confuse rather than clarify.”

  Crockett turned from the painting and looked at Brontë with warmth. “In most families that’s probably generally true of questions.”

  A smile flashed on the young woman’s face; her eyes shone with a gentle intelligence. “Anyway, I’m sorry that the family is so out of sorts. Grandfather’s death has exacerbated all of our family foibles—Grandmother is more opulent and overbearing, Kordelia more idiotic, and Mother and Father as clueless as ever.” She paused and turned away from Crockett. “There is always an undercurrent of discontent in this house, whether it’s my mother fighting with her sister, Grandfather fighting with Father, or Martha and Dexter skulking in the shadows—there isn’t peace here usually, but now it’s worse than it has been in years.”

  Crockett couldn’t find words to respond. Everything about the young woman in front of him had him transfixed, the most shocking of which was her choice of trousers instead of a dress. But, unlike the gun, it was not incongruous with her demeanor—if anything, it seemed that she wore it all perfectly, or as if the clothes wore her, the effect was so complimentary.

  “Brontë, I very much appreciate you taking us out of the chaos,” Petrarch said jovially. “Can you tell us a bit about the funeral? Has it commenced?”

  “I’m afraid not. Grandmother wants everyone here, and Robert Edward and Aunt May have yet to arrive.”

  “Robert Edward?”

  “Robert Edward Harrington. He is our grandfather’s second cousin, only recently come from the European continent.”

  “Your father never mentioned him to me.”

  “He’s from abroad and turned up at the house a few days before grandfather died. He told us that he has gypsy blood and felt a horrible premonition about Grandfather; he wrote to him to ask if he could come, and Grandfather welcomed him. He’s not here for any claim to the money.”

  “How can you be sure?” Crockett asked.

  “He told Grandmother ‘I’m not here for ze money.’”

  “Self-explanatory.” Petrarch winked at Crockett. “And your Aunt May?”

  “She was supposed to arrive this afternoon, but we haven’t had any word.” Brontë looked quickly to the entrance of the room before turning back to Petrarch and lowering her voice. “To be honest…I think…”

  Before she could finish, August’s booming voice broke the calm. “Brontë? What are you doing with the guests?”

  Brontë raised her eyebrows at Petrarch and Crockett. “I took them away to alleviate stress for Grandmother. I was just telling them that we’re waiting for Mr. Harrington and Aunt May.”

  “Fine, fine.” August entered the room, his mustache shaking irritably. “Go help your mother in the east tower. She’s preparing the rooms for these gentlemen.”

  “Father, I don’t think—”

  Before she could finish the thought, August’s neck swelled and his face flushed red. “I said GO! Ingrate, go!”

  Brontë turned her eyes to the floor and left the room.

  Crockett and Petrarch glanced quickly at each other. Crockett’s caterpillar eyebrows knitted together in concern.

  “Children!” August ranted as he crossed to the fireplace. “You pour your lifeblood into them and then they betray you. BETRAY! Brontë is dressing like a man and Kordelia, my god, the girl barely utters anything sensical since we sent her to Switzerland. The corrupting forces of boarding school.” He rapidly turned to Crockett. “Be glad your status as a gutterslug didn’t allow you to be corrupted in such a fashion—poverty can be a blessing.”

  “Could you perhaps…” Crockett started.

  “A blessing!” August picked up the gun from the mantle and pointed it out of the room, in the exact direction Brontë had exited. “Sometimes you want to brain them.”

  Slowly, he dropped the gun. His chest swelled with a large, dramatic breath. “But that’s only occasionally.”

  August then went on for the better part of a half hour comparing raising children to shooting thrush. The complex analogy never fully bore fruit.

  “And that is, of course,” he said in summation, “why a gun is like your daughter’s wedding day.”

  Petrarch and Crockett nodded enthusiastically but had nothing to add. The soft ticking of a distant clock filled the quiet.

  Feeling enough time had passed to transition topics, Crockett spoke. “Awwgist?”

  “Augüst. Yes?”

  “Could I trouble you for water? I think both Petrarch and I could use a drink after the journey.”

  “The kitchen is through there,” August said, his voice returning to a calmer timbre. “Martha should be about. She can get you some refreshment. Apologies we haven’t offered anything. It’s…” he sighed heavily, “it’s been a terrible week.”

  Crockett fled the room anxious to leave August's stifling presence.

  The transition from the warm pinks of the living room to the shadowy, dark-paneled corridor to the kitchen was stark. It was in this darkness
, out of sight, that he took a moment to lean against the wall and reflect on their arrival. The day had been a monumental disaster, from the stuck cart, to the gunshot, to the irritable explosion of August Winterbourne. The household appeared to be a pot, simmering, the temperature climbing higher. Even the spritely girl, Kordelia, seemed out of place in this house, a fairy light in a room full of long shadows. Brontë alone stood as if she belonged in the mansion, as if she wore her position here as strongly, as confidently, as she wore her slacks that morning.

  He took a deep breath, the Hawsfeffer and Winterbourne characters dancing through his mind's eye.

  “Who are these people?” Crockett muttered softly to himself in the dark hall.

  “Who indeed?” A croaky voice came from the shadows. “Ask yourself who are they really—what are they really.”

  Crockett slowly turned and saw her standing in the doorway. In the half-light she looked even more menacing, the glint of her spinning eye sparkling as it turned in the maid’s wrinkled face. It took all the young man’s resolve to stay upright, resisting the need to shamelessly collapse for the second time in an hour.

  “Be careful in this house. It’s swallowed many a secret,” she said, spittle flying from her contorted mouth. “Nothing is quite what it seems.”

  Chapter 3: A Suspicion

  Crockett watched Martha drift backward, out of the hall and into the darkness of the kitchen. His heart pounded in his chest; his hands grew wet, beads of sweat forming on his palms.

  “Sorry, my dear,” a soft voice sounded behind him.

  He turned to see a beautiful, blonde woman in her autumn years smiling at him from the lighted doorway.

  “You’ll have to forgive Martha. She gets…ominous around guests. She adds a mélange of supernatural charm to the house, but I can assure you that we are a very ordinary, aristocratic family with nothing to hide.”

  Crockett blinked. “Thank you for that…assurance.” He leaned forward and extended his hand. “I'm Crockett Cook. I’m assisting Mr. Bluster.”

  “Charmed, my dear.” The woman said grandly. “I’m June Winterbourne, the deceased Mr. Hawsfeffer’s eldest.” After gently dropping Crockett’s hand, she studied his face. “Kordelia said you looked a bit like a destitute horse with variegated eyes.”