Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe

by Tedd Hawks

  “How…” Crockett searched for something candorous Petrarch may say. He finally settled on “Thoughtful.”

  “She can be. Switzerland ruined her, but she was expelled from English schools, so we had to do something.”

  “How…thoughtful.”

  “Aren’t we?”

  Crockett shifted on his feet and looked toward the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry, dear, did I interrupt you in the middle of something?”

  “I was just going to get a drink for myself and Mr. Bluster.”

  “Ah! Yes, I’m sorry we haven’t been more hospitable. We’re not used to having guests in the house. To be honest, Martha and Dexter have perhaps rested a bit too much on their laurels in the past few decades. My father preferred doing everything himself, and there weren’t guests, so things have fallen into a bit of disrepair.”

  “You’ve been wonderful, Mrs. Winterbourne, but if you could direct me to the kitchen, I’ll prepare us something cold.”

  “You’ll do none of that!” Mrs. Winterbourne bustled quickly by him. “I’ll fetch Martha and have it brought out to you. You and Mr. Bluster should go relax on the patio while I get refreshments.”

  The hall empty, Crockett took another moment to breathe. Something seemed—to say the very least—off-kilter. The family was in a frantic state, the house in disrepair, even though their arrival was known in advance. The maid was senile and the groundskeeper wildly eccentric. How had the house managed for so many years? What had caused the degradation of the construction of the folly and the west wing?

  “You look like you’re thinking far too intensely.”

  Brontë appeared, now wearing a dress, her hair pinned back from her face. Crockett again lost himself in her beautiful eyes, his lip twitching with nervousness as she drew closer.

  “I went to help my mother with the beds and ended up being scolded by my grandmother and told to change. No hat or parasol, but I hope that the dress will make them happy.”

  Crockett suddenly jerked as if waking from a dream. He ran a hand through his hair and pondered a response. The seconds elongated, sweat forming along his high forehead. “I uhhh,” he stuttered, “I’m sure it do do that.”

  “Do do?”

  “The dress doos—does it. It makes them happy, I’m sure.”

  Brontë looked interestedly at Crockett’s face. A ghost of a smile appeared then vanished.

  “Do do aside,” Crockett continued earnestly, “is everything all right? It seems…it seems as if no one knows quite what is going on. And before your father entered the sitting room earlier, you were going to say something.” Crockett’s thick eyebrows went up in thought. “He is quite the conversationalist,” he continued, employing Petrarch’s skill of slight euphemisms. “He held us for nearly half an hour discussing how you were like a gun.”

  Brontë fidgeted for the first time since his and Petrarch’s arrival. Her hand went nervously to her arm.

  Crockett, concerned he’d offended her, went on, “I’m sorry if that upset you; if you are at all like a gun, I’d say it’s a petite, very feminine pistol.”[7]

  “No, it’s not that…It’s about the general state of the house you mentioned.” Brontë paused. When she resumed speaking her voice was very low. “Can I trust you, Crockett?”

  “Of—of course!”

  With a whirl of her skirts, Brontë flew down the hall. She turned to him and beckoned him to follow.

  Crockett pursued her, his long legs moving with nervous energy generated by the need for escape and the burning emotion he felt in Brontë’s presence. He tailed her out of the hallway, through the main sitting room, now abandoned, and onto the patio.

  “Where’s Petrarch?” he asked as they came outside.

  Brontë said nothing, instead flitting to the door and closing it softly behind her. When she had peered through the glass and confirmed no one was following them, she spoke rapidly.

  “Something’s not right, Crockett. Grandfather just disappeared. He knew how to swim, and despite his age, he was in very good shape.”

  Crockett scratched his head. “The police did an inquest, I’m sure."

  Brontë sighed and said, “Crockett, the law enforcement here is a nightmare. They said it was either a drowning or perhaps a wayward bearded woman who kidnapped him for beard oil.”

  “I’m sorry?” Crockett asked.

  “The constabulary always blames carnival folk—a historical oddity—but they didn’t do any due diligence.”

  “The policemen in London aren’t much better.”

  “Well for our family, it’s downright offensive. My cousin in America is part of the carnival circle; we don’t appreciate the stereotyping.”

  “Of course.” Crockett’s head spun. In an effort to return to more fact-based findings, he asked, “How did your family come to find out…that he was missing?”

  “Dexter.”

  “Dexter?”

  “He heard someone fall in the river and scoured the water from the bank, but he saw no one. Because he knew Grandfather was in the boat, he immediately assumed there was trouble and went into the house where he encountered Grandmother and Martha. Grandmother grew intensely hysterical, so it was Martha who went out with him to investigate further.”

  “Those two…”

  “Exactly.” Brontë’s eyes burned brightly. “They couldn’t have saved him even if he was in trouble. It’s true—it is a swim from the middle of the river, especially with the current from the spring rains, but I can’t help but think he could have made it.”

  “Where were your mother and father?”

  “Mother and I were in the east wing going through an assortment of old boxes and trunks as part of our spring-cleaning ritual—we had nothing to do with it. Kordelia, home for the summer from her boarding school, was out reading, and father was shooting.”

  “Could your father have shot him?” Crockett asked, between the intrigue and Brontë’s flushed cheeks, he was fully invested in the conspiracy theories.

  “To what end?”

  Crockett tapped his index finger to his mouth, pensively. “Did anyone hear a gunshot? Kordelia was out reading, you said.”

  Brontë rolled her eyes. “Of course, there were gunshots, Crockett. He was shooting.”

  “But any interruptions? Any shots more sporadic than others?”

  “Kordelia is cryptic as always. She’s stone silent on everything that happened.”

  “Could she have…?”

  Brontë’s eyes flicked to the ground. She offered a terse “I don’t think so” in response.

  “Hmmm…” Crockett tried his best to recall the smattering of detective novels he had read. From the depths of his mind, he pulled out words, which he believed made him seem authoritative. “In terms of your local police…They weren’t able to find the body of your grandfather? Was there any physical evidence?” He said this with a flourish, impressed with his own knowledge.

  Brontë sighed. “None at all. Even despite their incompetence, there was nothing to catch. He drowned from the boat. The boat was found floating in isolation. There were no notes, no letters left, nothing incriminating in any degree—”

  The eldest Winterbourne daughter jumped slightly as the patio door opened and Mrs. Winterbourne appeared with a tray of drinks.

  “I see you chose to look like a lady for our guests,” she barked setting down the drinks on a small metal table. “Between the two of you, I really don’t know which daughter is more of an embarrassment.”

  “It's me.” Kordelia appeared from the yard. Twigs decorated her hair. Her eyes retained the glossy, distant look she had at her and Crockett’s first meeting.

  “Darling…” Mrs. Winterbourne edged forward, very much resembling a younger version of the drunken bear Corinthiana was likened to earlier. “You know I don’t mean…”

  Mrs. Winterbourne embraced Kordelia. The young girl tried to delicately slip away, but her mother kept a firm grip.

 
“Mummy, I think it’s very fair to say I’m the embarrassment,” Kordelia said, continuing to pull away from her mother’s show of affection. “Brontë looks as if she’s always ready to ride a horse, but I’ve been expelled from several schools and have halitosis. I once even made a score card for us on the subject, and I was the worse daughter by nearly forty-three points.”

  “Only forty-three?” Brontë asked.

  Mrs. Winterbourne refused to let Kordelia go; the youngest daughter then gave up her resistance and sat lifelessly in her mother’s embrace. “You see!” Mrs. Winterbourne called to Crockett. “It’s the Swiss-German influence, this coldness. Before Switzerland she was so much more affectionate.”

  “And an arsonist,” Brontë said.

  “That was the largest reason for the deficit,” Kordelia said matter-of-factly. “Halitosis was a close second.”

  “Arsonist?” Crockett squeaked the question.

  “I think witch is more apt.” Kordelia finally pulled free of June’s grasp with a sudden movement. “I’d gotten into one of Grandmummy’s superstition books and was trying to summon the ghost of a boy whom I’d had some affection for, one who died of tuberculosis. It was just a children’s game, but it was during Michaelmas term and when our dormitory cat went up in flames[8] and carried them into a dry bush, things escalated.”

  “As they do,” Mrs. Winterbourne said quickly. “The headmaster was not as understanding as we would have liked.”

  “And I couldn’t quite articulate what had happened, another reason for the deficit between myself and my elder sister,” she said quickly, “so I ended up in Switzerland.”

  Crockett looked between them, unsure what the reaction to the family yarn should be. The moment of awkwardness was broken by August Winterbourne peeking his head out from inside the house.

  “Darling,” he said, “Petrarch is settled. Do you want to take the necessitous lad to his room? I’d do it myself, but your mother gave me the vault key and wants me to go down and bring some things up for the impending funeral.”

  “Of course, my duck.”

  August’s plump face disappeared from the doorway with a faint flutter of his mustache.

  “Well then, Crockett, let’s get you settled in.”

  #

  Crockett’s quarters resembled one of the many flophouses he frequented as a child. Once it may have been a grand place, but in the present, it was a ramshackle assortment of broken furniture, damp rugs, and drafty windows. His view of the house grounds consisted of a dusty vantage point overlooking a number of dead or half-alive trees in the side garden.

  Petrarch’s room was better—there were no holes in the windows and velvet drapes flanked the glass. He also had a large, comfortable feather bed to relax into at the end of the day. Crockett had only a bed that sagged heavily in the middle, which stood beneath a dripping roof. The stained divan in the corner, quickly displaced it as the location where he would sleep. It smelled of livestock, but at least it didn't have a pool of water in its center.

  “This should be something someone from your caste will enjoy,” Mrs. Winterbourne said, kicking an old newspaper to the side. “If you need anything, you can always ask Martha.”

  Since there was not much to do in the way of getting comfortable, Crockett changed out of his muddy clothes and set aside his hat for safekeeping. To refresh himself, he washed his face in a basin full of dun-colored water. He then went to visit Petrarch and discuss the mysterious conversation he had with Brontë.

  When he entered Petrarch’s room, the old man was stripped down to his undergarments, doing calisthenics in the middle of the room.

  “Keeping limber, Petrarch?”

  “Always, my boy.” The old man tipped to his left side; his arm extended in a crescent over his head. “After I made sure all my things were whole after our topple in the mud—you’ll be very happy to know my thinking pipe is in top condition!—I went immediately to my exercises. One must make sure the body stays as agile as the mind. I may look like a sphere, but I roll like a ball!”

  “Did the late Mr. Hawsfeffer keep himself fit as well?” Crockett asked.

  “He did, indeed,” Petrarch said, his breath growing a bit shorter. “We often talked about our exercise regimen. You know Bixby ran a mile every day around the grounds. In a suit. He always kept things very decorous.”

  “That’s very interesting.”

  “I wouldn’t say very, dear boy. Many men of the upper class take to exercising in their Sunday best. Mr. Gerald in London swims every morning in his wedding formals.”

  “Now, relatively, that is far more interesting.”

  Petrarch winked at his protégé as he bent over, his protruding belly hindering him from dipping too low to the ground.

  “Do you think it odd, Petrarch, that Bixby drowned? He seems to have been in very good shape…”

  Petrarch lifted slightly. “My boy, even men in the best shape, once they get to be my age, are prone to accidents. Bixby Hawsfeffer was a very excitable man. When I first heard that he had died, I thought it may have been an issue with his heart.”

  Crockett nodded gravely. “You can’t swim if your heart goes out, even if you’re the best swimmer in the world.” He thought for a moment, the bizarre past of the family emerging to the forefront of his consciousness. “It’s so odd about the river; it’s swallowed so many of the family.”

  “Hmmm.” Petrarch remained leaned over, his voice a slight grunt. “There does seem to be a malevolent force in the house with the power to expel things from inside itself. But,” Petrarch lifted up before dipping back down over his toes, “I assure you Crockett, it’s nothing supernatural or out of the ordinary for these upper classes. I once worked for a family that had a narrow attic stair that killed the maid, the matriarch, and several dozen rats. People were quick to blame specters, but it was simply shoddy carpentry.”[9]

  “I suppose if you have a lot of money you can be as eccentric and reckless as you like.” Crockett shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think I’ll ever quite get used to monied people.”

  “They’re very unpredictable. Indeed, when Bixby visited me in my office he was in a very odd, excitable state.”

  “Really?” Crockett unwittingly took a step forward. “Why?”

  Petrarch lifted himself up. His eyes twinkled. “Crockett, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. It was family business that had him upset, not a fear of murder or a diabolical plot. Trust me, when you’ve been a solicitor as long as I have, you know the ordinary from the extraordinary, and this was a number of very ordinary concerns. The house isn’t haunted; the river simply hosts a truculent current. And the attic stairs seem to be in very fine condition.”

  Crockett shook his head. “I’m sorry, Petrarch. You’re absolutely right. Brontë swept me up in her wild conjectures.”

  “I feel that she would have the power to sweep you into a great many situations you usually wouldn’t fall prey to. It brings to mind the incident with Mrs. Brettwick, the day you forgot to draft her father’s will.”

  Crockett’s face grew red. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “My boy, I know what it means when a face lights up like yours did when Miss Hawsfeffer entered the room. Don’t be embarrassed. Those sparks of infatuation are extraordinary. But as I’ve told you before, in these circumstances, they are to be kept to yourself.”

  Crockett turned toward the window. He said nothing.

  The two men settled into a comfortable silence. As Petrarch counted out his jumping jacks, his bulbous body lurching up and down a few inches with every jump, Crockett assessed the room. Outside the windows the sky was growing darker. The warm afternoon light was disappearing under a shroud of gray clouds. Under the bed, he saw a small speck of white. He moved directly to the object, lifting it up and examining it.

  It was a small, white glove.

  “Petrarch, look at this.”

  “Heh.” Petrarch was beginning to wheeze. “Loo
ks—like—a woman’s.”

  “It does. I’ll ask after it when we join the rest of the family.”

  At that moment, Kordelia, the youngest daughter, appeared at the door. She looked terrified, her face the color of milk. Petrarch turned to her, concern immediately registering in his eyes.

  “My dear, are you all right?”

  Kordelia trembled. She raised a hand to her pale brow. Her eyes, which had always been glossy, were coated with tears.

  “Kordelia…” Crockett moved closer to her.

  “She’s…” Kordelia’s voice shook. “She’s dead…mother’s dead.”

  Chapter 4: The Last Arrivals

  Crockett collapsed whilst Petrarch clucked like an exasperated chicken.

  “Well—cuck—I—just—cuck…”

  “She fell in the well,” Kordelia continued. As she did, she deftly grabbed a glass of water from Petrarch’s nightstand and threw it on Crockett; she then tossed it aside and went to the center of the room. “It was…the fault of the ram in the garden.” She ran dramatically to the window. “Do you think it’s the baron?!” Her voice lifted upward, its tone growing hysterical. “Was it the baron’s ram?!”

  Crockett, covered in water, stood and pulled his thoughts together. He was unsure whether his confusion was due to his shaken mental state or the mere act of being in Kordelia’s presence. He also noted that, even across the room from the young woman, the halitosis which had lost her points to her sister was very noticeable. “I…I’m sorry, does a baron own a ram here?”

  Kordelia’s face changed quickly. The dreamy stare returned; she did a small bow.

  “Was that too much?” she asked.

  “Too much?” Petrarch had begun to sweat even more profusely. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “The scene,” Kordelia said, “do you think it was too dramatic? My teacher says that I should elevate the dramatics, but she’s French, you know, and you can’t trust them.”