Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe

by Tedd Hawks

  “I’m…thinking that your mother isn’t actually dead,” Crockett posited.

  “Oh!” Kordelia said shocked. “I don’t know. Do you know something?”

  “What?” Crockett asked.

  “Is mother okay? I mean with Grandfather…I knew she wasn’t too well, but dead!”

  “No, no!” Crockett looked at Petrarch for help. “She’s perfectly fine—as far as we know.”

  Kordelia sighed heavily. “Well, Mr. Cook, you really shouldn’t frighten people like that.”

  “Miss Winterbourne,” Petrarch said slowly, “why…did you say those things when you entered the room?”

  “For the play of course,” Kordelia said.

  “Of course.” Crockett looked at Petrarch, completely lost.

  “I guess you aren’t familiar. It’s a famous French play called Mère, Bélier, Mort, Chapeau. You may just not recognize it. We’re performing the German-language version of the French translated into English. The Swiss do things in unique ways. The English version is called The Viscount’s Ram, which you may be more familiar with.”

  Crockett shook his head. “I…haven’t heard of that production.”

  “It’s wonderful, even if it is rather French.” Kordelia’s voice had a habit of rising and falling at incoherent moments, causing declarative phrases to sound like questions. “There are four scenes where people just eat croissants, which was changed to meat pies for the English version.”

  “It sounds complex,” Petrarch jumped in.

  “Very much so,” Kordelia responded. “Then, of course, people outside of Vienna always have trouble with the Danube Mob.”

  Crockett fell onto Petrarch’s bed out of sheer intellectual exhaustion. As a perfunctory response he asked, “And what is the Danube Mob?”

  “Well, a long time ago, an instructor was teaching his Austrian literature class about the concept of the French dénouement, the ending phase of a story.”

  Petrarch patted his belly, his face a mix of confusion, amusement, and intrigue. “Now,” he said slowly, "do you mean Austrian or Hungarian? I am always confused with the Austria-Hungary dual monarchy."

  "Why would Austria be hungry?" Kordelia asked startled. "What do countries eat?"

  "He means," Crockett interjected, "would the writer consider himself Austrian, Hungarian, or Austro-Hungarian?"

  Kordelia scrunched her eyes, deep in thought. "Well, my Swiss teacher said Austrian. He never mentioned anything about Ostrich-Hungarians, which I don't think would have enough dexterity in their wings to actually do any writing—"

  "Yes!" Petrarch said quickly. "Austrian it is. We will call this writer Austrian." He gave Crockett a look of fatigue.

  “Yes, very good," Kordelia continued. "Well, one of the brightest students in the class was confused, you see, so he thought the instructor had said ‘Danube Mob.’ In his befuddlement, he misunderstood the dénouement to be a mob of Austrians who enter a story and set things right at the end. Like a deus ex machina, but specifically Austrian, German-speaking, and more interested in blackmail and gambling.”[10]

  Crockett opened his mouth to change the subject, but Petrarch, riveted, asked her to continue.

  “So, this student, Henreick Gruber, wrote a play which became famous all over Austria and Germany—and now I suppose must also have found an audience with hungry ostriches—and the Danube Mob became a very common ending to comedies in the region.” Kordelia took a deep breath. “All that is to say that when Mère, Bélier, Mort, Chapeau was translated into German, the translator inserted the Mob, which has continued to confuse modern readers and performers.”

  “I should say I am very confused,” said Crockett.

  “I do love literary history, though,” Petrarch smiled. “But, my dear, after the lesson and the confusion about your dear mother, can we help you with anything else?”

  “Oh, yes! Grandmummy sent me up to tell you it’s best to pull your beds and lamps away from the walls. A storm is coming, and the windows don't keep out the water.”

  At that moment, a clap of thunder burst from the sky. Crockett, again exhibiting his penchant for overreaction, fell to the floor out of fear. The white glove he had held since its discovery under Petrarch’s bed dropped at Kordelia’s feet.

  “My glove!” Kordelia knelt down and picked it up, nudging the frozen solicitor’s assistant out of the way. As she rose, she looked bemusedly at the collapsed Crockett. “Are you easily scared, Mr. Cook?” Her glazed stare took on a more focused look. “If so, I may suggest you move out of this wing.”

  “Why is that, my dear?” Petrarch narrowed his gaze.

  “This is the haunted wing.” She looked to the exposed beams suspended above them. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the ghosts around this house. Children from the local village come to see the river, but there are phantoms who occupy the dark corners of the manor. They particularly like the folly.” Her musical voice lowered slightly. “I’ve heard screams in the night coming from your room, Mr. Cook.”

  Crockett, now recovered, rose to his feet. He shivered as he looked upon Kordelia.

  Petrarch cleared his throat. “My dear, I think the fantasy of the play is toying with your imagination.”

  Kordelia turned, her eyes glittering. “Mr. Bluster, I’m young, but this house has taught me that the truth is often much stranger than fiction.” Another peal of thunder shook the windows. “I think the estate is very unhappy Grandfather hasn’t been returned to it yet. I know Grandmother is trying, but I think the house, the river, the family needs there to be closure. There is no body, but there can be peace.”

  An eerie silence settled. Crockett appraised the young girl with a wary eye. “We should…perhaps go get some lamps. Dark is coming quickly with the storm.”

  Kordelia had already left the room. Her voice rang like a bell from the hallway. “The dark is already here.”

  #

  When the storm broke and rain thrashed the windows of the house, the family and houseguests settled into the main sitting room. Martha lit a number of candles and started the fire so that, despite the gloom of the outdoors, the room took on a festive air, the pinks and blues of the furniture and Beatrice’s absurd painting glowing in the soft light. Corinthiana sat in the center of the couch, alone, Beatrice in her after-dinner fishbowl at her side. The aquatic creature floated, nearly lifeless, staring into the flames dancing in the fireplace.

  August and Petrarch spoke of news from London, while Kordelia sat with her play script in the corner of the room. In keeping with her odd demeanor, she sat just out of the firelight, a slice of shadow cutting her off from the rest of those gathered.

  Crockett sat in a chair near Petrarch and August. He appeared to be listening to their conversation but, in actuality, was ideating conversation topics to bring up with Brontë, who was reading quietly on the smaller sofa. As he pondered asking her favorite shape of tea leaf,[11] he let his interest in the conversation of the two older gentlemen fade completely. In his reverie, he focused fully on Brontë, memorizing the lines of her face as she looked downward at her book. She, however, had felt his attention and looked up, her hazel eyes boring into him. He jumped slightly, mistaking the pounding coming from the front door for his own excited heartbeat.

  “Awrk!” Corinthiana exclaimed. “Thaaat must beee deeear Maaay or Robert Edwaaard. They must haaave gotten caaaught in theee storm.”

  It was, in fact, both of the expected guests arrived at once. Martha showed them into the sitting room, grunting and pointing at the odd pair then stomping off toward the kitchen. Their arrival darkened the room—the storm outside suddenly reaching into their pleasant, firelit existence in the form of the dripping, shadowy man and woman who joined the party.

  May Hawsfeffer, the youngest daughter of Corinthiana, looked exactly as Crockett expected, fully embracing her role as the rejected nun. She wore a black dress that flowed down her thin body and came to her feet in a dense pool of fabric. Despite the intense warmth of t
he day, she had wrapped her shoulders in a cape of black fur which covered her pencil-thin neck. Her countenance was a mix of bright white and shadow, the bags under her eyes and the recesses of her hollow cheeks contrasting with the milky white skin that tightly wrapped her face. Small spectacles flashed on her nose, like two search lamps going before the dark tunnels of her small, beady eyes. She was an almost perfectly inverted image of her sister. Whereas June carried an air of blonde, quaffed, pastel lightness, May occupied a diametrical pole of frigid, brunette malfeasance.[12]

  Her companion, Robert Edward Harrington, the unknown (until recently) second cousin of the deceased, was even more villainous in appearance. He also wore all black, but his clothing was ominously contrasted with dark red in the form of his handkerchief, tie, and cape lining, which gave the impression that his insides were covered in blood. He appeared to be unkempt, a dense black-and-gray beard on his face merging with the wild silver locks of hair that tumbled onto his shoulders. Crockett squinted, noting some peculiarities of his face, as if parts of it were both too large and too small; it gave the impression that he had been struck by a shovel or cooking pan which had scrambled its features so that everything was marred and bent.

  Corinthiana rose and slowly crept toward the guests. Crockett observed that, even though she had to go but a few yards, she proceeded with the same theatrical gait and wave she used when coming down the stairs.

  “My deeears!” she cried as she tiptoed toward them, Beatrice’s bowl firmly in tow. “Our paaarty is aaat laaast compleeete.”

  May Hawsfeffer didn’t move, but Robert Edward threw back his cape and slunk toward the hostess, crying in a thick, continental accent, “Darling, Corinziana. Please excuse my tardiness.”

  He planted what Crockett perceived as two very aggressive kisses on her cheeks, Corinthiana blushing profoundly.

  “Hello, Mother,” May said coldly.

  Crockett turned his attention to Petrarch, who, he noted, was shrewdly examining the expressions of all those gathered. Crockett followed his glance and saw that everyone had registered dramatic changes in appearance since the arrival. Brontë’s gaze was fixed on Robert, an expression of distaste not hidden on her beautiful face. August also looked disgusted, not with Robert, but rather with his mother-in-law and her labored greeting of the new guests. June’s eyes were filled with worry, locked specifically on May, whose gaze was turned resolutely on the flames dancing in the fireplace. Only Kordelia appeared unaffected, her mouth moving slightly as she continued to review lines from her script.

  “Sorry ve are late,” Robert said. “This storm! From novhere it seems.” Crockett cringed at the way Robert’s nose and jowls flapped as he spoke.

  “I walked,” May said abruptly. “I got caught in the rain and had to run.”

  “My carriage came up behind my dear cousin, but she refused ze offered ride.”

  “I don’t trust him,” May said looking at Corinthiana. “Mother, you know how I feel about you including him in all this.”

  Corinthiana clasped her hands. “It is best not tooo bring it up. Robert is paaart of theee faaamily.”

  “Speaking of, Corinthiana,” August stood and moved to the center of the room, “let’s get going with the will. Tensions are palpable, and I don’t know if it’s going to be…” his mustache twitched uncomfortably, “pleasant to keep all of us together.”

  “August has a point,” June said. “Now that we’re all present, we should take care of the messy bits quickly.”

  All eyes were on Corinthiana, who had grown so nervous she had plunged her hand into Beatrice’s bowl and begun stroking the fish erratically. Even under her powdered complexion, Crockett detected a red flush.

  “This is aaabrupt and veeery uncivilized.” She coughed into her fist. “Weee caaan't simply reeead theee will when Robert aaand Maaay haaave only aaarrived. It’s uncoooth. Whaaat would your deeear graaandfaaather saaay?”

  “He’d say get on with it,” Brontë said with a laugh. “Grandmother, he’d be more interested in the service and all the attention he’s going to get. How many people are coming for it? I assume everyone in West Hampminstershireshire is aware.”

  “Well,” Corinthiana’s voice grew shrill, “yes. Of course.” Beatrice, sensing her human mother's agitation, began to thrash in her hand.

  Silence fell. June turned, her skirt rustling. “Mother, you have contacted the vicar and sent on the information about the service, haven’t you? It was supposed to be done last Sunday when we went to church.”

  Corinthiana grew extremely uncomfortable. She emitted several unintelligible sounds, adjacent in timbre to her awrks, but none that revealed any coherent thought. Her cheeks turned a fiery red and her jewels tinkled as she waved her hands in the air, attempting to draw some excuse from the air around her.

  “You haven't…?” Robert asked quickly. “You haven't begun ze preparations? Ze tomb isn't opened…”

  Corinthiana began to weep. Large tears plopped onto her gown and into Beatrice’s bowl. “I haaaven't!” she said quickly. “It is…” She wiped her eyes with a ringed finger. “It's, just…”

  “If I may, Corinthiana?” Petrarch stepped forward.

  Corinthiana, her eyes flooded with relief, nodded.

  “Everyone, Corinthiana notified me that preparations are…delayed.” Petrarch put his hands behind his back and rocked slowly on his feet. “She very much wants the funerary services to take place before the will is read—it’s a sense of propriety…respect. The arrangements were delayed due to some logistical problems, complications with the vicar and the arrival of the family, but we should be able to move forward tomorrow, once the weather lightens. Crockett and I were going to go to the vicar this afternoon, but we were held up by the weather.”

  Crockett looked suspiciously at Petrarch.

  “Yes,” Corinthiana said softly. “It's true. Very truuue.”

  “But we don’t want to delay you, even with this delightfully volcanic family dynamic,” Petrarch said, winking at Crockett. “Corinthiana, Crockett, and I are going to discuss some final items in the will and get ready to move forward with the entombment and services in the next few days.”

  May, August, and Robert appeared perturbed at the news but nodded in agreement. Brontë looked amused. She put her finger to her mouth to suppress a smile.

  “Mother,” June said softly, “why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me it was going to be delayed? I thought we were moving forward with the plan we established for this weekend.”

  “Let her be, my dear,” Robert said warmly. “She has been zrough much.”

  Corinthiana looked to Robert with great affection.

  “Death is the great discombobulator,” Kordelia said speaking up from her dark corner of the room.

  “It is, deeear,” Corinthiana said loudly. “But weee shaaall get baaack on traaack. Petraaarch!” she barked at the old man. “We haaave much tooo discuss. Up to theee study!”

  Chapter 5: Lucinda’s Last Words

  Corinthiana sent Crockett and Petrarch to the second floor so she could take time to re-powder her nose. The two men sat in large leather chairs in the study; Crockett, arms crossed, looked at Petrarch with an expression of deep annoyance.

  “I just wish you had told me,” he said quietly. “I thought the family knew of the delays but not about the money. I didn’t know we were co-conspirators.”

  “I didn’t either, my boy. Corinthiana caught me before May and Robert arrived. This is a bit of a mess—an old-fashioned kerfuffle.” Petrarch patted his belly. “Corinthiana hasn’t told anyone anything. She’s trapped in a number of escalating lies.”

  “Can it move forward? We shouldn’t be helping her negotiate these family problems.”

  At that moment, Corinthiana entered the room. Grandiosely, she spun and shut the door, then marched, dramatically, across the room to the large oak desk which sat near the far west wall. Crockett sighed as he watched the old woman step with overpron
ounced elegance to her seat. She didn’t fully sit down until she had pulled out the seat and assumed a pose of grief, hand to her forehead, eyes screwed shut and lifted to the ceiling.

  “It is a mess,” she said slowly.

  “It would appear so, Madame,” Petrarch said.

  “I lied to you, Petrarch.” In the confines of the study, Corinthiana’s theatricality shed like the skin of a snake. Her vowels compressed, shrunk to normal. Her regal pose evaporated as she slumped into her seat. Suddenly, Crockett clearly saw the farm girl, Lizzie Crankship, that Bixby Hawsfeffer married all those years before. He heard her country lilt re-enter the relaxed tones of her voice.

  “I know.” Petrarch sighed.

  “Many times.”

  “Yes.”

  “So,” Crockett said slowly, “can we hear the truth now? All of it?”

  Corinthiana turned to Crockett, her eyes bright. A lilt returned to her voice. “Awrk! Is thaaat how theee underclaaass haaandles such measures?”

  “I’m sorry Corinthiana,” Petrarch said softly. “I think in light of the situation it may be best to handle this discussion with more lower-class precision. I know you usually like to air grievances a bit more dramatically.”

  “Must we, really?” Corinthiana asked sadly. “I had prepared a speech.”

  “Perhaps there will be time later. I’m sure it’s very good.”

  “It is. You’ll hear an abbreviated version during the eulogy for dear Bixby—I reused parts. You can’t always re-invent the wheel.”

  Corinthiana slunk further into her chair. Her jewels dimmed in the melancholy atmosphere, their usual garish luster thrown into shadow by the bent posture of their mistress. “There’s no money. There’s nothing.”

  “That we know,” Petrarch said.

  “I don’t think you realize the extent,” Corinthiana said softly. She put her head in her bejeweled hands. “Bixby liked to be cavalier about it. He told you there was nothing, but there’s less than that. We owe thousands of pounds. These,” she said pointing to the diamonds in her massive necklace, “are fake. The real ones sold off, one by one, to pay off Bixby’s debts.”