by Tedd Hawks
The voice that joined was distant, muffled.
The Duck Man, the Duck Man he creeps along the lake.
Thunder hides his footsteps; shadows hide his face.
Corinthiana, her face so pale her rouge glowed against the white of her cheeks, gripped Beatrice’s bowl tightly. Martha leapt into Robert’s arms, while June jumped away from the table, a scream erupting from her mouth. Crockett held the table, his knuckles turning white. He felt himself tense, start to lose control, but for the first time, a spark of courage resisted the urge to collapse. An odd feeling of calm collided with his fears and kept his body fully erect.
Children hear his heartbeat; they follow after him.
Disappear into the darkness, their own life growing dim.
With the children missing, the parents follow quick.
But nothing is left of boys and girls but Duck Man’s battered hat.
The music stopped suddenly. Crockett looked to August, who was quaking in fear.
“Kordelia,” August asked quickly, “what was that?”
The young girl shook her head, pearl-sized tears forming at the edge of her eyes. “It’s the old song,” she said quietly. “‘Duck Man of the Old Hat.’” She took a deep breath, trying to keep her composure. “It’s the song the ghosts sing along the river.”
Chapter 8: The Pot Boils
The room was evacuated. August and Crockett helped the women flee, then immediately opened all doors to fill it with warmer, brighter light. August took the great book from the center table and threw it into the desk, slamming the drawer and locking it with the key.
Brontë, Petrarch, and May came to the bottom of the stairs, all wearing looks of wonder.
“What’s happened?”
“We heard noises—a scream.”
“Was that music?”
Petrarch, and a reluctant May, took the women into the sitting room, while the shocked Martha sought out Dexter to help prepare tea.
Brontë alone climbed the stairs and peaked in on August and Crockett. Even her arrogant smile had faded.
“Are you all right?” she asked tentatively. “Father?”
“Fine,” August said brusquely. “It may have just been a coincidence.”
“What happened exactly?” She looked between her father and Crockett.
However, August was already running down the corridor. “I’ll get to the bottom of it!” he yelled, disappearing down the hallway, manic footsteps trailing into the distance.
Crockett went to the window. He gazed on the blood of the bird, still freshly smeared on the glass. He shuddered slightly and then turned, his variegated eyes falling on Brontë.
“That song…” he said softly.
“Which song?”
“You didn’t hear?”
Brontë shook her head. “May and I were on the patio—it’s such a beautiful morning. Petrarch left us a few minutes before the chaos to do some work in his room. As soon as we heard the shrieking, we ran inside. Petrarch arrived at the stair the same moment as May and I.”
“The scream was your mother,” Crockett said. “Once the music stopped, she let out a terrified shriek.”
“What happened?” Both concern and excitement were fused in Brontë’s tone.
“It was extremely tense—we were all afraid. A bird crashed into the window, but that was probably due to the candles. But…then at the end…”
“Yes?”
“Someone played 'The Duck Man of the Old Hat.' It's about a man who steals children? I never knew that.” Crockett dabbed his brow thinking of the odd nursery rhyme. "Isn't it a bit macabre for a children's song?"
“Well, it’s German,” Brontë said.
This seemed to settle the matter.
The house grew quiet once more. The only sound that disrupted the peace was a slight banging coming from near them, which was August looking for the source of the wind and song. The séance had shifted the atmosphere from murderous conjecture to active malfeasance. Everyone, in the light of the new events, had become a suspect in some way, the questions about their characters more pressing than before.
Feeling this transformation, Crockett turned to Brontë. “Do you get scared in this house?” he asked. “I know you teased me earlier this morning about how fearful I was, but is there anything that makes you uncomfortable here?”
Brontë leaned back against the wall. Her eyes looked skyward. Again, just as in the dawn light, the image of a hazel-eyed angel filled his imagination.
Her voice softened. “I wouldn’t call it fear,” she began, “but it feels as if the house has always been on the precipice of disaster. It’s not scary in the way of ghosts and spirits, rather the more mundane horror of some malignant sadness.” She looked directly at Crockett; every trace of irony in her expression was gone. “Everyone in the house has been volatile for as long as I can remember. Father didn’t want to live here, but grandmother put on such a production of tears that she convinced my parents to stay. So, father has been unhappy, my grandmother is constantly watching Martha, sure that some decades-long affair is going on, all this while Dexter parades the grounds in costumes from his days in America. Even he is trapped here. After our cousin Bixby returned to America, Dexter had no money to go back, so he was forced to stay in England. Anger and resentment stew here—I have tried to resist its pull, but Kordelia was affected. I don’t think she’d be quite as wily if we had a normal, healthy upbringing. Grandfather was terrible to her, disgusted by her peculiarities. I know I said I missed him this morning, but I don’t know if it’s true emotion or a kind of grief, a nostalgia that accompanies loss. He was always a mystery; sometimes he was very kind, taking Kordelia and me on his knee to tell us a funny little story about the house, but then he could be frightening.” Her eyes closed in frustration. “It’s not supernatural but very terrestrial, an emotional burden…” Her voice faded like the resonance after a bell rings.
Crockett felt the compunction to reach out and give her hand a squeeze but resisted. Instead, he offered his voice in sympathy. “I grew up on the London streets, pickpocketing and sleeping wherever I could find respite. I lived through a lot of anger and resentment, just in a different way and a different place.”
Brontë took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “I can only imagine. If it helps at all, Grandfather was also terrible to the local farmers. He often picked their pockets with his rental agreements, so I think the distinction of what is criminal and what isn’t is rather gray.”
They both felt the return of the effusive, golden feeling which passed between them in their morning conversation. Although they didn’t look directly at each other, they both harbored small, satisfied smiles.
“Mr. Cook, it’s been very nice to have you here the last few days,” Brontë said. “I often feel that I can talk to people for hours, days, and weeks and not know a pinprick’s worth of their true character. That’s not the case with you.”
Crockett heart lifted his chest skyward. “I would agree, Miss Hawsfeffer. It’s been a true pleasure.”
The exchange was a brief moment of reprieve before the ominous feeling of threat and suspicion returned. June brought it with her when she suggested they clear the study of the candles. She made Crockett do a precursory ghost check before she and Brontë felt comfortable taking up the work themselves.
Once relieved of ghost duties, Crockett returned to the formal sitting room. As he predicted, the atmosphere was altered. Every person he saw appeared to be on edge, flighty. Outside, the day did its best to dispel the malignant feeling. By the noon hour, the warmth of summer fully blanketed the countryside and the fragrant scent of blooming flowers rolled through the open windows.
August solved most of the mystery by the time lunch was served. He surmised that the door being thrown open was attributed to Crockett not closing it tightly, a wind gust at the right moment pushing it ajar. The music was generated by a phonograph he discovered in a closet close to the study. All was credited to a simp
le prank, but the perpetrator did not come forward. In the end, August tongue lashed Kordelia, blaming her for the events, as one of her white gloves was found near the closet where the phonograph was kept. The prim girl said very little at lunch as her formidable father ranted, his mustache bobbing rapidly.
Brontë did not agree with August blaming Kordelia, so a second row erupted, even larger than the first.
Crockett, using the basic rubric supplied by his detective novels, tried to logically piece together the events, thinking of who would have access to the phonograph and was near enough to start it. There appeared to be no contraption tied to the device to make it move a certain time, so the culprit had to be in close vicinity to make the song begin to play. The only individuals not in the séance, however, were May, Brontë, Petrarch, and Dexter. May and Brontë were on the patio; Dexter was found by Martha in the back lawn after the events; and Petrarch was headed for the folly wing, his plan to review some papers for his next clients, the Mayweathers in East Fletchfordtownhampsonvilleshire. There was no logical explanation for any of it. A ghost was a more plausible solution than one of the persons in Hawsfeffer Manor.
By mid-afternoon, a state of normalcy returned. August went to shoot, and May went with Kordelia to attend to Corinthiana rather than going to the vicar. In the main sitting room, Crockett’s eyes grew heavy watching light ripple off the strands of jewels in Beatrice’s bed. His eyelids fluttered open and closed as he heard Petrarch’s warm baritone speaking to Brontë over a hand of gin rummy. The image of Beatrice above the fireplace, its hues of pink and periwinkle, added to the dreamlike state of the afternoon.
The moment of peace was broken with the slamming of the patio door. Robert spoke quickly to himself as he rushed inside.
“It is getting ridiculous,” he said savagely.
June followed after him, her dress rustling behind her. “Robert, it is getting ridiculous. We’re all exhausted and want this to end, but mother isn’t well.”
“It is ze child’s fault.” Robert’s eyes were wild. “Kordelia's subterfuge zis morning destroyed Corinziana's nerves.”
“Now, now, old boy…” said August, freshly returned from shooting, as he overheard the conversation. His neck bulged like an angry sea bird. “You aren’t close family, and if you feel the need to leave, you are more than welcome.”
June looked appreciatively at her husband.
Robert’s teeth grated. His uneven eyebrows rustled menacingly.
There was a moment of hostile silence.
Crockett looked to Petrarch, who sat with an amused expression on his doughy face. It was May who broke the tension as she entered from the main hall.
“Mother is feeling better,” she said with her usual coldness. “She says she will decide whether to move forward with the funeral tomorrow or wait another day. The stress of the past few weeks has been overwhelming for her.”
“Zis I understand,” Robert said, attempting to warm his chilled tone, “but I must return to home soon. I have very much appreciated ze varmz of our beneficent hostess, Mrs. Havsfeffer, hovever, my vife vill be missing me, and I have ze vork to do.”
August grew red. “Sir, you are not wanted or needed here, so if this family affair is upsetting you, you are free to leave this house.”
“August, I do not like ze tone –”
“It is Augüst.”
“Regardless, I do not mean to offend.” Robert raised his hands as if surrendering. “I only zink zat for all parties it is best to end zis affair qvickly.”
“I, for one,” Petrarch said lightly, “will also be happy to return to my own bed.”
Crockett was grateful for his master’s candor at that moment. The bubbling of anger lightened to a simmer. Robert left the room, and everyone else resumed idle tasks—reading, card playing, or talking. When the sleepy malaise returned, Petrarch lightly tapped Crockett’s shoulder and motioned toward the main hall.
Brontë, who had been reading, watched them leave with keen interest. Smiling, she mouthed, “Are you being scolded?” before she disappeared from Crockett’s line of sight.
“We must be ready for Corinthiana when she asks us to read the will, my dear boy,” Petrarch said loudly as they left the room. “We can at least try to abbreviate the duration of this family tragedy.”
Crockett followed closely behind his master down the wooden hall, toward the folly, making idle conversation. It was a relief to get to the cooler stone structure, even if it was drafty and allegedly haunted.
To Crockett’s surprise, Petrarch did not stop at his chambers or Crockett’s; he kept moving until they came to small, wooden door. He looked back and then slid inside. Crockett went after nervously.
He had led them into a small servants’ quarters which was unfinished. There was a rug on the floor and a small, wooden stool, but, otherwise, it was spartan. The walls were all stone; there were no windows to offer any light. Petrarch handed Crockett a book of matches and pointed to a lamp on the stool.
As Crockett lit the lamp, Petrarch gently closed the door. When he turned to face his apprentice, his normally calm demeanor was absent, replaced with an uncharacteristic anxiousness.
“Crockett,” he said softly, “sorry to act so conspiratorially, but I am beginning to think you and Brontë may have been correct in your assumption of some sort of plot being afoot.”
“You think there is something going on?” Crockett's thick eyebrows rose. “There is a swelling, ominous atmosphere of suspicion…I’ve felt it growing since the séance.”
“Indeed. I feel something as well.”
“What could it be?”
“Everything going on is very odd.”
“Everyone here is very odd; the things may simply be symptoms.”
Petrarch allowed a small smile. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps symptoms or perhaps conspiracy?”
“Maybe both.” Petrarch took a deep breath. “Did you notice anything strange during the séance?”
“Everything was strange. The fish was wearing a hat.”[19]
“I mean, anything compounding off the general strangeness.”
Crockett thought for a moment. “Some of the persons present were odd. Why was August—Aaghoost?—there? He seems very logical. He wouldn’t support contacting the dead.”
“Unless his wife made him.”
“That’s true. But what about Martha and Robert Edward? Martha won’t even get someone a cup of tea, why would she sit through a séance?”
Petrarch nodded. “When you were in the actual séance, before I left their company, May and Brontë both said very interesting things.”
“You don’t say.”
“Brontë asked May about Robert. She wanted to know if they had ever met before. May responded that she had never heard of him until his arrival at the manor, but she said they all deserved each other. Then she said something ominous, quite like ‘Soon everyone will get what they deserve.’”
Crockett frowned. “Why would she say that?”
“I don’t know. Then, when the séance occurred with that odd trick, it seemed, well, interesting.” Petrarch paused. His eyes sparkled as he looked to Crockett. “Speaking of, I was very proud of your candor during the aftermath. A year ago, you would have fainted like a goat or screamed like a laundress[20] and run to the lavatory.” Petrarch gripped Crockett’s shoulder with warmth. “You’ve grown up a lot, my boy.”
Crockett was so overwhelmed with emotion that he felt tears form at the edge of his eyes. Quickly, he wiped them away. He nodded at Petrarch, acknowledging the compliment, but then charged forward, returning to the subject at hand.
“In terms of the séance, you don’t think Kordelia did it, do you?” he asked, still trying to suppress a smile.
“No.” Petrarch tapped his forehead with his index finger. “But I don’t see any real, concrete motives for anyone else. Kordelia has been convicted of arson, but that wasn’t intentional.” He scratched his beard as he attempted to pul
l the threads of disparate thought together. “Why would someone be trying to scare those people in the room? To what end? Is it to get to some conclusion—to scare someone into something?”
Crockett shook his head. “I’ve mentally run through the logistics of it, and there’s no explanation. Everyone has an alibi, and someone had to be in the actual room to start the phonograph. My main suspect is Robert Edward, and that’s mostly due to his galling ugliness.”
Petrarch thoughtfully rubbed his protruding belly. “In terms of logic, Dexter and I are the main suspects; although, the women saw me go toward my bedroom, and Martha found Dexter on the back lawn practicing an American square dance.”
“None of it makes logical sense.” Crockett rubbed his eyes in frustration. “Brontë said she had a terrible feeling in this house…not fear, but she called it a ‘malignant sadness.’”
Petrarch frowned. “That was the strange thing she said to May and me. She said the house was like a pot, and she thought things were beginning to boil.”
For a moment, they both contemplated the strange events of the day. Eerie shadows danced on the walls of the small room. In the silence, Crockett shivered, remembering Kordelia’s warnings from the previous day.
“Crockett,” Petrarch finally said softly, “why don’t you find out more from Brontë. See if you can draw out any reasons Bixby Hawsfeffer may have been dispatched or why anyone would be trying to frighten Corinthiana. We are getting ahead of ourselves. I think this house is deluding us with its dark history and suspicious characters, but we should start to think through this as men of science with sound logic.” He paused for a moment, then said quickly. “And be careful, my boy. I’ve sensed the growing affection between you and Miss Hawsfeffer. I’m sympathetic to the budding emotions, but I ask you to be on guard. Despite the state of their finances, the Hawsfeffers are of a higher caste than yourself, and I don’t want you leaving here heartbroken.”
Crockett’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Yes…er…yes, Petrarch. Thank you for saying so…” The young man tried to conceal his disappointment. “I…I will…er…I will find out what I can from Brontë. And,” he said sadly, “will be careful in the process.”