Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe

by Tedd Hawks

  Petrarch smiled knowingly in the half-dark. “It’s for the best, Crockett. We’ll find you a nice girl when we return to London and have this mess behind us. You’re nineteen, in the prime of life, with an excellent career ahead of you.” He, again, reached out and gripped his assistant’s shoulder. “On a lighter note, in terms of business, I am very proud of you. Having been your master for these long years, I should know when to trust your intuition, especially on a case like this where the incoherence is rapidly compounding.” He sighed and shook his head. “Even if it’s not murder, there is something amiss in this house. It hides some secret, some malice that must be rooted out.”

  Chapter 9: A Perfect Night for Murder

  Crockett left Petrarch’s room flush with pride from the praise of his mentor. He intended to go directly to interrogate Brontë about her thoughts on the events of the day; however, his mission was delayed by dinner.

  In the dining room, Corinthiana joined the party for the evening meal, the potatoes growing cold as she marched from the south end of the table to the north. The entrance took longer than usual due to the old woman’s mix of fear and anxiety.

  Rather than dissipate, the tension swelled at dinner. The explanation of the phonograph incident being caused by Kordelia was unsatisfactory to everyone but August. Few words were exchanged during the course of dining—the room was filled with the sounds of cutlery and the occasional indecorous belch from Robert.

  The long-lost cousin did finally speak up, gently wiping his mouth with his napkin before proceeding, “Allo' me to apologize again for ze earlier moment vith you, August.”

  “Augüst, yes.”

  “I vas terribly out of ze line. Corinziana may memorialize her husband however she desires.”

  “That’s very nice of you to say.” June gave Robert a cold smile before turning her eyes to her plate.

  August said nothing, but his mustache slightly jostled to the left, which most took as a sign of understanding.

  “While we’re speaking,” Kordelia said softly. “I’d also like to re-assert that I had nothing to do with the earlier séance incident. I hope whoever is guilty will have the courage to speak up.”

  There was a lengthy silence. Eyes moved around the room, most of them reflected sympathy for the young girl.

  “Darling, now is not the time,” June said looking empathetically at her daughter. “We can discuss this later.”

  Brontë threw a glance at Crockett to convey irritation with her mother’s response.

  “Everyone, a moooment pleeease.” Corinthiana was exhausted. The mammoth earrings that decorated her ears pulled her head to the table. In truth, since the séance, a great deal of energy had gone out of the previously vivacious woman. Beatrice matched her mood, sitting stock-still in her bowl, staring into space. “Theee entooombment will commence in twooo daaays time. I neeeded a moment of rest. I aaam sorry I haaave kept yooou here.” She smiled at Robert. “I haaaven't beeen myself laaately, but with a quiet daaay, yooou caaan beee sure thaaat things will beeegin moooving briskly.”

  “And the will reading?” May’s dark eyes fixed on her mother. Her mouth twitched.

  “Theee daaay aaafter.” Corinthiana sighed.

  “Why not the same day?” May said it lightly, but even Crockett saw the direct challenge it presented.

  “Rest.” August’s neck turned purple. “She needs rest, May. It’s best to let this sleeping dog lie.”

  “Lie,” May said forcefully. “What an interesting choice of word.” The austere woman swiftly rose and left the room, her black heels echoing in the main foyer.

  Corinthiana put her head between her hands and groaned, a slight, wavering “Awrk.” Before long the table emptied—June took Corinthiana to her room, Kordelia

  disappeared like a fine mist, a white glove left in her place, and Robert left to go enjoy a cigarette on the front lawn.

  Petrarch gave Crockett a knowing look before quietly asking August if he would take a walk with him on the grounds.

  As Martha began taking the plates away, Brontë turned to Crockett with a sigh.

  “Well, at least we know what day the whole thing will end,” she said.

  Crockett watched Martha leave the room before leaning toward Brontë. When he was sure that Martha was gone and couldn’t overhear their conversation, he said quietly, “Petrarch pulled me aside today.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Well, he thinks you’re right.”

  “About what?” Brontë’s eyebrows jumped on her smooth face.

  “He thinks something is afoot. He described it as ‘some malice.’”

  “The séance convinced him?”

  “Not fully but it played a part.” Crockett and Brontë were inches away from each other. The earnestness of the conversation forced them to lean closely together. Crockett could feel her warm, potato-tinged breath on his face. He stopped short of continuing his speech, the amount of perspiration accumulating on his palms and forehead causing him to grow self-conscious.

  Brontë also found herself speechless, staring into the multi-colored eyes of Crockett. While their amicable bond had grown over the past two days, this conspiratorial moment raised the emotional stakes exponentially.

  It was a distant gunshot that brought them to their senses. Crockett leapt up, backing against the wall. Brontë turned her head, taking a deep, shaking breath to calm her nerves.

  “It’s Father,” she said quickly. “I bet he’s showing Petrarch his toys.”

  Crockett put his hand to his heart. “I’m never good under pressure, but this house is testing every fiber of my resolve.”

  “Are you afraid of more canaries, Mr. Cook?” Brontë rose from the table, an ironic smile returning to her face. “If you let all these small pressures get to you, you’ll be in a mountain of troubouble.”

  Crockett laughed. “I did expect at least a modicum of sympathy from you.” For some reason, an insult from Brontë meant more than one thousand compliments from others. “And, if you must know, guns I’m actually quite stable around, but, in this house, they seem to mean something more.”

  “Neither ghosts nor canaries can shoot, as far as I know,” Brontë laughed uneasily. “But…” She looked toward the door to see if Martha was close. When she was sure the old maid had not returned, she continued, “Well, if you and Petrarch also have a suspicion—” She stopped when she heard Martha’s footsteps returning. She mimed for Crockett to stay quiet and pointed to the south exit.

  Once out of the dining room, both paused in the main foyer.

  The color of the twilight sky took their breath away. It was a magic, if foreboding moment, the front windows, half black, half the color of blood.

  “It’s so ominous,” Brontë said softly. “It's not the peaceful sensation twilight usually brings but something like violence, the sky rent in two.”

  “But beautiful,” Crockett said mesmerized. Below the sky, and visible through the lower two windows of the two-story façade, Crockett saw Dexter and Robert somberly speaking. The wispy smoke of Robert’s cigarette circled them. They, too, seemed lost in the spell of twilight.

  It was Brontë who shook them from the daydream. She touched Crockett’s arm, sending an electric shock through his whole person. The graze appeared to be accidental, the young woman not acknowledging the breach of propriety. She instead turned and moved quickly into the sitting room. Crockett regained his senses before following after her.

  Entering the sitting room, they found it empty. The only sounds were hushed voices coming from the patio and the old clock chiming, signaling the eight o’clock hour. Crockett noted the gun, usually ominously hung over the fireplace, was missing.

  “Does your father shoot with that gun?” Crockett asked. “I thought it was more a decorative piece.”

  “He takes it when he would like to make a statement for a guest. He most likely wanted to give Petrarch a thrill.”

  Brontë casually looked around the room, checking the back hallways and l
ooking out onto the patio to see if anyone was nearby. When she was sure no one noticed their entrance, she sped to the card table and took out a deck of worn cards. Carelessly, she threw out an arbitrary number, then flipped one up on the top. She took a seat and motioned for Crockett to sit across from her.

  “What are we playing?” Crockett kept his voice low.

  “It doesn’t matter, but it would be best not to draw attention to this conversation. If someone comes in quickly, it looks like we are preoccupied.”

  Crockett fanned his cards and was glad no game was being played; he had one jack and a handful of low-numbered spades and hearts.

  “Now that we have some privacy, let’s return to the subject from earlier.” Her gaze lifted; the lights reflected in her eyes quivered with excitement. “Petrarch thinks there is something odd?” While still staring intently at Crockett, she flipped a card and discarded one of those from her hand with a casual grace.

  “He does,” Crockett said, admiring Brontë's natural inclination to playacting; between her current performance and Kordelia’s German-French-English play rehearsals, the family was very strong in the arts.[21] “The séance was bizarre, but he doesn’t necessarily believe anyone is in danger. He thinks there may be some foul play somewhere, though.”

  “But he thinks Grandfather died naturally?” The door in the main foyer opened. A clacking of gentleman’s shoes filled the hall as Robert walked toward the stairs. When he was gone, Brontë continued, “He was in such good health. And I feel the circumstances are strange, to say the least. There are a great many people here who hated Grandfather.”

  “Really?” Crockett had been pretending to look at his cards, but this statement pulled his eyes upward to focus on Brontë. She scolded him with an annoyed look and motioned for him to pick up a card from the draw pile.

  “My father has never liked anyone in the family," she said. "He resented moving into Hawsfeffer Manor, but my grandfather said that his residence here was a requirement to receive Grandfather’s blessing to marry my mother.”

  “Why?”

  “He said it’s because my mother is Grandmother’s favorite. He couldn’t bear to see them separated.”

  “Which gives cause for May to hate him as well.” Crockett threw down a card haphazardly. “No child likes to be the least favorite.”

  Brontë nodded. “May left the house as soon as she could to go to the convent.”

  “But she never finished.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Brontë shook her head. “I don’t know. I think my grandmother and mother know, but it’s never been told to us.”

  “Your grandfather was a bizarre presence of chaos in the house—he caused disruption for Kordelia, your mother, August…May…” Crockett absentmindedly looked through his cards. “What about Robert Edward? Does he have a story?”

  “We don’t know. He simply appeared one day.”

  “After your grandfather died?”

  “Before. Grandfather was in London on business; after meeting with Petrarch about the will he was home for a short time before returning to the city. Robert arrived during his absence claiming his familial connection. Although he appeared to be a bizarre villain from a gothic novel, he was kind. Before that, however, no one had spoken of him.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Some odd country near mountains. He pronounced it once, but I’d never heard of it. He claims to be a cousin.”

  “And his story was his gypsy blood told him to come here?”

  “Yes, he claimed ‘a premonition.’ He sent a letter to Grandfather in regard to this fear, and Grandfather invited him to come see that everything was perfectly fine.”

  Crockett again forgot about the card game. “That is very suspicious.”

  Brontë shrugged her shoulders. “He brought a letter of introduction from my grandfather, written in Grandfather’s own hand.”

  Crockett let out an exasperated breath, frustrated that the handful of threads they unspooled the past few days all lead to dead ends.

  “Then, of course,” Brontë continued, “there are Martha and Dexter.”

  Crockett coughed. “They have something against your grandfather?”

  “They’ve been part of the family for a long time. Martha and Grandfather were always seen talking on the grounds, often privately. My mother claims there was never an affair, but one can never know. Martha has always been very unhappy, whether that’s from being a jilted lover or something else, I can’t say.” Brontë paused, her hand holding a card just above the table. “The very interesting thing is that Martha and Grandfather’s meetings increased in frequency and intensity as his death approached.”

  Crockett’s eyes widened. “You don’t say.”

  “I did just say it.”

  The two forgot about the fake card game, both looking to the middle distance, collecting their thoughts.

  “And what,” Crockett asked distantly, “is Dexter’s connection? Would he have motive?”

  “Dexter is a very odd case. He keeps to himself, aside from my grandfather, for whom he showed infrequent but consistent affection. He came over with Cousin Bixby from America. When our cousin fought with Grandfather, they separated. Dexter had no money. Supposedly, he was also swindled by Cousin Bixby and forced to stay on as groundskeeper because he didn’t have the funds to return to America.”

  “So,” Crockett said, “if anything, he would be the most loyal to your grandfather.”

  “Honestly, he and my grandmother are the most blameless in all this.” She then added, “And, of course, Kordelia is a peculiarity, but she means no harm to anyone. Grandfather didn’t care much for her, but I hardly think she’s capable of murder.”

  Crockett tapped a card on the table. “That still leaves quite a number of others with motive to get rid of him.”

  Brontë laughed softly. “Beatrice even has cause, if we’re being honest. Grandfather hated the poor scaly thing. To be fair, Grandmother treated her better than she did anyone in the family.”

  Crockett shook his head. “I still don’t understand the fish…Why does your grandmother love it so much?”

  “There’s nothing to understand. Most often things we love find us by accident. It doesn’t mean anything more than what it is—it’s a connection—intangible, magnetic.” Brontë abruptly stopped speaking.

  The layer of perspiration reformed on Crockett’s hands and forehead. Both young people felt overwhelmed, hot with an anticipation they didn’t fully comprehend.

  Unable to make eye contact with Brontë, Crockett set aside his cards and placed both hands on his temples. He cleared his throat. “If we…ummm…if we…are being pragmatic about this, though,”—the word pragmatic, taken from one of his detective novels, offered the young apprentice renewed grounding—“pragmatic…yes, if we are that, then the day your grandfather died, the only individuals in the house were Dexter, Martha, you, your sister, your mother, grandmother, and father, correct?”

  “Yes.” Brontë kept her eyes fixed at a point in the hallway to the kitchen. She appreciated Crockett’s return to natural discourse. “Well, and Beatrice, of course.”

  Brontë’s eyes met his, the tension dispelled. Crockett chuckled softly, “And Beatrice.” He took a moment to think, his eyes closing. “There’s no proof your grandfather was murdered, but if there was, those gathered in the house, aquatic creatures included, would be the culprits.”

  Brontë pondered a moment. “I think we must add Aunt May to that list. Although she wasn’t present in the house, she does live near. It could have been a plot.”

  “Very good. So, the only ones truly free from suspicion in that regard are Petrarch, Robert, and I.”

  “It would seem. You and Petrarch were in London and Robert was as well. After his visit here he went into the city for business. When he returned to the house to say good-bye to Grandfather… well, he found out he was deceased.”

  “This shakes the
conviction in my mind that the séance scheme is in any way related. The only two individuals who could have possibly executed it were Dexter and Petrarch, both of whom for which it seems impractical that they could hurtle to the second floor, turn on the phonograph, then sprint downstairs to get to their respective positions in the bedroom and the back lawn.”

  Brontë bit her lip. “It seems as if nothing is connected at all.”

  “So,” Crockett said resignedly, “we have no suspects and no concrete motives for any of it.” He thought briefly of Lucinda’s note; he decided it best not to address, as it also only muddied their current understanding of events rather than clarify it. “There’s also no physical evidence,” he continued. “The body is gone and Kordelia’s glove is hardly a clue because…well, they are everywhere.”

  Brontë suddenly started and looked toward Crockett. She leaned so closely to him that he could see the small, individual lines of color in her eyes. “What if there is someone else?” she asked breathlessly. “We’re thinking too small, Crockett. Is there anyone else who could have a reason, and the means, to get rid of Grandfather? Perhaps the séance is a practical joke, but what if there is someone secret, someone hidden from us who would want to enact violence on him?”

  She finished quickly, her face radiating excitement. Crockett sat for a moment, caught up in her earnest energy. Her beauty filled the room, clouding his comprehension of the facts of the case.

  This was the first time in his life he’d shared such intimate confidences with a woman. He never truly became acquainted with other feminine figures in his life; they always were at some distance. But here was Brontë, fully before him, her beautiful complexities causing his heart to flutter.

  In the intrigue, neither Brontë nor Crockett noticed Kordelia enter and stand beside them, her dainty hands placed behind her back.

  “Looks like an intriguing game,” she said in her ethereal voice. “You both appear enraptured.”