by Tedd Hawks
Brontë looked to her sister. Her face was flushed. She spoke airily as if waking from a dream. “We were…We were just talking about Grandfather…about how he died.”
“Why in the river, of course.” Kordelia’s wide eyes looked innocently at her sister. “If you fall in the warmer season, it’s difficult to get back out. Nothing floats—ghosts, bones, and keys or stones.”
“Ghosts, bones, and keys or stones…” But before Crockett could ponder this further, Kordelia danced off to the corner.
“As I told you this morning, she has a powerful imagination,” Brontë said, an edge of fright to her voice. “If she’s still keeping points on our status with the family, I hope she gave herself scores for the phantasms that fill her brain.”
#
The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Everyone eventually made it to the sitting room, except for May and Corinthiana. Corinthiana went to sleep early, while May had taken her righteous indignation and gone to read the Bible in the study; she hoped to dispel any residual spirits from the séance. Any fears held by the rest of the party faded as more lamps were lighted and the conversation turned away from family drama. Even Beatrice, placed early by Corinthiana in her grand bed, had a wonderful evening. She swam jovially watching the lively gathering.
Petrarch held the crowd in rapt attention during the latter hours of the evening, regaling them with a number of stories of his clients and cases in London. His last tale primarily concerned how he met Crockett, how the young boy had been sent to rob him but was unsuccessful.
“One of the sharpest boys I’d ever met,” Petrarch said beaming at Crockett. “He went out to rob me and followed me to a public house by my office. Inside I caught him in his pilfering and scolded him. I soon discovered he was quite a smart boy. I eventually offered him a job if he wanted.”
“That was very brave of you,” August said brusquely. “Most of the poor draw their intelligence from being impoverished, you know. He could have swindled you in that game.”
No one quite knew what he meant, but it put an end to the night’s discussion rather handily.
Before bed Crockett told Petrarch about his conversation with Brontë. The old man laughed heartily when Crockett finished his explanation that there were no suspects, no motives, and no physical evidence. He pooh-poohed Crockett and Brontë’s thoughts of there being some other mysterious presence responsible for Mr. Hawsfeffer’s murder and the otherworldly séance trick.
“I think, perhaps, we’re all forgetting our heads,” Petrarch said. “After the séance, I was also ready to round up everyone and send them to jail, but I've since regained my equilibrium. If a review of the facts only makes us go further into conjecture and fantasy, then it would appear we are losing sight of the real, current state of affairs.”
Crockett went to bed hearing Petrarch counting out his exercises. Despite the chilling sunset of blood-red and black, the night turned calm. The velvet sky was dotted with sparkling stars. A brisk chill ran through the windows of Crockett’s room. He went to sleep on his tiny couch with the soft howl of the wind in his ears.
Compared to the first night when he’d had nightmares of terrifying canaries and grating harpsichords, his dreams were so calming that he didn't hear the scream.
It was Brontë who woke him. Her thundering footsteps in the corridor pulled him from his slumber before the door opened.
“Come,” she said, her voice like a knife in the dark. It was pain and panic joined horribly together, a forceful word, edged with a shriek. “When we arrive in the foyer you may not want to look…”
Petrarch rose and joined them in the hall. As they ran down the corridor, Crockett felt a slight surge of pride in the midst of his terror; the new courage again collided with overwhelming fear to keep him upright. Not even the threat of a faint preoccupied him. He was quite functional amid of all this frenetic movement.
This flash of joy and pride failed, however, as he, Petrarch, and Brontë entered the main foyer.
Gathered around some dark object, suspended over the front door, the household stared upon a scene of horror. All faces were aghast, trying to assign meaning to the chaos before them. It struck Crockett that his fear of the nursery rhyme that morning was made absurd by the corpse, which took shape before his eyes in the dim candlelight. No one uttered a sound except Corinthiana, whose shrieks rebounded against the high ceiling.
It was Beatrice—or what once was the small aquatic companion—horribly eviscerated. The animal’s entrails were loosed and slung across the wall. The object of defilement appeared to be a blade, which had been forced through the pet’s eye. In the dim light of the lamps, the fresh pink and white innards shone like evil, glittering jewels. Crockett watched the streaks of gore drip. The effect grew even more sinister as time elapsed, the fish’s viscera transforming into a demonic paint, shimmering in the glow of their lamps’ dim flames.
Chapter 10: The Aftermath
As they examined Beatrice's entrails,[22] August broke the silence.
“You know,” he started, stroking his mustache, “it seems to me a trout or Atlantic salmon would be a much more robust pet, definitely could have survived this kind of flaying or at least put up a better fight.”
Corinthiana wasn’t comforted. The old woman responded with a prolonged, doleful “AWWWWRRRRRKKKKKKK!”
“Darling, now is not the time.” June shook her head at August as she held her mother. “Stiff upper lips are sometimes a bit too stiff and too upper, if you catch my insinuation.”
“I rather liked Beatrice, Grandmummy,” Kordelia slid beside her grandmother and gently gripped the old woman's hand. “We always had wonderful conversations.”
Crockett, again at a loss after an interjection by Kordelia, said nothing. His most useful tool at the current moment was investigative prowess; he looked around the room, assessing reactions to the sordid scene. The escalation in chicanery and violence cemented the fact that a foul game was afoot; perhaps only in the Hawsfeffer house would a fish being filleted constitute an inhuman, nefarious transgression, but—here they were.
His examination, however, brought no clarity. If anything, his chief suspect, Robert Edward, appeared the most distraught. His eyes were averted from the gore and settled on the grieving Corinthiana. May was the most indifferent. In her black nightgown she looked smug as the light of pale flames danced across her face.
“I think someone should fetch Dexter and Martha,” June said to Brontë. She flicked her eyes to Crockett. “Perhaps two should go—it’s a bad night to wander alone in the house.” She extended her hand so that Crockett could take her light.
Brontë sighed. She turned to Crockett and signaled toward the stairs.
During their ascent to the second floor, the young lawyer leaned close to Brontë.
“This seems entirely—”
The young woman silenced Crockett with a severe look. “Not tonight, Crockett. Tonight, we just get through this. Poor Grandmother. Losing Grandfather was bad, but Beatrice…She loved that pet more than anything in the world.”
They both moved cautiously down the hall toward Martha’s quarters. She occupied a small chamber close to Corinthiana’s own large bedroom. This was a recent arrangement. Prior to Bixby Hawsfeffer’s death, she stayed in the servants’ quarters attached to the kitchen. When the patriarch died, Corinthiana asked her to move into the house. The force of grief was evident to everyone, as Martha was the last person she ever wanted close to her while Bixby was alive. It was thought she wanted to make amends or bury hatchets, as the arrangement was the first white flag Corinthiana had waved in all her years at Hawsfeffer Manor.
Upon entering Martha’s chamber, they found her snoring loudly. The screams and chaos had not reached her old ears. Crockett moved close to the old woman and gently shook her. Even though he tried to wake her calmly with a soft touch, the old woman still sat up in a panic.
“I MUST PROTECT THEM!” she screamed. A glob of spittle splashed on
Crockett, which he subtly shook off.
Brontë, not particularly fond of Martha for a number of reasons, put out a hand to soothe her. The effort was so lackluster it appeared she was swatting a lethargic fly.
“Martha,” Crockett whispered, “we’re all fine.”
“Well…” Brontë said playing with a strand of her hair.
“All the people…are fine,” Crockett started again, “but we need you downstairs.”
“Is it him?” Her voice quavered. Crockett saw a deep terror in her eyes.
“Who?” he asked leaning closer. “Is it who?”
She did not answer. She jumped up as quickly as her aged years would allow and tottered into the hall.
Crockett and Brontë exchanged worried glances before following behind.
When they arrived downstairs, things were mildly less chaotic. More candles were lighted, and most of the party had retreated into the sitting room to regain their calm. Only Corinthiana and June were absent, having gone to the kitchen to fetch tea for the family and a cup of sherry for Corinthiana.
Dexter arrived during their absence. The old man was, for the first time, wearing normal clothes. His bald head shone in the candlelight. It was the first time Crockett saw him up close—what struck him as most remarkable was how unremarkable the groundskeeper was. Stripped of his normally bizarre costume, he could have been any man, or no man, for that matter. His countenance was of so little consequence Crockett found when he turned away, he had to look back again to remember any small detail. The banal housemaster stood close to August, receiving orders on what to do with the fish’s corpse.
“We’ll need to save it—Corinthiana will want to have it put in the family tomb with Bixby and herself.”
“Yessir,” was all Dexter said as he approached the lanced herring.
Crockett took the moment to attend to the corpse. It truly was ghastly, the entrails of Beatrice ripped out and smeared on the wall. Whoever had done the work had a precise hand. It wasn’t entirely slashed and mutilated but cleanly opened with an expert cut. The sword which did the work was still driven into the animal's eye. To Crockett’s surprise, it wasn’t a hunting knife but looked as if it was an heirloom, a long rapier, slightly discolored with age.
“It looks as if a madman did this,” Crockett said turning away.
Dexter wiped his nose with the sleeve of his coat. “Better the fish than someone in the house, I suppose,” he said in his clanging, American accent. “The house has gone after bigger prey before.”
Crockett shuddered thinking of a person gorily suspended as Beatrice was now. For his part, however, Dexter was correct—Lucinda Hawsfeffer, Baron Von Bunson, and Bixby Hawsfeffer were all victims of the house's malice and the river’s terrifying current.
Crockett shook his head and turned away. He made his way to the sitting room to join the rest of the party in mourning.
Immediately upon entering the room, his eyes met the piercing gaze of Petrarch who was seated at the card table. The old man tapped his nose and pointed to Robert Edward, who was speaking with May. With a tiny gesture of his hand, a slight sweep in May and Robert’s direction, he inferred Crockett should go listen.
A plan presented itself to the junior solicitor as he looked from his master to Robert and May. On his approach to the sofa, he prepared his subterfuge.
Behind the seat was a small table with a collection of books he could use to feign insouciant interest. He idly picked up a volume and turned its pages whilst attempting to lean forward and listen to the conversation in front of him. The low voices, however, and Robert’s erratic accent, hurt his progress. This caused him to subtly inch forward. While he thought he looked very demure, Kordelia and Brontë both marked his bizarre slouching and watched with amused, rapt attention as he leaned closer and closer to their aunt and (distant) cousin.
“But do you zink it vas intentional? Zis act of violence?” Robert Edward asked, his large nose quivering.
“Surely, even in your backwards country, a pet fish doesn’t accidentally end up looking like it’s been sent through a woodchipper,” May grimaced. She slumped, sinking into the couch. “But who or what is behind it is a mystery. This house has always had a tension within it. It's no secret our family has never been a cohesive unit, but it always felt as if there was something deeper and more malignant involved. I don’t think this act was spirits, but you never know. You’ve heard the stories?”
“In my country no vun has ze fish companion, but I understand ze drama of zis. But, no,” Robert said dramatically, “zere are stories of spirits in ze house?”
“It’s rumored that our dear, departed patriarch, your cousin, Bixby Hawsfeffer, wasn’t the kindest soul,” May lowered her voice. “They say he not only tortured his uncle, who gave him this property, but there is also conjecture…” She again reduced her voice's volume. She was speaking so softly Crockett pretended to drop his book on the sofa so he could double over and lean closer. Brontë (still observing) stifled a laugh in her fist. “Well… Some believe that he murdered his first wife because she bore him a,” her voice dropped again, “homosexual son.”
“My stars!” Robert gasped. “Zey say homosexuals are becoming more common, but I hope to never encounter vun.” He shook his head sadly. “But vut of ze cousin of Bixby Havsfeffer? Ze vun hoo vent to America?”
May spun to face Crockett. The young man had leaned so closely that his torso was laying over the couch, his head resting on a pillow. Brontë, seeing he was caught, let out a loud, amused snort.
“Could you please mind your own business?” May spit, her face flushed red. “Poor in fortune and poor in manners, a disgusting combination for a young man.” She rose in a rage and stormed away from the sofa.
Robert Edward looked at Crockett. His uneven, misaligned face conveyed disgust. He then turned his attention to the fireplace. The gun had been returned to the mantle; it gleamed in the dim light.
A few moments later, Corinthiana re-entered the room. Pale and trembling, she clutched June’s shoulder with her right hand as she sipped a cup of sherry with her left.
As everyone turned their attention to the old matriarch, she grew self-conscious, chugging what remained of her spirits and exhaling dramatically. Crockett noted that sometime between the discovery of the filleted Beatrice and the present moment she found time to put on a garish, mink stole.
“Oooh deeear,” she began, “it haaas beeen…” She stopped. Her lip quivered and her breaths came in grandiose, huffing gasps. A number of ululations then broke from her mouth, a bizarre war cry mixed with a seal bark.
Everyone in the room stared compassionately at their hostess, all unsure how to help the old woman in this time of intense grief. Upon her ending the warring seal noises, however, a deep, shuddering gasp led to a second, more destructive and explosive expression of grief, an octave-soaring “WHAWHAWHAWHA.”
June finally put an end to it; with little gentility, she shoved her mother onto the couch. Corinthiana slumped, putting her head in her hands. Her doughy shoulders occasionally shook as she continued to emit moans and aquatic mammalian ejaculations.
“The burial will commence as soon as possible,” June said. “Mummy has seen that someone or something is distressed about Daddy’s death, so we must put an end to this whole affair quickly before things escalate any further.”
“Hear, hear!” August shouted, his mustache jovially shaking.
“The vicar will be called on tomorrow. We will dispense with the usual formalities and have a few words said before the caskets of Beatrice and Daddy are taken to the family tomb.”
“It seems simple enough,” May said. “I shall be able to leave by lunch.”
“There is,” Corinthiana bleated from the sofa, “there is a smaaall problem.”
“How small?” Robert Edward’s eyes narrowed.
Corinthiana continued to make morose, audible booms, so June answered, “We don’t have the key to the tomb. We can’t get in.”
Petrarch shifted uncomfortably. “I believe one of them went down to the bottom of the river with him.”
“Well, there must be another in the house!” August’s mustache was the most erratic Crockett had seen since their arrival, twitching, shuddering, and bristling all at once.
Brontë thought for a moment. “Do you think it’s downstairs with the family heirlooms?”
“I haaave loooked, my daaarling,” Corinthiana said sadly. “But weee caaan aaalwaaays try aaagain. I think this taaask were best treeeated as a faaamily project. Perhaaaps, if weee split up, weee caaan leeeave no stone unturned, hmmm.”
“I think that sounds like a wonderful plan of attack,” August growled. “Kordelia and June, we can search the upstairs.”
“This is nonsense,” May crossed her arms in disdain. “How can a key be this important? Let’s just break open the gate.”
“Sister,” June said, “you forget Baron Von Bunson built that tomb as if he were building the Taj Mahal. The door is solid marble. There are no windows.”
“Theee Baaaron waaanted it tooo beee imposing,” Corinthiana said, “like a graaand tooomb of theee Orient.”
“Well, then,” Brontë interjected, “first thing in the morning, let’s get to work. It has to be somewhere—Petrarch and Robert, you can go check in the folly wing. Crockett and I will investigate the family vault and look amongst the boxes.” She smiled at Crockett. “I think we will find it before lunch, as Aunt May said.”
Crockett did his best to hide his elation at being selected by Brontë. He smiled into his closed fist, pretending he was coughing.
The group came to a firm agreement on this plan of action and disbanded. Robert Edward and May exchanged a quick glance, but no more speech passed between them. Brontë and Kordelia politely bid everyone a warm good night before heading up to their rooms. June kept Corinthiana occupied until Dexter and Martha removed the last remnants of fish guts from the main hall.