Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe

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Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe Page 11

by Tedd Hawks


  Petrarch said very little to Crockett in the journey down the rickety walkway to their rooms. There was a draft in this ramshackle part of the house which made them both shiver.

  “Good night then, Petrarch,” Crockett said. “It looks like we were correct about something being a bit sinister.”

  Petrarch appeared perturbed, an emotion the jolly gentleman rarely expressed. He paused outside of his door, his hand on the knob. “It’s an interesting business about this key,” he said quietly.

  “You said yourself that one copy most likely went down with Bixby in the river.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” The old man squinted, his mind hard at work. He noted the need for a more portable thinking pipe, one which would allow for more adaptable moments of deep thought.

  “In the current atmosphere," Crockett added nervously, "it's hard not to embrace that something terrible is happening around us.”

  The old solicitor smiled briefly. “I know my boy. It seems when I regain my balance, a clear, logical perspective on things, they go catawampus again. I find myself oscillating between asinine conspiracy theories and very mundane musings.” Stroking his beard, Petrarch sighed. “Perhaps I simply need to do some more exercises—my brain is a bit addled this evening. I’ll also begin thinking where an eccentric man like Bixby Hawsfeffer would hide an old key.”

  “I shall do the same.” Crockett bowed slightly to Petrarch to say good night and walked toward his room. His hand was on the knob to his quarters when his thoughts returned to the murder of Beatrice. Brontë asking him to be her partner in the search the next morning had created a drunken fog on his brain, one which focused solely on the warm halo of their planned excursion after breakfast. “Petrarch,” he said quickly, “I got distracted, but I was trying to think who did it this whole time. The blade looks like an heirloom, not a hunting weapon, but whoever wielded it would have had to find it, then use it, with some precision, to maim the fish in such a brutal manner.”

  “Indeed. It would have taken a steady hand.” Petrarch turned to his apprentice and stroked his beard.

  “But,” Crockett clicked his tongue in exasperation, “Beatrice’s bed is in the central sitting room. We all retired at the same time, so anyone could have slipped in and done it. Again, another tragedy, but the road does not narrow, it only grows wider.”

  “Well, my boy,” Petrarch’s eyes twinkled, “think of this with your logical, law-bent mind. Corinthiana discovered the body. I found that out from Kordelia this evening.”

  “But she’s hardly a suspect—she wouldn’t lay a hand on Beatrice.”

  “But what made her wake? Who had access to the weapon? And I believe this key,” here he subconsciously patted his stomach, his face growing graver, “may mean more than simply a means to get into the tomb.”

  “You think it may be tied to a motive?”

  “I don’t know, my boy.” The old man licked his lips. He hesitated before he continued. “I—er—” He stopped abruptly. His eyes met Crockett’s. A smile returned to his face, forced but resolute. “What I do know is that while the road right now has not narrowed, we have many paths to take that may lead to resolution.” Crockett felt some satisfaction in this. Petrarch added warmly, “In the daylight things won’t seem so hapless as they do in this darkness.”

  “I certainly hope not. I hope this ends tomorrow so that we can all rest a bit easier.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Petrarch sniffed, an indication it was time to part for the night. Crockett heard the sound of the old man’s door open behind him. There was a brief pause, then he heard his master's voice, a note of humor in its tone. “Oh and Crockett, please remember to keep thinking of Miss Hawsfeffer as nothing more than a client. Electricity has yet to reach this part of the countryside, but when she spoke your name this evening, your face could have lit up half of West Hampminstershireshire had you been close to a tungsten filament.”

  Crockett, flushed with embarrassment, rushed into his room and closed the door.

  Chapter 11: The Vault

  Morning brought a tentative calm to the house. Thin, gray clouds rolled in during the early morning, tinting all light an ashy gray. Few slept well, so that by nine o’clock, Martha had cleared breakfast away and all dispersed to their assigned places to look for the key.

  Brontë led Crockett through the formal sitting room and into the more stylish west wing of the house. The money, which ran out while building the folly, had been abundant during this other half of the home’s expansion. The long hall leading toward the addition was much more opulent. Instead of untreated wooden planks, they walked on patterned, gold-threaded carpet. Along the hall there were a number of portraits. Most of them were the family—Kordelia, Brontë, June, August. One featured both Corinthiana and Beatrice seated in the main sitting room. The artist gave Beatrice a knowing fish smile, which Crockett found very unsettling in light of the events of the previous evening.

  He noted Brontë’s earlier observation about her grandfather not being in many portraits held true. There was only one picture of him, very recent, which showed him with slicked-back white hair. Crockett noted something familiar in the older gentleman's visage, whether it was a trace he’d seen on Bixby’s daughters or granddaughters, he was unsure.

  The passage led into a great dance hall, a poor man’s Versailles, with the east and west walls covered in smudged mirrors. On the north wall, a large mural paying homage to the American West was painted with great care and detail. It featured a number of cowboys rushing forward; the artist was quite talented, as it infused the ballroom with a feeling of forward momentum.

  “This is…an interesting part of the house,” Crockett said, admiring a particularly grotesque statue of George Washington which sat in a place of honor in the center of the dance floor.

  “Grandfather always had a kind of obsession with America. We thought it may be because that’s where he got his money.”

  “Which he got with the help of his cousin, Bixby Von Bunson.”

  “Very impressive.” Brontë smiled. “Our family history is full of twist and turns; I’m surprised you can recall it.”

  “Some of it.” Crockett couldn’t help but blush after Brontë’s praise. He was keenly aware of the luminous nature of his eyes and expression after Petrarch’s comments the previous night. “It’s not all me, however. Petrarch is the one who gave me a bit of a history on you all. He said Von Bunson helped your father invest in American endeavors that paid handsomely.”

  “Correct.”

  “But things apparently went sour.”

  Brontë nodded. “Bixby Von Bunson was involved in a western cowboy show. Dexter was his friend while he was over there. They both traveled all over the wilder parts of America, which allowed my cousin to get insights into land investments and gold mining opportunities he otherwise wouldn’t have known.” Brontë indicated Crockett should follow her. “He and my father made quite a lot of money, but he came to visit and…things didn’t go well.”

  “In what way?”

  “Money, the dispute over it, always causes chaos. We believe Bixby Von Bunson not only stole a large part of my grandfather’s fortune, but also took what little he owed Dexter before he fled. Dexter, poor man, is an off-kilter illiterate without many prospects, so he was devastated when Von Bunson left. And, the last part of my cousin’s atrocious legacy,” she said scornfully, “is influencing Grandfather to buy all this crass, American memorabilia.”

  It was apropos that Crockett, at this exact moment, looked in the corner and saw a bizarre clock which resembled the Statue of Liberty. The face of the statue, however, had been replaced by a clock. The substitution resulted in a terrifying piece of artwork which stared menacingly from the shadows.

  Brontë crossed the room and approached the mural. She stopped before the image of a proud American Indian war general, his head held high, a spear pointed forward at the coming cowboys. Brontë delicately ran her hand over the painting. She gently pushed a hidde
n button in the painted Indian's spear. There was an audible click, and then a panel opened, exposing a small room with a trapdoor in the floor.

  “What is this?” The hair on the back of Crockett’s neck prickled.

  “It’s our family vault. There’s really not much of value, but it’s where we keep anything of nostalgic importance.” She noted the fearful expression on Crockett’s face and laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr. Cook, there are no canaries down here, and as far as most are concerned, the space is quite inhabitababble, as you might say.”

  Crockett’s neck hair prickled again, this time, from a sensation disparate from fear. He self-consciously hid his face with his hand, the luminosity, this time, very probably able to light all of West Hampminstershireshire.

  Brontë, meanwhile, went to work, deftly picking up a couple of candles and some matches placed near the trap door. She prepared a light for each of them before lifting the door and heading down into the darkness.

  It wasn’t as ominous as Crockett feared. The stairs were carpeted, and the walls were decorated with additional family portraits. When they had climbed down just a few yards, they entered a large cluttered room. Boxes and trunks lined the walls, but every few feet there was a statue, oversized portrait, or piece of furniture that looked rather expensive. Most everything appeared to be tainted with a kind of American extremist style—a sofa embroidered with stars and stripes, an eagle statue so real that Crockett ducked when his candlelight fell over its beak and stone eyes, and an image of Benjamin Franklin, only recognized because his name was writ along the top of the portrait—in reality, it looked like a tiny old woman holding a flag and an old bit of parchment.[23]

  Crockett surreptitiously eyed the contents of some of the trunks as he passed through the room. One was full of old costumes, wigs, and dresses, the source of Dexter’s different looks; he noted the head scarf and cowboy hat the groundskeeper wore upon his arrival were piled at the top of the box. He mistook a large, frizzy wig for a rat and suppressed a scream. After the earlier incident on the lawn, he had no desire for Brontë to think him afraid of both rodents and birds.

  Brontë didn’t notice Crockett’s moment of panic; she was busy lighting additional fixtures around the room.

  Along the south wall, there was a small window, a sliver cut into the stone several feet in the air. A ray of gray light fell on a portrait full of faces Crockett had not seen. It was a picture of three individuals. One was an august gentleman in a red coat with long, shining black hair; his face had been smudged with some form of ink. Next to him was a small diffident boy with a thick mop of curls, and, on his other side, a woman of ethereal beauty who appeared to be distracted, looking at the painter but also at some unseen, haunted object.

  “Brontë,” Crockett said. “Who are these people?”

  Brontë drew closer to the portrait to gain a clearer view.

  “That’s my grandfather and his first wife, Lucinda. The boy is their son, Mr. Bixby Hawsfeffer, Jr.—known as Pip, who was removed from the family years ago for his activities dans la chambre.”

  “It’s a shame it was ruined with that smudge,” Crockett said. “The image of Lucinda is beautiful—haunting.”

  “I know.” Brontë’s voice grew melancholy. “I often wish we could have met her. Martha still talks about her to this day, how warm she was, how caring. Even Pip would be nice to know. It feels as if our family has always been so isolated here. Grandfather didn’t like other people, so we’ve always kept to ourselves. He especially rejected our neighbors. We’d even travel to London to visit the doctor or lawyer, as was the case with Petrarch. We just didn’t lay down roots here for some reason. I think that’s part of why my father resented Grandfather and this house so much.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” the ironic detachment returned to Brontë’s voice, “it’s fine. Even having Aunt May and Robert Edward here in the house is a nice change of pace, despite their…oddities.”

  “Something still doesn’t seem right about Robert Edward.” Crockett turned away from the painting and looked at Brontë. “I’m sorry to keep mentioning it, but his face must belie some kind of evil spirit. It defies every notion of symmetry.”

  “I think he’s just a bizarre, asymmetrical person—I mean, look at Grandfather, Grandmother, and Kordelia; we’re an odd family with mixed success when it comes to physiognomy. And, as I mentioned, he arrived with a letter of introduction from my grandfather, so his appearance starts to seem very normal after looking at it.” She smiled. “To be honest, the thing that makes me most uncomfortable is how quickly he and Dexter became friendly.”

  “I noticed they get along well.”

  “They do. I think it’s perhaps their connection as old men who dress like they’re part of a children’s dramatic production.”

  Crockett was relieved Brontë lightened the atmosphere; the family portrait had filled him with a sense of impending dread. “The entire lot of you seems to be something from Shakespeare, Martha especially,” he said.

  Brontë nodded. “Poor Martha, she’s always been under duress. As soon as Grandfather remarried Grandmother, she’s been harassed. I told you how jealous Grandmother is.”

  “I’m surprised it’s lasted this long, to be honest. A forty-year feud is one of epic proportions.”

  “I suppose Grandmother’s love and, therefore, her jealous passions never extinguished. When Grandmother met Grandfather, she was very young. His money and her dreams of having a manor and an estate overwhelmed her. She retains a belief that anyone can pull themselves up by their bootstraps and marry rich, which is, I think, why she’s so unkind to you about your caste.” Brontë glanced at Crockett sympathetically. “She says she fell for Grandfather’s charm and looks instantly. For her it was a true, youthful passion—I suppose that kind of attraction is a force of nature.”

  As Brontë said these words, her eyes locked onto Crockett’s. The young man felt his neck grow hot. Self-consciously, he looked downward and smoothed his trousers. Brontë started and turned her attention to an old table laid with chipped china pieces. Neither could think of any words, even trite ones, to resume the conversation.

  In the prolonged silence, Crockett’s mind blossomed with innumerable hopes, aspirations, and prognostications. He and Brontë could be together—despite her coming from some wealth, a landed family—they could move to London, take up a flat near Petrarch’s. Petrarch had said to stay away, not to entertain even a passing fancy for Brontë, but…But.

  “Do you know anything about your own family? I know you grew up on the streets, but are there any memories of your mother and father?” Brontë’s voice conveyed tenderness.

  Crockett spoke a bit too quickly in response, relieved the romantic spell was broken, the tension released. “No, there never was anyone,” he said. “I always was in a poorhouse or children’s home. When I met Petrarch, I had just been moved from a child farm into the city; I was growing older and they needed space, so they thought I may find work in a slaughterhouse or shoveling coal. I was doing my best to fit in with the new boys. They ran around and made money pickpocketing when there was no work. Used to the country life, it wasn’t something I had a propensity for. I suppose I shall always retain some of the more muted, country mood of my childhood.” Crockett smiled faintly at Brontë.

  “As Petrarch mentioned last night, I met him one of my first days in London.” Crockett suddenly realized that his Dickensian story only enlarged the social gulf between them. Rapidly, he turned the topic to his mentor. “I thought he was very interesting, Petrarch that is. He was my mark that day, so I followed him. He’s very keen, so it was hard to get around to the act of thievery. And as I watched him, I admired him. He’s very witty and warm with a sharp mind. I finally made my move in the public house, but he spun around before I could get close. He said, ‘My dear boy, you really are a terrible pickpocket. I’ve been waiting for you to make your effort for some time. Why don’t you come home with me for a
nip of tea instead? I can at least give you a bite to eat.’

  “That afternoon we had Earl Grey and biscuits and chatted. He showed me his library. I’d never seen so many books.” Crockett smiled with pleasure, remembering his first time seeing the wall of gold and leather bindings. “He asked if I would like to borrow one, but I had to tell him I couldn’t read.” Crockett felt emotion come into his voice—in front of Brontë, he tried to push it down to keep up a reassuring, masculine presence. An expression of affection for another man was much worse than a fear of yellow birds. “He then offered to teach me—I don’t think he thought I’d ever come back, but I did. I came back twice a week. His wife got sick shortly after, and it forged the strong bond between us—I’d often stay late with both of them, help them with chores, meals, many of the things I’d had to do in my life on the child farm. He was very impressed with how quickly I learned. When I turned sixteen, he offered me a place as his assistant with a small stipend and a room in his home. He was the first one who ever showed me real kindness.”

  “That’s a really lovely story.” The images of Crockett’s childhood formed before Brontë in a warm, nostalgic tapestry; it was a romantic mix of tragedy and compassion. “I mean it's wonderful that you two found each other in times of need. Petrarch is a great man. A sharp mind is an excellent way to describe him. He’s much more intelligent and wittier than a majority of the guests we entertain here.”

  “Even he thinks there is something afoot with this Beatrice mess. I have to say that, while your initial thoughts about your grandfather being murdered have become less probable, the possibility that there is an interest in his fortune is becoming more believable.” Crockett put his hands behind his back and looked up in contemplation. “I just can’t make any sense of poor Beatrice. Why would someone do that...?”

  Brontë mused on this for some time. A bird crossed in front of the small window, causing a brief shadow to flicker on the wall.

 

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