Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe

by Tedd Hawks

  “The farmer?” Crockett blurted. This elicited loud “Shhhs!” from both Brontë and Petrarch.

  “Yes!” Brontë whispered. “The farmer!”

  “But what would be—”

  “Who is married…” Brontë croaked. “She…she…is an adulteress.”

  The room fell silent. Crockett nervously eyed Petrarch. Being raised outside upper social circles, he didn’t know how to react to a lady having fallen into an affair. In his life on the streets and in the country house, it was a casual occurrence to hear any number of men and women making the beast with two backs in every corner of the places he found respite, but in more polite society, it remained something he had yet to confront.

  “How long has your family known?” Petrarch asked softly.

  “They found out just before Grandfather died. Aunt May went to my mother and told her the whole story. But…” Brontë took a deep breath, “the interesting thing is that the farmer promised to leave his wife and marry Aunt May…if…” Here she paused. She looked between Petrarch and Crockett. Despite the seriousness of the conversation, a subtle joy, an earnestness crept into her voice. “If she could secure the debts that my grandfather owed to him.”

  Crockett put a hand to his forehead. “My goodness…”

  “Oh dear…” Petrarch dropped his pipe to the ground.

  “You saw how my grandmother acted when talking about money. You can imagine that conversation within the family. May possibly saw her only recourse was to kill my grandfather and collect her own inheritance with the hope that money would be put back into the estate to settle the debts.”

  Petrarch and Crockett exchanged a gaze. The family was yet to learn that they were destitute, with not a shilling to their name.

  “That is a serious motive.” Petrarch sat up and began to pace the room. “But would she have the resources to disrupt the séance and kill poor Beatrice?”

  “I think,” Crockett nervously wrung his hands, “that Augüst may simply be redirecting the blame.”

  Petrarch and Brontë both looked at him intensely.

  Crockett continued, his vocal cadence growing faster. “He is the only one that makes it all match up, you see. He knew the house and how to make the phonograph go; he also knew how to gut an animal cleanly like poor Beatrice. Of course, the final nail in his coffin is him having the key and access to the family vault. Dexter also had one, but we spoke. He’s fiercely loyal and has had access for ages. It—it...” Crockett stuttered at the end of the statement. It suddenly came to his mind that Brontë had not been told of Lucinda’s note. He quickly pondered making it known, but before he could say anything, Brontë interjected.

  “That’s just it, Crockett! Father finally began talking about the key. He gave it back to Grandmother before the murder. Grandmother returned it to him to pass on to me for our search.”

  “Diggleshroot!”[32] Petrarch snorted. “Your grandmother had the key all evening the night of the murder?”

  “She did, but…” Brontë paused here for dramatic effect, but it was too pronounced.

  “Are you all right, Miss Winterbourne?” Petrarch asked.

  Brontë flushed. “Yes, sorry, I was being dramatic but then forgot what I was going to say.”

  “Your grandmother had the key,” Crockett said in hopes of assisting her memory.

  “Yes! She did! And—” Having learned her lesson, she kept this pause more contracted, “Father gave it back to her in front of mother, Aunt May, Martha, and Robert; it was a very public moment.”

  Crockett groaned. “So…it could still be anyone. Everyone but the current occupants of this room and Kordelia saw the key change hands.”

  “Yes.” Brontë bit her lip. “It does close a door, but perhaps there may be more likely alternatives now.”

  Crockett closed his eyes, deep in thought. “What if,” he said very slowly, “you were right, Brontë. Maybe we need to start thinking larger than one person.” He opened his eyes and looked resolutely out the dusty windows. “There are too many variables, too many pieces which would require assistance. The séance is something that couldn’t have been executed by a single person.”

  “That is a possibility.” Brontë smiled. “Aunt May and my father both could be suspects and in collaboration. There may simply be more than one culprit.”

  The three remained deep in thought for some time—Brontë pondering the likelihood of her father and aunt working in collusion, Crockett meditating on his personal, more asinine idea of the actual murderer, and Petrarch staring into space, a look of resolve creeping over his features.

  After the prolonged silence, Crockett turned to Petrarch. The old man smiled dolefully at him. There was both pride and sadness in his eyes.

  “My two young friends,” he said warmly, “I think we perhaps…”

  But before he could finish, he looked up and saw that Brontë was turned away from him. Her eyes were pools of terror, focused on the door.

  Standing in the portal was the hunched form of Martha. When she saw all had turned their attention to her, she licked her lips, a menacing grimace covering her face.

  “Dinner is on,” she croaked. Her bulging eye spun slowly, ominously in her wrinkled visage. “Perhaps the rest of the family would like to hear your little theories.”

  Chapter 15: A Shot in the Dark

  A tense moment unfolded as Petrarch slipped on his shirt and coat. Brontë and Crockett looked anxiously at each other as Martha stared, disinterestedly, into the corner of the room. Crockett’s neck prickled when her dull gaze shifted to him, the spinning eye seemingly staring through him, into his very soul.

  Once Petrarch was settled, they followed Martha through the dim passage and back to the main foyer. On a few occasions, the old woman would look back, her lip curled in a sneer. Despite the foreboding nature of her countenance, Crockett was unsure whether the woman was really a malignant force or simply an oddity with a knack for making those around her feel uncomfortable. This performance was very similar to her butchering, blood-drinking behavior earlier. In truth, she had done a large number of bizarre things, but since he had been in the house, she had also been helpful, coming to Corinthiana’s aid when Beatrice was killed, waking from a deep sleep and—

  Crockett paused in the hall, briefly. It came back to him with a flash, the old woman’s words the night of Beatrice’s death—Is it him?[33]

  That was her primary concern upon waking. Whether from a dream or reality, the fear came to her. He was unsure, but something had shocked the old woman in the midst of danger. Something jolted her old brain into a state of panic.

  Him.

  But who is the “him”? Was it merely a dream, an induced panic caused by the séance, the commune with the dead, the probable pile of bodies that the house had claimed—Lucinda, Baron Von Bunson, Bixby Hawsfeffer, and now, Beatrice?

  Of all the things they had seen and heard over their days in the mansion, Martha’s exclamation was the one that seemed most urgent.

  Who was she afraid of?

  Everyone was seated when they arrived in the formal dining room. The key had not been found, and the momentum of the burial of both Beatrice and Bixby had stalled. All gathered wore looks of fright or anxiety; nervous gestures were visible down the table, from May’s clutching at the black lace around her throat, to Robert Edward’s twisting of his long, dark curls.

  Corinthiana looked the most defeated. She was pale as new-fallen snow, her eyes red from crying. She dabbed her eyes at an even slower, more dramatic pace than usual.

  Martha pulled out the seat for Brontë, before shuffling out of the room. When she was gone a heavy silence fell on all the glum party. The only sound was the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the main foyer.

  Crockett’s attention was drawn toward the head of the table when he heard the rustle of June’s dress. She extended a pale hand and gently took her mother’s wrist.

  Corinthiana sighed and let her gaze slide around the table. He
r indifferent stare settled on all with rising tension. Her visual assessment stopped on Crockett, a bit of flush returning to her cheeks.

  “Crockett, don't yooou haaave a jaaacket for formal dining?”

  Crockett embarrassingly looked down at his white shirt. The mud incident of their arrival had severely limited his wardrobe options. “I’m sorry, ma’am, my good coat was stained the morning we arrived. I don’t have much else.”

  Corinthiana sniffed abruptly (perhaps a substitute for an oral “AWRK!”) and let her gaze finish its way around the table.

  When she was satisfied, she again sighed and then looked down at the charger set before her. One of her jeweled fingers began to anxiously circle the rim of her wine glass.

  “I…aaam aaafraaaid tooo saaay thaaat weee aaare unaaable tooo find theee keeey,” she said slowly.

  “And there’s no way into the tomb without it,” August broke in, “other than an act of destruction.”

  All shifted uncomfortably.

  Crockett turned to Petrarch, who was looking placidly at a tray of rolls in the center of the table.

  “Grandmother, when was the last time you used the key?” Brontë asked.

  Corinthiana stared into the dark for a moment before shrugging her shoulders indifferently. “I neeever did. Theee laaast time waaas when Lucindaaa died.”

  “All those years ago?” Petrarch asked. “No one put flowers on the tomb…or checked on the inside?”

  The realization that these things should have been done swept across Corinthiana’s face swiftly. Her mouth drooped slightly, and her left eyebrow twitched upward.

  “No,” she said matter-of-factly. “No one did those things.”

  “It perhaps is like in ze home country,” Robert said quickly. “Ven ze people die, zey are dead. Ve don’t make a party for zem anymore.”

  August’s mustache twitched irritably. “The fact remains, death party or no, that we cannot get into the tomb to rid ourselves of the casket.”

  “Why does it even matter?” May barked. “There’s no body! He drowned. Why did we even have the casket? Let’s toss it in the river and move on with it. We should have read the will days ago.”

  Corinthiana’s face flushed. “I will not haaave yooou speeeak of your faaather in such a waaay. Heee aaand Beeeatrice both neeed a plaaace tooo rest.”

  “In the play I’m reading,” Kordelia said dreamily, “they burn the house down.”

  Something in Kordelia’s tone made them all pause. Robert Edward looked at the young girl with fear. May sneered while June tapped her fingers nervously on the table.

  “Darling,” she finally said, her nails clicking, “this isn’t one of your stories, this is a real-life…” She stopped.

  “A real-life nightmare,” Brontë finished for her. “Mother, the past three days have been brutal in the sheer number of catastrophes. The séance incident alone was a nasty trick, but then to have poor Beatrice…”

  Corinthiana bleated at the mention of her beloved companion.

  “To have poor Beatrice,” Brontë continued on with more energy, “maimed, murdered, so defiled in the house…Someone at this table did it.” Brontë’s eyes glowed. “What I’m saying is that there is a killer in our midst, someone who’s seeking some sort of compensation or revenge, and we need to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Darling…” June spoke so softly it was barely heard. Prior to Brontë saying it, the truth of the matter remained obscured in the secure shadow of English propriety. Now it sat fully expressed before them all.

  To Crockett, it appeared no one moved. Not even a breath was taken at the mention of the accusation. The verbalization of the act as murder was uncomfortable, incredibly unpalatable, even if the victim was a dead-eyed fish.

  August broke the silence. His mustache twitched and eyes glittered as he spoke.

  “It wasn’t me. Brontë has been on this little crusade all day—she came to me,” August looked darkly at his wife, “and all but accused me of the violation of poor Beatrice.”

  “Father, the facts—" Brontë tried to interject but was cut off by May.

  “The facts are superfluous,” the disgraced nun said in her pinched voice. “No actual person was murdered. Father died in the river, a fitting end to his glib, exhausting existence. It makes sense his death would be a struggle; he made life for all those around him an equally brutal fight for survival.” May’s nostrils flared. Robert Edward looked nervously out of the corner of his eye, seemingly afraid the older woman would flip the table and attack them all.

  “But what if he didn’t drown?” asked Crockett. He looked resolutely at Brontë. “What if this is all related because someone wants the money from the estate? What if someone needs the money for some purpose?”

  “And what purpose is that?” August’s face was red with rage. A vein throbbed on the side of his neck. “Tell me why you thought I would make an end to the old man and go after the herring for dessert.”

  “A herring treacle!” Kordelia laughed heartily. “It would probably serve well with the ghost biscuits.”

  “Not now, Kordelia!” For the first time, Crockett noted a prominent vein in June Winterbourne’s neck that matched her husband’s.

  “And vat vould be my reason for killing my dear cousin?” Robert Edward said in a high-pitched voice. “Hoo are ze prime suspects?”

  Corinthiana picked up the charger and began to fan herself. Beads of sweat were running down her white, doughy face.

  “If I may…” Petrarch stood up and laced his fingers together, placing them on his protruding belly.

  All turned to the old solicitor, most with expressions of rage and disgust.

  “If I may,” Petrarch went on with more purpose, “I would like to state that we have only had brief conjecture about the death of Bixby Hawsfeffer. I know that despite rumors and gossip in the surrounding area, he was dearly beloved by all of you here. August,” he said looking directly at the Winterbourne patriarch, still the color of a plum, “he put a roof over your head and provided a warm home for your two beautiful daughters.”

  “Quite right,” August said standing. “He was dearly beloved by me and my family.”

  “And May,” Petrarch said turning, “despite your estrangement, you are a lady of the church. It’s known you don’t come here often. When could you do such a thing?”

  “I hated him,” May said flatly, “but I would never hurt him. Or mother's fish.”

  Crockett kept his eyes on May as Petrarch turned slowly to Robert Edward.

  “And Robert Edward, your appearance is the most suspect. Can I ask that you speak for yourself on the question at hand?”

  A collective gasp escaped from the party, as if a gas stove had just sputtered to life. Crockett’s attention immediately shifted to Petrarch, who he regarded with wonder. Was the old man stating his prime suspect?

  Robert Edward looked as if he expected the accusation. He stood, throwing back his black cape with a flick of his wrist.

  “I see zat ze xenophobic reputation of England is correct. I shall speak my piece and clear my good name once and for all!” Dramatically his finger shot into the air. He sniffed loudly and opened his mouth in preparation for a long speech when Brontë interjected.

  “It’s not him,” she said quickly. “Not that I care anything for my cousin, but I’m more concerned with us laboring to understand his stumbling, continental accent for the next quarter hour.”

  “Xenophobic!” Robert yelled again.

  “Cousin Robert was here for a brief time before Grandfather died,” Brontë continued, “but he went to London on business right before the disappearance and returned just after. Trust me,” she said sharply, “he was the first one I suspected. Grandmother told me where he was. Mother corroborated. She was the one who rode with him to the train station.”

  “So!” Petrarch smiled broadly. “We have ample suspects, but no reason to doubt any of them. I think it’s best to resume planning the funeral as
soon as possible and put this whole mess behind us. As the only one here active in the law, I see no reason to believe anyone here is capable of the murder of Bixby Hawsfeffer or Beatrice.”

  With these words, the anger in the room dispelled completely. Even May’s sour face showed a hint of a smile.

  “Thaaat is aaall well and goood,” Corinthiana said warmly, “but there is still no keeey!”

  “Oh!” Petrarch smiled jovially. “But there is!” He reached into his pocket and removed a large, brass key.

  Crockett’s eyes flew around to all those gathered; he conducted quick studies of every individual seated around the table. He hoped someone would show some emotion, some slip in their stable constitution at this revelation.

  August looked the most surprised, his heavy jowls shaking in shock—May’s smile dropped, her eyes growing into wide, black pools. Robert Edward looked the least interested, his gaze following Crockett’s to Corinthiana, who had leapt up (the quickest action Crockett had seen from her during their entire stay) from the table, clapping her hands. Kordelia kept her dreamy, indifferent stare, while June simply smiled, probably delighted the long burial purgatory had ended. Brontë’s eyes were locked on Crockett; a deep hurt registered in them.

  “You knew?” she mouthed quietly from across the table, pointing to the key.

  Crockett leaned forward, ready to speak, but was interrupted by Petrarch.

  “I hope you will excuse the theatrics,” the old man said, “but I thought it was best to clear the air before I spoke of the find.”

  “Aaand where waaas it?” Corinthiana giggled happily.

  “Believe it or not,” Petrarch said, “this evening I returned to my files from Bixby Hawsfeffer and found this buried beneath papers. Bixby must have left a copy years ago when he came to visit.”

  “By George!” August’s mustache shook happily. “Well, what an immense relief!”

  Petrarch looked quickly at Crockett, an illegible expression on his face.

  Corinthiana’s look of joy faded for a moment. She nervously bit her nail. “Perhaaaps weee shooould waaait just twooo or threee more daaays beeefore theee burial.”