by Tedd Hawks
“AWWWRRRRKKKKKK!!”
Brontë shoved him off and fell over Petrarch like a mother hen on her endangered chick. Her eyes were wild as she glanced between Crockett and her father. “What is wrong with you both? Let him have some air!” She turned to Martha who was standing just out of sight, concealed in a shadow thrown by the lamplight. “Martha, can you get some water, please? Robert,” she turned to her cousin, “help me lift him onto the bed.”
The two did their best to lift Petrarch’s girth upward, but, at the last moment, failed miserably, his circular body crashing downward, a second great crack of his head on the bed frame resounding throughout the quiet room.
“Perhaps,” Kordelia said dreamily, “we leave him as he is. If we help him too much more even the Danube Mob won’t be able to set him right.”
They compromised by taking the heavy blanket from the bed and placing it over the solicitor. Brontë took a pillow and laid it gently under his head. At this point, a large bump was forming from the first crack, accompanied by a deep purple bruise near his eye where Brontë and Robert had dropped him on their second attempt at aid.
Silence followed as they stared down at him, unsure whether he was dead. They partly wondered if they could all be guilty of murder for the many bumps and bruises they collectively inflicted.
A howling wind disrupted the quiet. August turned his attention to the shattered glass where the bullet had exited the window. The hole was high up in the window, smashing the windowpane nearly eight feet off the floor.
“An odd shot,” he said softly. “It looks as though they weren’t shooting to kill.”
“Or,” said Kordelia, “perhaps inexperienced in the arts of riflery.”
“Sister,” Brontë’s voice was filled with rage. She spoke with her tongue in the back of her throat. “What was your glove doing in this room so near the weapon?”
“Other sister,” Kordelia spoke quickly, “I’ve been losing them everywhere. They slip off so suddenly. At school one must always be wearing gloves, or you can be taken to the headmistresses for The Grating. I suppose I keep carrying them and dropping them out of habit.”
“What is ‘The Grating?’” This question was posed by a chorus of voices, all interested, yet also fearful, of the response.
“Well,” Kordelia began, “the headmistress raids your cheese cupboard and takes your supreme cheese, which she grates vigorously in front of you as punishment.”
“Supreme cheese?” June awkwardly combed her hair with her fingers; she gazed on her youngest daughter in confusion.
“It is a Sviss tradition,” Robert said. “All Sviss have zer favorite cheese—ze supreme cheese.”
Crockett coughed loudly. He hoped this would refocus attention on the incapacitated Petrarch.
“Well, supreme cheese or no,” Kordelia went on, “I didn’t shoot Petrarch. I can barely lift the weapon.” She motioned to the gun lying at the door to the room.
“Vy vould zey try to kill him? He is a harmless old man,” Robert looked, Crockett thought, the most concerned he’d seen him since he’d arrived at Hawsfeffer Manor.
“Theeey were loooking for this.” Corinthiana held out the tomb key. It shone a dull gold in the dark.
Everyone subtly scanned the expressions of the others.
“That’s why everything is turned out,” August said. “They thought he’d hidden it away.”
“Who knew you had the key?” Crockett asked.
“No one,” Corinthiana said fluffing her white hair. “Heee gaaave it tooo meee in secret.”
“So, it could be any of us,” Brontë’s voice simmered with anger, “just like with everything in this silly house.”
June gasped. “My dear, we are all frustrated with this bizarre string of sadnesses, but that is no reason to use such foul language.”
“Apologies, Mother, but the web only grows more tangled. I thought something happened to Grandfather but then Beatrice and now Petrarch! I thought…” In frustration she raised her hand to her forehead. “I thought we were getting closer to the end of it.” Earnestly she threw a glance at Crockett. The earlier jolt of affection still existed between them, but it was dimmed, less powerful under the duress of Petrarch’s injuries.
“Well, murder or no,” June stood tall, “we must act as ladies. We should also get this glass cleaned up and call a doctor.” She turned to her husband. “Where is Dexter? Didn’t he hear any of this? We could have woken the dead.”
“I haven’t seen him since he cleaned up the remains of Beatrice,” August said.
Martha stomped forward and handed over a sheet of paper to Corinthiana. “Found in the pantry this evening before I went to bed.”
Corinthiana looked around nervously. “Theee lights aaare raaather low. Caaan aaanyone reeead in this daaark?”
Brontë grabbed the note from her grandmother and read slowly.
“Deer Peeples of the howse. I don’ like the corrant climatt and will excoose meeself from the danjer. Tis bin an intertanen fyoo decates wit you all. Cordelilly, Dexter.”
“Really not bad for someone who is borderline illiterate,” June said.
"He did seem very perturbed and upset when I spoke to him yesterday," Crockett added.
The discussion of Dexter’s abrupt exit from his service was interrupted by a loud banging coming from the front entry hall. Corinthiana grasped at her neckline, searching for an absent, opulent necklace, as she looked around in panic.
“Whooo?” she asked staring into the dark hallway.
August, Robert, and Crockett fled the room toward the main foyer. Upon entering the main hall, they were met with a menacing sight. Three men were gathered. Two of them were of an ordinary sort—one had a thick mustache and wore a policeman’s uniform; the other was dressed in a brown suit, thick scarf, and bowler. The man in the bowler looked as shaken by their arrival as the men of the house. Although his hat was pulled low over his eyes, Crockett felt he looked familiar.
The third man stood in the center of the group, his bald head shining. He was far from ordinary, one of the most bizarre-looking men Crockett had ever seen. He wore a red jacket lined with shining gold material. A large feather jutting from the lapel pocket added an overenthusiastic exclamation point to his whole appearance. On his nose were a pair of small, pince-nez which twinkled in the light of the lamps. Despite having no hair on his head, two large sideburns decorated the sides of his face. His nose twitched as he assessed the three men before him.
“Hullo,” he said shortly. “My name is Detective Lucian Lucretian Pimento.” His voice was as crisp as his oxford shirt, more polished than his brown shoes. “You may simply refer to me as Pimento.”
“Ah! It vas very good you could come so qvickly!” Robert Edward looked with relief at August and Crockett. “I called him as soon as I heard ze gun!”
“How did you know who to call, old man?” August’s mustached twitched suspiciously.
“Vell,” Robert said, “zings haven't been….Hoe do you say…non-murderous here? I asked Corinziana for ze contact of ze local police.”
“Oh, no,” August shook his head. “I think I’d trust the local milkmaids to solve a crime before these incompetent gentlemen. We’ll be looking for squirrels who can shoot guns as part of the investigation.”
“Do you know any?” The man in the police uniform pulled out his notebook and began scribbling frantically.
“No, old chap.” August, for the first time since Crockett met him, looked thoroughly defeated.
“It alarms me that you have so little respect for the local constabulary, sir.” Detective Pimento looked disgustedly at August.
“Master Pigmanto, was it? You all haven’t really solved anything since the reign of Victoria, so you’ll excuse me if I have my reservations.”
“Well, we shall take this opportunity to prove ourselves.” Pimento turned very sharply to the man in the scarf and bowler. “Which reminds me, Doctor, please go see the victim. We have much to
do.”
The old man nodded. He turned to Crockett, who led him out of the foyer and into the bedroom. As they marched away, Crockett furtively tried to steal glances at the bowler-man’s face, trying to place him in his memory.
In the foyer, Detective Pimento remained motionless staring skeptically at August and Robert. “And who are you gentleman?” he asked.
“I am Augüst Winterbourne.” August did not extend his hand but looked with contempt at the detective.
“August, a pleasure.”
“No, it’s Augüst.” August pronounced his name so precisely spittle flew onto Pimento’s red jacket.
The detective wiped the saliva from his lapel. “Mr. Winterbourne then,” he said quickly. “And you, my foreign friend?”
“Robert Edvard Harrington, at your service.” Robert bowed dramatically.
Pimento’s nose twitched. “Indeed. What am I to expect when I see the crime scene?”
“Already having us do your work then?” August crossed his arms over his chest triumphantly.
The detective glared. “Perhaps you can be of more assistance, Mr. Harrington.”
“Somevun tried to kill ze old solicitor,” Robert said nervously. “But he vas a bad shot and ve vere afraid he died of a heart explosion.”
“But he woke up,” August said, his tone bored. “So, perhaps, it’s best if you went away and left us.”
Pimento’s eyes flicked between the two men. “Why was I called, if there is no murder proper?”
“Vell, ve zink zat zere is something afoot.”
August’s mustache shimmied as he leaned in close to Robert. “Let’s keep this all in the family,” he said quietly. “There's no need to include anyone else.”
“Mr. Winterbourne,” Detective Pimento’s voice grew grave, “I’m not here to squabble; I’m here to investigate an evil incident. I have no desire to exchange barbs with you throughout the night. If the situation is as you say, then I will happily go on my way.”
August’s mustache shook happily.
“But, before I leave for the evening, I will need to see the solicitor, and I will also need to know why our dear, foreign friend,” he said motioning to Robert, “is so upset.”
August, for the first time, lost some of his resolve. The truth was quite complicated, and, had the police not proven to be incompetent for decades, would have been included from the first.
He looked at Robert sheepishly. Neither man spoke.
Detective Pimento shook his head in annoyance. “Out with it, please. I do not do well with those who waste my time.”
August sniffed haughtily and began to speak slowly—although, he was an expert at feigning confidence, he had no idea how to describe the present situation in which his family found themselves. “About one week ago, the patriarch of the family died by drowning,” he said, a note of uncertainty in his voice.
“Where?” asked Pimento.
“In the river which runs along the back of the estate.”
Pimento flicked open a notebook, his eyes holding the gaze of August. While keeping eye contact, he began to scribble in his notebook. “And?”
“And we all gathered at the house for the burial, of course, or rather…entombment, to mark his passing since there is no body.” As Pimento seemed to swell and gain authority, August diminished, growing almost deferential. In just a few, brief moments, the detective had undermined August’s abundant ego and made him a simpering puppy.
“No body?” Pimento let out a large breath from his nose. “Interesting.”
“As others arrived, things have grown odder with each passing day. Corinthiana, his wife and my mother-in-law, wouldn’t read the will, you see. Then, May and Robert Edward arrived late. The fish was murdered.”
“The fish?” Pimento stopped writing; his penetrating gaze bored even more intensely into August. “A fish was murdered?”
“Beatrice, y-y-y-yes,” August stuttered. “She was eviscerated and hung by the door.”
“No accident then? This fish…was…why did its death matter?"
“She was our matriarch's pet. She's from the country, you know. She grew up with pet trout.” For the first time the absurdity of Corinthiana's fish companion hit August with full force. He took a moment to regain his composure and continued. "Someone disemboweled Beatrice using a sword."
Pimento’s hand resumed writing, racing across the page. “You know it was a sword?”
“Yes, the weapon came from the basement. My daughter discovered it.”
Pimento’s eyebrows raised as he continued writing. “Please continue.”
“Then tonight it was discovered we had a copy of the key for the tomb to complete the entombment and carry on with the funeral.”
“There was no key before?” Pimento asked coldly.
“No.”
“So, the delay in the will reading wasn’t a delay so much as the entombment itself was delayed due to no key?”
“Perhaps, yes. Corinthiana wanted to do the will reading and the entombment concurrently.”
“I see.” Pimento took a break from writing and daintily tapped his chin with his pen. “And that brings us to the present scene?”
“Yes.” August grew more and more nervous. He spoke quickly, fat droplets of sweat running down his forehead. “It appears someone thought Petrarch, our solicitor, had the key in his room, so they fired the gun and searched the premises.”
With a flick of his wrist, Pimento shut his notebook. In a few quick, gliding steps he made his way toward the hallway which he’d seen Crockett and the doctor exit into. The man in the police uniform followed quickly.
“So!” August called out anxiously behind him. “You think it’s all a family squabble? No cause for alarm?”
Pimento stopped only for a moment. He turned his head, the feather in his jacket shaking with the sudden shift in momentum.
“Now you are asking for the advice of an incompetent detective, Mr. Winterbourne?” The detective's mouth tightened, creating a harsh gash of a smile on his face. “My intuition says something ominous is hidden here. Murder can have many faces and, in this house,” he said softly, “I can see its eyes shining in the dark.”
Chapter 17: Tick Tock
Detective Pimento quickly dispelled any inhibitions the family had regarding the intelligence of the local police. Deftly, he entered Petrarch’s bedroom, launching direct, penetrating questions at all those gathered. His eyes flitted surreptitiously between the entire cast of characters; a few times he smiled knowingly to himself as he scribbled in his notebook.
During the interrogatory assault from the detective, the doctor inspected Petrarch and confirmed that the old man had no permanent damage, and that he was, in fact, still breathing.[35] His one contribution was taking a bottle of unmarked pills from his bag and advising Corinthiana to “administer ‘ery hour er day, whichever camed first.” He then presented the widow with a potato with a wink. This confused everyone greatly, however Pimento assured them all that keeping a ripe potato in the room with a sick person was a Welsh tradition going back to the twelfth century.
Within three-quarters of an hour of the detective’s arrival, the family was moving back to bed, Petrarch was snoring peacefully, and the whole incident faded like a faint cloud of smoke.
As the sun began to creep up the horizon, Detective Pimento dismissed his policeman companion (who still seemed very stuck on the squirrel with a gun theory) and the doctor and convinced August (now defending the reputation of the local constabulary) it was imperative he stay through the morning to have more questions answered.
He was shown into quarters on the west side of the house. These chambers were not commonly used, but Martha kept them well enough to allow him to rest in a comfortable bed with clean linens. The murals painted on the walls and ceiling portrayed a brutal, bloody triumph of Americans over the French. Although extremely horrifying, Detective Pimento did not see the extremity of the gore painted above him until the sun reached its
full morning strength.
Crockett slept a few, scant hours. When he awoke, he found Petrarch was still snoring loudly, however the rest of the house was awake and alert. Corinthiana had been accosted by Detective Pimento in her night clothes directly upon waking. The woman was so surprised that her vowels were contracted by nearly seventy-three percent,[36] and she had no time to put on a single jewel, bauble, or trinket. She was guided to a small interview station the detective curated in the office on the second floor, the same room of the séance only a few days earlier.
When Crockett arrived at breakfast, he found that most of the family had already been questioned by the side-burned inspector. Taking his seat at the table, he smiled shyly at Brontë. Despite the worry in her eyes, this token of friendship from Crockett made her spirits lift. She waved at the young solicitor, suppressing an inclination to giggle.
“He’s a rather direct fellow,” August said sipping tea. “I certainly trust him. He’s not at all like those policemen who came out for Bixby’s death. He came right out and asked me if I had anything to do with the shooting or murder.”
“That seems so uncouth,” June shook her head. “Detectives are meant to talk around the subject, and then, of course, surprise you only at the end with their accusations, not make them straight away.”
“The gentleman is gifted at his work, my dear June” August added. “He felt so ordinary, so normal, almost familiar, as if we’d spoken many times before.”
“Now that you mention it, yes. Despite his uncouthness, he was a very friendly, quotidian sort of chap,” June said. “He was much more intimidating last night.”
“Did he accuse you, Mummy?” Kordelia asked.
“No, not directly, but he did, of course, bring up all the savage things that have been going on…Poor Beatrice. At least Petrarch survived, you know.”
“Did he accuse you, Kordelia?” Brontë was pacing the room having already completed her interview and breakfast.