Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe

by Tedd Hawks

  Crockett looked back at him, perceptibly extending his neck forward to imply he was ready to hear the reveal of the mysterious addressee. The two men remained locked in an uncomfortable silence, each waiting for the other to advance. During this odd standoff, Crockett noticed the detective’s sideburns looked wilder than they had previously, uneven on his round face.

  Finally, Crockett softly said, “Yes?”

  “The letter—it was, definitely, spoken from Corinthiana’s mouth directly—was addressed to none other than the estranged, distant—”

  Pimento went on for some time, stringing together a litany of adjectives and descriptions, all providing a robust portrait of the mysterious letter recipient. At a certain point, Crockett lost all interest, his thoughts turning to the bird who had unceremoniously died during the séance, then, in turn, to the ghost biscuits which he had never had the opportunity to try.

  “And what do you think of that!” Pimento leaned back in his chair triumphantly.

  Crockett, coming back to the conversation, nodded and said, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Cook! It ties back to your theory! The letter was intended for Pip Hawsfeffer!”

  “My stars!” Crockett put his hands to his forehead. “So Corinthiana alerted him to his father’s death!”

  “Indeed.” Pimento played with the feather in his lapel. “It appears he had nothing to do with the death of Bixby Hawsfeffer, Sr., but he may fit somewhere in this web.”

  “So, I may be right!” Crockett’s face glowed with pride. After the sore defeat in his conversation with Martha, he felt they were at the turn of the tide.

  “My brain is still parsing all this new information,” Pimento said energetically, “but I think we should review the current facts of the case as we prepare for the evening. I feel,” the detective adjusted his glasses, “that we are heading toward the climax.”

  Crockett nodded. His heart pounded in his chest.

  Pimento cleared his throat and commenced. “Our current suspects are Corinthiana Hawsfeffer, her daughters, June and May, Robert Edward Harrington, Pip Hawsfeffer,” here he winked at Crockett with warmth before continuing, “June’s husband, August—”

  “Augüst,” Crockett said out of habit.

  “Awgoost, yes, his and June’s daughters, Kordelia and Brontë, the groundskeeper, Dexter, who has left us, Martha the maid of many years, and, of course, to be completely fair, yourself and your master, Petrarch Bluster.”

  “It’s a rather long list.”

  “But it grows much shorter when we review motive.”

  Crockett’s eyebrows went up in shock. “Detective! You found motive? Brontë and I have been confounded all week. Even if my theory is correct, why is Pip involved? Does the note to Lucinda reveal some hidden fortune, or is Pip being contacted simply a coincidence? Did someone actually kill Bixby Hawsfeffer? Did someone want to expedite the reading of the will? Is there some treasure buried in the tomb of some importance…? The séance incident seemed a trick to scare people but—why? I’d thought it was Kordelia, but there are beginning to be too many coincidences—the Lucinda letter, the Pip letter, the séance…And, likewise, the death of Beatrice seems to be some sort of warning, but, for what?”

  Crockett paused, exasperated, lost, and hopeless in his own thoughts. Detective Pimento eyed him shrewdly.

  “And there is,” the detective said, “the attempt on Mr. Bluster’s life. Allegedly, it was someone searching for the tomb key.”

  “Oh, yes, that, too,” Crockett said. He sounded as if he was speaking from far off. “So, you think someone wants inside the tomb, then?”

  Detective Pimento sniffed. “Do you?”

  “I don’t know what anyone wants. I told you, we’ve been absolutely confounded.”

  “But what have you found? Talk me through your theorizing.” Detective Pimento leaned forward slightly, his lips pursed.

  “Well, I thought it was Augüst at first, before my theory with the younger Bixby Hawsfeffer. You see Mr. Winterbourne has been stuck in this house for years, an emasculating situation, always at the hands of his father-in-law. I thought he wanted the money, so he was the one who killed the patriarch and then, perhaps, revising my previous theory, he was the one who tricked the family with the séance and then killed Beatrice to precipitate the will reading.”

  “But you no longer think that?”

  “No, Augüst didn’t have the key to get the rapier. He flatly denied everything.”

  “But let’s return to your idea of two people working in collusion. Augüst didn’t have to have the key”

  “Perhaps,” Crockett looked into the detective’s eyes. “That’s what lead me to the Pip Hawsfeffer theory—I thought someone outside the house was running the affair. It could be someone who knew it well, or, at the very least, knew the people within it. They were pulling the strings while someone else took action in the house.”

  “What if,” Detective Pimento’s smile grew immense, “it could be our dear Aunt May’s lover?” He stared intensely at Crockett.

  “I hadn’t…thought of that.” A smile crept over Crockett’s face but quickly faded. “My goodness, this is getting far too complicated.”

  “But hear me out, my boy. You see, May would have wanted her father dead. With him out of the picture, there would be debts repaid that would return to her farmer beau’s hands. When I spoke to her about this affair this morning, she burst into tears. It’s a very emotional situation.”

  “It’s a very interesting theory. It could make it fit together,” Crockett added. “The farmer would have the skills to dismember Beatrice while May was safely in bed. And…er…I suppose he could get the gun and go after Petrarch.” The young man sat back in his chair and breathed deeply. It could make sense. But the solutions to the mystery seemed only to be getting more nebulous rather than taking on a clearer shape.

  “I still don’t understand the attack on Petrarch,” Detective Pimento said, never keeping his eyes off Crockett. “That is the one thing that doesn’t fit my May theory. Why would she go after the old man?”

  “Unless there is something in the tomb…” Crockett mused.

  “Corinthiana says it hasn’t been opened since the death of Lucinda a very long time ago.”

  Detective Pimento rose. Slowly, he began to pace the room. His steps were labored, theatrical as he crossed toward the door. His feet lightly brushed the carpet, a soft whisper of tensing fibers meeting each footfall.

  “Maybe someone thinks there is something in the tomb. There could be some kind of family rumor that Lucinda had a large diamond or some expensive jewelry.” Crockett turned toward Pimento.

  “They would have told us this before,” Pimento said. “Augüst would have boasted about it at some point.” Pimento shook his head emphatically. “No, I don’t think there is anything in the tomb. I think the attack on Petrarch was out of revenge, an unplanned junket in our little journey.”

  “Revenge?” Crockett looked shocked. “Why?”

  “Perhaps Petrarch knew something—or someone. Did he confide in you, Crockett?”

  “He did,” Crockett said. “He told me everything.”

  “Perhaps he also had secrets.”

  Crockett hesitated. Pimento could see the wheels of the young man’s brain working with difficulty. Outside, rain began to pelt the windows, another summer storm announcing its arrival.[40]

  As if on cue, the door to the study was thrown open and Petrarch himself entered. Despite a dressing around his head, the old man looked the picture of health. His round cheeks were red, his eyes twinkled merrily.

  “Hullo,” he said warmly. “How are things coming along?”

  “Petrarch!” Crockett rose and ran toward his master. He gripped the old man’s hand with tenderness. Tears formed on the edges of his multi-colored eyes. “I thought I lost you last night—I thought…”

  “Dear boy!” Petrarch gently pushed Crockett away. “I’m quite fine. I have an overwhelming headache, b
ut other than that, I feel in the prime of my life.”

  “So, you can tell us what happened?” Pimento asked.

  “What did happen? And who are you?” Petrarch’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’m Detective Lucian Lucretian Pimento. I was called here last night.”

  “Why would you come last night?” Petrarch suddenly looked very alarmed. “We played cards and went to bed. Now I’m up for breakfast.”

  Pimento and Crockett exchanged glances.

  “Petrarch…” Crockett spoke slowly, “you don’t remember last night?”

  “I do remember whist. Kordelia cheats, if you ask me, no way she would take me in a straight game. I was best at my gentleman’s club for three years running.”

  “Someone tried to kill you, Mr. Bluster.” Pimento crossed his arms over his chest. “You could still be in danger.”

  Petrarch began spluttering oddly. His lips flapped open and shut but no words formed, only bizarre “pffts” and “pffatzzzs” escaped his mouth.

  “Petrarch, someone shot at you last night,” Crockett spoke softly. “We found you passed out on the floor—and then,” Crockett’s cheeks flushed, “then, you, bumped your head on the bed trying to get up.”

  “Someone tried to kill me?” Petrarch said slowly. “I was attempted murdered?”

  “I would say murder was attempted on you, but yes,” Pimento said.

  “Well, by Jove, that does complicate things.” The old man began to pace the room quickly. It was only then that Crockett noticed he had not put on pants, or rather, he had wrapped the pants around his waist as if they were a belt.

  “Petrarch, perhaps we should get you to back to bed. I think the shock of last night hasn’t completely worn off.” Crockett attempted to catch the solicitor, but he was running in a circle erratically like a chicken.

  “You don’t have your pants on, sir,” Pimento said, the harsh tones used upon his arrival returning to his voice. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

  “But, you know, I thought I had it figured out! The whole sequence of events. I thought it was August –”

  “Augüst,” Pimento and Crockett said together.

  “But it wasn’t malevolent, you see, it was simply to keep things moving. He was tired of the old man stealing attention, even in death. Aug—well, you know how to pronounce it—he wanted his money and to be done. He told me he had a plan to move the family to his family’s home in West Cheshiretonwildonshireshed. Crockett,” the old man ceased running around for a brief moment, “that is why I told you to forget it all and go along with the entombment. It wasn’t a malevolent murder, simply some parlor tricks used as a means to an end.”

  As Petrarch reflected on this, the party grew. Brontë and her mother entered the room. Brontë threw a glance at Petrarch and then at Crockett. She mouthed words to him that Crockett could not understand.

  “Petrarch!” June began to awkwardly chase the old man, who had resumed his chicken run at an increased rate. “We need—we need to get you back to bed!”

  “No, but, I’m thinking,” Petrarch said. “Fetch me my pipe!”

  Crockett and June ended their pursuit and stood to the side of the room as Petrarch spoke quickly and intermittently.

  “You see, I thought, well, I had been speaking with everyone and I was going, Crockett, my boy, I was going to tell you it was all solved and put to bed, so to speak. Robert Edward is a creepy bugger, but not into murdering—also can’t hold a knife—I tested that at dinner. I was running my own investigation, better than this strange gentleman, if you ask me.”

  It continued in that way for quite some time before Brontë delicately stepped forward and gently gripped the old man’s arms.

  “Dear Petrarch, I think you may be a bit scrambled still from the events of last night.”

  “The whist! Yes, your pet alligator cheats at that game, if you ask me.”

  “Alligator?” Brontë looked distressed.

  “I think we better get Master Bluster back to bed,” June said quickly, coming up behind Petrarch and gently shoving him toward the door. “He’s been through a lot over the past twenty-four hours.”

  "Diggleshroot! The fish!” Petrarch tried to push away from June and Brontë and run toward the desk. “The herring, I think, wanted the money. That’s why she was killed by the maid. Maids can’t be replaced by fish, you see. No opposable thumbs!”

  Brontë and June kept their grip and shuffled Petrarch toward the door. The last words Crockett and Pimento heard him utter before disappearing into the hallway were, “The key maybe did it! Killed the fish and the bird!”

  Muffled yells were heard down the hall as he was carried back toward his bedroom. Pimento’s mouth twisted upward into a slight smile.

  “It seems our chief witness isn’t in the right mind to give testimony,” he said.

  Crockett shook his head. “Oh, dear. I hope he can recover. The poor old man didn’t deserve any of this. It was all my fault.”

  “Was it?” Pimento’s eyes again took on their cold, direct stare. “Your fault, in what regard?”

  Crockett’s brow grew damp with sweat. “I mean, not in…I just mean to say his head. I dropped his head.”

  An uncomfortable moment unfolded between the two men. Crockett suddenly felt seen in a way that shook him. It was the same sense of existing he’d felt on the streets when rich men and women would see him running in rags. It was the feeling he’d had every day before he met Petrarch.

  Pimento’s eyes narrowed and widened in a tense, staccato succession. He sniffed loudly.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Crockett,” he said, an edge on his voice. “You can’t blame yourself for an accident like that.” The word accident sounded calculated, too pronounced and precise.

  Crockett’s heart raced.

  “I’m going to go downstairs and ask a few final questions to May and Robert Edward. I’ll see you in the sitting room before dinner?” Although posed as a question, Crockett felt threatened.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’ll be down soon.”

  “Good.”

  Pimento abruptly bowed. When he stood erect, a smile was on his face, but it wasn’t the same, warm smile he’d worn that morning when he’d made Crockett feel so comforted. This smile was one of hidden disdain.

  The door closed softly behind him. Crockett leaned over and braced his elbows on his thighs. He took several deep, exaggerated breaths.

  Maybe Pimento knew…He could think he knew but not know what Crockett knew, which was the full truth.

  Crockett paced toward the desk. Sitting in the center was Pimento’s detective notebook, the same one he had written so deliberately in during the morning. Crockett looked toward the door to be sure no one was coming and then flipped open the pages.

  It was not what he had expected.

  There were no words, only small, erratic scribbles. Page after page was covered in the marks with no meaning. Crockett flipped more quickly through the book, thinking at some point he’d find words, real words with names, motives, dates, and times.

  But there were none.

  His breath grew ragged. He looked up and then he saw it—It was the painting Martha mentioned earlier that afternoon. A roll of thunder blasted near the house, shaking the windows. Lightning ripped across the sky and illuminated the portrait.

  The portrait was of a man in a similar triumphant pose as the general in the mural downstairs. Crockett’s gaze wasn’t fixed on him, however, but on a background figure, an assistant, or friend, who was standing behind the painting’s main subject. The man was bald, wearing glasses.

  “Ghosts…” he said softly to himself.

  Crockett slammed the notebook shut and stumbled toward the door. It was at that moment he reappraised something Martha had said.

  You can take the back stair through the ballroom…

  The puzzle box in his brain clicked, the final solution presenting itself. The clues of the case aligned with startling clarity—Lucinda’s
note, the key, the paintings, the rapier, Beatrice, the secret note, and murder. There was just one more thing he needed to see again—it was imperative he find Corinthiana or August.

  He needed to get back into the vault.

  Chapter 20: Bixby Ex Machina

  Thunder rumbled and rain pelted the windows of the house. Brontë only saw Crockett for an infinitesimal moment. He ran through the main sitting room toward the west wing. His long legs fumbled with reckless speed. She had risen to follow him, but the detective asked her a question, which forced her to stay in her spot. As Pimento spoke, she kept looking toward the hallway into which Crockett had disappeared.

  “So, it’s all settled then?” Pimento asked.

  “Sorry?” Brontë’s eyes remained fixed on the empty hallway.

  “Your grandfather’s funerary plans. Everything is arranged?”

  “Yes.” Brontë’s eyes flicked back to the detective. “We met the vicar and discussed the ceremony. It will be a short, quiet affair.”

  “You were gone an awfully long time.” Pimento’s eyebrow quivered upward.

  Brontë suddenly felt very nervous. Her gaze settled on the detective with renewed focus.

  “Mother wanted flowers, so we stopped by a florist as well. We also checked in at the grocery and ordered some additional meat from the butcher for the meal tomorrow.”

  “Crockett seemed to miss you.”

  Brontë averted her gaze. As she tried to keep her voice calm and casual, it only betrayed her, lilting upward. “He’s charming. We’ve had good conversations this past week.” She felt her cheeks grow hot.

  “I see. Can you speak to his character?” Pimento asked, an edge to his voice.

  “Character?” Brontë searched the detective’s face. “He’s a wonderful man. He’s been very helpful throughout this whole affair.” The part of her personality that was her father’s flared up as her eyes narrowed and a small vein appeared on her neck. “It is your character I would bring into question, Detective. Crockett has been a delight; at times I feel he is the only one who is trying to understand the severity of the situation.”