by Tedd Hawks
“I don’t believe you.” Brontë’s lip trembled.
Pimento’s smile only grew broader as he continued. “Beatrice’s death was configured with the help of the absent groundskeeper. No doubt our dear Crockett has promised him a cut of the fortune when it is secured. I bet our Mr. Dexter Fletcher stayed very close to the house. If we listen, I would not be surprised if we could hear him breathe.”
At this moment, Crockett shook harder than he had previously. With all his fury, he kicked at the bonds and tried to throw Robert away from him. Both Robert and August needed all their strength to pull him back down to the ground. August gave him a mighty blow to the stomach that quieted his screams.
“Didn’t like that, did you, Crockett? The truth hurts, I suppose.” Pimento’s gaze floated over the crowd. Everyone was riveted except for Pip, who was straightening his waistcoat in the reflection of a brass urn. “The real violation, I suppose, was him turning the gun on his own master, our dear, dear Petrarch.”
Pimento leaned over Crockett and smiled. It was a hideous expression of joy. Tears fell from Crockett’s eyes; he shook his head vehemently.
“You deny it, Crockett?” The detective looked toward Brontë. Tears also streamed down the young woman's face. “Miss Winterbourne, why don’t you ask him?”
Brontë put a hand to her mouth. She looked frantically at her mother, who turned away. Pimento had his hand on the sock, ready to release it so Crockett could speak.
“Ask him, Miss Winterbourne.” Pimento’s eyes were wild with giddiness.
Brontë said nothing. She looked anxiously at her father and sister, who both avoided her gaze by looking out the window. Her mouth opened several times, but no sound came out. She placed her hands over face, her body wracked by a violent sob.
Pip, his waistcoat straightened, sighed and marched forward. He had been growing bored with the whole affair; the day had been long, full of travel, and he was very much looking forward to dinner. “Well, let’s move on with it then,” he said casually. He folded a handkerchief around his hand, to keep from having to touch the sock. He leaned in close to Crockett. “Poor man with weird eyes, but a rather nice physiognomy, did you shoot the old man—Petridge was it?—to whom they are referring?”
Pimento, slightly disappointed that the middle-aged dandy dimmed the dramatic effect of the confrontation between lovers, motioned for him to release the gag. The youngest Bixby gingerly reached in and removed the sock from Crockett’s mouth.
A flurry of protestations escaped the young man as soon as his tongue was free. “Brontë, he’s lying. It’s not me! What do I have to gain? There’s no money! There’s none!”
Corinthiana covered her eyes. May nervously assessed her shoes. Even August looked slightly embarrassed, his mustache lifting apprehensively.
“There’s nothing to gain…There’s no motive! I know who it is, it’s—”
Pimento motioned for Pip to replace the sock, which he did, rather awkwardly—at first stuffing it in too gingerly but then a bit too roughly. When it was fully inserted, he gently patted Crockett’s head then turned his attention to Beatrice’s bed; its garishness escaped his appreciation when he first entered the room.
The detective sighed and began to pace. “You aren’t answering the question, Mr. Cook,” he said. Abruptly he spun and kicked Crockett, this time much harder. Crockett groaned.
“Crockett…” Hope sparked in Brontë’s eyes. She drew forward. “Did you do it? I know you wouldn’t hurt Petrarch; just tell us you didn’t.”
Pimento stepped toward Crockett and knelt down. He lifted the gag. Crockett looked at Brontë with clear, sad eyes. “Brontë…Brontë…the gun, the shot—that was it. And it was for you. I did it for you, because you said it wasn’t over. You know how I panic—I goat freeze, I…get in troubouble with it. It was rash and stupid…But the rest—”
Pimento laughed loudly and replaced the gag. Brontë’s breath left her. She fell to her knees.
“Guilty. Guilty as the day is long. Guilty as the stars in the sky!” Pimento waved his hands through the air dramatically.
“That’s rather poetic,” Pip said turning his attention away from Beatrice’s bed and taking his notebook back out. “I may steal that.”
Crockett tried to keep Brontë’s gaze. He futilely attempted to explain the rest of his story through the course fabric of Robert’s sock.[41]
Pimento stood erect, a look of pure delight on his face.
“I think the best action would be to take our fish-murdering fiend into the family vault and lock him there until the appropriate authorities can arrive. Madame Hawsfeffer?”
Corinthiana peeked through her fingers and looked at Detective Pimento. “I suppose…I meeean…Yes?”
Pimento motioned for Crockett to be moved. “Could you please phone the police, Mr. Harrington? Let them know the Mystery of Hawsfeffer Manor has been solved.”
It was at this moment that Petrarch entered the room. His eyes were still wild; he remained robed in his sleeping gown.
“Hello,” he said casually. His eyes scanned the room lackadaisically until he saw Crockett, bound and gagged, being dragged toward the west wing. Upon this sight, he sputtered like a broken American motorcar. “Pffft—Pffft! My goodness! Crockett? What is this?!”
“He’s killed the herring and tried to marry my sister to get the family money,” Kordelia said quickly. “All very standard fare, I suppose…for a murder mystery.”
Petrarch’s jaw nearly fell to the floor. “But, why?” He searched the faces of all those present. He jumped when he saw Pip in his pink trousers. “Who are you?” he asked, momentarily forgetting his assistant was being accused of murder.
“I, my dear, portly friend, am Bixby Hawsfeffer, the younger—known colloquially as Pip—son of the admirable, but bigoted—”
“That’s dead Bixby’s son,” May finished quickly. Then, quietly, she leaned toward Petrarch and continued, “He’ll monologue all day, if you let him.”
“Yes…of course. Could…?” Petrarch began spinning in circles hoping someone he made eye contact with would tell him more.
No one, however, knew exactly what to say.
“Well, this has been an interesting evening, to be sure.” Pip politely bowed to the gathered crowd. “I must get some food and away to bed. It’s been a very long day, and I feel like I need a good rest before the funerary services begin. I’ve prepared a light speech for the occasion. My dear stepmother has agreed to give me an hour, perhaps hour and one-quarter, for a few brief thoughts on the subject of my father and, of course, the very fragility of existence—”
Martha, for which everyone was infinitely grateful, interrupted him to push him back into the foyer and toward the hall to the east wing.
“You’re staying over here,” she said angrily, shoving him forward. “I’ll get your things and have them delivered.”
“Oh, yes, of course, the guest wing, how lovely and delightful. I do hope there are enough mirrors, you see I require quite a bit of preening upon waking and in the middle…” Pip continued talking as disappeared from view.
When he was gone, Detective Pimento placed his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.
“Another victory for Pimento,” he said proudly. “No one escapes his keen eye.”
The rest of the family shifted uncomfortably. Even the aloof Kordelia looked as if a question was hanging on her tongue, moments from being launched in the detective’s general direction.
“Excuse me,” Petrarch said, absently rubbing his stomach, “but what is going on? I evidently was concussed and put back to bed. I think I’ve put the general timeline together now, but can anyone tell me why poor Crockett is being dragged away bound and gagged?”
“Well,” June pulled a strand of hair away from her face, “you see, it, well, it appears that…I suppose the truth of the matter is…”
August took up the argument with equal confusion, “I think my wife is trying to say that wh
at Pimento has done is unmask the…very surprising…the person who he believes is at the root of all the shenanigans…you know Beatrice, the phonograph…and such…”
“I,” Pimento interjected joyfully, “have found our killer. It was Crockett. That is the end of our mystery. The end. It is over. Everyone go on to supper because I have solved it.”
“But why would Crockett do such a thing? He doesn’t have a motive, for…well, any of it.” Petrarch began to scratch his belly more fitfully.
Brontë’s eyes briefly lit up again, but the spark quickly faded. “Petrarch,” she said, “I didn’t believe it either, but,” a silver tear loosed itself from her eye, “he admitted to trying to shoot you.”
“Shoot me?!” Petrarch yelled. “He would never!” Petrarch thought briefly of the young man, his freezing, his general panic under stress. He sighed. “I suppose he has been under a bit of duress.”
“My dear, Petrarch,” June said softly, “he did confess it. We don’t know…why…exactly…but he said…it.”
“It was admitted by him,” Pimento said harshly. “You can’t trust anything about him. His variegated eyes, ha! The very mark of a traitor!”
Petrarch shook his head emphatically. “Even so! The shot was a terrible one, and Crockett couldn’t have done the rest! I simply don’t believe it!”
“Belief,” Kordelia said softly, “is like the foam on the sea, a passing dream of tuna fish.”
“Darling,” June said wringing her hands, “having heard of the authorship of that play, I’d much rather you start quoting Shakespeare, or even Ben Jonson, if you must go with second-rates.”
When Martha returned from settling in Pip and bringing him a tray of ghost biscuits to calm his appetite, she directed the family to the dining room for supper. Few felt inclined to eat. Corinthiana immediately returned to her chambers, surprised that, knowing the name of Beatrice’s killer, she was no less uneasy than before Pimento made his revelation.
Kordelia and Brontë came to a truce in their embattled sisterhood and held hands as they walked outside to take a turn in the garden. For the first time since he had met them, Petrarch saw an affection between the two girls, the game of points and comparisons set aside. Their very roles appeared to have exchanged as Kordelia led Brontë, the elder sister laying her head on the younger's shoulder.
June and August stayed in the sitting room. June appeared to be in shock. Even August, his face usually a shade of red from some unnecessary rage, was pale and thoughtful, his attention focused on his wife.
Petrarch, May, and Robert Edward (once returned from incarcerating Crockett) did sit down to Martha’s meal, but it was a joyless affair. May and Petrarch mindlessly shoveled food into their mouths as Robert Edward spoke on the general untrustworthiness of the poor.
“It is ze international truz,” he said sadly. “Vun cannot trust ze people vizout ze money. Zey are alvays murdering or looting. Ve should have known as soon as Crockett vas born in his poorness.”
Outside the storm had lifted, and a handful of sparse stars peeked through the thinning clouds. Far in the west, a thin line of red sky marked the sunset. A few birds were singing happily in the trees, their song an odd juxtaposition to the confusion and suffering which weighed on Brontë’s heart.
The two sisters strolled beyond the house, toward the river. Although the track was thick with mud, neither of them paid attention to the dirt splattering on their shoes. Kordelia was occupied with the look of distress on her sister’s face, the sister who she had always believed could not be broken by anything or anyone. For years, as she went in and out of boarding schools and (unfortunately) burned cats, it was Brontë who remained a pillar of constancy in their home, the one beacon of stability around which the chaos of her mother, father, and grandparents turned. She wracked her mind for something to say, some brief, warm emollient, which could bring a smile to Brontë’s lips. Somehow, even the words of a play were inconsequential in the intensity of the moment (even if they were writ by their estranged half-uncle).
Brontë was preoccupied with the (supposed) betrayal of Crockett. It was unbelievable that she had not seen, not noticed, not conceived that he was capable of such acts. Perhaps everyone, at their core, could do the most despicable thing when the right circumstances presented themselves. She would resign herself to the truth of Crockett’s duplicity, but just as she came to the brink of acceptance, she would remember his eyes, the way he had looked at her the first time they met, the morning in the garden, during their adventure in the vault, and the night before the incident with Petrarch. She had seen goodness; she had seen (dare she think it?) love in those green and blue orbs.
Her thoughts swirled in this loop, denial and acceptance, as she and Kordelia strolled, arm-in-arm, farther away from the house.
It was Kordelia who eventually broke the silence, finally deciding on something which she thought could be consoling.
“I know I can come off as a bit crazy,” she said, “but I crazily think Crockett is blameless.”
Brontë lifted her head from her sister’s shoulder.
“You see,” continued Kordelia, “we spoke once, out here, and I think he really wanted to figure out what was happening. I told him then that I always believed the worst in everything to be surprised by the better. But,” Kordelia squeezed her sister’s hand, “I don’t think there was the worst in Crockett. I think he was always better.”
Brontë now turned toward her sister and smiled. “I appreciate that, Kordelia. Thank you. I also feel like I knew him very well, and he’s not capable of any of this. Even if he did, in a confused fit, shoot a bullet in Petrarch’s room, he wouldn’t harm Beatrice, and I refuse to believe he had any interest in marrying me for money.”
Kordelia sighed. “It seems to be another twist in this strange labyrinth.” The girls stopped walking. Brontë looked toward the sky. Kordelia crossed her arms and turned to the house. “You know,” she said quietly, “when I was with Crockett, I told him my fear about this whole situation.”
“And what’s that?” Brontë asked.
“That it’s a spirit from the past.” Her voice lost its warmth; both women shivered. “That it’s still not over.”
Chapter 22: Brontë at the Brink
When Kordelia and Brontë returned to the house, they were met with the news that Pip Hawsfeffer had been pushed from the window of the folly. In the grand scheme of all concerns at the Hawsfeffer household, all believed it ranked far below the death of Beatrice and just under the importance of Corinthiana’s pre-bed sherry ritual.
“He was a sodomite and, therefore, a criminal,” Pimento said stroking his chin, “so, in terms of general death gravitas, I’d say we enjoy this evening's triumph before circling back in the morning.”
“He was also a bore,” June Hawsfeffer added. “I really think we’d be hard-pressed to find someone without a motive to kill him, even with Crockett locked away, it could have been any of us.”
“He’s also not dead.” Martha is the one who made this general observation as she and August dragged his body into the main foyer. “Maybe a few broken bones.”
“Egghhh,” Pip mumbled.
“Thaaat is very goood news,” Corinthiana said warmly, pouring a glass of sherry.
In the end, Pip was moved to the sofa in the sitting room and the doctor was called to check on his injuries. The general air of confusion and distrust carried on, although, distracted by the wounded Pip, Corinthiana and June worked with alacrity to make sure the maimed guest was attended to.
Most of the house retreated to their own quarters, fed up with the tension and chaos of the evening. No one quite knew what to do with the revelation that Crockett was a pet killer and had intentions of marrying Brontë for the family fortune, but it did provide a solution, even if improbable, which explained the odd series of events.
June and Corinthiana did not take long to latch onto the alternative history which this solution presented.
“He was
a bit furtive,” June said adjusting Pip's feet on the sofa. “I suppose I thought it was a social backwardness due to his state of poverty, but it may have been a general air of malfeasance.”
“I think yooou haaave it there, my deeear. I noticed his spirit waaas theee color of baaat droppings. His penury is tooo blaaame; remember theee night heee didn't wear a formal dining jaaacket? One maaay remooove theee raaat from theee raaat house, but one maaay never uncheeese the raaat.”[42]
Brontë said nothing as Crockett was rewritten a villain. She merely helped wait on her half-uncle and pondered over the events of the evening. After her discussion with Kordelia and further meditations on the subject, she was sure of his innocence. The Petrarch plot was idiotic, but he had done it to assist her—to get to some truth that he thought only an attempted murder would push them toward. She was certain that Petrarch would agree with her; he would not betray his apprentice over an ill-planned scheme. Crockett made mistakes, but he was not the shadowy figure causing the true chaos in the house.
“He couldn’t be!” she told herself as she watched Pip's labored breathing. “Crockett, even with his brains, couldn’t have hatched the plan with such efficiency in only a few days. How did he get the vault key? He couldn’t have emotionally manipulated me to that degree.”
Corinthiana and June retired to their chambers. Robert Edward remained awake but said little, pacing slowly through the main room and occasionally heading toward the west wing to walk the long gallery and look at the portraits.