by Tedd Hawks
“We used the time to dismiss the servants.”
“Except for Martha…” Dexter said. “I never could let her go, even though she never wanted me…”
Von Bunson rolled his eyes; he was quite fed up with the unrequited love of Martha and Dexter. “Anyway, once the house was clear, we poisoned my cousin and…well, that was that! I used some slight costuming and took his place. It erased him completely and avoided any legal complications.”
“Does Corinthiana know…?” Crockett asked.
“She doesn’t.” Bixby shook his head. “She was very beautiful, an empty-headed farm girl. Not only would she be a delightful wife, but she also would spread rumors of our whirlwind romance. Locals would be led to assume our relationship was the reason Lucinda disappeared.”
“But Lucinda left the note.” Crockett looked to the piece of parchment in Bixby’s hand. It rippled slightly in the warm, summer breeze. “She left the note with Petrarch which would guide her son to the tomb. That second epistle," he motioned to the letter in Von Bunson's hand, "explained what happened to his father. It was the game from his childhood that was the hint.”
“Yes! It was very clever of her,” Dexter said. “I knew it had to mean something, which is why I had to get Martha to explain it me—the hat game and all that. The note was concealed under her stone Tudor beret on her sarcophagus.”
“What does it say?” Crockett leaned forward.
“In no uncertain terms it discusses her fear of a plot between me and Dexter which put her and Bixby Hawsfeffer in mortal danger. It alludes to the reasons for the murder, but it is not entirely factual. However, if it were discovered, my claim to the house would be removed, as would that of my wife and daughters.”
“But there’s nothing left…” Crockett said. “You’re all in terrible debt.”
“They can sell the house!” A terrifying resolve crossed Bixby’s face. “I will not have my wife, children, and granddaughters shamed into non-existence.” His nostrils flared. “This,” he said shaking the note, “will be destroyed and then we will all move forward, forgetting this whole messy business forever!”
This moment of outrage brought Bixby to his senses. The imminent discovery of both him and Dexter-Pimento on the grounds made the matter at hand more urgent. He, again, aimed his gun at Crockett and narrowed his gaze.
“But!” Crockett shouted. He still had a large number of questions. The events around the mysteries at Hawsfeffer were unnecessarily complicated.[44] “When did you decide to fake your own death?” The question came out more pleadingly than Crockett would have liked, but he pressed on, “Was it simply to get the tomb key?”
To Crockett’s great relief a smile returned to the old man’s lips. “Dexter, how could we forget that piece?!”
“It is very important in terms of fleshing out the plot.” The fraudulent detective was looking at his shoes, perturbed at the mud which collected on them in his excursion on the grounds.
“Petrarch may have forgotten,” Bixby continued, “but I asked him about the tomb key a long time ago. It was for a very unromantic, non-murderous reason; I simply thought it may be a good idea to clean the thing—all the dead bodies, you know. So, I asked him, and he confided that he did have a copy, but was unsure of the existence of any others. I raided the house and found nothing. It may have been a bit of a panic response, but when the Lucinda note was revealed to me, I knew I had to act fast to get into the tomb and remove the second note.”
Somewhere in the distance, Crockett heard more sounds. Hope swelled in his heart.
“I was the one who suggested the fake death,” Dexter added. “We are both getting old, so we thought it wouldn’t matter much anyway. We threw the plot together quickly so we could get Petrarch to the house with the key.”
“You couldn’t simply ask him for his copy?” Crockett asked.
“It was legally impossible. Lucinda willed it to never be passed on until the death of myself.”
“The whole thing was very irksome,” Dexter added.
“Faking my death to get the key was simple in execution,” Bixby continued. “I yelled and disappeared into some brush, and Dexter ran to the house to get a witness. The most complicated parts were creating the second, real will in secret while making sure Petrarch would come to the house for the reading. The other niggling item was building out the Robert Edward plot in advance to make sure alibis were covered and I could be present at the will reading.” Bixby laughed to himself. “That required me to go to London as Bixby, return as Robert, only to leave as Robert and return as Bixby to die as Bixby then return as Robert.”
Crockett, in spite of himself, grew impressed with the complex nature of the plot. “So, you drew out the plan, prepared the fake correspondence between Robert Edward and Bixby, then staged a trip to London in which you would change into Robert Edward and visit the house.”
“Correct—it was very, very lucky Dexter and I kept all of our old costuming from America. We had a number of rather fun disguises to use.” Crockett wondered if ‘lucky’ was the operative word to describe the poor makeup and sad costuming of the two men before him.
“I'd also like to thank you, personally, Crockett,” Dexter bowed courteously. “I’d written that elaborate speech to give to the family, but no one was very interested in my part in all this. If you hadn't gone nosing about with your investigation, I wouldn't have gotten to give it to anyone."
The noises from the house became more frequent. Bixby and Dexter turned their attention to the large, white façade with fear in their eyes.
Crockett threw in another question to redirect their attention back to their own vanity. “What now, then? Once you kill me, what happens? Bixby, you can’t go back to your family. You're technically dead, and your alter ego, Robert, belongs back on the continent.”
“It’s true, but I can visit as the dear, old cousin. Dexter and I can make our way to Belgium and resume our old tricks. They love magic, and the waffles are to die for. We could even write a wonderful stage drama about a thieving solicitor’s assistant.”
“I’ve waited years to get back to performing,” Dexter said. “You probably noticed I’ve been keeping in practice. People thought I was crazy, but it was really my art.”
“A common mistake for many a thespian, I’m sure,” Crockett muttered.
“But, enough,” Bixby threw back his cape. “I’m glad you finally had interest in the plot, Crockett, but now we must bid you adieu. Dexter, you may do the honors.”
Crockett felt the barrel of the revolver press against his skull. With death before him, all his emotions merged in that moment—it was a nexus of every feeling he’d ever experienced. He took a deep breath; his eyes watered with nascent tears. Perhaps there would be no god from a machine to save him (or even Kordelia’s Danube Mob). His life would simply vanish under a cloud of smoke in the darkness of this family estate. In the wake of the violence, he would have only a ruined reputation, a grieving Petrarch, and…Brontë.
His throat seized. The convergence of all feeling evaporated, leaving only one emotion.
“Please, just one thing,” Crockett said, his voice breaking. “Tell Brontë that I did have the fondest affection for her.” He paused, a tear sliding down his cheek. “I very much loved her.”
“How very nice.” Bixby sneered. “I can assure you, you would have never had my permission to marry her. A second-rate solicitor does not belong in the same parlor as my granddaughter. It’s a shame the current circumstances brought you into such close proximity.” Bixby looked at Crockett with a glint of amusement. “Somehow this sad confession of love makes this all the more enjoyable. Dexter,” Bixby took a small bow, “you may end it.”
Crockett felt the cold gun push forcefully into his skull. Tears ran down his face without restraint. There was some sense of sadness, but, deep inside, he felt a flowering of acceptance. As he closed his eyes and awaited the carnage, he allowed himself to imagine Brontë’s smiling face, haloe
d in warm, June light. The memory of her kiss rushed through him, turned his fear to joy. Brontë smiled in Crockett’s imagination. She opened her mouth.
But no human sound came from her, no voice. It was the violent blast of a gun.
Chapter 25: The Battle of the Tiddlymouth
Crockett opened his eyes expecting to see Jesus, or another man of Anglo-Saxon heritage,[45] robed in white, welcoming him to the afterlife. Instead, he was met with the same darkness of the grounds and the shocked expression of Bixby Von Bunson staring into blackness. Although the sound of the gun faded, the night was far from quiet. Screams were erupting from behind him. He turned to see Dexter Fletcher writhing in agony, a deluge of blood, black in the night, pouring down his leg.
“My god! My god!” Dexter rolled on the ground, clutching himself.
A quick glance up brought Crockett’s eyes to the figure who saved him; Martha stood with the gun from the sitting room held in her grasp.
“The secrets end here, Master Von Bunson,” she said. Her eye spun in earnestness. “Let the boy go.”
Bixby’s face lost its look of shock. His eyes burned, his expression one of pure malice. He turned his gun on the old housekeeper.
“You…How dare you interfere!”
It was at that moment Crockett acted. Lunging forward, he toppled Bixby. The two men fell, a mess of limbs. While Bixby clawed and groped, Crockett strove to get Lucinda’s confession. It was this choice that led him to gain possession of the paper but Bixby to reclaim his weapon.
Crockett stood, his hands up, the paper held tightly in his grasp. Bixby, gnashing his teeth, pointed the gun directly at him.
“Bixby!” Martha yelled from the darkness.
In a flash, Bixby spun and sent bullets flying toward Martha. His first two shots missed, but the third found its target. The maid crumpled, the projectile hitting her shoulder. Crockett took the moment of confusion to run, as fast as he could, into the darkness.
It was only a few strides into his escape that he doubted his decision. He remembered little of the grounds. The only time he walked past the gardens he was preoccupied with thought. The lights in the house were dim, as was the bleak glow coming from the mouth of the family tomb. He scrambled over the rocky pathway, tripping over brambles and branches. Luckily, he could hear the rush of the Tiddlymouth and direct his course toward its general direction.
“Blast Dexter and his terrible groundskeeping,” he said quietly to himself tripping over a large root that crossed the path. “At least his employment is now explained.”
While Crockett should have been terrified, the chaos of the night rendered him only with thoughts of moving forward, of survival, and of protecting Lucinda’s note, the only thing that would give the insanity of the week some measure of reason. The desire to save Lucinda’s epistle, mixed with focusing on the uncertainty of his trail through the garden, made the idea of a rabid, armed Bixby Von Bunson pursuing him in the dark an ancillary threat.
But Bixby was coming. The older gentleman, well versed in the layout of the grounds, picked up speed. He could be heard tramping through the garden’s overgrowth, his pace quickening. Crockett's only advantages were his youth and a few moments of lead time.
His heart raced as he rambled over the unruly route forward. In his rush to escape, he tumbled, lurching forward and sliding through the thick mud to a spot near the riverbank. The water rushed by, the ominous (and atmospheric) rains of the previous few days making the current a treacherous, roaring presence in the dark.
Even in the chaos of his pursuit, Crockett had to sigh, realizing that his only pair of unmuddied trousers was now unsalvageable.
Bixby heard the cacophony of Crockett’s fall into the weeds, but the darkness of the night hindered him from seeing the location of his landing. The grasses along the bank were high enough to shield the young man from view. In reality, the men were a few yards away from each other, but nature and night kept them hidden, two men on the opposite ends of a great void.
In most detective novels,[46] Bixby would have fired shots into the weeds, scaring Crockett like a bird from the brush, but the old man’s poor shot left him with only three more bullets—all of which he knew would be needed to finish Crockett once and for all.
Breathing heavily, Von Bunson gathered his thoughts, pondering how to trap the solicitor’s assistant. Not a physical match for him and uncertain of his own ability to fire a gun accurately, he knew he had to rely on the only skills left to him in the night. They were his greatest gifts, but ones which had to be used with precision to end his crusade successfully—persuasion, deception, and theatricality.
“Crockett, dear boy, come out,” he said, infusing an avuncular charm to his voice. “The game’s run afoul, and there’s no need to hide. You’ve won. You solved it all.”
Crockett said nothing. He, too, had his brain working in a frenzied state to counter the scheme he knew Bixby was plotting at that very moment. As he sat in contemplation, Bixby’s only answer was the whisper of grasses and the rush of the river's current.
“Quiet, I see.” Bixby’s teeth ground together. “Clever, also.” The old man’s mind raced. “Dexter and I thought we had everything buttoned up before you interfered. Everyone had decided to move forward with the burial, the tomb would have been opened, and we would have snuck away with the note.”
He paused and let his gaze drift over the grasses. His vision had fully adjusted to the dark. The intermittent light of a quarter moon provided some aid to his aging eyesight. “You see, Dexter overheard you and Brontë plotting. You said that night—the very one in which you took your shot at Petrarch—that you thought the murderer was Bixby Hawsfeffer…In the moment, we misconstrued the statement. We thought you were on to us. It wasn’t until your later interview with Dexter as Pimento that we realized you actually thought it was the homosexual Bixby—Pip—from Paris.”
Crockett controlled his breath, grateful that the evening breeze and the rush of the river provided cover to his soft exhalations. He had no plan, but he knew he must make a final effort to return the note to the manor. Fear manifested itself in goose pimples forming on his neck and arms. He reasoned he had precious little time before Bixby discovered his hiding place.
“That next bit of the plot was chaotic." Von Bunson ran his arms over the grasses, searching through them. "Dexter had to leave his note and disappear to come back as the detective in disguise. We were planning to proceed with our scheme the next morning, me calling the police and him arriving, but you expedited that with your little shot at Petrarch. You made us pivot very ungracefully, Crockett. We thought we could trap you, you see.” Bixby heard a movement to his left and raised his gun frantically; in his haste, he fired one of his three remaining bullets into the blankness of the empty countryside. He was embarrassed that the cause of his alarm was a grasshopper which leapt at an inopportune moment. He cleared his throat and lowered his weapon. It took all his emotional strength to keep the frustration from his voice. “Ah ha! More ungraceful pivoting!” He threw his cape over his shoulder. “We contrived the detective’s midnight visit at the last moment as a form of triage. Dexter called up two of his acquaintances to play the parts of the doctor and the policeman, and the game began.”
Crockett went rigid after the bullet was fired. He lay, stiff as a piece of driftwood, as Bixby continued.
“You surprised us again, though. You were very smart during the Pimento investigation.” Bixby regained his composure and methodically paced through the weeds, down to the riverbank, then back up into the short grass. For the first time in decades, he felt irritated at Dexter’s poor groundskeeping; a competent servant would have trimmed this area which was so near the dock. “Dexter thought he could manipulate you, get you to make some confession that would allow us to incriminate you. The house was already indifferent to you—a poor, self-educated street dweller. It would take very little to convince the family you were guilty of something.”
With each pass
down the bank, Bixby grew closer to Crockett’s location.
The young man reclined on the ground to keep below the grasses. He knew he had to master his fear, tame his wild, beating heart, and make his move against the evil patriarch. Looking upward at the stars, he breathed deeply and braced his nerves for an offensive strike.
Bixby’s thoughts also churned. He reviewed what he knew of Crockett as he spoke slowly of Dexter and his plot. Then it struck him, like lightning—the coup de grâce which would draw the boy out of the shadows.
The old man tried to keep the glee from his voice as he spun his web with more earnestness. “Dexter did draw you into his confidences, but we didn’t plan for everything, did we dear boy?”
Crockett’s breath came faster.
“Dexter didn’t imagine the bond you would develop with my granddaughter, the depth of feeling which blossomed between you. How could he think that such a young, fortuneless boy from London would draw the affection of my eldest granddaughter…my lovely Brontë?”
The old man paused. He thought he heard a movement in the grass. This time he wanted to be sure the rustling was a threat before he fired his weapon. Slowly, he let his gaze drift over the waving weeds looking for signs of human activity.
He had been correct in his assumption of movement. Crockett did make the slightest of noises, inadvertently digging his hands into the dirt at the mention of Brontë’s name. All schemes of escape ceased as his thoughts turned to Bixby’s speech, the possibility that Brontë was tethered to him in some miraculous way, across class and boundaries of titles.
Bixby shivered with anticipation as he continued. He was sure the slight stirring in the dark had been the turn of the tide in his direction. “She saved you! Against all odds, she went into the darkness of the vault and set you free for this final confrontation. Neither of us could have imagined that sudden burst of action.” Bixby gained momentum. He continued earnestly. “And imagine the joy Petrarch will feel when he sees you returning, triumphantly, with Lucinda’s note in your hands. He said you were ‘the brightest young man in London,’ and this will only prove it irrevocably. I think when you return home you can expect a very large raise in salary.” Bixby smiled to himself, sure the young man was entranced. “All thoughts of your attempt on his life and the subsequent head injuries will be forgotten. How could he hold you accountable when you’ve won the prize? I would say the sacrifices were well worth the joy of seeing you expose such a grand revelation.”