Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe

by Tedd Hawks

  Despite his growing lethargy, he felt his heart swell with pride. He'd found his rutabaga farmer and solved the mystery—Captain Discord would be proud. Although it was not done efficiently or effectively, it was accomplished eventually, which is the most a junior detective could ask for.

  As Petrarch listened, not having his thinking pipe present, he picked up Crockett’s hairbrush and pantomimed smoking that. “I suppose Martha was the only one who knew all these tentative links that joined the past and present. She was the only one who could guide you to the resolution.”

  “She was invaluable. And, once the links were exposed, it being Bixby Von Bunson and Dexter made perfect sense. They both knew every nook and cranny in the house. Bixby had retained a key to the family vault after his fake drowning and could get the sword without Corinthiana’s copy. Dexter knew of the back staircase, so he could fix the record player and escape without raising suspicion, and, of course, Bixby wrote his own letter of introduction to welcome their cousin, Robert Edward. That’s why he was never under suspicion.”

  “I see.” Petrarch tapped his head. “So, Bixby Von Bunson found out when he visited me two weeks ago that Lucinda left the note. He must have known there was something buried in the tomb that gave the game away, revealed him to not be Bixby Hawsfeffer but his killer.”

  “Yes.” Crockett moved toward his sleeping couch; his eyes were growing very heavy. “He probed Martha about the game they used to play—notes in hats—which led to him understanding the clue about the true, revelatory note’s location in the tomb. He also knew you had been ordered never to relinquish the key until after Bixby Hawsfeffer’s death. Once he faked his death, he and Dexter did the séance and murdered Beatrice to get Corinthiana to speed the burial ceremony and get into the tomb to destroy Lucinda’s revelation.”

  “But then you tried to kill me…”

  “And that’s when they had to get really creative.” Crockett’s eyes fluttered.

  “So, they created Pimento to frame you and clear their names completely. They’d blame you for all of it, destroy the note, and head off into the proverbial sunset.”

  “Exactly. But then…” Crockett smacked his lips. “When Pip showed up, who would know what the note meant…”

  “They threw him from a window…” Petrarch nodded.

  Petrarch followed up with a few more questions, but before he received answers, Crockett was snoring peacefully. The solicitor did his best to tuck in his young apprentice. As he fluffed Crockett’s pillow, the young man’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Oh...Petrarch,” he said softly.

  “Yes, my boy?”

  “Someone should probably go check on Dexter. He’s been dying for several hours out near the tomb. Martha and I forgot about him.”

  Petrarch blinked but said nothing. As he shut Crockett’s door, he heard the young man snoring again and, from what the old solicitor could make out, whispering something softly—what he believed to be the name “Brontë.”

  Chapter 28: The Danube Mob

  Crockett awoke in a stupor. His clothes were still covered in dried mud and blood, and he had nothing to change into. It was still very early in the morning; a light mist was on the house grounds. The events of the previous night still seemed distant and dreamlike. Had it not been for the mud and blood, he most likely would have believed none of it happened.

  In his addled state, he was surprised to hear a light rapping on the door. There was a moment of sheer confusion and terror when he stared at the wall, unaware of how to do much of anything. The brief suspended state was followed by a chaotic, rapid firing of his brain cells, which caused him to trip toward the mirror to fix his hair. The tripping built into a falling, the culmination of which sent him sprawling toward the vanity. A sharp crack rang out as his head collided with the side of the small fixture. He was both surprised and unsurprised when he felt his forehead and found that damp blood was dripping down the side of his face.

  “Oh, dear,” he said.

  Since his clothes were all soiled to begin with, he picked up a discarded shirt and wrapped it around his head to slow the bleeding. This, of course, rendered the need to comb his hair unnecessary, so he staggered toward the door and opened it, revealing Brontë.

  While Crockett’s face broke into a wide, beaming smile, Brontë looked past him, into the room, with a hard, humorless gaze.

  “Hullo,” she said dryly. Her face twitched slightly when she saw the makeshift turban atop Crockett’s head.

  “Brontë…”

  To Crockett’s surprise, she had already dressed for the day. Instead of her usual taupe trousers, she wore a long, green dress. Her hair did not hang freely, chaotically, as it had during the week, but was fixed, held back tight.

  “I’ve come to say good-bye,” she said walking to the window. “Father talked to me last night, and we’re to leave for Winterbourne House this morning. I’ll be packing during breakfast, so this will be our last chance to speak.”

  “So soon,” Crockett’s face dropped. “I thought we could go for a walk around the grounds this morning after breakfast. Perhaps you could pretend to be a canary once again.”

  Brontë’s mouth tremored but would not reveal a smile.

  “No.” She said it haughtily, turning her face away. “We have to go. Grandmother canceled the burial; she decided to just kind of stuff Grandfather in the tomb and forget about it. She is planning a rather nice ceremony for Beatrice, but she says she needs a month to plan for it, so we’ll return then. I think she’s planning on hiring some of the local circus performers to do a kind of show.” Brontë’s cold exterior had been slowly cracking, but she suddenly remembered herself. She stood more erect and bowed slightly toward Crockett. “All that aside, it has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cook.” She extended her hand for Crockett to shake. He sadly took it, gazing into her eyes for a moment, catching, what he thought, was some distant glimmer of their old connection.

  She turned and bustled toward the door, the swishing of her skirts the death knell to Crockett’s hopes.

  Had this scene occurred a week ago, he would have let her go, said nothing, packed up the shards of his heart and begun the healing process, but since the events of the house, the madness, the life and death experiences, he had changed; he had to speak.

  “Brontë,” he called out, “Is it…did I imagine it all? The kiss…”

  The bustling of skirts ceased. She only half turned to address his question.

  “Crockett, it’s not worth dwelling on. Father says there’s a family with a son and a large sum of money. Ironically, it’s the cousin of the man Aunt May is currently courting. But he can offer security.” She paused here. Crockett was unable to see her face as she turned fully toward the door and her skirt began bustling again. “Can you imagine you and me? We’d gallivant around London solving herring murders. What kind of life would that be?”

  She did not wait for an answer. With little more than a wave good-bye, she disappeared out the door and into the darkness of the hallway.

  Crockett’s heart broke fully then. Tears dripped down the side of his face. The scene was a sad one, the young man, head wrapped in his white Oxford shirt, staring plaintively toward the window. Around him dust motes and muted light gave the air of a macabre painting, not even done by a great master artist, but, perhaps, credited to his alcoholic failure of an apprentice.

  He was just about to collapse back on the couch when there was another knock on the door. For a brief moment, the hope that it was Brontë returning gave his heart wings, but when he turned toward the open portal, he instead saw Kordelia looking past him to some distant object.

  “My room has become quite the place for visitors,” he said.

  “I saw Brontë leaving.” Kordelia, despite all that had happened, retained the sound of someone softly speaking from the other side of a wall. “Did she break your heart then?”

  “Yes.”

  “She and father talked for a long while
last night. I didn’t hear much, although I tried to listen through the air ducts. I assumed it wasn’t a pleasant chat, however.”

  “Not for me.”

  Kordelia walked toward Crockett and extended her porcelain hand. It rested on his shoulder and then, awkwardly, in a syncopated rhythm, she patted him reassuringly. The girl was not well versed in the art of consolation. Crockett was unsure the purpose of the exercise, but Kordelia’s dreamy eyes focused for a moment and attempted to look concerned. He took this to be a friendly gesture and warmly smiled.

  “A Fishtescent Murder,” she said while patting him.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s Pip Hawsfeffer’s new play. It’s based on all that’s happened.”

  “It’s about your family? And,” Crockett’s eyebrows scrunched together “is…fishtescent a word?”

  “No, it’s not a word, but Pip takes great liberties with the English language.” Kordelia ceased patting and took a seat on the bed. “And yes, it is about the family. He stayed up all night writing. I helped him. He needed assistance capturing the characters just right, you know.”

  “I’ve always wondered how artists receive inspiration.”

  “He said last night it was like ‘The sound of a cry of the world’s lightning all at once.’”

  Crockett nodded his head. “That sounds like something he would say.”

  “You’re in it, of course,” Kordelia said playing with the lace on the collar of her blouse. “We made you less horse-looking and wealthier, but it’s a very similar character.”

  “I’m honored.”

  Kordelia refocused, again, on Crockett. Her blank expression turned warm for an instant. “Thank you,” she said quickly.

  “Well, I couldn’t let the murder go unsolved.”

  “No.” She turned toward the window and nervously itched her ear. “For listening. That day on the river—no one really listened to me, but you did that day, and Uncle Pip is listening now. That’s what I’m thanking you for. And,” she turned and slightly smiled, “for understanding that sometimes gloves simply get placed in conspicuous places and don’t mean anything more.”

  “I’m glad I could add something pleasant to your return home from Switzerland,” Crockett smiled. Everything irritating about the young girl, even her halitosis, had turned to fondness in these last moments together.

  Kordelia nodded, then, abruptly, leapt up from her seat on the bed and drifted toward the door. While her hand rested on the knob, she turned around and gazed at him. “I like your turban, but if you’re going to be doing a séance, it should be red and pushed back a bit; also, jewels give it more authority.”

  Crockett laughed. He was surprised to hear it after just having his heart broken, but in the moment, he only remembered the silly séance and, further back, the day Kordelia told him she set the cat on fire.

  “Also, Crockett,” she continued, “it will be hard, but you’ll recover from my sister. At least someone isn’t grating all of your favorite cheese in front of you.”

  This time Crockett tried to restrain his laughter. He bit his lip and nodded emphatically. When he felt that he could speak without breaking, he said, “Thank you, Kordelia. That really means…well, more than you can know.”

  “Jiboody kirkegaard,” she said sweetly. “In fortune teller, that’s ‘I'll always remember you.’”

  #

  Breakfast was a joyful affair, despite the sad start to Crockett’s morning. Even August and June were pleasant, having successfully torn their daughter’s affections from the impecunious solicitor’s assistant. The most shocking conciliatory event, however, was May asking Crockett to pass the crème for her coffee. Her normally stiff expression broke, slightly, to show a belabored smile.

  Corinthiana was the most effusive with her praise and mirth. Having gotten to the bottom of the events and been assured by August and June that, after the sale of Hawsfeffer Manor, they would have the ability to care for her, she was in the highest spirits, as evidenced by the more prolonged vowels that now fueled her sentence constructions—this, of course, combined with the slight hangover from her obscene tankard of sherry she had drunk the night before.

  “Hellooo,” she bellowed as Crockett and Petrarch sat down to the meal. She was so happy she didn’t even mention Crockett’s lack of formal coat, his mud-stained shirt, or the dried blood on his forehead. “How aaare yooou?”

  Pip Hawsfeffer was even in high spirits when he came down to eat (assisted by Kordelia due to his sprained ankle, bruised leg, and dislocated shoulder). While manic, clearly, from his night of writing, he gave Martha a compliment, noting that the scones she had prepared, “Weren’t très mauvais.”

  Petrarch was feeling his old self as well, leveling one of his usual well-dressed insults at Pip as he took his seat. “Sir,” he said to him, passing the toast, “we never met properly, but you have the regal air of Shakespeare and all the talent of his index finger.”

  By the end of breakfast, Crockett felt slightly better. The blood from his morning forehead wound had ceased; after eating, Martha took time to dress his wound with warm water and a bandage. Crockett returned the favor after, redressing her shoulder injury from the previous night. Brontë didn’t appear at all in the morning, which only helped Crockett feel that he could move on freely with his life after the affair at Hawsfeffer Manor. He had done a great service for the family, proven himself to Petrarch, received his first kiss, and, most likely, would have a character based on him in a French play—overall, it was a very successful outing for the young solicitor.

  Petrarch seconded this as they made final preparations to leave. He was buoyant due to his mix of high spirits and the last of his medication.

  “My boy, it’s easy to fall in love. You meet a beautiful young woman with new ideas in a new place, and your heart makes decisions before your head. Trust me, we’ll go back to London, and we’ll find a better match for you.”

  “You’re very wise, Petrarch. I think I got caught up in the events of the week, and many of my emotions ran too freely.”

  “A boy as clever as you will find someone perfect soon enough. With my connections, it may even be someone with more money than the Winterbournes. You could be living with a beautiful woman in the middle class very soon.”

  Crockett smiled. He extended his hand and grabbed Petrarch’s, squeezing it warmly. “Petrarch, thank you for everything. I mean it. You have taken a number of chances on me and never given up on me, even when the family was ready to throw me into prison. And,” his face flushed, “when I accidentally almost killed you.”

  “Well, I trust you!” Petrarch thumped his belly once, dramatically. “Your heart was in the right place when you fired that gun, and,” he paused with slight drama, “that is why I’m sending you ahead to the Mayweathers in East Fletchfordtownhampsonvilleshire. I am going to Winterbourne House to help August and June with a few legal issues there, then I also have to stop in Dunstead village to get a signature from Mrs. Chambers.”

  “Oh,” Crockett blushed with pleasure. “You want me to go ahead and start the final will reading with the Mayweathers?”

  “Of course! I’ll follow along a day behind, but consider this a promotion. You may now call yourself a junior solicitor.”

  Crockett couldn’t suppress his joy. “Petrarch, you…thank you!”

  “If risking life and limb for a client doesn’t prove your worth, I don’t know what will.”

  Crockett's joy was dampened by the thought of his bag full of muddy and bloodstained clothing. "Petrarch," he said, "could I perhaps get an advance on my salary. I'll need a fresh suit before arriving at the Mayweathers."

  Petrarch winked and handed him a small fist of bills.

  “SOLICITOR!” They heard Martha’s shriek come from down the hallway. “CARRIAGE IS HERE!”

  Petrarch patted Crockett on the shoulder. “That will be my ride with August, June, and Brontë to Winterbourne House. Your coach will be here shortly to go
on to the Mayweathers’ estate.”

  The two men, again, shook hands.

  Once Petrarch was gone, Crockett took his bag to the main hall and then went for a walk around the grounds. To his surprise, Petrarch had forgotten to report Dexter’s situation the night before, and the man had expired outside the tomb. While Crockett was not exactly overjoyed by the corpse, it perhaps was the best outcome, as no one would have been really been safe had the old man survived. Martha helped him drag the body to the Tiddlymouth and throw it in after his master.

  “Seems a fitting end,” Martha said, her eye slowly spinning. “Glad you found him before the flies and maggots settled in.”

  When Crockett’s carriage arrived, the remaining family, excepting Pip, who was still too injured to move far, all waved good-bye from the front lawn. Martha helped him with his luggage, even going so far as to stiffly hug the young man and slip him a parcel containing a few ghost biscuits. Tears were in her eyes, an uncomfortable situation when one of them spins, sending a light spray of sadness onto those in close proximity.

  The carriage driver’s assistant was clumsy and spoke in a shrill, bleating voice that made Crockett extremely uncomfortable. He had to help the young lad get the bag onto the carriage before watching him fall onto the ground trying to get back into the driver’s bench with his master. Crockett would have normally helped, but he had no desire to be of assistance to someone who, at a base level, couldn’t do the most perfunctory parts of his trade.

  It was while he was double-checking his bag was secured to the carriage that the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. He realized the reason the doctor who arrived with Dexter looked so familiar was because it was the old carriage master from the day of their arrival. He had worn the scarf to cover the growth on his neck and brought the potato to woo Corinthiana. This revelation somehow struck him as the most absurd, so he was laughing merrily as he gave a final wave to Martha and yelled for the carriage to proceed.