by Tedd Hawks
The sound of the horses’ hooves signaled their movement forward with great gusto. The manor receded into the distance, the ill-kept bushes and trees passing by Crockett’s window. Slowly, as more distance was put between himself and the house, he felt his merriment turn to a profound sadness. It wasn’t merely the loss of Brontë but a feeling of letting go and growing up. When he’d arrived at Hawsfeffer Manor he’d simply been a solicitor’s assistant, a young man on the edge of a career, still yet to fall in love or be shot at multiple times with a revolver.[48] But now, on the other side of the madness, he couldn’t help but feel as if a part of his youth was buried along with Beatrice in the grounds of the old house, as shambled and grotesque as it was.
The carriage wheels creaked happily, pulling them away. Crockett sighed and turned in his seat to take one last look at the tall, pillared front, the stalwart, dark green tomb, and the scattered dead trees, marking Dexter’s poor gardening skills. The sky behind the scene was the purest, June blue, a hopeful premonition for the house and its inhabitants.
When Crockett turned forward once again, he was startled to see another carriage approaching. The two men in the front of it waved as they drew near, signaling for Crockett’s carriage to halt.
Once they were close enough to speak, a gentleman in the front, wearing a bowler and full black suit, saluted and spoke in a thick Viennese accent.
“Hullo,” he said. “You’re coming from the Hawsfeffer house?”
“Yes, sir,” Crockett said deferentially. The man’s jacket lifted exposing a firearm.
“Very pleasant to meet you,” he continued. “We’re the Danube Mob; we've come to do the last of the fixing up.”
Crockett blanched. “The…Dan…Mob?”
“Yes, sir, we’ve been tasked to go tidy up the ending a bit.” The man cleared his throat and looked at a neat list written in precise lettering. “We’ve got May Hawsfeffer’s farmer lover in the back.”
At this, a gentleman peeped from the back curtain and waved. “Hullo!”
“Hell-o…”
“For the maid, Martha, we got this secret document that states she’s the heiress to some fortune, left by a…” the Austrian gangster squinted at the text, “a…Miss Havisham.”
Crockett's heart swelled imaging both Martha and Corinthiana sharing tea, covered in jewels.
“And we got some books for Kordelia’s new French school and this…outfit for the Pip fellow.” The man withdrew a bright blue suit; it was accompanied by a sling covered in jewels to aid Pip, stylishly, in his recovery.
"Lastly," the man signaled to his assistant in the front of the cart who withdrew a small, fishbowl from under his seat, “we have this for the old woman of the house, of course.”
Crockett smiled broadly at the sight of a wriggling baby herring. “Yes, I think they will very much like all of this. The house is just a bit farther down the road. You’re almost there.” Crockett felt the compunction to add, “I hadn’t heard of you until a few days ago, but you really do great work.”
The man nodded. “We do what we can.” He consulted his list, stroking his chin. “And are you Mr. Cook?”
Crockett answered apprehensively, “I am.”
“Well, I have two things for you then.” The man pulled a parcel out first. Crockett snuck a glance into the package and was relieved to see a brand-new shirt and suit tailored to his size.
The second object was a square black case. The mobster passed it to Crockett, after which he saluted and then grabbed the reins and pushed his horses onward. “Cheerio!” he called. Dirt swept backward as his steeds picked up speed and disappeared toward the horizon.[49]
Crockett looked down at the case in his hand. He was about to open it when there was a clatter from outside his compartment. To his surprise, the carriage driver’s assistant left the driving stand and leapt by his side.
“Hello!” he said emphatically.
Crockett stared at the young man for a moment. He did look familiar but not fully. The hazel eyes were magnetic, something very memorable in their earnest gaze, but the face and the bristling mustache were not.
“I’m sorry,” Crockett said. “I don’t—”
“Crockett!” The boy slapped his shoulder. “Don’t be daft.”
With a quick flick of his wrist, the boy tore off his mustache. Another deft movement removed his cap. In its absence, long, brown hair fell to his shoulders.
“Brontë!” Crockett’s face lit up with joy. His eyes grew as large as tea saucers.
“Yes!” She pulled him close, kissing his cheek. “I had to be dramatic and tell you good-bye so that father would believe it. I couldn’t have him chasing after me.”
“But you were supposed to have left this morning!”
“Mother, Father, and Petrarch went ahead in one carriage. Petrarch made an excuse for me—he told them I wanted to spend more time with Kordelia before she left for school. He was in on the plot.”
“And he gave his blessing to it?” Crockett’s heart fluttered.
“Of course. He said he told you a made-up story about finding someone better, but he didn’t believe it himself.”
Crockett felt a sudden stab of betrayal, but it quickly healed under the warm gaze of the young woman before him.
“You are a remarkable actress,” Crockett said, gently touching her cheek. “I really believed it. I convinced myself you were in pursuit of something better.”
“What could be better?” she asked matter-of-factly. “And don’t think Kordelia and my grandfather were the only ones who can put on a show. I learned from the best…and worst, I suppose, but don’t worry, I won’t kill you for money.”
“Since neither of us have any, I think we’re safe on that account.”
Brontë pulled him close and they kissed, fully on the lips.
“Oh!” Brontë said reaching into her trouser pocket. “Petrarch said this came for him this morning. It’s from the Mayweathers, but he didn’t have time to read it. It could be about your arrival.”
Crockett took the note and unfolded it. His eyes grew wide as he scanned the lines.
“What is it?” asked Brontë.
Crockett couldn’t suppress his smile as he handed over the epistle to Brontë.
Dear Mr. Bluster,
Thank you very much for notifying us of your delay. We are grateful you and your assistant will be joining us in the next week to handle the dealings of Grandfather’s estate.
It struck me as important to notify you prior to your arrival that all is not well in the house. Our sister Candace has vanished. Right before Grandfather died the two had a terrible row, and she disappeared from the town completely. On top of that, our neighbor Mr. Babcock was, well, to put it as pleasantly as possible, found decapitated in our cow shed earlier this week.
We hope you don’t think these kinds of occurrences are common or reflect upon our family’s normal state. Generally, we are very good citizens of the crown and all keep our heads, if you’ll excuse the pun.
Looking very forward to your arrival,
Alluvia Mayweather
Brontë’s eyes looked into Crockett’s full of pure joy.
“Poor Mr. Babcock,” she said smiling.
“It really is a tragedy,” Crockett said taking her hand.
“I suppose they’ll need help getting to the bottom of it, then,” Brontë took the note and pored over it once more. She then turned to Crockett and asked pleasantly, “What do we know about the Mayweathers?”
Before Crockett could answer, however, he opened the black box provided him by the Danube Mob. Inside the case was a small, silver ring shaped perfectly to Brontë’s finger. With little thought, he slid it onto her hand.
She looked at it warmly but briefly.
“I’d be deblighted, of course.”
Crockett’s heart leapt in his chest. Brontë reached out and placed her hand on his cheek.
“We can worry about the details later,” she said.
&n
bsp; Her hand lingered a time on his face. The young lovers stared deeply into each
other’s eyes.
The carriage hit a rut, which returned them to their senses. Brontë shook her head as if waking from a dream.
“Where were we?” she asked.
Crockett immediately launched into a list of facts he knew about the Mayweathers, the small oddities Petrarch pointed out during their initial review of their will and family background.
The rest of the afternoon the carriage rolled forward and took them to Mayweather Manor, a rather pleasant, Tudor-inspired home on the edges of East Fletchfordtownhampsonvilleshire. The events surrounding their time there were darker, more dangerous, with slightly less animal involvement (aside from a small cameo from a cow named Blundergäst).
But—not to get carried away—that story is a tale for another time.
The most important piece of information to be shared at the end of this novel is regarding the young couple. And, for the sake of completion of this particular narrative, the reader can be certain that, in terms of perpetuity, Brontë and Crockett lived very happily ever after.
An Afterword and Apology
Dear Reader,
The editor hopes that you enjoyed the novel or, at the very least, hated it marginally less than you do federal taxes.
While most authors/editors would append a thank you note of sorts to the end of a book, those that helped get this book to publication stated that they would prefer anonymity (aside, of course, from @badgrrlkinzay47 who says “Sup, bitchez!” and again requests you follow her on Instagram). It’s the editor’s hope that the request for anonymity is due to humility rather than embarrassment, but we may never know.
It is necessary to issue an apology at this point in time. The story alluded to at the end of this novel regarding the Mayweathers and their cow, Blundergäst, has been lost to time. Earhart kept extensive notes on other stories about Crockett and Brontë, however the tale of the Mayweather murder is gone. The next novel will pick up at the conclusion of that mystery. The Caddywampus will be thoroughly edited and reviewed and be available for purchase in 2022.
Along with that apology, the editor issues a plea—he does hope that you will help him sketch in the story of this missing adventure. The notes at the conclusion of this text are largely all the information we have about what happened. Some would say it's a call for fan fiction, but I think it's more fan forensics, piecing together the lost mystery from what we have left from Earhart.
Story submissions can be posted on www.beatriceunbound.com. Having read this book, you know the bar is low, so the editor hopes you'll take your creativity and explore every possible option for what could have happened in those dark days in East Fletchfordtownhampsonvilleshire.
Thank you in advance for your time and imagination. Earhart, Brontë, Crockett, and I will see you in 2022 for their troubling encounter with the German demon bear, the Caddywampus.
Sincerely,
Tedd Hawks
* * *
[1] The editor has looked for references to this rhyme in contemporary texts but has only found reference to an old German song “Mallard Man Who Eats Hats.” He conjects that Earhart was unfamiliar with German and did not do sufficient research.
[2] The editor does wonder why no one built a fence or, at the very least, prioritized swimming proficiency.
[3] Please note, in an editorial decision, it has been decided to rely on Christian names throughout the text. Although in the period there would have been more decorum around such things, for modern audiences, having a character called William Little and referring to him as Mr. Little, Will, Bill, Billy, Billiam, Willbob, etc. would be taxing. In this novel, the number of Miss Hawsfeffers alone is troublesome.
[4] The editor does apologize for the grueling, awkward quotations throughout the text from Corinthiana. They were going to be edited, however a phonograph recording of Mrs. Hawsfeffer did reveal she actually spoke as if she were an owl with a mouth full of large plums. If one is in private, it is beneficial to speak the words out loud. Phonetically, it is more comprehensible than in its written form.
[5] @badgrrlkinzay47 took after her ancestor in regard to both capital investment and entrepreneurship. She owns nearly one-quarter of a strip mall in Idaho, the stores of which include a nail salon, a tanning studio, a nail salon with a tanning studio, a tanning studio that does nails, as well as a joint dermatology/podiatry office.
[6] In his research, the editor found that West Hampminstershireshire did have a string of carnival kidnappings in the spring and fall of 1898. The chief constable at the time caught the kidnapping ring by sheer accident, his affair with one of the carnies (the strongwoman) the reason for the discovery more than detective work. From that time onward, the constabulary blamed carnival folk for most crimes in the province, leading to an exodus of the carnival performers and a local distrust and embarrassment of the area’s law enforcement.
[7] In some parts of England during this time, it was high praise to refer to a woman as “decorated as an aristocrat’s pistol grip.”
[8] Earhart inserted a rather grisly description of the feline fire, which has been omitted in this draft.
[9] @badgrrlKinzay47, inspired by the manuscript, briefly developed a “side hustle” of selling intricate, portable stairs that were designed to make rats fall down them as a form of pest control. The hosts of Shark Tank were unimpressed.
[10] In the editor’s research, the Danube Mob isn’t, as a millennial might say, “a thing.” There was a literal Austrian Mob at work in New York during the late 1890s, but this seems to be unrelated. As Earhart did interview Kordelia for this book, it could simply be a literary fact taught only in Swiss learning institutions during that time period.
[11] Although an English stereotype, many Edwardian romances began with the discussion of the favorite shape of a tea leaf. It often segued into innuendo, as the butt leaf and the clitoral frond were two of the most popular leaf shapes of the period.
[12] The editor does apologize to brunettes. There is nothing in Earhart's journals which gives any insight into this bias.
[13] Interestingly enough, @badgrrlkinzay47 shares this penchant for manipulating the legal system. She was on the reality show I Faked My Death and Got Pregnant, a bizarre cable program about those who not only fake their death to claim insurance money, but also sleep with and bear the child of the insurance agent they defrauded.
[14] This was the scene of the papercut and geyser-like spray of blood mentioned in the introduction.
[15] Out-of-tune harpsichords are a terror in all time periods but especially so in the Edwardian era.
[16] A book entitled What Colour Is Your Spirit? was very popular at the time of Earhart’s writing. In it, Miss Divina Q. Wellesley enumerates the color of spirits based on an abstract (and largely arbitrary) number of things, including the kind of shoes one likes, the color of one’s nasal hair, and the number of shepherd’s pies one can eat in a fortnight.
[17] Earhart had inserted the whole song, however since it was from Crockett’s days as a pickpocket, most of the lyrics were about “clubbing gadabouts” and other acts of assault.
[18] The original text included the description of a piece of Crockett’s scalp being torn “from his head with the ease of a peel stripped from a banana”—for a scene which takes place on a bright June morning, this page was phenomenally violent.
[19] The editor feels compelled to add that, in addition to the blood and gore of the first draft of this book, Mr. Earhart also had an absurd number of hats on Beatrice’s fishbowl in that initial draft—bonnets, bowlers, top hats, even an American-style campaign hat. Although in places humorous, accompanying many of the hats were diatribes into the state of English fashion, which were, to be honest, poorly informed and overly loquacious.
[20] This simile caused many questions for the editor, but, after much research, it was discovered vis-a-vis Earhart’s diaries that his neighbor was a laundress
who shrieked loudly when she and her husband were intimate. This was a major pain point for the author, as it often occurred at four o’clock when he liked to have tea.
[21] In Earhart’s notes, the author wrote lengthy, unnecessary details of Brontë's character that included the information that she played both Juliet and Juliet’s nurse in the same production of the Bard’s famous play; additionally, her fourth toe was 3.2 mm longer than her second.
[22] The original description of Beatrice’s death was roughly three and one-half pages of violence with a great (and frankly admirable) number of synonyms for fish entrails and innards. Although skimping on other research for the rest of the novel, he heavily invested in the anatomy of herring, spending three paragraphs describing the fish’s “pyloric caeca.”
[23] This was actually the work Ben at Tea with Flag and Parchment on 4 July. The original portrait hangs in the Cincinnati Gallery of Fine and Less than Fine Art. It is still a top draw simply due to the gender confusion of the image. It is often referred to as The Midwest’s Mona Lisa.
[24] Again, Earhart mistranslated another German rhyme, which actually is called “My Aunt Murdered a Llama with a Knife-Shaped Snake.’”
[25] In the original draft, Earhart used this space to tell a prolonged story of the blade’s history, including a largely fabricated story about how it was used by King Richard II to shave a fox in a bet with the Duke of Scotland. Due to the egregious amount of historical errors in the story, it was deleted for the published draft. However, the editor would like to note that the fox’s name in the tale was Gibbldybibbits, which seems worth mentioning here.