Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe by Tedd Hawks (the reading list book .TXT) 📕

as he had the previous evening that none of it couldbe connected to a nefarious, homicidal act. However, their combination createda feeling of mystery he couldn’t shake from his mind, especially freshlyawakened from a nightmare in the early hours of the morning. Was theresomething going on at Hawsfeffer Manor? Was Brontë’s intuition correct? Or,perhaps, it was simply the gathering of a very queer, irritable, and curiousfamily. Petrarch said the house was only a house and contained no nefariouspresence…but what if it did?

            Crockettpilfered through his bag, becoming keenly aware that his wardrobe would soon beall worn or covered in mud. This tedious detail, as well as the crisp air felt ashe exited the house, calmed his wild, imaginative musings. His mind turned froma brooding state to one of relative tranquility. This was aided by the arrivalof the sun, which brought with it a thin strip of rosy light, giving the air atint of beauty and solemnity.

            Crockettlet his eyes close and took a deep breath. He enjoyed a moment of calm, beforehe heard a stirring behind him. Immediately his hyper-reactive tendencies wentinto effect, the mysterious noises eliciting a high-pitched, feminine shriekfrom the young lawyer.

            Brontë,the source of the stirring, tried to suppress her laughter as she attempted tocalm Crockett.

“My goodness! Crockett,it’s me! I’m not here to harm you.”

            “Oh,dear,” Crockett’s heart raced. Despite the embarrassment of the scream, hecounted his reaction to this surprise as a victory, seeing as he didn’tcompletely goat-faint as he had when he’d met August the previous day orcollapse as he had twice in the presence of Kordelia. To add some additionalcontext to his shocked reaction, Brontë was wearing a yellow, fringedhousecoat, so that, from the corner of his eye, it appeared that she was a verylarge bird. “I thought you were a canary,” he said.

            “Doyou fear them?” Brontë asked.

            “Onlysince last night…It’s very similar to a fear I had a few months ago about asmall, housecat, which resembled a tiger.”

            “Well,I am firmly not feline nor avian.” Brontë said reassuringly. She cautiouslycrept forward and stood next to Crockett.

            “I’mvery sorry that my alarm alarmed you.” Crockett’s heart slowed. “I’m never goodunder pressure, so to speak, but last night I was restless. Kordelia and Marthaboth said some things that stirred the darker side of my imagination.”

            “Hmmm.This house has long shadows. I’m sorry it stirred your fear, but I understand.The wing you’re currently in has a rather macabre air to it.”

            “I’mglad my shriek at least earned your sympathy.” Crockett’s ears turned red. “Notthat I’m trying to earn anything,” he said quickly, “I just, I hope that youthink not too awfully, terribly, badly of me, you know…as a client ofPetrarch’s.”

            Brontëlooked intently at Crockett. A small lopsided smile formed at the edge of hermouth. “You are certainly very nervous, Mr. Cook.”

            “Ican get that way.” Crockett took a deep breath. “As I mentioned, I tend tooverreact in certain situations, take the most foolish course of action.”Crockett cringed. “I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry, I’m just…a bit…youknow, I think I didn’t get enough sleep because of the canary.”

            “Well,I’ll do my best to present as less birdlike, so please, feel free to regainyour nerves. And don’t be afraid of sharing with me. In this house, feuds andsecrets are a way of life, but I don’t agree with that ideology. There’s nogood hiding and squirreling away the different parts of yourself.”

            “Ifeel the same.” Crockett did his best to resist the tugging on his heartstrings Brontë called forth. In the dawn, she resembled a brunette, hazel-eyedangel. “I feel,” he continued slowly, “we have similar ideas, Miss Hawsfeffer.We share some propensities.”

            “Iwould agree to that sentiment.”

            Crockettsmiled.

Brontë ran a handthrough her hair. A feeling of heat ran up the back of her neck. She turned andtook a tentative step away from her companion.

            “Mrs.Brettwick,” Crockett said quickly, feeling her unease and desiring theconversation to continue.

            “Sorry?”Brontë’s eyes again focused on Crockett. “Who is Mrs. Brettwick?”

            “Petrarchand I were drafting the will of Mrs. Brettwick’s father. There was an issue,and it got lost in Petrarch’s papers, so we missed the date it was to becompleted. She arrived at the front door, she’s a beautiful wo—” Crockettstopped abruptly; his ears again flushed.

Brontë tried to hideher mirth by covering her smile.

Crockett stuttered.“It’s—sorry—no, I mean…I just…She’s…”

            “Youcan find women beautiful, Crockett,” Brontë said into her fist, attempting totame the last of her grin. “I find some men handsome, if you can believe it.”

            Crockett’seyes grew wide. His lips pursed. For a brief moment, he and Brontë stared ateach other, neither sure what to name the emotion passing between them.

            Crockettkept his eyes fixed on Brontë as he breathlessly continued, “So, I said he wasdead.”

            “Youwhat?” Brontë’s eyes bulged.

            “WhenMrs. Brettwick showed up at the door and the will wasn’t completed, I hated todisappoint her. And I hated to disappoint Petrarch; it was really my fault. So,I…well, I said Petrarch was dead, and that’s why it wasn’t done.”

            “Whatdid she say?”

            “Shewas speechless, naturally. But, before she could respond, Petrarch entered theroom, the picture of health, and then it got worse…”

            “Worse?”Brontë’s expression shifted between joy and confusion.

            Crocketwas also pulled between two emotions—both the relived horror of his encounterwith Mrs. Brettwick and the rising pleasure from Brontë’s reactions. Perhapsall feelings could be redeemed if he could simply filter them through MissWinterbourne’s smile. “So,” Crockett continued, “then I said, ‘I said he’s deb!As in deblightful.’”

            “Deblightful?”

            “Ilied and said I had a speech impediment. So, to this day when Mrs. Brettwickcomes in, I randomly insert b’s into words.” Crockett thrust his handsinto his pockets. “She’s a rather good sport about it. She often asks how mehow I enjoy the ‘weaber.’”

            Brontësaid nothing for a moment. The sound of the birds waking in the first light ofday filled the silence. Then, softly, she said,

“That’s unbeliebable.”

The morning stillnessexploded as both the lady and the apprentice lawyer broke into frantic,unbridled laughter. Tears rolled down Crockett’s cheeks. Brontë doubled over sothat the sleeves of