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

dead is opened.” Her voice shook. “Weee caaan now aaask theee phaaantaaasmswhaaat they know.”

The candles continuedto hiss. An elongated moan came from the draft flowing through the room.

June was the first tospeak. “Daddy…” she asked warily, “are you here with us?”

Martha tensed. Her wildeyes scanned the room. Robert was intently focused on Corinthiana, his knottedhands stroking his wild beard. From outside the room a clock chimed.

“Bixby Hawsfeffer isnot here,” Kordelia said slowly. “Who else would like to address the undead?”

“Lucinda?” Martha askedsoftly. “Lucinda…do you wish to speak?”

At that moment, a greatthud was heard in the room. Corinthiana and June both shrieked. Robert fellback from the table. Even Kordelia lost her composure, her turban slipping fromher brow. Only Beatrice was unperturbed, her dead fish eyes revealing noemotion.

“Sheee is heeere!”Corinthiana gasped. “Lucindaaa! Speeeak tooo us!”

“Missus,” Martha saidsoftly.

“Silence!” Corinthianawhispered. “Lucindaaa speeeaks!”

Martha crossed herarms, her face filled with abject loathing. Crockett, heart racing, handsbraced on the table, followed Martha’s vindictive gaze and saw that she waslooking to the window, which was covered in blood.

“Mrs. Hawsfeffer,” hesaid softly, “Martha was pointing out that a bird crashed into the window…Itmay not have been the voice of the dead.”

Martha grumpilyinterjected, “Poor thing was probably confused by the number of candles inhere. He thought we were signaling to him.”

“Martha is correct,” Kordeliasaid softly. “Lucinda is not present, but that bird is dead.” There was acollective sigh of relief. Kordelia closed her eyes and put her fingerstogether. “Who else would like to ask something of the dead? Address the nameof a lost one, and they may respond.”

“Bixby Von Bunson?”Corinthiana asked.

Silence.

“Aunt Merriwether?”August amusedly set this name forward.

Nothing.

“Hercule Poirot?” Kordeliaposed.

A sound was heard, butit was merely Martha knocking over a candle while reaching for another biscuit;the disturbance was quickly classified as a very living sound.

“Recently dead bird?” Crockettasked sadly, looking to the window.

No contact from thebird; Kordelia then explained to the group that the dead (even birds) do notcommunicate until after a full moon phase has passed.

A prolonged silencefilled the space. Each of the gathered looked tentatively between Kordelia andCorinthiana.

“Perhaaaps,”Corinthiana began apprehensively, “theee voices I heard this morning were not signsof theee dead.” She gingerly placed her finger into Beatrice’s bowl, stroking thefish's silver-blue scales. “But, I just,” her voice tremored, “I waaanted some sign.In theee river…of aaall plaaaces, where sooo much traaagedy haaas haaappened tooothis faaamily…Caaan weee never haaave closure? Must it aaall be mystery and murder?”

Crockett’s heart feltfor the old woman. For the first time he saw all the trappings of Corinthianastripped away—her accents, her garish garments, her posturing—all gone, and intheir wake only infinite ripples of grief. The young country girl, who found ahandsome, landed gentleman who promised her a fuller life, merged with the gaudy,outré matriarch to shape the anguished figure before them. The rest of thefamily felt similarly, their faces conveying empathy and grief—the squabbling,the blaming, the desire for money, and the old grudges evaporated in the dimcandlelight. August gently reached out and gripped June’s hand. Even Marthalooked on Corinthiana with a (tepid) look of understanding.

But it was then thatthe table jumped once more. The door to the study flew open, and a strong breezewhipped through the room making the pages of Kordelia’s book dance. A largeproportion of the candles blew out, leaving the corners of the room dark.

Then it started slowly,mournfully. It was a tune played from some unseen place. In the darkness, it feltas if it was coming from each shadowed corner. The twitching silhouette of theoak tree danced eerily along with the lilting notes.

The voice that joinedwas distant, muffled.

TheDuck Man, the Duck Man he creeps along the lake.

Thunderhides his footsteps; shadows hide his face.

Corinthiana, her faceso pale her rouge glowed against the white of her cheeks, gripped Beatrice’sbowl tightly. Martha leapt into Robert’s arms, while June jumped away from thetable, a scream erupting from her mouth. Crockett held the table, his knucklesturning white. He felt himself tense, start to lose control, but for the firsttime, a spark of courage resisted the urge to collapse. An odd feeling of calmcollided with his fears and kept his body fully erect.

Childrenhear his heartbeat; they follow after him.

Disappearinto the darkness, their own life growing dim.

Withthe children missing, the parents follow quick.

Butnothing is left of boys and girls but Duck Man’s battered hat.

            Themusic stopped suddenly. Crockett looked to August, who was quaking in fear.

            “Kordelia,”August asked quickly, “what was that?”

            Theyoung girl shook her head, pearl-sized tears forming at the edge of her eyes.“It’s the old song,” she said quietly. “‘Duck Man of the Old Hat.’” She took adeep breath, trying to keep her composure. “It’s the song the ghosts sing alongthe river.”

Chapter 8: The Pot Boils

            Theroom was evacuated. August and Crockett helped the women flee, then immediatelyopened all doors to fill it with warmer, brighter light. August took the greatbook from the center table and threw it into the desk, slamming the drawer andlocking it with the key.

            Brontë,Petrarch, and May came to the bottom of the stairs, all wearing looks ofwonder.

            “What’shappened?”

            “Weheard noises—a scream.”

            “Wasthat music?”

            Petrarch,and a reluctant May, took the women into the sitting room, while the shockedMartha sought out Dexter to help prepare tea.

            Brontëalone climbed the stairs and peaked in on August and Crockett. Even her arrogantsmile had faded.

            “Areyou all right?” she asked tentatively. “Father?”

            “Fine,”August said brusquely. “It may have just been a coincidence.”

            “Whathappened exactly?” She looked between her father and Crockett.

However, August wasalready running down the corridor. “I’ll get to the bottom of it!” he yelled,disappearing down the hallway, manic footsteps trailing into the distance.

Crockett went to thewindow. He gazed on the blood of the bird, still freshly smeared on the glass.He shuddered slightly and then turned, his variegated eyes falling on Brontë.

“That song…” he saidsoftly.

“Which song?”

“You didn’t hear?”

Brontë shook her head.“May and I were on the patio—it’s such a beautiful morning. Petrarch left us afew minutes before the chaos to do some work in his room. As soon as we heardthe shrieking, we ran inside. Petrarch arrived at the stair the same moment asMay