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

today.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Well, hethinks you’re right.”

            “Aboutwhat?” Brontë’s eyebrows jumped on her smooth face.

            “Hethinks something is afoot. He described it as ‘some malice.’”

            “Theséance convinced him?”

            “Notfully but it played a part.” Crockett and Brontë were inches away from eachother. The earnestness of the conversation forced them to lean closely together.Crockett could feel her warm, potato-tinged breath on his face. He stoppedshort of continuing his speech, the amount of perspiration accumulating on hispalms and forehead causing him to grow self-conscious.

            Brontëalso found herself speechless, staring into the multi-colored eyes of Crockett.While their amicable bond had grown over the past two days, this conspiratorialmoment raised the emotional stakes exponentially.

            Itwas a distant gunshot that brought them to their senses. Crockett leapt up,backing against the wall. Brontë turned her head, taking a deep, shaking breathto calm her nerves.

            “It’sFather,” she said quickly. “I bet he’s showing Petrarch his toys.”

            Crockettput his hand to his heart. “I’m never good under pressure, but this house istesting every fiber of my resolve.”

            “Areyou afraid of more canaries, Mr. Cook?” Brontë rose from the table, an ironicsmile returning to her face. “If you let all these small pressures get to you,you’ll be in a mountain of troubouble.”

            Crockettlaughed. “I did expect at least a modicum of sympathy from you.” For somereason, an insult from Brontë meant more than one thousand compliments from others.“And, if you must know, guns I’m actually quite stable around, but, in thishouse, they seem to mean something more.”

            “Neitherghosts nor canaries can shoot, as far as I know,” Brontë laughed uneasily. “But…”She looked toward the door to see if Martha was close. When she was sure theold maid had not returned, she continued, “Well, if you and Petrarch also havea suspicion—” She stopped when she heard Martha’s footsteps returning. Shemimed for Crockett to stay quiet and pointed to the south exit.

            Onceout of the dining room, both paused in the main foyer.

The color of thetwilight sky took their breath away. It was a magic, if foreboding moment, thefront windows, half black, half the color of blood.

            “It’sso ominous,” Brontë said softly. “It's not the peaceful sensation twilightusually brings but something like violence, the sky rent in two.”

            “Butbeautiful,” Crockett said mesmerized. Below the sky, and visible through thelower two windows of the two-story façade, Crockett saw Dexter and Robertsomberly speaking. The wispy smoke of Robert’s cigarette circled them. They,too, seemed lost in the spell of twilight.

            Itwas Brontë who shook them from the daydream. She touched Crockett’s arm,sending an electric shock through his whole person. The graze appeared to beaccidental, the young woman not acknowledging the breach of propriety. Sheinstead turned and moved quickly into the sitting room. Crockett regained hissenses before following after her.

            Enteringthe sitting room, they found it empty. The only sounds were hushed voicescoming from the patio and the old clock chiming, signaling the eight o’clockhour. Crockett noted the gun, usually ominously hung over the fireplace, wasmissing.

            “Doesyour father shoot with that gun?” Crockett asked. “I thought it was more adecorative piece.”

            “Hetakes it when he would like to make a statement for a guest. He most likelywanted to give Petrarch a thrill.”

            Brontëcasually looked around the room, checking the back hallways and looking outonto the patio to see if anyone was nearby. When she was sure no one noticed theirentrance, she sped to the card table and took out a deck of worn cards.Carelessly, she threw out an arbitrary number, then flipped one up on the top.She took a seat and motioned for Crockett to sit across from her.

            “Whatare we playing?” Crockett kept his voice low.

            “Itdoesn’t matter, but it would be best not to draw attention to thisconversation. If someone comes in quickly, it looks like we are preoccupied.”

            Crockettfanned his cards and was glad no game was being played; he had one jack and a handfulof low-numbered spades and hearts.

            “Nowthat we have some privacy, let’s return to the subject from earlier.” Her gazelifted; the lights reflected in her eyes quivered with excitement. “Petrarchthinks there is something odd?” While still staring intently at Crockett, she flippeda card and discarded one of those from her hand with a casual grace.

            “Hedoes,” Crockett said, admiring Brontë's natural inclination to playacting;between her current performance and Kordelia’s German-French-English play rehearsals,the family was very strong in the arts.[21]“The séance was bizarre, but he doesn’t necessarily believe anyone is in danger.He thinks there may be some foul play somewhere, though.”

            “Buthe thinks Grandfather died naturally?” The door in the main foyer opened. Aclacking of gentleman’s shoes filled the hall as Robert walked toward thestairs. When he was gone, Brontë continued, “He was in such good health. And Ifeel the circumstances are strange, to say the least. There are a great manypeople here who hated Grandfather.”

            “Really?”Crockett had been pretending to look at his cards, but this statement pulledhis eyes upward to focus on Brontë. She scolded him with an annoyed look andmotioned for him to pick up a card from the draw pile.

            “Myfather has never liked anyone in the family," she said. "He resentedmoving into Hawsfeffer Manor, but my grandfather said that his residence herewas a requirement to receive Grandfather’s blessing to marry my mother.”

            “Why?”

            “Hesaid it’s because my mother is Grandmother’s favorite. He couldn’t bear to seethem separated.”

            “Whichgives cause for May to hate him as well.” Crockett threw down a cardhaphazardly. “No child likes to be the least favorite.”

            Brontënodded. “May left the house as soon as she could to go to the convent.”

            “Butshe never finished.”

            “No.”

            “Why?”

            Brontëshook her head. “I don’t know. I think my grandmother and mother know, but it’snever been told to us.”

            “Yourgrandfather was a bizarre presence of chaos in the house—he caused disruptionfor Kordelia, your mother, August…May…” Crockett absentmindedly looked throughhis cards. “What about Robert Edward? Does he have a story?”

            “Wedon’t know. He simply appeared one day.”

            “Afteryour grandfather died?”

            “Before.Grandfather was in London on business; after meeting with Petrarch about thewill he