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

            “Lookslike an intriguing game,” she said in her ethereal voice. “You both appearenraptured.”

            Brontëlooked to her sister. Her face was flushed. She spoke airily as if waking froma dream. “We were…We were just talking about Grandfather…about how he died.”

            “Whyin the river, of course.” Kordelia’s wide eyes looked innocently at her sister.“If you fall in the warmer season, it’s difficult to get back out. Nothingfloats—ghosts, bones, and keys or stones.”

            “Ghosts,bones, and keys or stones…” But before Crockett could ponder this further, Kordeliadanced off to the corner.

            “AsI told you this morning, she has a powerful imagination,” Brontë said, an edgeof fright to her voice. “If she’s still keeping points on our status with thefamily, I hope she gave herself scores for the phantasms that fill her brain.”

#

            Therest of the night passed uneventfully. Everyone eventually made it to thesitting room, except for May and Corinthiana. Corinthiana went to sleep early,while May had taken her righteous indignation and gone to read the Bible in thestudy; she hoped to dispel any residual spirits from the séance. Any fears heldby the rest of the party faded as more lamps were lighted and the conversationturned away from family drama. Even Beatrice, placed early by Corinthiana inher grand bed, had a wonderful evening. She swam jovially watching the livelygathering.

Petrarch held the crowdin rapt attention during the latter hours of the evening, regaling them with anumber of stories of his clients and cases in London. His last tale primarilyconcerned how he met Crockett, how the young boy had been sent to rob him but wasunsuccessful.

            “Oneof the sharpest boys I’d ever met,” Petrarch said beaming at Crockett. “He wentout to rob me and followed me to a public house by my office. Inside I caughthim in his pilfering and scolded him. I soon discovered he was quite a smartboy. I eventually offered him a job if he wanted.”

            “Thatwas very brave of you,” August said brusquely. “Most of the poor draw theirintelligence from being impoverished, you know. He could have swindled you inthat game.”

            Noone quite knew what he meant, but it put an end to the night’s discussionrather handily.

            Beforebed Crockett told Petrarch about his conversation with Brontë. The old manlaughed heartily when Crockett finished his explanation that there were nosuspects, no motives, and no physical evidence. He pooh-poohed Crockett andBrontë’s thoughts of there being some other mysterious presence responsible forMr. Hawsfeffer’s murder and the otherworldly séance trick.

            “Ithink, perhaps, we’re all forgetting our heads,” Petrarch said. “After theséance, I was also ready to round up everyone and send them to jail, but I'vesince regained my equilibrium. If a review of the facts only makes us gofurther into conjecture and fantasy, then it would appear we are losing sightof the real, current state of affairs.”

            Crockettwent to bed hearing Petrarch counting out his exercises. Despite the chillingsunset of blood-red and black, the night turned calm. The velvet sky was dottedwith sparkling stars. A brisk chill ran through the windows of Crockett’s room.He went to sleep on his tiny couch with the soft howl of the wind in his ears.

            Comparedto the first night when he’d had nightmares of terrifying canaries and gratingharpsichords, his dreams were so calming that he didn't hear the scream.

            Itwas Brontë who woke him. Her thundering footsteps in the corridor pulled himfrom his slumber before the door opened.

            “Come,”she said, her voice like a knife in the dark. It was pain and panic joinedhorribly together, a forceful word, edged with a shriek. “When we arrive in thefoyer you may not want to look…”

            Petrarchrose and joined them in the hall. As they ran down the corridor, Crockett felta slight surge of pride in the midst of his terror; the new courage againcollided with overwhelming fear to keep him upright. Not even the threat of afaint preoccupied him. He was quite functional amid of all this freneticmovement.

            Thisflash of joy and pride failed, however, as he, Petrarch, and Brontë entered themain foyer.

Gathered around somedark object, suspended over the front door, the household stared upon a sceneof horror. All faces were aghast, trying to assign meaning to the chaos beforethem. It struck Crockett that his fear of the nursery rhyme that morning wasmade absurd by the corpse, which took shape before his eyes in the dimcandlelight. No one uttered a sound except Corinthiana, whose shrieks reboundedagainst the high ceiling.

It was Beatrice—or whatonce was the small aquatic companion—horribly eviscerated. The animal’sentrails were loosed and slung across the wall. The object of defilementappeared to be a blade, which had been forced through the pet’s eye. In the dimlight of the lamps, the fresh pink and white innards shone like evil,glittering jewels. Crockett watched the streaks of gore drip. The effect greweven more sinister as time elapsed, the fish’s viscera transforming into a demonic paint, shimmeringin the glow of their lamps’ dim flames.

Chapter 10: The Aftermath

As they examinedBeatrice's entrails,[22]August broke the silence.

            “Youknow,” he started, stroking his mustache, “it seems to me a trout or Atlantic salmonwould be a much more robust pet, definitely could have survived this kind offlaying or at least put up a better fight.”

            Corinthianawasn’t comforted. The old woman responded with a prolonged, doleful“AWWWWRRRRRKKKKKKK!”

            “Darling,now is not the time.” June shook her head at August as she held her mother.“Stiff upper lips are sometimes a bit too stiff and too upper, ifyou catch my insinuation.”

            “Irather liked Beatrice, Grandmummy,” Kordelia slid beside her grandmother and gentlygripped the old woman's hand. “We always had wonderful conversations.”

            Crockett,again at a loss after an interjection by Kordelia, said nothing. His mostuseful tool at the current moment was investigative prowess; he looked aroundthe room, assessing reactions to the sordid scene. The escalation in chicaneryand violence cemented the fact that a foul game was afoot; perhaps only in the Hawsfefferhouse would a fish being filleted constitute an inhuman, nefarioustransgression, but—here they were.

His examination,however, brought no clarity. If anything, his chief suspect, Robert Edward, appearedthe most distraught. His