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

companion, but I understand ze drama of zis. But,no,” Robert said dramatically, “zere are stories of spirits in ze house?”

            “It’srumored that our dear, departed patriarch, your cousin, Bixby Hawsfeffer,wasn’t the kindest soul,” May lowered her voice. “They say he not only torturedhis uncle, who gave him this property, but there is also conjecture…” She againreduced her voice's volume. She was speaking so softly Crockett pretended to drophis book on the sofa so he could double over and lean closer. Brontë (stillobserving) stifled a laugh in her fist. “Well… Some believe that he murderedhis first wife because she bore him a,” her voice dropped again, “homosexualson.”

            “Mystars!” Robert gasped. “Zey say homosexuals are becoming more common, but Ihope to never encounter vun.” He shook his head sadly. “But vut of ze cousin ofBixby Havsfeffer? Ze vun hoo vent to America?”

            Mayspun to face Crockett. The young man had leaned so closely that his torso waslaying over the couch, his head resting on a pillow. Brontë, seeing he wascaught, let out a loud, amused snort.

            “Couldyou please mind your own business?” May spit, her face flushed red. “Poor infortune and poor in manners, a disgusting combination for a young man.” Sherose in a rage and stormed away from the sofa.

            RobertEdward looked at Crockett. His uneven, misaligned face conveyed disgust. Hethen turned his attention to the fireplace. The gun had been returned to themantle; it gleamed in the dim light.

            Afew moments later, Corinthiana re-entered the room. Pale and trembling, she clutchedJune’s shoulder with her right hand as she sipped a cup of sherry with herleft.

            Aseveryone turned their attention to the old matriarch, she grew self-conscious,chugging what remained of her spirits and exhaling dramatically. Crockett notedthat sometime between the discovery of the filleted Beatrice and the presentmoment she found time to put on a garish, mink stole.

            “Ooohdeeear,” she began, “it haaas beeen…” She stopped. Her lip quivered and herbreaths came in grandiose, huffing gasps. A number of ululations then brokefrom her mouth, a bizarre war cry mixed with a seal bark.

            Everyonein the room stared compassionately at their hostess, all unsure how to help theold woman in this time of intense grief. Upon her ending the warring seal noises,however, a deep, shuddering gasp led to a second, more destructive andexplosive expression of grief, an octave-soaring “WHAWHAWHAWHA.”

            Junefinally put an end to it; with little gentility, she shoved her mother onto thecouch. Corinthiana slumped, putting her head in her hands. Her doughy shouldersoccasionally shook as she continued to emit moans and aquatic mammalianejaculations.

            “Theburial will commence as soon as possible,” June said. “Mummy has seen thatsomeone or something is distressed about Daddy’s death, so we must put an endto this whole affair quickly before things escalate any further.”

            “Hear,hear!” August shouted, his mustache jovially shaking.

            “Thevicar will be called on tomorrow. We will dispense with the usual formalitiesand have a few words said before the caskets of Beatrice and Daddy are taken tothe family tomb.”

            “Itseems simple enough,” May said. “I shall be able to leave by lunch.”

            “Thereis,” Corinthiana bleated from the sofa, “there is a smaaall problem.”

            “Howsmall?” Robert Edward’s eyes narrowed.

            Corinthianacontinued to make morose, audible booms, so June answered, “We don’t have thekey to the tomb. We can’t get in.”

            “Howdid you lose it?” Brontë looked genuinely confused. “Grandfather had to have afew copies of it.”

            Petrarchshifted uncomfortably. “I believe one of them went down to the bottom of theriver with him.”

            “Well,there must be another in the house!” August’s mustache was the most erraticCrockett had seen since their arrival, twitching, shuddering, and bristling allat once.

            Brontëthought for a moment. “Do you think it’s downstairs with the family heirlooms?”

            “Ihaaave loooked, my daaarling,” Corinthiana said sadly. “But weee caaan aaalwaaaystry aaagain. I think this taaask were best treeeated as a faaamily project. Perhaaaps,if weee split up, weee caaan leeeave no stone unturned, hmmm.”

            “Ithink that sounds like a wonderful plan of attack,” August growled. “Kordeliaand June, we can search the upstairs.”

            “Thisis nonsense,” May crossed her arms in disdain. “How can a key be thisimportant? Let’s just break open the gate.”

            “Sister,”June said, “you forget Baron Von Bunson built that tomb as if he were buildingthe Taj Mahal. The door is solid marble. There are no windows.”

            “TheeeBaaaron waaanted it tooo beee imposing,” Corinthiana said, “like a graaand tooombof theee Orient.”

            “Well,then,” Brontë interjected, “first thing in the morning, let’s get to work. Ithas to be somewhere—Petrarch and Robert, you can go check in the folly wing.Crockett and I will investigate the family vault and look amongst the boxes.”She smiled at Crockett. “I think we will find it before lunch, as Aunt Maysaid.”

            Crockettdid his best to hide his elation at being selected by Brontë. He smiled intohis closed fist, pretending he was coughing.

            Thegroup came to a firm agreement on this plan of action and disbanded. RobertEdward and May exchanged a quick glance, but no more speech passed betweenthem. Brontë and Kordelia politely bid everyone a warm good night beforeheading up to their rooms. June kept Corinthiana occupied until Dexter and Martharemoved the last remnants of fish guts from the main hall.

            Petrarchsaid very little to Crockett in the journey down the rickety walkway to theirrooms. There was a draft in this ramshackle part of the house which made themboth shiver.

            “Goodnight then, Petrarch,” Crockett said. “It looks like we were correct aboutsomething being a bit sinister.”

            Petrarchappeared perturbed, an emotion the jolly gentleman rarely expressed. He pausedoutside of his door, his hand on the knob. “It’s an interesting business aboutthis key,” he said quietly.

            “Yousaid yourself that one copy most likely went down with Bixby in the river.”

            “Yes,I suppose so.” The old man squinted, his mind hard at work. He noted the needfor a more portable thinking pipe, one which would allow for more adaptablemoments of deep thought.

            “Inthe current atmosphere," Crockett added nervously, "it's hard not toembrace that something terrible is happening around us.”

            Theold solicitor smiled briefly. “I know my boy.