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

It seems when I regain mybalance, a clear, logical perspective on things, they go catawampus again. Ifind myself oscillating between asinine conspiracy theories and very mundanemusings.” Stroking his beard, Petrarch sighed. “Perhaps I simply need to dosome more exercises—my brain is a bit addled this evening. I’ll also beginthinking where an eccentric man like Bixby Hawsfeffer would hide an old key.”

            “Ishall do the same.” Crockett bowed slightly to Petrarch to say good night andwalked toward his room. His hand was on the knob to his quarters when histhoughts returned to the murder of Beatrice. Brontë asking him to be herpartner in the search the next morning had created a drunken fog on his brain,one which focused solely on the warm halo of their planned excursion afterbreakfast. “Petrarch,” he said quickly, “I got distracted, but I was trying tothink who did it this whole time. The blade looks like an heirloom, not ahunting weapon, but whoever wielded it would have had to find it, then use it,with some precision, to maim the fish in such a brutal manner.”

            “Indeed.It would have taken a steady hand.” Petrarch turned to his apprentice andstroked his beard.

            “But,”Crockett clicked his tongue in exasperation, “Beatrice’s bed is in the centralsitting room. We all retired at the same time, so anyone could have slipped inand done it. Again, another tragedy, but the road does not narrow, it onlygrows wider.”

            “Well,my boy,” Petrarch’s eyes twinkled, “think of this with your logical, law-bentmind. Corinthiana discovered the body. I found that out from Kordelia thisevening.”

            “Butshe’s hardly a suspect—she wouldn’t lay a hand on Beatrice.”

            “Butwhat made her wake? Who had access to the weapon? And I believe this key,” herehe subconsciously patted his stomach, his face growing graver, “may mean morethan simply a means to get into the tomb.”

            “Youthink it may be tied to a motive?”

            “Idon’t know, my boy.” The old man licked his lips. He hesitated before he continued.“I—er—” He stopped abruptly. His eyes met Crockett’s. A smile returned to hisface, forced but resolute. “What I do know is that while the road right now hasnot narrowed, we have many paths to take that may lead to resolution.” Crockettfelt some satisfaction in this. Petrarch added warmly, “In the daylight thingswon’t seem so hapless as they do in this darkness.”

            “Icertainly hope not. I hope this ends tomorrow so that we can all rest a biteasier.”

            “Yes,indeed.” Petrarch sniffed, an indication it was time to part for the night.Crockett heard the sound of the old man’s door open behind him. There was abrief pause, then he heard his master's voice, a note of humor in its tone. “Ohand Crockett, please remember to keep thinking of Miss Hawsfeffer as nothingmore than a client. Electricity has yet to reach this part of the countryside,but when she spoke your name this evening, your face could have lit up half ofWest Hampminstershireshire had you been close to a tungsten filament.”

            Crockett,flushed with embarrassment, rushed into his room and closed the door.

Chapter 11: The Vault

            Morningbrought a tentative calm to the house. Thin, gray clouds rolled in during theearly morning, tinting all light an ashy gray. Few slept well, so that by nineo’clock, Martha had cleared breakfast away and all dispersed to their assignedplaces to look for the key.

            Brontëled Crockett through the formal sitting room and into the more stylish westwing of the house. The money, which ran out while building the folly, had beenabundant during this other half of the home’s expansion. The long hall leadingtoward the addition was much more opulent. Instead of untreated wooden planks,they walked on patterned, gold-threaded carpet. Along the hall there were anumber of portraits. Most of them were the family—Kordelia, Brontë, June,August. One featured both Corinthiana and Beatrice seated in the main sittingroom. The artist gave Beatrice a knowing fish smile, which Crockett found veryunsettling in light of the events of the previous evening.

He noted Brontë’searlier observation about her grandfather not being in many portraits heldtrue. There was only one picture of him, very recent, which showed him withslicked-back white hair. Crockett noted something familiar in the oldergentleman's visage, whether it was a trace he’d seen on Bixby’s daughters orgranddaughters, he was unsure.

The passage led into agreat dance hall, a poor man’s Versailles, with the east and west walls coveredin smudged mirrors. On the north wall, a large mural paying homage to theAmerican West was painted with great care and detail. It featured a number ofcowboys rushing forward; the artist was quite talented, as it infused theballroom with a feeling of forward momentum.

            “Thisis…an interesting part of the house,” Crockett said, admiring a particularlygrotesque statue of George Washington which sat in a place of honor in thecenter of the dance floor.

            “Grandfatheralways had a kind of obsession with America. We thought it may be becausethat’s where he got his money.”

            “Whichhe got with the help of his cousin, Bixby Von Bunson.”

            “Veryimpressive.” Brontë smiled. “Our family history is full of twist and turns; I’msurprised you can recall it.”

            “Someof it.” Crockett couldn’t help but blush after Brontë’s praise. He was keenlyaware of the luminous nature of his eyes and expression after Petrarch’scomments the previous night. “It’s not all me, however. Petrarch is the one whogave me a bit of a history on you all. He said Von Bunson helped your fatherinvest in American endeavors that paid handsomely.”

            “Correct.”

            “Butthings apparently went sour.”

            Brontënodded. “Bixby Von Bunson was involved in a western cowboy show. Dexter was hisfriend while he was over there. They both traveled all over the wilder parts ofAmerica, which allowed my cousin to get insights into land investments and goldmining opportunities he otherwise wouldn’t have known.” Brontë indicatedCrockett should follow her. “He and my father made quite a lot of money, but hecame to visit and…things didn’t go well.”

            “Inwhat way?”

            “Money,the dispute over it, always causes chaos. We believe Bixby Von Bunson not only stolea large part of my grandfather’s fortune, but also took what little he owed Dexterbefore