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

he fled. Dexter, poor man, is an off-kilter illiterate without manyprospects, so he was devastated when Von Bunson left. And, the last part of mycousin’s atrocious legacy,” she said scornfully, “is influencing Grandfather tobuy all this crass, American memorabilia.”

            Itwas apropos that Crockett, at this exact moment, looked in the corner and saw abizarre clock which resembled the Statue of Liberty. The face of the statue,however, had been replaced by a clock. The substitution resulted in aterrifying piece of artwork which stared menacingly from the shadows.

            Brontëcrossed the room and approached the mural. She stopped before the image of aproud American Indian war general, his head held high, a spear pointed forwardat the coming cowboys. Brontë delicately ran her hand over the painting. Shegently pushed a hidden button in the painted Indian's spear. There was anaudible click, and then a panel opened, exposing a small room with a trapdoorin the floor.

            “Whatis this?” The hair on the back of Crockett’s neck prickled.

            “It’sour family vault. There’s really not much of value, but it’s where we keepanything of nostalgic importance.” She noted the fearful expression onCrockett’s face and laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr. Cook, there are no canaries downhere, and as far as most are concerned, the space is quite inhabitababble, asyou might say.”

            Crockett’sneck hair prickled again, this time, from a sensation disparate from fear. Heself-consciously hid his face with his hand, the luminosity, this time, veryprobably able to light all of West Hampminstershireshire.

            Brontë,meanwhile, went to work, deftly picking up a couple of candles and some matchesplaced near the trap door. She prepared a light for each of them before liftingthe door and heading down into the darkness.

            Itwasn’t as ominous as Crockett feared. The stairs were carpeted, and the wallswere decorated with additional family portraits. When they had climbed downjust a few yards, they entered a large cluttered room. Boxes and trunks linedthe walls, but every few feet there was a statue, oversized portrait, or pieceof furniture that looked rather expensive. Most everything appeared to betainted with a kind of American extremist style—a sofa embroidered with starsand stripes, an eagle statue so real that Crockett ducked when his candlelightfell over its beak and stone eyes, and an image of Benjamin Franklin, onlyrecognized because his name was writ along the top of the portrait—in reality,it looked like a tiny old woman holding a flag and an old bit of parchment.[23]

            Crockettsurreptitiously eyed the contents of some of the trunks as he passed throughthe room. One was full of old costumes, wigs, and dresses, the source ofDexter’s different looks; he noted the head scarf and cowboy hat thegroundskeeper wore upon his arrival were piled at the top of the box. Hemistook a large, frizzy wig for a rat and suppressed a scream. After theearlier incident on the lawn, he had no desire for Brontë to think him afraidof both rodents and birds.

            Brontëdidn’t notice Crockett’s moment of panic; she was busy lighting additionalfixtures around the room.

Along the south wall,there was a small window, a sliver cut into the stone several feet in the air.A ray of gray light fell on a portrait full of faces Crockett had not seen. Itwas a picture of three individuals. One was an august gentleman in a red coatwith long, shining black hair; his face had been smudged with some form of ink.Next to him was a small diffident boy with a thick mop of curls, and, on hisother side, a woman of ethereal beauty who appeared to be distracted, lookingat the painter but also at some unseen, haunted object.

“Brontë,” Crockettsaid. “Who are these people?”

Brontë drew closer tothe portrait to gain a clearer view.

“That’s my grandfatherand his first wife, Lucinda. The boy is their son, Mr. Bixby Hawsfeffer, Jr.—knownas Pip, who was removed from the family years ago for his activities dans lachambre.”

“It’s a shame it wasruined with that smudge,” Crockett said. “The image of Lucinda is beautiful—haunting.”

“I know.” Brontë’svoice grew melancholy. “I often wish we could have met her. Martha still talksabout her to this day, how warm she was, how caring. Even Pip would be nice toknow. It feels as if our family has always been so isolated here. Grandfatherdidn’t like other people, so we’ve always kept to ourselves. He especiallyrejected our neighbors. We’d even travel to London to visit the doctor orlawyer, as was the case with Petrarch. We just didn’t lay down roots here forsome reason. I think that’s part of why my father resented Grandfather and thishouse so much.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” the ironicdetachment returned to Brontë’s voice, “it’s fine. Even having Aunt May andRobert Edward here in the house is a nice change of pace, despitetheir…oddities.”

“Something stilldoesn’t seem right about Robert Edward.” Crockett turned away from the paintingand looked at Brontë. “I’m sorry to keep mentioning it, but his face must beliesome kind of evil spirit. It defies every notion of symmetry.”

“I think he’s just abizarre, asymmetrical person—I mean, look at Grandfather, Grandmother, and Kordelia;we’re an odd family with mixed success when it comes to physiognomy. And, as I mentioned,he arrived with a letter of introduction from my grandfather, so his appearancestarts to seem very normal after looking at it.” She smiled. “To be honest, thething that makes me most uncomfortable is how quickly he and Dexter becamefriendly.”

“I noticed they getalong well.”

“They do. I think it’sperhaps their connection as old men who dress like they’re part of a children’sdramatic production.”

Crockett was relievedBrontë lightened the atmosphere; the family portrait had filled him with a senseof impending dread. “The entire lot of you seems to be something fromShakespeare, Martha especially,” he said.

Brontë nodded. “PoorMartha, she’s always been under duress. As soon as Grandfather remarried Grandmother,she’s been harassed. I told you how jealous Grandmother is.”

“I’m surprised it’slasted this long, to be honest. A forty-year feud is one of epic proportions.”

“I supposeGrandmother’s love and, therefore, her jealous passions never extinguished.When Grandmother met Grandfather, she was very young. His money and her dreamsof having a manor and an estate overwhelmed her. She retains a belief that anyonecan