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

pull themselves up by their bootstraps and marry rich, which is, I think,why she’s so unkind to you about your caste.” Brontë glanced at Crockettsympathetically. “She says she fell for Grandfather’s charm and looks instantly.For her it was a true, youthful passion—I suppose that kind of attraction is aforce of nature.”

As Brontë said thesewords, her eyes locked onto Crockett’s. The young man felt his neck grow hot. Self-consciously,he looked downward and smoothed his trousers. Brontë started and turned herattention to an old table laid with chipped china pieces. Neither could thinkof any words, even trite ones, to resume the conversation.

In the prolongedsilence, Crockett’s mind blossomed with innumerable hopes, aspirations, andprognostications. He and Brontë could be together—despite her coming from somewealth, a landed family—they could move to London, take up a flat nearPetrarch’s. Petrarch had said to stay away, not to entertain even a passingfancy for Brontë, but…But.

“Do you know anythingabout your own family? I know you grew up on the streets, but are there anymemories of your mother and father?” Brontë’s voice conveyed tenderness.

Crockett spoke a bit tooquickly in response, relieved the romantic spell was broken, the tensionreleased. “No, there never was anyone,” he said. “I always was in a poorhouseor children’s home. When I met Petrarch, I had just been moved from a childfarm into the city; I was growing older and they needed space, so they thoughtI may find work in a slaughterhouse or shoveling coal. I was doing my best tofit in with the new boys. They ran around and made money pickpocketing whenthere was no work. Used to the country life, it wasn’t something I had apropensity for. I suppose I shall always retain some of the more muted, countrymood of my childhood.” Crockett smiled faintly at Brontë.

“As Petrarch mentionedlast night, I met him one of my first days in London.” Crockett suddenlyrealized that his Dickensian story only enlarged the social gulf between them.Rapidly, he turned the topic to his mentor. “I thought he was very interesting,Petrarch that is. He was my mark that day, so I followed him. He’s very keen,so it was hard to get around to the act of thievery. And as I watched him, Iadmired him. He’s very witty and warm with a sharp mind. I finally made my movein the public house, but he spun around before I could get close. He said, ‘Mydear boy, you really are a terrible pickpocket. I’ve been waiting for you tomake your effort for some time. Why don’t you come home with me for a nip of teainstead? I can at least give you a bite to eat.’

“That afternoon we hadEarl Grey and biscuits and chatted. He showed me his library. I’d never seen somany books.” Crockett smiled with pleasure, remembering his first time seeingthe wall of gold and leather bindings. “He asked if I would like to borrow one,but I had to tell him I couldn’t read.” Crockett felt emotion come into hisvoice—in front of Brontë, he tried to push it down to keep up a reassuring,masculine presence. An expression of affection for another man was much worsethan a fear of yellow birds. “He then offered to teach me—I don’t think hethought I’d ever come back, but I did. I came back twice a week. His wife gotsick shortly after, and it forged the strong bond between us—I’d often staylate with both of them, help them with chores, meals, many of the things I’dhad to do in my life on the child farm. He was very impressed with how quicklyI learned. When I turned sixteen, he offered me a place as his assistant with asmall stipend and a room in his home. He was the first one who ever showed mereal kindness.”

“That’s a really lovelystory.” The images of Crockett’s childhood formed before Brontë in a warm, nostalgictapestry; it was a romantic mix of tragedy and compassion. “I mean it'swonderful that you two found each other in times of need. Petrarch is a greatman. A sharp mind is an excellent way to describe him. He’s much moreintelligent and wittier than a majority of the guests we entertain here.”

“Even he thinks thereis something afoot with this Beatrice mess. I have to say that, while yourinitial thoughts about your grandfather being murdered have become lessprobable, the possibility that there is an interest in his fortune is becomingmore believable.” Crockett put his hands behind his back and looked up incontemplation. “I just can’t make any sense of poor Beatrice. Why would someonedo that...?”

Brontë mused on thisfor some time. A bird crossed in front of the small window, causing a briefshadow to flicker on the wall.

“I’m sure I don’t know.Even if Grandfather wasn’t killed and the trick with the séance was aninappropriate joke spearheaded by Kordelia, Beatrice’s slaughter was a direct,monstrous action. It’s a peculiar horror, a dead fish, but, in our family, itrepresents something deeply disturbing—an evisceration of a beloved familymember.”

Crockett began pacingin the room. “Could it have been intended to scare someone into…into what?”

“My guess,” Brontë saidslowly, “is that someone wanted the will read with haste. Grandmother isextremely superstitious; I mean, my goodness, she wants to entomb an empty boxto appease the house spirits for Grandfather. Perhaps whoever is behind thisthought it would push her into moving the proceedings along more rapidly out offear.”

“That’s a very goodthought…” Crockett avoided a baseball glove on the floor. “So, someone wantedto scare your grandmother. This someone needed to know how to cleanly gut a fish,find a sword, and go into the main sitting room to kill Beatrice at night.”

Brontë rubbed hertemples in contemplation. “Beatrice would never make a sound. The only threatof noise is making the beads around her cage jangle too loudly.”

“Hmmm,” Crockett shookhis head. “And the evisceration took place entirely in the main hall.”

“Someone may have fishremnants on their clothing, however.”

“Indeed.” Crockett’sbrow furrowed; his caterpillar eyebrows knitted together. “Perhaps I can checkthe laundry to see if there is anything suspicious there.” He ceased his pacingand drew closer to Brontë. “Petrarch thinks that there is also something oddabout the