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

tomb key, the fact that it’s missing. Do you think the will readingand the key are linked in some way?”

“I don’t know how theycould be.” Brontë frowned. “As my grandmother said, it’s been decades since thetomb was opened. Unless, perhaps, something of value was placed in there by BaronVon Bunson.”

“Who was possiblykilled by your grandfather.”

Brontë let out anexasperated breath of air. “It’s all so tangled, isn’t it? I keep thinking it’ssomeone in the house, but the past keeps coming back in these echoes.”

“Like that horrifyingsong.”

“‘The Duck Man of theOld Hat’?” Brontë laughed. “Don’t tell me that still has you scared.”

“It’s a terrifying song,”Crockett said defiantly.

“Most German rhymesare. Have you ever heard ‘My Mother Killed a Horse with a Snake Tooth’? That’sanother unsettling one.”[24]

“I can’t say I have.”Crockett looked confusedly at Brontë.

“There’s actually aGerman word for killing a horse with a snake tooth—toterpferdeschlangenzahn—whichto me seems an impractical word.”

“Indeed.” Crockett, inthe ensuing silence, counted to three softly to himself before he felt he couldquickly and necessarily change the direction of the conversation. He wanted tocontinue discussing the mystery, as it seemed their exchange was precipitatingan important discovery. “So, could we conject that your grandfather’s death andthe séance aside, someone killed Beatrice to precipitate the reading of thewill, which may be tied to getting into the family tomb?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Brontësaid admiringly. “To be honest, the séance fits the motive as well, a play onthe house’s obsession with the occult. It’s actually a marvelous idea, Mr.Cook.”

Crockett turned away. Brontësaying his name with such warmth brought an embarrassingly large smile to hislips. “So now it’s a matter of finding out who is interested in the will andthe money.” As he said this, he felt a slight pang of remorse knowing that thefamily had nothing…It was not his place to relay this to Brontë, but the smallunspoken lie caused him discomfort.

“Which could beanyone,” Brontë said defeatedly. “Everyone in the house, including me, would beinterested in the money and the estate. Aunt May wouldn’t inherit too much, butshe would most likely get a small sum. My father and mother would be freed of HawsfefferManor and could return to Winterbourne House, which is in much better condition.I would most likely inherit something in the process. Perhaps Kordelia beingthe second-born granddaughter and Robert Edward are the only two I would putout of suspicion in terms of gaining something from the will reading.”

“I suppose that makesyou my prime suspect.”

Brontë laughed loudly.

Crockett was lost in ablossoming affection as he watched her. Everything about the moment was asbeautiful as a painting—her crinkled eyes, the paleness of her skin highlightedby the blush of red from laughter, the way her delicate hand flew to her mouthin an act of light embarrassment. This morning she had also chosen to weartrousers. They gave a faint outline to her thin hips and small waist.

Brontë looked up andcaught Crockett’s admiring gaze. Her face immediately turned crimson and both,again, fell into a pregnant silence.

Not wanting to live inan uncomfortable tension, Crockett spoke quickly to alter the mood, “You hadmentioned you think it could be someone outside the house, a different presencethan those gathered here.”

Brontë shook her head.“I’m not sure. But I do know my family, and I don’t think that any of them arecapable of this. Robert Edward has a secure alibi—he is the only one I cannotvouch for. I was trying to think of someone else that could have beeninterested, but it could just be fanciful ideas. I may be as batty as the localconstabulary investigating circus folk.”

Crockett smiled; he didhis best to avoid Brontë’s gaze so as not to cause another tense moment. To avertthis, he threw his glance across the room.

The sun had come outand bright rays shone through the small window high above them—one spark of lightfell over a pile of objects, a bright silver sword glinting in the glow. Thecolor in the young solicitor’s face faded.

“Crockett,” Brontë saidquickly, “are you all right?”

But Crockett wasalready running across the room. The sword was in a pile of other weapons—piecesof antiquity, discarded for years in the far corner of this family vault.[25]Tentatively, he picked up one of the blades and examined it. It was as hethought. He had seen the shape, the handle, the taper of the blade before.

“What is it?” Brontë caughtup to him and whispered quietly in his ear.

Crockett turned slowly;his face darkened. “Brontë, I think I know where the weapon came from thatkilled Beatrice.”

Brontë’s expression suddenlywent from shock to deep thoughtfulness. She stepped away from Crockett and walkeddistractedly in a small circle.

             “Someone took the weapon from down here,” shesaid quietly.

            “But,once again, anyone could have come down to grab it.” Crockett clenched hisfists in frustration.

“No,” Brontë saidpicking up her walking pace. “Not everyone has access to this room. There is akey—I had to retrieve it from Father so that we could enter this morning.”

            Crockettstarted. “Is it usually locked?”

            “Yes,”she said. “My grandmother gave the key to my father yesterday. I don’t know ifyou recall. She said she needed something from down here.”

            “So,we need to talk to your father…”

            “Ineed to,” Brontë said, ceasing her pacing. “He trusts me, but I don’t thinkhe’d speak freely if you were there. He won't mention anything unless I canbait him into incriminating himself.”

            Crockett’sface dropped. “You don’t think it was your father, do you?”

            Brontëlooked at Crockett with determination. “I told you, Crockett,” she saidswiftly, “it could be anyone.”

Chapter 12: A Prime Suspect

            Crockett’smind overflowed with conflicting theories about the previous night, the séance,and the death of Beatrice as he returned to the folly wing.

            Thesuccess of Brontë and his plan relied heavily on her father divulging what hadhappened to the key the previous night. If he was in fact guilty, that would beinformation that could bring things to a climax. But would Brontë be safe? He’dalready taken Beatrice’s life; what if it escalated further? Especially withhis uncontrollable anger? And was the motive that he wanted the family fortune,which didn’t exist?

            Thoughtsclouded his attention so deeply that he didn’t notice Kordelia in