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

the halluntil he had stepped on her dainty foot. The girl squealed.

            “Mygoodness, your head is a foot bath,” she said fighting tears.

            “I’msorry?”

            “It’san old Swiss saying—it loses its effectiveness translated to English, I suppose.”

            Crockettlooked at her quizzically. “Do you….ever attempt to make a conversation thatothers can follow?”

            “PerhapsI am leading correctly, and it is their obligation to follow better,” Kordeliasaid. Upset about her foot, she turned and began walking away.

            Asher footsteps trailed away, Crockett recognized the opportunity the encountergave him to gain more information. He spun quickly and called after theyoungest Winterbourne. “What were you doing in this wing?”

            “Looking!”This was all she said before coming to the end of the long hall anddisappearing from view.

            Therewas only a moment of isolation in the dark hallway before Petrarch peeped hishead out of his room and beckoned for Crockett to join him.

            Theold man was in the midst of calisthenics, his protruding belly circled with alarge sweat mark. He was breathing heavily, wiping his forehead with one of themany gloves Kordelia had left around the house.

            “Didyou find the key?” Petrarch asked between breaths.

            “No.”Crockett crossed the room and sat on the bed. He had so many things to tell theold man but no idea where to begin.

            “Ididn’t think you would.” Petrarch ceased his exercises and looked out thewindows clouded with dirt. “That key is…well, there’s more to it, my boy.”

            “Moreto it?” Crockett kept his gaze locked on Petrarch. “What are you talking about,Petrarch?”

            Petrarchturned. “Well, I didn’t think you’d find it, you see, because…I have it.”

            Forone, infinitesimal moment, Crockett’s heart stopped. An obscuring, otherworldlycloud filled the room. Reflected on its pale face he saw a second, phantom Petrarchappearing in intermittent flashes like lightning. In the first flash, thesecretive old man was in the foyer, blade in hand, carving the poor corpse of Beatrice.In another, he witnessed Petrarch upstairs at the time of the séance; guided byan oral map of the house from Bixby Hawsfeffer, he found the closet, thephonograph, and set the prank of the old German rhyme into motion.

            “You…?”Crockett said softly.

            Petrarchshook his head. “I did hope that it would have a dramatic effect, but,” hesmiled wryly, “I assumed you’d give me the benefit of an explanation.”

            Crockettcould only look at the old man pensively. In all their years together, this hadbeen the only moment when he had felt a tremor in the trust that existedbetween them. “You couldn’t have…”

            “Tomake things more transparent,” Petrarch interrupted him sharply, “I should sayI have ‘a’ key.”

            “‘A’key?”

            “Passedon to me many years ago.”

            “When?”

            Petrarchexhaled. “Lucinda gave it to me at the same time she gave me the note.”

            Crockett’sface turned red. “Why didn’t you say this when you mentioned the note?”

            “Ahunch,” Petrarch sighed. “Crockett, I was going to tell you after we met withCorinthiana, but you gave such a quick, logical explanation about the tomb keybeing missing that I forgot about it.”

            “So,you didn’t mention it to Corinthiana because…”

            “It’sone of the few things I remember about Lucinda’s visit,” Petrarch said. “Thatis to say, I didn’t remember until all of this came up again when Bixby died.She gave me the note; she was very distracted. But then,” the old man’s eyesclouded, as if he was peering into the distant past, “she said, ‘Petrarch,protect this. Don’t give it to anyone until he’s dead.’”

            Therewas a tense silence. Crockett stroked his chin. “So, she wanted it protectedfrom Bixby Hawsfeffer? But why?”

            “Idon’t know.” Petrarch shook his head. The old man looked tired. It was a rareoccurrence for him to look his full seventy-five years.

            “Howvery odd…” Crockett rose from the bed and paced the room. “But how could thekey and her note be related? The note is…it seems to be a trite wish from amother to son.”

            “Doyou think it means something else?” Petrarch looked up hopefully.

            “Let’slook at it again,” Crockett said excitedly.

            Petrarchran to his briefcase. Again, he had to dump the contents before he could findthe crumpled bit of parchment. The two men placed in on the bed and readthrough it several times. Neither could find any secret purpose to it.Lucinda’s words simply asked her son, Pip, to visit her resting place when hereturned to the family home.[26]

            Whenthey finished rereading, both sat in silence. A heaviness descended on thediscussion, a dark cloud of mystery. Had the death of Beatrice and thedisappearance of Bixby Hawsfeffer begun all those years before? But then, whatdid the note mean?

            Petrarchspoke first. “Let's take a step back from the current events. It may behoove usto examine the note and key at a distance.”

            Crockettnodded. He paced the room as Petrarch spoke.

            “Beforeher death, Lucinda came to my office with a note for her estranged son alongwith the key to the family tomb.” Petrarch’s speech was slow, methodical. “Thenote is for her son, should his father die, and she was very adamant that itnot be given to anyone until the father’s death.”

            Crockett’sfrenetic pacing slowed. He took a deep breath; simply hearing Petrarch’scalming voice and the facts of the case helped pin down his wild imagination.

            “Weknow,” Crockett said, “that Lucinda disappeared under mysteriouscircumstances.”

            “Inthe river.”

            “So,”Crockett came to a halt. He fixed his gaze on Petrarch. “Perhaps she knew hertime was coming to an end. She wanted to give her son a last message andprotect it before her husband…made her disappear.”

            “Oh,”a great, grief-filled sigh escaped Petrarch. “That is tragic. Could my friend,Bixby Hawsfeffer, truly have been that villainous?”

            Crockettturned his attention to the large windows. Outside, the emerald lawn sprawled outof his line of vision. His mind clicked and turned, words forming into vagueideas, like a puzzle box being manipulated to find a solution. There was somefleeting idea in his head that couldn’t quite be held long enough to examine.

            “Petrarch,”he said softly, “this exercise was very beneficial. I think we should take amore formalized approach to all of this, not just Lucinda’s note. Let’s reviewwhat we do know, because Brontë and I