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

            “RobertEdward,” Crockett said.

            “May,Martha, Dexter...”

            Crockettlaughed humorlessly. “In that case, I’ll keep entertaining my bizarre theory.With what we’ve seen, there may be no explanation too grandiose, too full oflunacy.”

            “That,my boy, is what I’m afraid of. If no key is found this afternoon, I will makeit known I have a copy.” Petrarch finished the rest of the glass of water inone gulp and handed it to Crockett. “I still find it a bizarre coincidence thekey and the note are somehow tangentially involved in this, but, as wediscussed, they could also be unrelated.”

            “Youthink revealing the key may draw the killer out? Or give us more clues?”

            “Ithink it will provide new evidence.” The old man rocked back and forth on his heels.“Find out what Brontë discovered from her father, but I also think we shouldstart looking backward.”

            Crockettinstinctively looked behind him.

            “Tothe past, Crockett. To the past.”

            “Youthink the answer is there?”

            “Ithink the beginnings of it are, if only to discover more about the money, whereit came from, and where it went. Perhaps it is Augüst, but we have thewrong motive. Let’s not rest yet. I feel the game may be just beginning.”

Chapter 13: Sleuthing

            Thekey was not found.

            Inthe afternoon, the disgruntled parties rested in the sitting room, exhausted.August had spent hours searching. When unsuccessful in his designated part ofthe house, he moved to others. Corinthiana made an effort at seeking out thekey, but when she came across one of the many scarvesshe used to put around Beatrice’s bowl, she was so overcome with emotion ittook twenty-three handkerchiefs to dry her tears.[27]

            Brontëand Crockett interacted briefly after their own adventure. It was a very shortexchange, enough for Crockett to understand Brontë had not spoken to her fatherabout the weapon.

            Outside,the weather matched the tone of the house—stuffy, stagnated, still. Simplysitting on the pink couches of the great room caused rivulets of sweat to pourdown Crockett’s neck. June kept instructing Martha to open and close thewindows, unsure whether the hot breeze from outside would cool the house ormake it warmer.

            Inthis sweaty stillness, Crockett rose from the couch with the intention to clearhis head. He knew there could be no advancement in the case with everyone atrest. All parties were silent or gathering their own thoughts; no one was inthe mood to speak openly about the events of the day or the past. Corinthianawas about the house, but he felt it was indecorous to speak to her about whatwoke her and led her to discover Beatrice. Her current emotional state wasdire, a continuous string of “awrks” and tears leaked from her as she slowlypaced from one end of the house to the other.

The next move in thegame would come in the evening. Petrarch would divulge the truth of his key,and Brontë would have retrieved all she could from her father. That would beall that was needed—from that point, they could leap into a fresh perspectiveon their investigation.

            Crockettwas on the verge of abandoning any further contemplation of the case, but, whenhe rose, his eyes settled on Beatrice’s opulent bed, and he remembered a pieceof his discussion with Brontë—they needed to look for evidence of the killingin the laundry. Although Crockett’s detective novels weren’t guidebooks, theydid seem to make it clear that some kind of sleuthing was always required to gatheradditional clues. The laundry was most likely at the back of the house, nearthe servants’ quarters. At the very least there had to be a towel or discardedlinen which held some traces of the catastrophe.

            Heapproached Beatrice’s bed and did a cursory search; nothing had been removed orsullied. Despite the fish sleeping in a bowl of water, Corinthiana had filledthe gilded cage with enough amenities and comforts to rival his own sleepingarrangements. Two of Beatrice’s silk pillows were thrust to the back, and itlooked as though the silken sheet used to wrap her bowl was slightly mussed. Thebowl itself was removed by Martha immediately after the event; it appeared nothingelse had been taken. The criminal had obviously been hurried, but as was typicalof cases of fishicide (Crockett assumed), there was no clear evidence of a struggle.

            “Zebed vas ruffled,” Robert Edward said, seeing Crockett’s interest. “But no vun couldfind anyzing missing!”

            Crockettthanked Robert for his help and turned his attention toward the back hallway tothe kitchen. He knew somewhere in the servants’ quarters there was a pile oflinens that was worth seeking out. Something had to carry the mark of horrorthat would have been left as a sign of Beatrice’s demise.

            Crockettavoided the general area of the kitchen after his first interaction with Marthaon his way to get water. Prior to his nightmare about the carriage master andhis canary, one entire dream had been about him running through a dark hallwaywhere the only light was Martha’s gleaming eye, which pursued him no matter howquickly he ran. It ended with him falling into a large pie[28]and celebrating Christmas, but, prior to the pastry, he had been quiteterrified.

It was this very eyethat met his gaze as he entered the kitchen. Not only the eye, but its host,Martha, covered in blood, hacking at the shank of a large animal. He’d hopedher poor eyesight would have allowed him time to quickly slip away; however,Martha focused her full attention on the young solicitor. She appeared to have apreternatural sense in the kitchen. A scream didn’t wake her in the night, butCrockett’s soft shoes alerted her immediately when he crossed the threshold.

            “Whatdo you want?” she asked. Her one eye narrowed; the other spun more slowly.

            “I’mvery sorry,” Crockett said quickly, backing away. “I was trying to see if therewere any traces of gore from the incident with Beatrice. We never fullyinvestigated. Is there a collection of linens for the laundry?”

            Marthashook her head. “Me, Dexter, and Awwgooost looked that night, but there wasnothing out of the ordinary. It was a very clean job.” Whether out ofintimidation or simply poor manners, Martha absentmindedly licked some bloodoff of the cleaver she was using to cut up