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

            Crockettshivered.

            Thelook of distrust slowly ebbed from Martha’s expression. She put down her bladeand crossed her arms. “Clever of you to come looking,” she said. “I did laundrythe day after—Sundays are always laundry days—and looked through all the rags, aprons,and linens to see if there was anything out of the ordinary.”

            “Didyou find anything?” Crockett asked, still uneasy despite the woman’s change indisposition.

            Sheshook her head. “No, I butcher meat nearly every day. It helps align my humorsand alleviate my acute female hysteria.” To emphasize this, she picked up thecleaver again and slammed it into the wooden table.[29]“There was blood on a number of aprons and work clothes, nothing strange.”

            Crockettnodded, unsure whether he felt the old maid was less of a suspect, more of one,or simply a psychopath. “Well, thank you.”

            Ashe was about to turn away and make an escape, his eye caught Beatrice’sfishbowl sitting near one of the maid’s oversized blades. A rush of hope gavehim goosebumps—the murderer’s fingerprints could be pasted all over the clearglass.

            “Martha,”he said excitedly, “Can I see the bowl?”

            Theold woman shrugged. “Help yourself. It wasn’t my favorite thing to clean. Themissus wanted it spotless for Beatrice’s burial in the tomb.”

            Crockett’sface fell. “It’s clean?”

            “Absolutelyspotless. Took me the better part of an hour.”

            Theyoung man’s heart sank. Should he ever be at the head of a murder investigationagain, he would need to be more proactive in his evidence collection.

He was about out of theroom when he heard Martha’s grizzled voice call after him, “You want to take afew swings at the meat? It may make you feel better.”

“No, thanks, no—I’mquite—no, thank you!” He said this staggering backward, stumbling down the backhall.

Unsettled by theevents, he rushed through the sitting room to the front door. Between the eerieconversation, his failure with the fishbowl, the oppressive heat in the house,and the sight of all the slaughtered blood on Martha’s clothing, Crockett’s desireto flee had grown overwhelming. It was with great relief that he placed hishand on the front door and exited onto the front stoop.

Once outside, theentire length of the house between himself and the maid, he took several deep, stabilizingbreaths. Although the air was startlingly warm, each inhalation proveddetoxifying, bringing him clarity and pushing out his thoughts of gore, hisdream of Martha, and the general, tentative fear that had swelled with eachpassing day in the manor. The sun on his skin also helped relieve thesefeelings of trepidation. After a few minutes of calming breathing, thehomicidal-looking maid and her cleaver diminished from his thoughts completely.He felt more himself and could focus his attention on the house grounds.

After a few judgmentalthoughts about the state of the place (a squirrel was sitting on a pile ofdiscarded newspapers), his attention fixed on the tomb. It looked ominous inthe warm, summer sunshine, a bleak, dark marble structure in the middle of anarcadian image of blue skies, white clouds, and emerald grass and leaves. Theappearance of a figure near its entrance made him jump. Dexter, holding sharppruning shears, appeared at the main entry of the melancholic eyesore. Today hewas wearing what appeared to be a full suit decorated with the American starsand stripes. On his head he wore a hat which had a papier-mâché eagle perchedon its tip.

Crockett felt goosepimplesas he realized the groundskeeper was one of the few who had no alibi for theday of the disappearance. In his favorite detective story, The FantasticDeath of Captain Discord,[30]the entire murder was solved when the lead detective finally found the rutabagafarmer who witnessed the magician’s disappearance.

Perhaps Dexter was hisrutabaga farmer.

The groundskeeper sawthe young man approaching and realized he would not have time to avoid theencounter. He let out a loud, obnoxious sigh and turned to face him with a lookof utter disgust.

“Hello,” Dexter said.Crockett had forgotten the clang of his American vowels, which he had beenfirst introduced to during their earlier discussion over the corpse ofBeatrice. Up close he now noted that, in addition to the papier-mâché bird, hishat was covered in a loose coating of downy feathers.

“Hello, Mr. Fletcher.Lovely day.”

“Too hot.”

“Yes—good.” Crockettsuddenly realized he should have planned this interview better. “Well,” hetried with great difficulty to stop himself, but the only question which cameto his mind followed, “Have…you ever….killed anyone?”

Dexter, in spite ofhimself and his annoyance with the young man, laughed loudly.

“Sorry,” Crockett’sface turned bright red; indeed, the power dynamic had shifted. “Mr. Fletcher,I’m trying to discover anything we missed. I’m sorry for the clumsiness, butI’ll be frank—You were here the day that Master Hawsfeffer died and have accessto all the house grounds and,” Crockett indicated Dexter’s dress, “the familyvault where the costume collection is kept.”

Dexter’s eyes narrowed.“Is this an accusation, then?”

“No, sir. It’s an openquestion.”

Dexter shook his head.A small glimmer in his eye revealed an excitement underlying his anger. “I’vebeen an honest, hardworking member of this house for years. Bixby Hawsfeffertook me in, even after the other Bixby—Von Bunson—abandoned me here. I did findBixby Hawsfeffer’s empty boat; Martha was with me. And I do have a key to thevault, but I only go down there for my costumes. They keep me happy, if youmust know. This house has been a mess for years—everyone is always feuding. Duringmy time here, I’ve seen both Lucinda and Bixby Hawsfeffer vanish. There arealways thoughts of foul play because the place is a nightmare—but it’s notspirits like Miss Corinthiana believes; it’s plain old bad people doing badthings." He paused, his gaze locked on Crockett. "But do I think they'rekilling each other? No. Their rancor is petty not homicidal.” The old mancrossed his arms emphatically, then spit, as if declaring this the end of hisstatement.

Crockett’s goosepimplesturned to a burning shame. “So…you don’t have any idea who could have killedBeatrice?” The young lawyer’s voice was an embarrassed whisper.

“As I told you thatnight, better that fish than one of the people.”

With that, he abruptlythrew his pruning shears over his shoulder and walked away.

“Thank you, Mr.Fletcher…” Crockett felt horribly embarrassed, not only in the interpersonalinteraction, but, again, for his lack of composure under pressure. His