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

faintinghad ceased in moments of terror, but he was yet to gain any control over hisspeech. A detective who began with the question “Did you do it?” was as bad asa lawyer who covered his idiocy under words like “deblightful.”

Crockett neededadditional air to recuperate from the double failures of his investigationsinto Martha and Dexter. Perhaps he wasn’t cut out to be a sleuth. There was likelynothing going on at all. His own prejudices against spinning eyes andtheatrical fashion choices were clouding his understanding of what this housereally was—a collection of characters, brought together by tragedies, who,despite mental imbalances, did hold some kind of affection toward each other.

Brontë also fueled hiswild theories with her thoughts of murder and mayhem. It could be that the trueexplanation of the events in the house was simple, not linked to bizarrepersonal behaviors which were simply general oddities. Dexter’s speech madethis clear; the house was a mess. For years there had been fighting and chaos—badpeople doing bad things. The death of Beatrice, then, was an extension of this,not an anomaly, but rather the natural end to years of pent-up pettyfrustrations and loathing. It was obnoxious but not homicidal, at least not tohumans.

He felt embarrassed forthe ludicrous solution he entertained earlier, one which linked the mysteriouspast to the nefarious present. Petrarch’s earlier, rational theory and Dexter’sshaming made him realize that there was no need to exert his imagination so far.If there was foul play, it was most likely a simple solution—August knew where thekey was, had motive, and was probably expediting the reading of the will. Heknew Corinthiana’s tendency to fear the macabre; he may have been behind theplaying of the nursery rhyme, too. Perhaps he even convinced Kordelia to playalong with the blaming, the act of a loyal daughter. The key to the tomb andthe note left by Lucinda, then, were coincidental, a forgotten part of thefamily. It was random happenstance Petrarch was entrusted with them with allthose years ago.

            “Sometimesthe shortest way around is the best,” Crockett said to himself as he continuedhis walk.

His course took himtoward the Tiddlymouth at the back of the house. The rush of the river calmedhis nerves, helped his thoughts race less quickly and sequence more logically. Asthe river flowed and birds twittered, for a brief moment, the Hawsfeffer caseleft his focus and he reflected on the coming summer, afternoons in the park inLondon and long strolls along the Thames.

            Thesethoughts imploded when Crockett arrived at the riverbank. In his musings heforgot that the river was not a topaz, sparkling vision of arcadian splendorbut a hideous brown and gray snake streaked with logs and refuse from localfarms. It was doubly disappointing, as the banks of the river matched thisfilthy, unkempt demeanor. The waving brown and green grasses were tangled and thick.They were wild and dense enough to hide the body of a full-grown man.

            Ashis disappointment festered, he saw a figure in white on the bank, nearlyhidden in the tall grasses. The ghostly individual stared into the distance,watching the clouds roll in from the west. The atmosphere of the day hadentirely changed since he came outside. The wind began to moan, the first signof another summer storm. The figure was a woman, her loose dress flitting abouther in this rising zephyr. When she turned, he recognized the delicate,youthful countenance of Kordelia. Haphazardly, she lifted her arm and waved.

            Crockettapproached her tentatively, the youngest Winterbourne daughter, the oddest ofall oddities at Hawsfeffer Manor. A smile turned up the edge of his mouth as hepondered what non sequitur would fall from her lips when they were close enoughto speak. He did not have to wait long. In a few long strides, he was close enoughfor her golden hair to catch the wind and flap into his face.

            “Hullo,”she said plainly. “How was Dexter? I saw you two speaking.”

            Crockett’sface turned red. “I think I insulted him. I insinuated he was the murderer ofboth your grandfather and Beatrice.”

            “It’snot a bad guess. The local constabulary’s idea of carnival folk is worse, Iwould say.”

            “Iwould agree.” Crockett tried very hard to keep his face from scrunching due tothe smell of Kordelia’s halitosis. In an effort to avoid the downwind scent, heturned away and looked at the tomb in the distance. He thought back to his earlymorning chat with Brontë. “Do you miss him?” he asked.

            “Misswho?”

            “Yourgrandfather?” He placed his hands behind his back. “Your sister misses him. Shetold me the other morning.”

            Kordeliathought for a moment. “No,” she said finally. “Brontë was his favorite—shealways had more points, as you know.” The young girl, in discussing the pointsystem, remembered her breath and covered her mouth self-consciously. “Hewasn’t very kind—Grandfather—he never liked me much after the cat was set onfire.”

            “Thatseems unfair.”

            “Hewasn’t pleasant.” She looked toward the sky; a sigh, heavy with grief, escapedher. “You know they think he killed several people.”

            “Iheard.”

            “Hisfirst wife and his uncle—they say it was all over money.”

            “Doyou believe them?”

            “Itend to believe everything.”

            “Eventhe worst.”

            Shepaused and focused her full attention on Crockett. Her bright eyes twinkled. “Itend to believe the worst, then be pleasantly surprised.”

            “Whatdo you think is the worst now?”

            “AboutBeatrice?”

            “Yes.”Crockett tried to keep his voice from shaking. His goosepimples returned. Hefelt as if he was on the edge of some great mystery, some truth, about to beunleashed from the young woman beside him.

            “Ithink it’s spirits,” she said softly. “Real ones—not the fake ones that burnedthe cat.”

            “Whydo you say that? You don’t think it’s a person?”

            “Itcould be a person acting on a spirit's power. I’ve been looking around thehouse for a better solution, but nothing has presented itself.”

            “Youmean…a person acting on a spirit’s power, like a possession?”

            “Maybenot the way you think, no.” She turned to the water. “The past can possesssomeone like a spirit, drive them to act against their natural impulses. Thepast doesn’t die, just like ghosts don’t. There's a phrase for it in thefortune teller’s tongue—Shubooie kurkbumzurburg.”

            “That’s…”Crockett felt unsettled, “that’s very wise.”

            “There’sa similar