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

carried away,but this time, I think we have enough to believe that it’s a simple solution. Ihad other theories…” Crockett, embarrassed, turned away from the looking glassand toward his master. “Augüst has motive and he had the means to do itall.”

            Petrarchtook a long puff from his pipe. “I find it hard to believe Mr. Winterbourne hasthe brains for anything so complicated. His mustache knows more than he does.”

            Crockettwas taken so off guard by the joke that he choked on his laughter. “You know,”he gasped, “I think the most plausible murderer is his mustache.”

            “It’salways who you least expect!”

            Thetwo, together, broke into a fit of uncontrolled giggles, each unable to stop asthe other erupted into new fits of laughter. By the end of it, they were both onthe bed, reclined backwards, Petrarch’s pipe lying between them.

            Crockett,finally gaining composure, said, “Augüst is the most logicalexplanation, but part of me still wants it to be something more…Ifyou’ll pardon a young man’s musings, there is just too much absurdity in thishouse for the nefarious presence to be the obnoxious, loudmouthed son-in-law. Ispoke with Dexter as well, and he was a staunch pragmatist—very interesting inlight of his wardrobe choices. I know the gravitational pull of logic is towarda simple solution, but I feel there’s something more to it all.”

            “So,who would you want to blame? If we’re going to totally disregard theobvious guilt of the mustache.”

            Crockett,stifling a chortle, hesitated. His ludicrous theory rested on the edge of histongue—he felt more confident in the relaxed, jocund atmosphere stating it thanhe had previously, but something held him back. He still wanted Petrarch to beproud of him, and he didn’t want the old man to think he was batty. Just thatmorning, his master expressed his approval—Crockett didn’t want to spoil it.

            Itwas better to stay silent.

            “Allright, Crockett? You’ve grown quiet.” Petrarch sat up. “Do you think Beatricewas involved? She faked her own death?”

            Crockettdidn’t have time to respond as, at that moment, Brontë appeared in the doorway.Her brown hair hung loosely around her shoulders. She wore an actual dress,muslin with flower embroidered along the hem. Lace, like sea foam, splashedaround her collar. Her face was flushed, the radiant bud of youth in full bloomon her white cheeks. A light emitted from her eyes which focused intensely onCrockett.

            Petrarchturned idly to see what Crockett was looking on. When he realized the cause ofhis apprentice’s excitement, he sighed. He had tried to warn the young man ofthe impossibility of the match, of the impropriety of amorous affection forone’s clients, but they were young, and infatuation had run away with themboth. He did foster some sympathy—he remembered when he fell in love with hisown wife all those years before…but he didn’t want Crockett’s heart broken.

He rose quickly and puthimself between the two youths, the only thing he could think of to stifle the electricitypassing between their shared gazes.

            “MissWinterbourne!” he said quickly. “Delighted to see you. I’m sorry I’m not fullydressed.” Petrarch moved as if he would put on his overshirt, but then did notfollow through, instead moving back in the direction of his bed.

            “That’sfine, Mr. Bluster. It’s always a pleasure to see you, regardless of your stateof dress.” She dipped her neck forward in a show of politeness. Her eyesflicked between Petrarch and Crockett, unsure of which conversational course totake.

            “Heknows all, Brontë,” Crockett said softly. “You can feel free to speak.”

            Aflash of relief crossed Brontë’s face. She turned quickly and gently shut thedoor. Her skirt swished as she moved to the window, as far from prying ears asshe could get.

            “Ispoke with him,” she said quietly. “Father.”

            “Didhe admit to having the key to the vault?” Crockett asked.

            “Notin the way you would think,” Brontë sighed. “I asked him directly about the keyand the sword.”

            “Whatwas his excuse?” Petrarch asked.

            “Helaughed and talked in circles. You know Father’s…well, blusteriness and arrogance.He said he did have the key but had nothing to do with Beatrice. He againopined that a cod’s hardier constitution would have survived the attack.”

            “Ithink any fish would have succumbed in this particular scenario,” Crockett saidflatly.

            “Butthen,” Brontë’s voice fell even lower, “he immediately turned my attention toeveryone else—Robert Edward, Martha, Dexter, anyone who could have possiblytaken part.”

            “Didhe have reasons?” Petrarch puffed on his pipe.

Crockett tried to keephis focus, but his eyes kept listlessly traveling to Brontë’s exposed collarbone.

“Nothingconcrete…Robert, of course, is generally suspicious. He came into town andthings became stranger and stranger. Martha and Dexter—his basis there was nostronger than pointing to a recent mystery novel he read entitled Buttled toDeath.”

“Which was about?”

“A butler who buttledsomeone to death. Hence, his predilection to blame the help.”

“How does one buttlesomeone to death?” Crockett momentarily awoke from his study of Brontë’s form.

“Well, the twist wasthe butler took his master hostage and made him buttle till he died. You know—changinglots of sheets, serving tea incessantly, and answering doors on opposite sidesof the house in quick succession. It wasn’t a very complicated plot. Ipreferred the author’s first novel The Murderer Is the Son.”[31]

“The writer is not verycreative, is he?”

“No,” Brontë said, “buthe does describe rhododendrons quite nicely.”

“Sorry to interrupt,”Petrarch said politely, “but popular literature aside, did anything actuallysound like important information?”

Brontë nodded. Shethrew a nervous glance to the door before lowering her voice (yet again) andcontinuing, “The only thing that struck me as new was about,” her voice shookslightly, “Aunt May.”

“Aunt May…”

“Father knows whathappened, you see. Why she left the convent and has been so…odd as of late.”

“And?” Petrarch andCrockett asked together.

Brontë shiftednervously. “I’m sorry, it’s just…It’s a tawdry story.”

 “I assumed May wasn’t what she appeared to be,”Petrarch said gruffly. “The most self-righteous are often the ones who havefallen farthest.”

Brontë nervously rungher hands. Her gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where a remarkably largecobweb was dancing in the breeze of the drafty window. “She was in theconvent,” Brontë started slowly, “but then she met someone…”

Petrarch and Crockettleaned forward.

“You see, the conventis out, away from the town. The grounds abut the