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

land of a wealthy farmer inWest Butterfieldshire-upon-Furburry. Often the novitiates wander the grounds onwalks. It’s actually encouraged by the higher nuns—the natural setting, thequiet, drawing people into a state to better commune with God.”

“A good walk in thecountry does heal the soul,” Petrarch said jovially.

“Well,” Brontë touchedher collar nervously, “it seems, she found communion, but…it was…not withanything otherworldly.”

“The farmer?” Crockettblurted. This elicited loud “Shhhs!” from both Brontë and Petrarch.

“Yes!” Brontë whispered.“The farmer!”

“But what would be—”

“Who is married…” Brontëcroaked. “She…she…is an adulteress.”

The room fell silent.Crockett nervously eyed Petrarch. Being raised outside upper social circles, hedidn’t know how to react to a lady having fallen into an affair. In his life onthe streets and in the country house, it was a casual occurrence to hear anynumber of men and women making the beast with two backs in every corner of theplaces he found respite, but in more polite society, it remained something hehad yet to confront.

“How long has yourfamily known?” Petrarch asked softly.

“They found out justbefore Grandfather died. Aunt May went to my mother and told her the wholestory. But…” Brontë took a deep breath, “the interesting thing is that thefarmer promised to leave his wife and marry Aunt May…if…” Here she paused. Shelooked between Petrarch and Crockett. Despite the seriousness of theconversation, a subtle joy, an earnestness crept into her voice. “If she couldsecure the debts that my grandfather owed to him.”

Crockett put a hand tohis forehead. “My goodness…”

“Oh dear…” Petrarchdropped his pipe to the ground.

“You saw how mygrandmother acted when talking about money. You can imagine that conversationwithin the family. May possibly saw her only recourse was to kill mygrandfather and collect her own inheritance with the hope that money would beput back into the estate to settle the debts.”

Petrarch and Crockettexchanged a gaze. The family was yet to learn that they were destitute, with nota shilling to their name.

“That is a seriousmotive.” Petrarch sat up and began to pace the room. “But would she have theresources to disrupt the séance and kill poor Beatrice?”

“I think,” Crockettnervously wrung his hands, “that Augüst may simply be redirecting theblame.”

Petrarch and Brontëboth looked at him intensely.

Crockett continued, hisvocal cadence growing faster. “He is the only one that makes it all match up,you see. He knew the house and how to make the phonograph go; he also knew howto gut an animal cleanly like poor Beatrice. Of course, the final nail in hiscoffin is him having the key and access to the family vault. Dexter also hadone, but we spoke. He’s fiercely loyal and has had access for ages. It—it...”Crockett stuttered at the end of the statement. It suddenly came to his mindthat Brontë had not been told of Lucinda’s note. He quickly pondered making itknown, but before he could say anything, Brontë interjected.

 “That’s just it, Crockett! Father finallybegan talking about the key. He gave it back to Grandmother before the murder.Grandmother returned it to him to pass on to me for our search.”

“Diggleshroot!”[32]Petrarch snorted. “Your grandmother had the key all evening the night of themurder?”

“She did, but…” Brontëpaused here for dramatic effect, but it was too pronounced.

“Are you all right,Miss Winterbourne?” Petrarch asked.

Brontë flushed. “Yes,sorry, I was being dramatic but then forgot what I was going to say.”

“Your grandmother hadthe key,” Crockett said in hopes of assisting her memory.

“Yes! She did! And—” Havinglearned her lesson, she kept this pause more contracted, “Father gave it backto her in front of mother, Aunt May, Martha, and Robert; it was a very publicmoment.”

Crockett groaned.“So…it could still be anyone. Everyone but the current occupants of this roomand Kordelia saw the key change hands.”

“Yes.” Brontë bit herlip. “It does close a door, but perhaps there may be more likely alternativesnow.”

Crockett closed hiseyes, deep in thought. “What if,” he said very slowly, “you were right, Brontë.Maybe we need to start thinking larger than one person.” He opened his eyes andlooked resolutely out the dusty windows. “There are too many variables, toomany pieces which would require assistance. The séance is something thatcouldn’t have been executed by a single person.”

“That is a possibility.”Brontë smiled. “Aunt May and my father both could be suspects and in collaboration.There may simply be more than one culprit.”

The three remained deepin thought for some time—Brontë pondering the likelihood of her father and auntworking in collusion, Crockett meditating on his personal, more asinine idea ofthe actual murderer, and Petrarch staring into space, a look of resolvecreeping over his features.

After the prolongedsilence, Crockett turned to Petrarch. The old man smiled dolefully at him. Therewas both pride and sadness in his eyes.

“My two young friends,”he said warmly, “I think we perhaps…”

But before he couldfinish, he looked up and saw that Brontë was turned away from him. Her eyeswere pools of terror, focused on the door.

Standing in the portal wasthe hunched form of Martha. When she saw all had turned their attention to her,she licked her lips, a menacing grimace covering her face.

“Dinner is on,” shecroaked. Her bulging eye spun slowly, ominously in her wrinkled visage.“Perhaps the rest of the family would like to hear your little theories.”

Chapter 15: A Shot in the Dark

            Atense moment unfolded as Petrarch slipped on his shirt and coat. Brontë andCrockett looked anxiously at each other as Martha stared, disinterestedly, intothe corner of the room. Crockett’s neck prickled when her dull gaze shifted tohim, the spinning eye seemingly staring through him, into his very soul.

Once Petrarch wassettled, they followed Martha through the dim passage and back to the mainfoyer. On a few occasions, the old woman would look back, her lip curled in asneer. Despite the foreboding nature of her countenance, Crockett was unsurewhether the woman was really a malignant force or simply an oddity with a knackfor making those around her feel uncomfortable. This performance was verysimilar to her butchering, blood-drinking behavior earlier. In truth, she haddone a large number of bizarre things, but since he had been in the house, shehad also been helpful, coming to Corinthiana’s aid when Beatrice was killed, wakingfrom a deep sleep and—

            Crockettpaused in the hall, briefly.