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

It came back to him with a flash, the old woman’swords the night of Beatrice’s death—Is it him?[33]

            Thatwas her primary concern upon waking. Whether from a dream or reality, the fearcame to her. He was unsure, but something had shocked the old woman in themidst of danger. Something jolted her old brain into a state of panic.

            Him.

            Butwho is the “him”? Was it merely a dream, an induced panic caused by the séance,the commune with the dead, the probable pile of bodies that the house hadclaimed—Lucinda, Baron Von Bunson, Bixby Hawsfeffer, and now, Beatrice?

            Ofall the things they had seen and heard over their days in the mansion, Martha’sexclamation was the one that seemed most urgent.

            Whowas she afraid of?

            Everyonewas seated when they arrived in the formal dining room. The key had not beenfound, and the momentum of the burial of both Beatrice and Bixby had stalled.All gathered wore looks of fright or anxiety; nervous gestures were visibledown the table, from May’s clutching at the black lace around her throat, toRobert Edward’s twisting of his long, dark curls.

            Corinthianalooked the most defeated. She was pale as new-fallen snow, her eyes red fromcrying. She dabbed her eyes at an even slower, more dramatic pace than usual.

            Marthapulled out the seat for Brontë, before shuffling out of the room. When she wasgone a heavy silence fell on all the glum party. The only sound was the tickingof the old grandfather clock in the main foyer.

            Crockett’sattention was drawn toward the head of the table when he heard the rustle ofJune’s dress. She extended a pale hand and gently took her mother’s wrist.

            Corinthianasighed and let her gaze slide around the table. Her indifferent stare settledon all with rising tension. Her visual assessment stopped on Crockett, a bit offlush returning to her cheeks.

            “Crockett,don't yooou haaave a jaaacket for formal dining?”

            Crockettembarrassingly looked down at his white shirt. The mud incident of theirarrival had severely limited his wardrobe options. “I’m sorry, ma’am, my goodcoat was stained the morning we arrived. I don’t have much else.”

            Corinthianasniffed abruptly (perhaps a substitute for an oral “AWRK!”) and let her gazefinish its way around the table.

            Whenshe was satisfied, she again sighed and then looked down at the charger setbefore her. One of her jeweled fingers began to anxiously circle the rim of herwine glass.

            “I…aaamaaafraaaid tooo saaay thaaat weee aaare unaaable tooo find theee keeey,” shesaid slowly.

            “Andthere’s no way into the tomb without it,” August broke in, “other than an actof destruction.”

            Allshifted uncomfortably.

            Crockettturned to Petrarch, who was looking placidly at a tray of rolls in the centerof the table.

            “Grandmother,when was the last time you used the key?” Brontë asked.

            Corinthianastared into the dark for a moment before shrugging her shoulders indifferently.“I neeever did. Theee laaast time waaas when Lucindaaa died.”

            “Allthose years ago?” Petrarch asked. “No one put flowers on the tomb…or checked onthe inside?”

            Therealization that these things should have been done swept across Corinthiana’sface swiftly. Her mouth drooped slightly, and her left eyebrow twitched upward.

            “No,”she said matter-of-factly. “No one did those things.”

            “Itperhaps is like in ze home country,” Robert said quickly. “Ven ze people die,zey are dead. Ve don’t make a party for zem anymore.”

            August’smustache twitched irritably. “The fact remains, death party or no, that wecannot get into the tomb to rid ourselves of the casket.”

            “Whydoes it even matter?” May barked. “There’s no body! He drowned. Why did we evenhave the casket? Let’s toss it in the river and move on with it. We should haveread the will days ago.”

            Corinthiana’sface flushed. “I will not haaave yooou speeeak of your faaather in such awaaay. Heee aaand Beeeatrice both neeed a plaaace tooo rest.”

            “Inthe play I’m reading,” Kordelia said dreamily, “they burn the house down.”

            Somethingin Kordelia’s tone made them all pause. Robert Edward looked at the young girlwith fear. May sneered while June tapped her fingers nervously on the table.

            “Darling,”she finally said, her nails clicking, “this isn’t one of your stories, this isa real-life…” She stopped.

            “Areal-life nightmare,” Brontë finished for her. “Mother, the past three dayshave been brutal in the sheer number of catastrophes. The séance incident alonewas a nasty trick, but then to have poor Beatrice…”

            Corinthianableated at the mention of her beloved companion.

            “Tohave poor Beatrice,” Brontë continued on with more energy, “maimed, murdered,so defiled in the house…Someone at this table did it.” Brontë’s eyes glowed.“What I’m saying is that there is a killer in our midst, someone who’s seekingsome sort of compensation or revenge, and we need to get to the bottom of it.”

            “Darling…”June spoke so softly it was barely heard. Prior to Brontë saying it, the truthof the matter remained obscured in the secure shadow of English propriety. Now itsat fully expressed before them all.

            ToCrockett, it appeared no one moved. Not even a breath was taken at the mentionof the accusation. The verbalization of the act as murder was uncomfortable,incredibly unpalatable, even if the victim was a dead-eyed fish.

            Augustbroke the silence. His mustache twitched and eyes glittered as he spoke.

            “Itwasn’t me. Brontë has been on this little crusade all day—she came to me,”August looked darkly at his wife, “and all but accused me of the violation ofpoor Beatrice.”

            “Father,the facts—" Brontë tried to interject but was cut off by May.

            “Thefacts are superfluous,” the disgraced nun said in her pinched voice. “No actualperson was murdered. Father died in the river, a fitting end to his glib,exhausting existence. It makes sense his death would be a struggle; he madelife for all those around him an equally brutal fight for survival.” May’snostrils flared. Robert Edward looked nervously out of the corner of his eye, seeminglyafraid the older woman would flip the table and attack them all.

            “Butwhat if he didn’t drown?” asked Crockett. He looked resolutely at Brontë. “Whatif this is all related because someone wants the money from the estate? What ifsomeone needs the money for some purpose?”

            “Andwhat purpose is that?”