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

            Brontëheld Crockett’s gaze. They both nodded enthusiastically, dramatically for sometime. It was the clock chiming which tore them from their reverie, both partiesjerking away as if from a dream. Brontë realized she had been holdingCrockett’s hands and dropped them quickly. She felt embarrassed and steppedaway from him.

She bowed, slightlycurtseying. “Yes,” she said nervously. “Yes, then until tomorrow.” A pink huerose in her cheeks as she again stepped away from Crockett and crossed into thefoyer.

            Watchingher leave, rather than ebb, his emotions rose higher. His whole being setalight, overcome by the new feeling of love.

Brontë experienced thesame current of affection as she moved away from the young solicitor, one thatshe had not felt before. She grew giddy crossing the cavernous entry, but asshe took her first step onto the foyer stairs, she paused; a shiver rushed downher spine.

She felt a pair of eyeswatching her, some malicious presence awaiting her in the dark.

Her giddiness faded.She turned, frightened, to assess the shadows behind her. But, when her eyesturned to the mysterious presence, she saw only Crockett’s gleaming smile. Hiseyes also sparkled like diamonds in the dim light. She waved upon catching hisgaze; she couldn’t stop herself from giggling as she hurried up the stair.

When she was gone,Crockett sighed. The road ahead was obscured in shadow, but his heart was light.He and Brontë created a way forward together. His body felt weightless as he helpedPetrarch back to his room. The old man mumbled quietly as they passed into theeast wing of the house.

#

            Crocketthad long put Petrarch to bed when the shot rang out. It was a single, loudblast, then the sound of shattered glass followed by a heavy thud. There was abrief silence before the rush of thundering footsteps echoed from all cornersof the house; the roused family sprinted to find the source of the explosion.

            Theyfound Crockett in the room holding his master. The old man’s face was a starkwhite; his mouth hung open, exposing the deep black of his gaping maw.Everything in the room was in disarray—the drawers of the secretary pulled out,a table flipped over, and the old solicitor’s bag ripped of its contents. Theweapon, the gun which had hung over the fireplace, was left at the room’s thresholdupon the shooter's exit.

            Noone spoke as they assessed the scene of violence. Tears fell down Crockett’sface. He held Petrarch and stroked his white beard.

            Kordeliafound her own glove next to the gun. As she held it up in the dim light, it feltas if it was imbued with some dark force, a ghoulish relic from beyond thegrave.

Chapter 16: Detective Lucian LucretianPimento

            Even with the history of murders,eviscerations, entrapments, and drownings, the fear of Petrarch's demise filledthe house with a different kind of tense, raw emotion. The scene resembled thatof a pietà,only in lieu of a beatific Mary and a sinewy Christ, at the center of thistableau was a gaunt, variegated-eyed Crockett holding the rotund Petrarch. Thesupporting cast flanked him in various stages of grief, shock, or (for Kordelia,holding her glove) a kind of alarmed sleepiness.

            It was Robert Edward who broke theominous silence. He noted, in all the chaos, that one of the telltale signs ofdeath was absent.

“Zere’s no blood,” he said, the beginning of a smile creeping overhis face.

“Perhaps he was too old to have any,” said Kordelia quietly.

“It’s not the blood,” Crockett said. “His…heart…I think the shock…”

But as if on cue, Petrarch pulled in a deep breath of air. Thesudden movement caused Crockett to jump, throwing the old man, his headcolliding with the side of his bed.

Everyone gathered gasped. The sound of his head hitting the woodenbed legs cracked nearly as loud as the gun.

Crockett flailed wildly, leaning over the old man and shaking him.

“Petrarch! Oh, no…Oh, Petrarch!”

“My necessitous friend!” August shuffled forward. “Let me try. My great-grandfatherwas a physician. Or knew a physician. Either way, I should be able to help.”

Crockett stepped aside so August could lean over the body. Hegently caressed his face and called Petrarch’s name softly.

“Petrarch? Petrarch, old boy, are you all right?” He gave thepassed-out man a moment to respond, before urgently raising his arm andslapping him so fiercely across the cheek that Corinthiana screamed.

“AWWWRRRRKKKKKK!!”

Brontë shoved him off and fell over Petrarch like a mother hen onher endangered chick. Her eyes were wild as she glanced between Crockett andher father. “What is wrong with you both? Let him have some air!” She turned toMartha who was standing just out of sight, concealed in a shadow thrown by the lamplight.“Martha, can you get some water, please? Robert,” she turned to her cousin, “helpme lift him onto the bed.”

The two did their best to lift Petrarch’s girth upward, but, at thelast moment, failed miserably, his circular body crashing downward, a secondgreat crack of his head on the bed frame resounding throughout the quiet room.

“Perhaps,” Kordelia said dreamily, “we leave him as he is. If wehelp him too much more even the Danube Mob won’t be able to set him right.”

They compromised by taking the heavy blanket from the bed andplacing it over the solicitor. Brontë took a pillow and laid it gently underhis head. At this point, a large bump was forming from the first crack,accompanied by a deep purple bruise near his eye where Brontë and Robert haddropped him on their second attempt at aid.

Silence followed as they stared down at him, unsure whether he wasdead. They partly wondered if they could all be guilty of murder for the manybumps and bruises they collectively inflicted.

A howling wind disrupted the quiet. August turned his attention tothe shattered glass where the bullet had exited the window. The hole was highup in the window, smashing the windowpane nearly eight feet off the floor.

“An odd shot,” he said softly. “It looks as though they weren’tshooting to kill.”

“Or,” said Kordelia, “perhaps inexperienced in the arts ofriflery.”

“Sister,” Brontë’s voice was filled with rage. She spoke with hertongue in the back of her throat. “What was your glove doing in this room sonear the weapon?”

“Other sister,” Kordelia spoke quickly, “I’ve