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

As the sun began to creep up the horizon, Detective Pimentodismissed his policeman companion (who still seemed very stuck on the squirrelwith a gun theory) and the doctor and convinced August (now defending thereputation of the local constabulary) it was imperative he stay through themorning to have more questions answered.

He was shown into quarters on the west side of the house. Thesechambers were not commonly used, but Martha kept them well enough to allow him torest in a comfortable bed with clean linens. The murals painted on the wallsand ceiling portrayed a brutal, bloody triumph of Americans over the French.Although extremely horrifying, Detective Pimento did not see the extremity ofthe gore painted above him until the sun reached its full morning strength.

            Crockett slept a few, scant hours.When he awoke, he found Petrarch was still snoring loudly, however the rest ofthe house was awake and alert. Corinthiana had been accosted by DetectivePimento in her night clothes directly upon waking. The woman was so surprisedthat her vowels were contracted by nearly seventy-three percent,[36] and she had no time toput on a single jewel, bauble, or trinket. She was guided to a small interview stationthe detective curated in the office on the second floor, the same room of theséance only a few days earlier.

When Crockett arrived at breakfast, he found that most of thefamily had already been questioned by the side-burned inspector. Taking hisseat at the table, he smiled shyly at Brontë. Despite the worry in her eyes,this token of friendship from Crockett made her spirits lift. She waved at theyoung solicitor, suppressing an inclination to giggle.

            “He’s a rather direct fellow,”August said sipping tea. “I certainly trust him. He’s not at all like thosepolicemen who came out for Bixby’s death. He came right out and asked me if Ihad anything to do with the shooting or murder.”

“That seems so uncouth,” June shook her head. “Detectives are meantto talk around the subject, and then, of course, surprise you only at the endwith their accusations, not make them straight away.”

            “The gentleman is gifted at hiswork, my dear June” August added. “He felt so ordinary, so normal, almostfamiliar, as if we’d spoken many times before.”

            “Now that you mention it, yes. Despitehis uncouthness, he was a very friendly, quotidian sort of chap,” June said.“He was much more intimidating last night.”

            “Did he accuse you, Mummy?” Kordeliaasked.

            “No, not directly, but he did, ofcourse, bring up all the savage things that have been going on…Poor Beatrice.At least Petrarch survived, you know.”

            “Did he accuse you, Kordelia?” Brontëwas pacing the room having already completed her interview and breakfast.

            “I don’t know,” Kordelia saiddreamily. “He didn’t not accuse me, but I’m unsure if the lack of direct accusationwas fully accusatory.”

            “I zink he vas out of ze line! Howdare he come into zis house and accuse me! I am ze vun so curious about ze dyingof poor Beatrice!” Robert Edward was waving his arms maniacally, his cape swirlingas he gesticulated.

            May entered the room at that moment.Her eyes were red and puffy; she couldn’t stop wringing her thin hands.

            “Is it you Aunt May?” Kordelia askednonchalantly. “Are you the one leaving my gloves around and slicing up thepets?”

            May flinched. “That’s not funny, Kordelia.You should have better manners than that. You’re a young woman for goodness’sake.”

            “Please leave the disciplining of mychildren to me, May.” June’s eyes narrowed as she assessed her younger sister.“We don’t want them picking up your ‘manners’ of taking what’s not yours.”

            A blast of air issued from May’snostrils as she leaned over the table. Her hands turned white gripping theedge. It looked as if hot flames would flow from her mouth, but just as sheprepared to speak, her teeth bared savagely, Corinthiana entered with a greatsigh.

The old woman’s pace was even more theatrical and sluggish thisparticular morning. Crockett counted ten seconds before she successfully tookthree steps.

Distress over their mother averted June and May’s impendingargument. May reached out and took Corinthiana's arm.

            “Mother, are you all right?” sheasked.

            “Oooh,” Corinthiana bawled. “Hiiighsand looows. Hiiighs and looows!” The elderly woman shuffled forward. May kepthold of her, assisting her to the head of the table. “I just waaant tooo laaay poorBeeeatrice and Bixby tooo rest. Whaaat dooo weee neeed this odd inspector for?”

            “Due diligence, Grandmother,” Brontësaid urgently. “The other things were peculiar, but the gunshot and the attemptedmurder of Petrarch tip the scales to a new kind of malice.”

            “Malice. That is a wonderful wordfor it, darling,” June beamed.

            “It is,” Kordelia said. “More pointsfor Brontë. I would have said something like…misconfusion.”

            “Pooor young maaan,” Corinthianacalled out looking down the table. “Aaare yooou aaall right? Yooou seeem distressed.”

            Crockett's lack of rest was writ onhis features. A gnawing fear about Petrarch and a deeply personal rebuke ofhimself and his own actions showed up in deep shadows under his eyes and awaxen complexion. He thought he was in better control of his own reactions andemotions, but last night proved to be a regression on all the fronts in whichhe believed he had advanced. He’d lost control of his amorous feelings forBrontë and reacted poorly to Petrarch’s suggestions the investigation beclosed. In the dawn light, this emotional turmoil manifested itself in his paleand exhausted countenance. His thin fingers rubbed his different-colored eyes.

            “It was a bad night. I was lucky toget any sleep.”

            Brontë smiled at him. “I think weall slept with a bit of caution.”

            June gazed between her daughter andCrockett, a sudden understanding coming to her. In one warm gaze between theyoung people, she ascertained all which had previously been invisible to her abouttheir growing affection. Her hand immediately went to cover her heart.

            “Brontë,” she said, her voice raspywith effort, “perhaps you should come with me to see the vicar and finalizearrangements for the entombment this afternoon.”

            “Are plans still moving forward?”May was so elated her mask-like face broke into a (relatively) broad smile. “Ithought with the recent events we’d be postponed yet again.”