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

be beautifulstone and masonry work. Bixby Hawsfeffer was still talking about completing itwhen he was in my office two weeks ago.”

            Crockettlooked on in stupefied wonder. It was hideous, to be sure, but there wassomething about its attempt at greatness which had to be admired.

            “Itis a gaudy mess, but it has character.”

            “Indeed,”said Petrarch. “It is one of the most well-known houses in West Hampminstershireshire.”

            Crockettsighed. “I’ll never get used to the naming conventions out this way.”

            “Yes,it was all the rural areas outside of London fighting for tourism money. Therewas quite the naming war to prove just how arcadian they could sound. That’swhat got us East Shelfsheepminstead, North Joyfuncharmington, and, of course,East-Westward Portminstershireshiresheadheath.”

            “Myfingers are cramping thinking of writing that on an envelope.”

            Thetwo carried on in silence farther up the private lane to the house. The trackwas not well worn, with chunks of grass spread intermittently throughout thegravel. As Crockett assessed the shoddy groundskeeping work, he suddenlyremembered a question.

            “Yousaid we had to be tactful about the lack of money,” he said, “but why does itmatter? I assume Bixby’s funeral has already taken place or will very soon. Ican keep my mouth shut for a day, Petrarch.”

            Petrarchshook his head. “Just before we left, I received another letter fromCorinthiana. Had I gotten it sooner, I would have delayed our trip.”

            “Whatdid it say?”

            “Well,she admitted that full funeral arrangements have not been made. She is stillholding out hope the local police will be able to find the body—or, at the veryleast, it will wash ashore.” Petrarch patted his large belly, as was hisreaction when discussing something that provoked joy or thought. “She impliedwe should delay coming. The whole family will be gathered, and she isn'tprecisely sure when the entombment will take place. It is imperative she haveBixby’s casket stowed away before they talk of money—she’s very superstitious,you know—so she said she wanted him at peace before they discussed how littleof everything was left.”

            “Oh,dear,” Crockett said, “so we may be in the middle of a large, raucous familygathering with no entombment date in sight.”

            “Precisely.”

            “Andthe longer we are there the more questions will arise about the will and theassumed fortune of Bixby Hawsfeffer.”

            “Indeed.”

            Crockett,again, looked at the large mansion, deep in thought. They had made it to themain boulevard approaching the home, a mere twenty yards from the mainentrance.

            Outof the corner of his eye, he saw something odd. A figure emerged from nearbyshrubbery, large pruning shears in their grasp. The person, however, met nodescription of male or female that he had ever encountered. From the neck up,he would guess male, a grizzled, masculine face, topped with a large, Americancowboy hat. But from the neck down the individual wore a mix of odd garmentsincluding a leather, Western-style jacket on their torso and (what could onlybe described as) a woman’s head scarf around their legs.

            “Petrarch…”he muttered. “What—who?”

            Theold solicitor looked up and squinted his eyes. The figure, sensing beingwatched, bolted into the shrubbery and vanished from view.

            “Ibelieve,” said Petrarch, “that is the groundskeeper, Mr. Dexter Fletcher. Bothhe and the head of house, Mrs. Martha Smith, are said to be senile. They areabout the age of the departed Master Hawsfeffer, old, that is to say—in or neartheir seventh decade of life. Dexter is said to enjoy wearing outfits ofvarying styles. Martha is regarded as just plain batty.”

            “And,”Crockett said slowly, “we may be spending several days with everyone in this house—the oft-disguised groundskeeper,the two, maybe three, lake ghosts, the arrogant father, the insane housekeeper,and the rejected nun.”

            Petrarchlaughed loudly. “Now, Crockett! Aren’t you tired of the usual office solicitorpaperwork? This is a chance to have an adventure. There aren’t many of these inthe law field.”

            Crockettwas about to respond, however his train of thought wasinterrupted by the sound of a gun and shattering glass.

Chapter 2: Beatrice

            Petrarch,in a continued display of his amazing, girthy nimbleness, dropped to the grounddirectly. His apprentice, meanwhile, froze so severely that he toppledbackwards like a stunned goat.

            “Crockett!”Petrarch rolled over to his assistant and shook him. “My dear boy!”

            Theyoung man came to his senses quickly, but his face was pale, his pupils thesize of saucers. “Petrarch! What was it? It wasn’t another house tiger, wasit?”

            Butbefore his master could respond, another figure emerged from the shrubbery.This was not Mr. Fletcher, the groundskeeper, but a well-kept gentleman ofimportant bearing. His hair was pomaded and shone black with streaks of gray inthe late morning light. One of the most impressive mustaches Crockett had everseen bedecked his face.

            “Hullo,”he said curtly. “Just missed.”

            Petrarch,trying to regain some professional standing, was rolling himself back up to astanding position. Crockett pulled himself up and blinked several times beforeresponding to the mysterious gentleman.

            “Whatwere…you missing?” he asked.

            “Youdidn’t see it?” The man’s mustache shook as if of its own free will. “Londonersprobably wouldn’t. A beautiful thrush just flew in the line of my gun.” Hecrossed his arms and thrust out his chin. “You must be the solicitor and hispoor assistant.”

            “Poor…?”Crockett pondered to himself.

            Theman extended his hand to Petrarch (who had successfully risen to his feet). ToCrockett, he did a haphazard salute.

            “Augüst Winterbourne, at your service.”

            “August,”Petrarch said, “delighted to meet you.”

            “No,Augüst.”

            “Awwwgust?”

            “Augüst,” the man said matter-of-factly.

            Petrarchthrew a confused glance at Crockett.

            Augustlooked more closely at Crockett and Petrarch, his mustache dancing amusedly.“Seems you’ve had trouble on the road. Unless mud is now couture in the city.”

            Bothmen had forgotten the earlier entanglement in the muck.

            “Indeed.Our carriage was stuck and then, you know, there was an incident.”

            “Well,I suggest you come inside then. You will have rooms in the east wing turret setup to receive you.”

            Crockettlooked sadly up at the crumbling tower.

            “Itlooks deplorable in a very cozy way. Thank you very much,” Petrarch said, hiseyes twinkling.

            Augustlooked at Petrarch in confusion before turning toward the house.

            Theywalked in silence up the front walk, a cobblestone pathway very poorly kept.Weeds poked through the stones and shook in the