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

laced hisfingers and placed them behind his head. “Our time is running out, like sandsin an hourglass or the winding down of a grandfather clock. Tick tock,” he saidemotionlessly. “Tick tock.”

Chapter 18: Portraits of Death

            Crockett felt the same dread of thenight before creep over him. The feelings of guilt and panic slithered over hisskull and rippled across his skin in the form of goosepimples.

            Pimento drummed his fingers on thelarge desk.

            “Crockett,” the detective saidheavily, “I mentioned that I needed you to be my eyes and ears, and that is thetruth. If not to support me, can you please assist in the case to help yourdear Petrarch?”

            Crockett felt his heart clench. Henodded emphatically.

“Most excellent!” Pimento’s feather shook. “Now, you know thishouse and those in it better than I. Is there,” the older gentleman raised hiseyebrow slightly, “someone with whom you share confidences? Is there a personwho could give you information that I may not get from my general interviews?”

            Brontë. Crockett saw her surly facethe night before when she had felt betrayed by him. Was this also a betrayal? Didhe break her trust by confiding their thoughts and secret musings to thedetective?

            Detective Pimento eyed him warily.“My dear boy, time is of the essence. I need your confidences and yourassistance to move toward a resolution as quickly as possible. Is there someonewho can give you more information on Lucinda Hawsfeffer?”

            “Yes.” Crockett nervously wrung hishands. “I can ask someone. The last time I attempted an interrogation it wasunsuccessful…but as it says in TheFantastic Death of Captain Discord,‘experience is the key to sleuthing mastery.’”

            “Indeed.” Pimento said. “I neverconsider any solution to a case too odd and your Bixby Jr./Pip theory is soingeniously off-beat that it could be correct.” The detective's short figure rosefrom the desk. He began to pace slowly around the room. “I want you to find outas much as you can about Pip and Lucinda. Try to find a tie between the pastand present that binds the disappearances then with the happenings now.I shall do my standard review of the remaining leads—go the basement and assessthe rapiers, scour the river where Bixby, Sr. disappeared, and examine the restof the rooms of the house. We will convene near teatime and see if there isanything new in terms of evidence.” Pimento ceased pacing and stood erect. Thebusinesslike detective of the previous evening and the merry, elder man of themorning merged into one. “You know, Mr. Cook,” he said, amusement in his voice,“you may make a good detective someday.”

            Crockett smiled, imagining himselfas Captain Discord, triumphantly rooting out the Hawsfeffer's rutabaga farmer.

#

            By the time Crockett left the study,Brontë and her mother had gone to see the vicar. Kordelia confirmed that theywould return “soon or not so very not soon in the mash,”[38] which left Crockettfeeling morose as he walked idly back to his room in the late morning.

            Petrarch was still snoring contentedlyin his chamber, asleep from the concoction of medicines and concussions theprevious night had blessed him with. Crockett felt relief sitting next to theold man, seeing a small smile stretched across his old face. His steady workoutregimen had left him strong enough to survive the shock. For that, Crockett wasextremely grateful.

            As Crockett sat by the old man’sbedside, his thoughts strayed to the week’s chaos. He needed to follow hisinstinct. He ruled out whether the séance was related—it was simply a redherring[39]—the violence againstBeatrice, however, bore some grave importance. He was sure of it. Additionally,the aggression against Petrarch yielded no clearer vision of the answer either.Crockett had been sure in that chaos someone would have been more apprehensive,more apparently nefarious, in the heat of that disastrous event, but everyonehad been helpful, shocked, and disgusted. But he had also been shocked—perhapshe had not observed things correctly.

            Sighing, he reached out and grabbedPetrarch’s hand. “I’m sorry, old man,” he whispered. “I still am soinexperienced, so wildly unpredictable in moments of crisis. This whole thinghas gotten out of hand. I thought…you know, when Brontë told me she didn’tthink it was over, I believed her. I couldn’t have foreseen this, though.”

            Crockett gently pressed Petrarch’shand to his forehead.

            He needed to think.

            The murderer, in his mind, was theyoungest Bixby, Pip. That was the strongest link to Lucinda’s note—he, perhaps,saw it, or got wind of the truth of what happened to his mother, and wasseeking vengeance. But in order to execute a plan of this complexity, he wouldneed help from inside the manor. Crockett knew if he could simply find theaccomplice, he’d find Bixby. Someone had to have retrieved Corinthiana’s key tothe family vault and taken the rapier used to kill Beatrice. The killer knewhow to carve a fish, so they must have some kind of background in foodpreparation or fishing for sport, which could lead to Martha or any of the menin the house. Corinthiana discovered her pet, seemingly without guidance, sothat added no clarity to the events. If he narrowed the list of suspects down,the most likely to be assisting in the malevolence would be Martha, August,May, or, even, Kordelia—they all had motive and ability to execute a strategyof this scale. Robert had a clear alibi and reason for being there, Dexterloved Bixby Hawsfeffer and was now gone, June had shown no proclivity in anydirection (however, her vein bulging at breakfast raised some questions),Corinthiana was too bumbling and emotional to do much more than her hair in themorning, Petrarch was the opposite of murderous…and Brontë…it simply couldn’tbe her.

In fact, he needed her to come back—they couldreview their notes of the events together.

Brontë…Crockett sighed.

Did she trust him? Could there be something there? Or was it all apart of his overactive imagination? The intensity of their affection reached afever pitch the previous night, but that may have simply been the nature of theexchange and their trust which had fused quickly under the influence of theweek’s trauma. Was his idea of Pip coming back from the past just asfantastical as a romance with the eldest Winterbourne daughter?

            A quiet knock disturbed