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

thehall as he was carried back toward his bedroom. Pimento’s mouth twisted upwardinto a slight smile.

            “It seems our chief witness isn’t inthe right mind to give testimony,” he said.

            Crockett shook his head. “Oh, dear.I hope he can recover. The poor old man didn’t deserve any of this. It was allmy fault.”

            “Was it?” Pimento’s eyes again tookon their cold, direct stare. “Your fault, in what regard?”

            Crockett’s brow grew damp with sweat.“I mean, not in…I just mean to say his head. I dropped his head.”

            An uncomfortable moment unfoldedbetween the two men. Crockett suddenly felt seen in a way that shook him. Itwas the same sense of existing he’d felt on the streets when rich men and womenwould see him running in rags. It was the feeling he’d had every day before hemet Petrarch.

            Pimento’s eyes narrowed and widenedin a tense, staccato succession. He sniffed loudly.

            “Don’t blame yourself, Crockett,” hesaid, an edge on his voice. “You can’t blame yourself for an accident likethat.” The word accident sounded calculated, too pronounced and precise.

            Crockett’s heart raced.

            “I’m going to go downstairs and aska few final questions to May and Robert Edward. I’ll see you in the sittingroom before dinner?” Although posed as a question, Crockett felt threatened.

            “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’ll bedown soon.”

            “Good.”

            Pimento abruptly bowed. When hestood erect, a smile was on his face, but it wasn’t the same, warm smile he’dworn that morning when he’d made Crockett feel so comforted. This smile was oneof hidden disdain.

            The door closed softly behind him.Crockett leaned over and braced his elbows on his thighs. He took several deep,exaggerated breaths.

            Maybe Pimento knew…He could think heknew but not know what Crockett knew, which was the full truth.

            Crockett paced toward the desk.Sitting in the center was Pimento’s detective notebook, the same one he hadwritten so deliberately in during the morning. Crockett looked toward the doorto be sure no one was coming and then flipped open the pages.

            It was not what he had expected.

            There were no words, only small,erratic scribbles. Page after page was covered in the marks with no meaning.Crockett flipped more quickly through the book, thinking at some point he’dfind words, real words with names, motives, dates, and times.

            But there were none.

            His breath grew ragged. He looked upand then he saw it—It was the painting Martha mentioned earlier that afternoon.A roll of thunder blasted near the house, shaking the windows. Lightning rippedacross the sky and illuminated the portrait.

            The portrait was of a man in asimilar triumphant pose as the general in the mural downstairs. Crockett’s gazewasn’t fixed on him, however, but on a background figure, an assistant, orfriend, who was standing behind the painting’s main subject. The man was bald,wearing glasses.

            “Ghosts…” he said softly to himself.

            Crockett slammed the notebook shutand stumbled toward the door. It was at that moment he reappraised somethingMartha had said.

            You can take the back stair throughthe ballroom…

            The puzzle box in hisbrain clicked, the final solution presenting itself. The clues of the casealigned with startling clarity—Lucinda’s note, the key, the paintings, therapier, Beatrice, the secret note, and murder. There was just one more thing heneeded to see again—it was imperative he find Corinthiana or August.

He needed to get back into the vault.

Chapter 20: Bixby Ex Machina

            Thunder rumbled and rain pelted thewindows of the house. Brontë only saw Crockett for an infinitesimal moment. Heran through the main sitting room toward the west wing. His long legs fumbledwith reckless speed. She had risen to follow him, but the detective asked her aquestion, which forced her to stay in her spot. As Pimento spoke, she keptlooking toward the hallway into which Crockett had disappeared.

            “So, it’s all settled then?” Pimentoasked.

            “Sorry?” Brontë’s eyes remainedfixed on the empty hallway.

            “Your grandfather’s funerary plans.Everything is arranged?”

            “Yes.” Brontë’s eyes flicked back tothe detective. “We met the vicar and discussed the ceremony. It will be ashort, quiet affair.”

            “You were gone an awfully longtime.” Pimento’s eyebrow quivered upward.

            Brontë suddenly felt very nervous.Her gaze settled on the detective with renewed focus.

            “Mother wanted flowers, so westopped by a florist as well. We also checked in at the grocery and orderedsome additional meat from the butcher for the meal tomorrow.”

            “Crockett seemed to miss you.”

            Brontë averted her gaze. As shetried to keep her voice calm and casual, it only betrayed her, lilting upward.“He’s charming. We’ve had good conversations this past week.” She felt her cheeksgrow hot.

            “I see. Can you speak to hischaracter?” Pimento asked, an edge to his voice.

            “Character?” Brontë searched thedetective’s face. “He’s a wonderful man. He’s been very helpful throughout thiswhole affair.” The part of her personality that was her father’s flared up asher eyes narrowed and a small vein appeared on her neck. “It is yourcharacter I would bring into question, Detective. Crockett has been a delight;at times I feel he is the only one who is trying to understand the severity ofthe situation.”

            “I see.” Pimento politely bowed. “Ican surmise you won’t be able give the clearest perspective on our handsome,young assistant to the solicitor.”

            Brontë bit her tongue. She wasmoments from letting something slip, much more cutting than the “silly” hermother reprimanded her for earlier.

            It was May who interjected, puttinga stop to the vitriol waiting to pour from her niece.

            “I would not say handsome, unlessyou’re attracted to equine features,” she said sniffing. “And, yes, he isbenign. Although of a poorer caste with disgusting manners, he could hardlyhave reason to harm anyone in this house. He also lacks the knowledge toexecute many of the grislier crimes enacted this week.”

            Brontë remained silent, grateful heraunt had stopped her from speaking, but holding a new, burgeoning rage directedat the older woman.

            Detective Pimento, Brontë, and May remainedsilent, an oppressive quiet hanging between them when August approached.

            “I suppose we’re all ready forsupper, yes?’ He looked around at those gathered and cleared his throat. As hisgaze drifted from Pimento’s scornful glance to Brontë and May’s