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

            “Idon’t think—”

            “Youdon’t,” Pimento’s teeth bared into a grimace. “Your thoughts don’t comeintelligently or clearly, I would say. Do you have something else to add to theconversation? Do you perhaps think the one responsible for the crimes is apigeon? Maybe a fox who looked especially guilty in the garden. I hear thelocal constabulary is still following that lead on the squirrel with a gun.Perhaps you can join them.”

            Nowit was Crockett’s turn to grow fierce. “You would belittle me—”

            “Belittle?I wouldn’t say it’s belittling to call someone a charlatan when they actcharlatanesque.”

            Pipwas impressed by the usage of the word “charlatanesque” and wrote it in anotebook which had been concealed in his pocket.

Pimento turned and looked at Crockettdirectly. He tilted his head down so that he gazed directly at the young manover his spectacles. “I have watched you, Crockett. I pulled you close, and Ilet you work it out yourself. What an interesting exercise it was for me.”

            Crockett’sgaze flew around the room searching for Brontë. He found her, standinguncertainly behind her father. “Brontë!” His voice softened. “Brontë, I knowwho it is. It’s crazy the real killer—well, it’s—”

            “Crazy?”Pimento said quickly. “I should say so.”

            “Don’tcall me crazy!” Crockett glared at the detective. His voice took on a hardedge. Despite the severity of the situation, Brontë found Crockett’s ferocitytitillating.

            “You’reright,” Pimento said quietly. He turned away from Crockett and moved forward,placing his hands behind his back. “Perhaps I should call you what you are.” Helooked back at Crockett, his gaze vicious. Crockett’s grimace faded as herealized the detective’s move in the elaborate game of chess. Pimento turnedback toward the family, a satisfied grin on his face. With a joyful glint in hiseye, he pronounced his accusation, “Murderer.”

Chapter 21: Pimento, Triumphant

            Lightning ripped through the skyilluminating the room in a white glow. A gasp as loud and pronounced as hadever been heard in Hawsfeffer Manor erupted from the family. In a moment, therewas a flurry of bodies, and Crockett found himself bound and gagged on thefloor of the sitting room. Robert Edward and August took the initiative; theyheld the young man down as Pimento paced triumphantly about the room.

            Brontë’s eyes filled with tears. Shelooked anxiously at Crockett, who writhed on the floor trying to loosen hisbonds. He yelled loudly, but it was muted by the (rather fetid) sock of RobertEdward, which had been put in his mouth to gag him.

            “Surprised, my dear?” Pimento lookedinto Brontë’s eyes. “You shouldn’t trust a man from the streets. The lowerclasses are predictably disgusting. I knew from the moment I saw him he wasdubious. But it was just a matter of good detective work to earn his trust andget him to incriminate himself.” Pimento turned to Crockett and smiledmalevolently. “Good boy, Crockett. You did just what we expected.”

            Crockett was nearly foaming at themouth. He convulsed and twisted to try and break free from his binds.

            “But…how?” Brontë shivered. “Howcould he…?”

            “My dear,” Pimento gently took Brontë’shand, “he’s a con man. My theory is he has been stealing from the old solicitorfor years, just awaiting the proper time to show his real teeth.”

            “But what’s his motive?” May asked.Even she—who normally enjoyed a grand scene of fire-and-brimstone vengeance, especiallyagainst the poor—was flabbergasted. She flicked her eyes between family membersfor some aid in understanding.

            “Where should I start?” Pimentoapproached the fireplace. Once he arrived at its marble depths, he turneddramatically. “He arrived with Petrarch and knew the whole history of thefamily. He’s a smart boy and recognized that, not only did the family have aplethora of characters, but the Winterbournes also had two eligible daughters.”

            Crockett screamed through the gag.

            “Shhh, dear boy! You’re afraid of itgetting out? Well, it’s too late.” Pimento put his hands in his trouser pocketsand stepped toward Crockett. He kicked the young man sharply. “Upon arriving,our young, astute observer took an assessment of the house. It can be assumedhe brought with him the record of the nursery rhyme having known that it was acause for alarm in the neighborhood and would play into the local myth that thesong belonged to the ghosts of the house. He set it up, a clever manipulationof the phonograph. It was created with some string and a handmade timer whichdelayed the contraption from playing until midway through the séance. The ideawas to trick the family and,” here Pimento looked at Brontë, “draw one of theyoung women into his trust.”

            “I don’t believe you.” Brontë’s liptrembled.

            Pimento’s smile only grew broader ashe continued. “Beatrice’s death was configured with the help of the absentgroundskeeper. No doubt our dear Crockett has promised him a cut of the fortunewhen it is secured. I bet our Mr. Dexter Fletcher stayed very close to thehouse. If we listen, I would not be surprised if we could hear him breathe.”

            At this moment, Crockett shookharder than he had previously. With all his fury, he kicked at the bonds andtried to throw Robert away from him. Both Robert and August needed all theirstrength to pull him back down to the ground. August gave him a mighty blow tothe stomach that quieted his screams.

            “Didn’t like that, did you,Crockett? The truth hurts, I suppose.” Pimento’s gaze floated over the crowd.Everyone was riveted except for Pip, who was straightening his waistcoat in thereflection of a brass urn. “The real violation, I suppose, was him turning thegun on his own master, our dear, dear Petrarch.”

            Pimento leaned over Crockett andsmiled. It was a hideous expression of joy. Tears fell from Crockett’s eyes; heshook his head vehemently.

            “You deny it, Crockett?” Thedetective looked toward Brontë. Tears also streamed down the young woman's face.“Miss Winterbourne, why don’t you ask him?”

            Brontë put a hand to her mouth. Shelooked frantically at her mother, who turned away. Pimento had his hand on the sock,ready to release it so Crockett could speak.

            “Ask him, Miss Winterbourne.” Pimento’seyes were wild with giddiness.

            Brontë said nothing. She lookedanxiously at her father