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

and sister, who both avoided her gaze by looking outthe window. Her mouth opened several times, but no sound came out. She placedher hands over face, her body wracked by a violent sob.

            Pip, his waistcoat straightened, sighedand marched forward. He had been growing bored with the whole affair; the dayhad been long, full of travel, and he was very much looking forward to dinner. “Well,let’s move on with it then,” he said casually. He folded a handkerchief aroundhis hand, to keep from having to touch the sock. He leaned in close to Crockett.“Poor man with weird eyes, but a rather nice physiognomy, did you shoot the oldman—Petridge was it?—to whom they are referring?”

            Pimento, slightly disappointed thatthe middle-aged dandy dimmed the dramatic effect of the confrontation betweenlovers, motioned for him to release the gag. The youngest Bixby gingerlyreached in and removed the sock from Crockett’s mouth.

A flurry of protestations escaped the young man as soon as his tonguewas free. “Brontë, he’s lying. It’s not me! What do I have to gain? There’s nomoney! There’s none!”

            Corinthiana covered her eyes. Maynervously assessed her shoes. Even August looked slightly embarrassed, hismustache lifting apprehensively.

            “There’s nothing to gain…There’s nomotive! I know who it is, it’s—”

            Pimento motioned for Pip to replacethe sock, which he did, rather awkwardly—at first stuffing it in too gingerlybut then a bit too roughly. When it was fully inserted, he gently pattedCrockett’s head then turned his attention to Beatrice’s bed; its garishness escapedhis appreciation when he first entered the room.

The detective sighed and began to pace. “You aren’t answering thequestion, Mr. Cook,” he said. Abruptly he spun and kicked Crockett, this timemuch harder. Crockett groaned.

            “Crockett…” Hope sparked in Brontë’seyes. She drew forward. “Did you do it? I know you wouldn’t hurt Petrarch; justtell us you didn’t.”

            Pimento stepped toward Crockett andknelt down. He lifted the gag. Crockett looked at Brontë with clear, sad eyes.“Brontë…Brontë…the gun, the shot—that was it. And it was for you. I did it foryou, because you said it wasn’t over. You know how I panic—I goat freeze, I…getin troubouble with it. It was rash and stupid…But the rest—”

            Pimento laughed loudly and replacedthe gag. Brontë’s breath left her. She fell to her knees.

            “Guilty. Guilty as the day is long.Guilty as the stars in the sky!” Pimento waved his hands through the airdramatically.

            “That’s rather poetic,” Pip said turninghis attention away from Beatrice’s bed and taking his notebook back out. “I maysteal that.”

            Crockett tried to keep Brontë’s gaze.He futilely attempted to explain the rest of his story through the coursefabric of Robert’s sock.[41]

            Pimento stood erect, a look of puredelight on his face.

            “I think the best action would be totake our fish-murdering fiend into the family vault and lock him there untilthe appropriate authorities can arrive. Madame Hawsfeffer?”

            Corinthiana peeked through herfingers and looked at Detective Pimento. “I suppose…I meeean…Yes?”

            Pimento motioned for Crockett to bemoved. “Could you please phone the police, Mr. Harrington? Let them know theMystery of Hawsfeffer Manor has been solved.”

            It was at this moment that Petrarchentered the room. His eyes were still wild; he remained robed in his sleepinggown.

            “Hello,” he said casually. His eyesscanned the room lackadaisically until he saw Crockett, bound and gagged, beingdragged toward the west wing. Upon this sight, he sputtered like a broken Americanmotorcar. “Pffft—Pffft! My goodness! Crockett? What is this?!”

            “He’s killed the herring and triedto marry my sister to get the family money,” Kordelia said quickly. “All verystandard fare, I suppose…for a murder mystery.”

            Petrarch’s jaw nearly fell to thefloor. “But, why?” He searched the faces of all those present. He jumped whenhe saw Pip in his pink trousers. “Who are you?” he asked, momentarilyforgetting his assistant was being accused of murder.

            “I, my dear, portly friend, am BixbyHawsfeffer, the younger—known colloquially as Pip—son of the admirable, butbigoted—”

            “That’s dead Bixby’s son,” Mayfinished quickly. Then, quietly, she leaned toward Petrarch and continued,“He’ll monologue all day, if you let him.”

            “Yes…of course. Could…?” Petrarchbegan spinning in circles hoping someone he made eye contact with would tellhim more.

            No one, however, knew exactly whatto say.

            “Well, this has been an interestingevening, to be sure.” Pip politely bowed to the gathered crowd. “I must getsome food and away to bed. It’s been a very long day, and I feel like I need agood rest before the funerary services begin. I’ve prepared a light speech forthe occasion. My dear stepmother has agreed to give me an hour, perhaps hourand one-quarter, for a few brief thoughts on the subject of my father and, ofcourse, the very fragility of existence—”

            Martha, for which everyone wasinfinitely grateful, interrupted him to push him back into the foyer and towardthe hall to the east wing.

            “You’re staying over here,” she saidangrily, shoving him forward. “I’ll get your things and have them delivered.”

            “Oh, yes, of course, the guest wing,how lovely and delightful. I do hope there are enough mirrors, you see Irequire quite a bit of preening upon waking and in the middle…” Pip continuedtalking as disappeared from view.

            When he was gone, Detective Pimentoplaced his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.

            “Another victory for Pimento,” hesaid proudly. “No one escapes his keen eye.”

            The rest of the family shifteduncomfortably. Even the aloof Kordelia looked as if a question was hanging onher tongue, moments from being launched in the detective’s general direction.

            “Excuse me,” Petrarch said, absentlyrubbing his stomach, “but what is going on? I evidently was concussed and putback to bed. I think I’ve put the general timeline together now, but can anyonetell me why poor Crockett is being dragged away bound and gagged?”

            “Well,” June pulled a strand of hairaway from her face, “you see, it, well, it appears that…I suppose the truth ofthe matter is…”

            August took up the argument withequal confusion, “I think my wife is trying to say that what Pimento has doneis unmask the…very surprising…the person who he believes is at the root of allthe shenanigans…you know Beatrice, the