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

Hawsfeffer had been pushed fromthe window of the folly. In the grand scheme of all concerns at the Hawsfefferhousehold, all believed it ranked far below the death of Beatrice and justunder the importance of Corinthiana’s pre-bed sherry ritual.

            “He was a sodomite and, therefore, acriminal,” Pimento said stroking his chin, “so, in terms of general deathgravitas, I’d say we enjoy this evening's triumph before circling back in themorning.”

            “He was also a bore,” JuneHawsfeffer added. “I really think we’d be hard-pressed to find someone withouta motive to kill him, even with Crockett locked away, it could have been any ofus.”

            “He’s also not dead.” Martha is theone who made this general observation as she and August dragged his body intothe main foyer. “Maybe a few broken bones.”

            “Egghhh,” Pip mumbled.

            “Thaaat is very goood news,”Corinthiana said warmly, pouring a glass of sherry.

            In the end, Pip was moved to thesofa in the sitting room and the doctor was called to check on his injuries.The general air of confusion and distrust carried on, although, distracted bythe wounded Pip, Corinthiana and June worked with alacrity to make sure the maimedguest was attended to.

            Most of the house retreated to theirown quarters, fed up with the tension and chaos of the evening. No one quiteknew what to do with the revelation that Crockett was a pet killer and hadintentions of marrying Brontë for the family fortune, but it did provide asolution, even if improbable, which explained the odd series of events.

            June and Corinthiana did not takelong to latch onto the alternative history which this solution presented.

            “He was a bit furtive,” June saidadjusting Pip's feet on the sofa. “I suppose I thought it was a social backwardnessdue to his state of poverty, but it may have been a general air ofmalfeasance.”

            “I think yooou haaave it there, my deeear.I noticed his spirit waaas theee color of baaat droppings. His penury is tooo blaaame;remember theee night heee didn't wear a formal dining jaaacket? One maaay remooovetheee raaat from theee raaat house, but one maaay never uncheeese the raaat.”[42]

            Brontë said nothing as Crockett wasrewritten a villain. She merely helped wait on her half-uncle and pondered overthe events of the evening. After her discussion with Kordelia and furthermeditations on the subject, she was sure of his innocence. The Petrarch plotwas idiotic, but he had done it to assist her—to get to some truth that hethought only an attempted murder would push them toward. She was certain thatPetrarch would agree with her; he would not betray his apprentice over anill-planned scheme. Crockett made mistakes, but he was not the shadowy figurecausing the true chaos in the house.

            “He couldn’t be!” she told herselfas she watched Pip's labored breathing. “Crockett, even with his brains,couldn’t have hatched the plan with such efficiency in only a few days. How didhe get the vault key? He couldn’t have emotionally manipulated me to thatdegree.”

            Corinthiana and June retired totheir chambers. Robert Edward remained awake but said little, pacing slowlythrough the main room and occasionally heading toward the west wing to walk thelong gallery and look at the portraits.

            June had encouraged Brontë to go tobed, but she insisted on waiting up for the doctor and making sure Pip wasattended to.

            The doctor arrived; to Brontë’ssurprise, it was a different doctor from the one that appeared the previousevening to aid Petrarch.

            “Hullo,” he said curtly. Thisgentleman was rotund and confident. His bald head shone in the glow of his lamp.“Where is the wounded fop?”

            “I’m sorry,” Brontë said, “but,where is the other doctor?”

            “Other doctor?” The little man shookhis head. “I am the only doctor in this part of Hampminstershireshire, my young lady.”

            “But the other gentleman from lastnight…”

            “Well, I can guarantee it certainlywasn’t a doctor if it wasn’t me.” He sniffed at this and pushed past Brontëinto the main foyer. “Now, where is the wounded gentleman?”

            Brontë showed the new doctor to Pipand made sure he had all he needed before silently stalking off toward the eastwing.

            To her relief, a light was on underPetrarch’s door. She knocked softly and waited for his response.

            “Yes?” the old man grunted. “Please,no disturbances just now.”

            “Petrarch?” Brontë said as sweetlyas she could muster. “Could I please come in?”

            “Ah! Brontë! Yes, please, my dear. Iwas assuming it was your father or Robert Edward with news of another murder, andI can’t really process another death at the present.”

            Petrarch opened the door quickly,then resumed, what Brontë guessed to be, part of his vigorous exercise routine.In this particular motion he sat on the bed, laid back, then lifted halfway up,a grunt escaping as he did so.

            “Petrarch, I don’t think it’sCrockett,” she said, shooting straight to the heart of the matter.

            Between grunts, Petrarch responded,“Of course it’s not, my dear. I’m now trying to figure out exactly who it couldbe. He very well could have shot me—he’s linguistically killed me for clientsbefore. For a woman not nearly as beautiful as you.” Brontë flinched slightlywith embarrassment as this was said, but Petrarch gave her a friendly wink. “Eitherway, he’s not behind the Beatrice nonsense. He makes mistakes but never with anefarious purpose.” He paused here in his exercises, worn out, and laid back onthe bed. “You know that before I was shot, I was ready to put it all to bedwith the Augüst theory, but now we simply cannot. We have to clearCrockett’s good name. But the path to the correct person is riddled with somuch confusing information; I’m beginning to think it could be everyone—youknow, in some way, perhaps everyone did contribute to the deaths.”

            “Well, I didn’t…”

            “Perhaps your father and mother,then? They have motive. Your Aunt May does. Robert Edward doesn’t, but he’sshifty and from the continent, so it wouldn’t surprise me, of course…”

            Brontë bit her lip. “Petrarch, thedoctor is different.”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “The doctor from last night isn’tthe doctor that arrived tonight.”

            Petrarch lifted himself up again butremained seated. “Well, that is odd in such a small hamlet. There