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

            “So, the one who came with DetectivePimento wasn’t a doctor.” A small, triumphant feeling leapt up in Brontë’sbreast. She moved to the splintered window, a breeze blowing through the bullethole. “Why would Pimento bring another doctor…?”

            “Perhaps it was a favor to someonehe knew. The doctor may have been preoccupied…”

            “What if it is Pimento?” Brontë askedquickly. “He’s behind it. He brought those people—they weren’t real people buta fake doctor and a fake policeman.”

            Petrarch’s eyes softened. “Brontë,that makes less sense than the explanation that it was our dear Crockett. Ithink, perhaps, your imagination is running away with you.”

            “But Petrarch, couldn’t Pimento…couldn’the be connected somehow?”

            “In what way?”

            “Well, it seems like it has to betwo people. There was never anyone conspicuously gone when the odd eventsoccurred. Perhaps Pimento isn’t Pimento at all!”

            “Pimento not Pimento…” Petrarchstroked his beard.

            “We can’t trust him.” Brontë walkedrapidly toward the door. “We have to get Crockett out of the vault. He can helpme put all the pieces into place.”

            “Darling,” Petrarch rose and movedto Brontë. Gently he took her hand. “I think we should go to Pimento and askabout the doctor. There will be an explanation. Don’t let the chaos of thisweek make your judgment chaotic. We saw what it did to poor Crockett.”

            Brontë looked at Petrarch as if hewasn’t there at all. “I see,” she said softly. “Perhaps…”

            Before the old man could say anotherword, she grabbed her light from his nightstand and left the room. Her pacequickened as she moved down the hallway toward the foyer.

            Her mind raced with images ofCrockett—his stares, his stuttering words, his tall, gaunt frame, the warmth ofhis smile, the adorable way he screamed when he thought she was a large canary.

            “It can’t be him,” she said toherself. “It can’t be, but it could be the detective…”

            She suddenly remembered Crockettheld down on the floor, his eyes panicked. The screams that came from behindthe gag were visceral; even the memory pained her.

            Pausing on the stairs, she debatedher next course of action. Should she go to Pimento? But certainly a villainpuppeteering the chaos of their house wouldn’t tell the truth. There were somany convenient facts he manufactured in the accusation of Crockett, could shereally trust what he said? But where else could she go? Even if she freedCrockett, would there be anything they could do together?

            Her train of thought was derailed bya noise from above her. It sounded as if someone was moving in the hall atopthe stairs. Her heart pounded in her chest. She lifted her eyes and scanned thedarkness. Raising her lamp, skeletal shadows leapt up, dim light threadingthrough the spindles of the banister.

            She turned to the main sitting room,but the doctor was visible there. He was accounted for, still attending toBixby.

            “Hello…” her voice failed her,calling upward. The word came out as a rasp, a nervous, shaking utterance.

            Closing her eyes, she thought again.What is there to do?

            Then the image came to her. It wasthe same scene of Crockett shaking on the floor, bound and gagged. In thisinstance, however, the words he screamed came back to her.

“I know who it is, it’s—”

            “Crockett knows…,” she said in awhisper. “He knows.”

            Her feet pounded up the stairs. Theterror of the earlier sound left her mind; her resolve was bent solely ongetting to Crockett. Rapidly, she moved down the hall, stopping outside herfather and mother’s door. Without a knock, she pushed open the chamber.

            All was dark except for the slice oflight falling from her lamp. In the corner a clock ticked sadly. She racedtoward her father’s bedside. He was fast asleep, snoring loudly.

            “Father,” she said, her voice harsh.“Father, wake up.” She set down her lamp on the bedside table and shook him.

            August moved slightly but did notawake. June mumbled something incomprehensible about her corset but did notstir.

            “Father,” she called more loudly.“Father, wake up!”

            August smacked his gums; his eyesslowly opened.

            Brontë nearly fell off the bed whenshe heard the shrill, screeching noise that came from her father. It was aninstinctive thought which made her reach out and place her hands over hismouth, muting the girlish shriek.

            “Father…” she said quietly. “Is…thatreally your scream?”

            Her mother, remarkably, simplyrolled over and began to snore. In the hallway, she thought she heard the soundof quick, panicked steps.

            August didn’t answer. His screamshad ceased, but his breath came in short, erratic bursts. After several evenbreaths, Brontë gently lifted her hand.

            “Father,” she said. “I need you toregain your composure.”

            He began to calm down, however hiseyes retained their wild, pained expression.

            Brontë gently stroked his arm, keepingcalming eye contact. Her father finally opened his mouth, uncertainly. He threwa cursory glance at his sleeping wife.

            “That wasn’t me,” he said quickly.“I think your mother sleep-screamed. My own panic sounds are very guttural,masculine, like a kettledrum.”

            Brontë pinched her nose inexasperation.

            “But…but…why are you here, anyway?Is something wrong?” he asked.

            “Father, I need the key to thevault. I need to talk to Crockett.”

            August blanched. “Darling, no. He’sa pet killer!”

            “I don’t think he is.” Brontëgripped her father’s arm and looked deeply into his eyes. “I think ourdetective isn’t who he claims to be and has made false accusations.”

            “I can’t.” August shook his head. “Ican’t let you go down there! On the chance that he did what Pimento said he didto Beatrice…I couldn’t let myself, with a clear conscience…”

            “I need to speak with him.” Brontë’svoice grew louder, harsher. “I need the key. Come with me if you don’t want meto go alone.”

            “Darling, I…I can’t let you…”

            Brontë rose and looked around theroom. In the corner was her mother’s secretary, a bundle of unopened lettersspilling across its wooden surface. She looked between it and her father. Again,her imagination went to Crockett, the poor boy laying on the ground, gagged,kicked.

            It was perhaps the fact that it wasthe witching hour that Brontë took the course she did, or maybe the influenceof Crockett’s erratic, poor decision-making. Regardless, with