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

night at itsdeepest and the moon shining dolefully on the house, the darkest idea, the mostinsane conclusion, was what came to her mind first. Crockett would, perhaps,die in the vault, his screams unheard. Having killed Beatrice and set intomotion the nightmare of the previous week, who is to say what the killer mayalready be doing to him, alone in a dark, shadowy corner?

            Her steps took her across the room.Grabbing her mother’s letter opener, a long, sharp, steel blade, she turned andcrossed the room to her father. With no intent to harm, she raised it high intothe air, it’s shining tip aimed at his heart.

            “Father,” she said sullenly, “thekey, please. This must end tonight.”

Chapter 23: Crockett’s Confession

            Herfather again screamed, this time waking her mother. The chaos of the scene,from an outside perspective, may have been humorous—the young woman in trousersraising a letter opener over her father who was shrieking like a woman, hermother, still overfilled with sleep, yelling “My god, don’t tighten it further,I may crumble!” (speaking of the corset of her previous dream). To Brontë,however, it was not humorous but another obnoxious hindrance in her getting thekey and saving Crockett. The conclusion of this task, in her imagination, wouldlead to the two of them, arm-in-arm, solving the mystery and restoring peaceand order to the house.

            Butbefore this happy ending could be writ, she had to, again, cover her father’smouth, this time whilst pointing the letter opener’s blade at her mother.

            “Mother,no time to explain, but I need you to help me get the key from father for thevault.”

            June’smouth opened slightly.

            “Iknow. But I don’t think Crockett is the killer. I think it’s the detective andI need to save Crockett in order to save our family.”

            ToBrontë’s surprise, June merely shook her head condescendingly. “Brontë, mysweet, that is a ridiculous conclusion to come to. Were this a mystery novel Iwould shame the writer who’d pen such a ludicrous ending. It has to beCrockett! He’s an excellent suspect and impoverished. That makes much moresense for a killer.”

            Brontëin exasperation lifted her hand from her father’s mouth and, at the same time, tooka long slash to his arm with the letter opener.

            “Ow!”August quailed in his high-pitched caterwaul. “Brontë, that hurt!”

            “Giveme the key!”

            Augustlooked to June, who, rolling her eyes and shrugging, said without compunction, “Giveit to her, Augüst. Let her play the fool.”

            Withthe key in hand, Brontë ran from the room with her lamp. The doctor attemptedto hinder her flight in the main living room, but she did not pause for anupdate on the condition of Pip.

Storming toward thewest wing, she was breathless by the time she reached the mural which concealedthe vault. Quickly, she clicked the button to reveal the trap door. Fumblingwith the key, she opened it and descended into the darkness.

            Herheart pounded as she drew nearer to Crockett. Each step was one closer to hisearnest gaze, his quiet laugh, his disarming smile.

            Whenshe came into the open vault, she found him, frantically pulling at a rope thatbound him to a rather dusty suit of armor. He had been feverishly jerking atit, trying to make his way to the stairs.

            Brontëmelted when he looked up and caught her gaze, a broad, beautiful smile growingon his pale face.

            “Brontë!”he said, the word like a flower blooming.

            “Crockett…”

            Thetwo met, unsure how to properly greet each other. There had been previoustension of an amorous inclination, but there had also been the rumor ofCrockett’s betrayal. Now Brontë stood, remembering the moment of his confessionto shooting Petrarch, but also staring into his eyes, the eyes that were theonly respite and refuge from the maelstrom of fear and death that surroundedthem for the past several days.

            Crockettreached out, his hands bound. When Brontë hesitated, refusing to take his hands,he awkwardly raised them and saluted.

            “Ibelieve you, but I also…” Brontë said. “Can you explain it all?”

            “Idid shoot at Petrarch,” Crockett said quickly.

“Petrarch and I thoughtthat was the case. Can I ask what course your logic took to that conclusion?”

Crockett shook his headwith shame. “It was stupid, an almost fatal mistake. I get so muddled in highstakes situations; I—it was, you…” The young man looked boyish, his thickeyebrows raised. He clasped his hands together in a penitent pose. “I did itfor you.”

            Brontëfelt her cheeks flush. She couldn’t help but feel flattered. “Why?” she askedsoftly.

            “Youweren’t ready to give up, even when everyone else was. You knew something elsenefarious was going on in the house. When you came to me last night, you…” Hestopped here. His cheeks became so luminous as to almost glow in the darknessof the vault. “I’ve never really felt the way…” He paused again. His mouth opened,then closed. With a staccato cough, he cleared his throat. “I knew I had tohelp you. I knew, in that moment, that what you believed, I would believe, andthat to set you free from the pain and panic of this house was a sworn duty, aquest.”

            Brontë’sheart fluttered. All need for a proper explanation faded, but Crockett forgedon.

            “So,I took the gun, shot at Petrarch, and pretended to raid his room to precipitatethe end, you see. I thought that if I could get everyone in the room andsuggest that someone stole the key, then the guilty party would incriminatehimself. But…” Crockett shook his head. “But I didn’t think that Petrarch wouldbecome so stunned! You should have seen him on the way here—his exercises—Ididn’t think a noise would shake him so profoundly.” The young man’s headdropped onto his chest. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. “I thought hewas dead, Brontë…The man who has treated me like a father, who took me off thestreets! It all went sideways…”

            “Iwould say sideways is the direction of this whole tale of Beatrice’s murder.Nothing has made sense from the moment everyone arrived in the house.”

            “Sosideways to be almost inverted!” Crockett sighed. “I didn’t pay any attentionto everyone when they arrived in the room. I didn’t…do anything, so it was