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

allfor nothing—the fake shot, the chaos and panic—then we almost killed Petrarchagain.”

            “Twice,”Brontë added.

            “Twice,yes, but nothing was clear. None of it made any more sense until the next daywhen I…”

            Crockettlifted his eyes to the exit of the vault. His face contorted into one ofterror.

            “Whereis he?” he asked.

            “Who?”Brontë took a step back.

            “It’sthe note—the portraits!—that was your clue. It’s very much Dexter but notDexter, it’s who he…Oh, dear, no one is who they say they are.” Crockett shuthis eyes and slowed his breathing. When he opened his eyes, he was calmer, morecollected. “It’s too complicated. Cut my bonds, Brontë. I have to run afterhim. He could already have it.”

            “Havewhat?” Brontë’s eyes sparkled; pride filled her voice. “You know! It’s Dexterbut not Dexter. Is that who it is? You know!” She suddenly remembered the soft footstepsas she pondered her course of action on the stairs. "It's someone in thehouse!"

            “Itis. And I do know, but we’ve already wasted too much time. I have to get to thetomb before it’s destroyed.”

            Brontëhesitated only for a moment. Crockett’s eyes were so earnest, so intense, thatshe couldn’t deny him. She trusted him fully.

            Inthe corner of the room, she found one of the rapiers from the collection ofblades that was used against Beatrice and approached Crockett. With one swiftslash, his bonds fell, and the young man was freed. He flexed his wrists andturned to the stairs of the vault.

            Thepuzzle box in his mind was opened. Adrenaline flooded his veins, surged throughhis heart. The conclusion of his future action remained shrouded in mystery—whenhe confronted the killer there could be any number of outcomes. His life was onthe edge of a knife. In his present pursuit he could emerge as the conqueringhero or vanish into darkness, another victim of this Hawsfeffer ghost.

            Itwas with this fear of death in mind, his pulse racing, that Crockett turned to Brontëand stepped toward her. Rather than in fear or chaos, his frantic emotionsaligned, in this moment, in a surge of courageous, amorous passion. Brontëshook with joy as he pressed in closer; she could almost feel the heat of his affection,the adrenaline and uncertainty that raged through his body. They paused, ashort distance from each other. Then Crockett pressed his lips to hers. It wasthe first kiss for either of them, a heated, uncertain mashing of lips.

            Whenhe pulled away, they both looked stunned.

            “Crockett…”Brontë whispered.

            “Wakethe house,” Crockett said, a smile turning up the edges of his lips despite theuncertainty of the coming hour. “I’m going to try to stop him, but I need youto be ready. Get your father, his gun, and run to the tomb as soon as you can.”

            Thistime it was Brontë who pulled him close. She kissed him—an electric currentfused them once more for the length of a heartbeat.

            “Whois it?” she asked quickly as their bodies parted. “I’ll need to tell Father.”

            ButCrockett was already running to the stairs. He called back a name that onlyraised more questions than it answered.

            “Bixby…”she said to herself as Crockett’s footsteps disappeared. “I suppose it couldbe…but which?”

Chapter 24: A Murderer’s Monologue

            Crocketthurtled toward the family tomb like a bolt of lightning. He stopped only for afew moments when Pip yelled for his attention as he charged through the mainsitting room.

            “Areyou all right?” Crockett asked.

            “Yes,my murderous friend, I just needed a little attention. Le médecin hasgone, and I could use fresh water, if you please. I also saw the man who pushedme from the window; without a doubt it is—”

            “Oh,I know who it is,” Crockett said quickly. “Terribly sorry, but I need to gostop him from destroying a very valuable family secret.”

            “Ah!”Pip nodded. “In that case, you can bring the water on your way back. Bonnechance, monsieur!”

            Crockettgently patted Pip’s head unsure of what else to do. As he raced out of thehouse, he marked that, for having been thrown from the second story window, Pipappeared in full health. He assumed the flexibility required for the sodomite’slifestyle rendered him limber enough to withstand the drop, much in the sameway that Petrarch’s rigorous exercises allowed him to survive the shooting andsubsequent head injuries.

            Tearingout the front door, Crockett fled the house and entered the dark of the yard.The night was silent except for the crunch of his shoes on the sparse gravel ofthe walkway. A point of dull illumination filled the light of the family tombonly yards away. It was in this moment that Crockett finally felt fear—thebuoyancy of Brontë’s kiss faded when his thoughts turned fully to the impendingencounter with the man who orchestrated not one, or even two, but three murders(perhaps three and a half to four depending on how one counted attemptedmurders and faked deaths).

            Theone hope Crockett clung to was that the murderer did not anticipate him coming.Even with the aid of the fraudulent detective, he could not have foreseenCrockett discovering the game moments before being bound and carried away tothe vault. And he wouldn’t have counted on Brontë’s freeing Crockett for afinal confrontation.

            Withrenewed courage, Crockett increased his pace up the large hill and toward thetomb. He was about to enter the dark mouth of the marble structure when themurderer emerged.

            Hestill wore his costume, the long black cape, tonight with a luminous greenlining around the inside of the collar. A snide smile was on his face, one handholding a lamp, the other a revolver, pointed at Crockett’s chest. It suddenlyoccurred to the young man that the incredible ugliness of the face before himwas not due to a central European genetic deficiency but rather to poorly donestage makeup. Both his nose and eyebrows were false and attached with cheapwax.

There was little timeto dwell on the old man's ruinous face, as Crockett only had eyes on the smallbit of parchment in his grasp. A surge of joy shot through his heart when hesaw it, the thing at the center of it all—Lucinda’s last note. It rested, unopened,in the same hand in which the traitor held