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

            “Correct—itwas very, very lucky Dexter and I kept all of our old costuming from America.We had a number of rather fun disguises to use.” Crockett wondered if ‘lucky’was the operative word to describe the poor makeup and sad costuming of the twomen before him.

            “I'dalso like to thank you, personally, Crockett,” Dexter bowed courteously. “I’dwritten that elaborate speech to give to the family, but no one was veryinterested in my part in all this. If you hadn't gone nosing about with your investigation,I wouldn't have gotten to give it to anyone."

            Thenoises from the house became more frequent. Bixby and Dexter turned theirattention to the large, white façade with fear in their eyes.

            Crockettthrew in another question to redirect their attention back to their own vanity.“What now, then? Once you kill me, what happens? Bixby, you can’t go back toyour family. You're technically dead, and your alter ego, Robert, belongs backon the continent.”

            “It’strue, but I can visit as the dear, old cousin. Dexter and I can make our way toBelgium and resume our old tricks. They love magic, and the waffles are to diefor. We could even write a wonderful stage drama about a thieving solicitor’sassistant.”

            “I’vewaited years to get back to performing,” Dexter said. “You probably noticedI’ve been keeping in practice. People thought I was crazy, but it was really myart.”

            “Acommon mistake for many a thespian, I’m sure,” Crockett muttered.

            “But,enough,” Bixby threw back his cape. “I’m glad you finally had interest in theplot, Crockett, but now we must bid you adieu. Dexter, you may do thehonors.”

            Crockettfelt the barrel of the revolver press against his skull. With death before him,all his emotions merged in that moment—it was a nexus of every feeling he’dever experienced. He took a deep breath; his eyes watered with nascent tears.Perhaps there would be no god from a machine to save him (or even Kordelia’sDanube Mob). His life would simply vanish under a cloud of smoke in thedarkness of this family estate. In the wake of the violence, he would have onlya ruined reputation, a grieving Petrarch, and…Brontë.

His throat seized. Theconvergence of all feeling evaporated, leaving only one emotion.

            “Please,just one thing,” Crockett said, his voice breaking. “Tell Brontë that I didhave the fondest affection for her.” He paused, a tear sliding down his cheek.“I very much loved her.”

            “Howvery nice.” Bixby sneered. “I can assure you, you would have never had my permissionto marry her. A second-rate solicitor does not belong in the same parlor as mygranddaughter. It’s a shame the current circumstances brought you into suchclose proximity.” Bixby looked at Crockett with a glint of amusement. “Somehowthis sad confession of love makes this all the more enjoyable. Dexter,” Bixbytook a small bow, “you may end it.”

            Crockettfelt the cold gun push forcefully into his skull. Tears ran down his facewithout restraint. There was some sense of sadness, but, deep inside, he felt aflowering of acceptance. As he closed his eyes and awaited the carnage, heallowed himself to imagine Brontë’s smiling face, haloed in warm, June light.The memory of her kiss rushed through him, turned his fear to joy. Brontësmiled in Crockett’s imagination. She opened her mouth.

But no human sound camefrom her, no voice. It was the violent blast of a gun.

Chapter 25: The Battle of the Tiddlymouth

            Crockettopened his eyes expecting to see Jesus, or another man of Anglo-Saxon heritage,[45]robed in white, welcoming him to the afterlife. Instead, he was met with thesame darkness of the grounds and the shocked expression of Bixby Von Bunsonstaring into blackness. Although the sound of the gun faded, the night was farfrom quiet. Screams were erupting from behind him. He turned to see DexterFletcher writhing in agony, a deluge of blood, black in the night, pouring downhis leg.

            “Mygod! My god!” Dexter rolled on the ground, clutching himself.

            Aquick glance up brought Crockett’s eyes to the figure who saved him; Marthastood with the gun from the sitting room held in her grasp.

            “Thesecrets end here, Master Von Bunson,” she said. Her eye spun in earnestness.“Let the boy go.”

            Bixby’sface lost its look of shock. His eyes burned, his expression one of puremalice. He turned his gun on the old housekeeper.

            “You…Howdare you interfere!”

            Itwas at that moment Crockett acted. Lunging forward, he toppled Bixby. The twomen fell, a mess of limbs. While Bixby clawed and groped, Crockett strove toget Lucinda’s confession. It was this choice that led him to gain possession ofthe paper but Bixby to reclaim his weapon.

            Crockettstood, his hands up, the paper held tightly in his grasp. Bixby, gnashing histeeth, pointed the gun directly at him.

            “Bixby!”Martha yelled from the darkness.

            Ina flash, Bixby spun and sent bullets flying toward Martha. His first two shotsmissed, but the third found its target. The maid crumpled, the projectilehitting her shoulder. Crockett took the moment of confusion to run, as fast ashe could, into the darkness.

            Itwas only a few strides into his escape that he doubted his decision. Heremembered little of the grounds. The only time he walked past the gardens he waspreoccupied with thought. The lights in the house were dim, as was the bleakglow coming from the mouth of the family tomb. He scrambled over the rockypathway, tripping over brambles and branches. Luckily, he could hear the rushof the Tiddlymouth and direct his course toward its general direction.

            “BlastDexter and his terrible groundskeeping,” he said quietly to himself trippingover a large root that crossed the path. “At least his employment is nowexplained.”

            WhileCrockett should have been terrified, the chaos of the night rendered him onlywith thoughts of moving forward, of survival, and of protecting Lucinda’s note,the only thing that would give the insanity of the week some measure of reason.The desire to save Lucinda’s epistle, mixed with focusing on the uncertainty ofhis trail through the garden, made the idea of a rabid, armed Bixby Von Bunson pursuinghim in the dark an ancillary threat.

            ButBixby was coming. The older gentleman, well versed in the layout