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

of thegrounds, picked up speed. He could be heard tramping through the garden’sovergrowth, his pace quickening. Crockett's only advantages were his youth anda few moments of lead time.

            Hisheart raced as he rambled over the unruly route forward. In his rush to escape,he tumbled, lurching forward and sliding through the thick mud to a spot nearthe riverbank. The water rushed by, the ominous (and atmospheric) rains of theprevious few days making the current a treacherous, roaring presence in thedark.

            Evenin the chaos of his pursuit, Crockett had to sigh, realizing that his only pairof unmuddied trousers was now unsalvageable.

            Bixbyheard the cacophony of Crockett’s fall into the weeds, but the darkness of thenight hindered him from seeing the location of his landing. The grasses alongthe bank were high enough to shield the young man from view. In reality, themen were a few yards away from each other, but nature and night kept themhidden, two men on the opposite ends of a great void.

            Inmost detective novels,[46]Bixby would have fired shots into the weeds, scaring Crockett like a bird fromthe brush, but the old man’s poor shot left him with only three more bullets—allof which he knew would be needed to finish Crockett once and for all.

            Breathingheavily, Von Bunson gathered his thoughts, pondering how to trap the solicitor’sassistant. Not a physical match for him and uncertain of his own ability tofire a gun accurately, he knew he had to rely on the only skills left to him inthe night. They were his greatest gifts, but ones which had to be used withprecision to end his crusade successfully—persuasion, deception, and theatricality.

            “Crockett,dear boy, come out,” he said, infusing an avuncular charm to his voice. “Thegame’s run afoul, and there’s no need to hide. You’ve won. You solved it all.”

            Crockettsaid nothing. He, too, had his brain working in a frenzied state to counter thescheme he knew Bixby was plotting at that very moment. As he sat incontemplation, Bixby’s only answer was the whisper of grasses and the rush ofthe river's current.

            “Quiet,I see.” Bixby’s teeth ground together. “Clever, also.” The old man’s mindraced. “Dexter and I thought we had everything buttoned up before youinterfered. Everyone had decided to move forward with the burial, the tombwould have been opened, and we would have snuck away with the note.”

            Hepaused and let his gaze drift over the grasses. His vision had fully adjustedto the dark. The intermittent light of a quarter moon provided some aid to hisaging eyesight. “You see, Dexter overheard you and Brontë plotting. You saidthat night—the very one in which you took your shot at Petrarch—that youthought the murderer was Bixby Hawsfeffer…In the moment, we misconstrued thestatement. We thought you were on to us. It wasn’t until your later interviewwith Dexter as Pimento that we realized you actually thought it was thehomosexual Bixby—Pip—from Paris.”

            Crockettcontrolled his breath, grateful that the evening breeze and the rush of theriver provided cover to his soft exhalations. He had no plan, but he knew hemust make a final effort to return the note to the manor. Fear manifesteditself in goose pimples forming on his neck and arms. He reasoned he had preciouslittle time before Bixby discovered his hiding place.

            “Thatnext bit of the plot was chaotic." Von Bunson ran his arms over thegrasses, searching through them. "Dexter had to leave his note anddisappear to come back as the detective in disguise. We were planning toproceed with our scheme the next morning, me calling the police and himarriving, but you expedited that with your little shot at Petrarch. You made uspivot very ungracefully, Crockett. We thought we could trap you, you see.”Bixby heard a movement to his left and raised his gun frantically; in hishaste, he fired one of his three remaining bullets into the blankness of theempty countryside. He was embarrassed that the cause of his alarm was agrasshopper which leapt at an inopportune moment. He cleared his throat andlowered his weapon. It took all his emotional strength to keep the frustrationfrom his voice. “Ah ha! More ungraceful pivoting!” He threw his cape over hisshoulder. “We contrived the detective’s midnight visit at the last moment as aform of triage. Dexter called up two of his acquaintances to play the parts ofthe doctor and the policeman, and the game began.”

            Crockettwent rigid after the bullet was fired. He lay, stiff as a piece of driftwood,as Bixby continued.

“You surprised usagain, though. You were very smart during the Pimento investigation.” Bixby regainedhis composure and methodically paced through the weeds, down to the riverbank,then back up into the short grass. For the first time in decades, he feltirritated at Dexter’s poor groundskeeping; a competent servant would havetrimmed this area which was so near the dock. “Dexter thought he couldmanipulate you, get you to make some confession that would allow us toincriminate you. The house was already indifferent to you—a poor, self-educatedstreet dweller. It would take very little to convince the family you were guiltyof something.”

            Witheach pass down the bank, Bixby grew closer to Crockett’s location.

The young man reclinedon the ground to keep below the grasses. He knew he had to master his fear,tame his wild, beating heart, and make his move against the evil patriarch.Looking upward at the stars, he breathed deeply and braced his nerves for anoffensive strike.

Bixby’s thoughts alsochurned. He reviewed what he knew of Crockett as he spoke slowly of Dexter andhis plot. Then it struck him, like lightning—the coup de grâce which woulddraw the boy out of the shadows.

The old man tried tokeep the glee from his voice as he spun his web with more earnestness. “Dexterdid draw you into his confidences, but we didn’t plan for everything, did wedear boy?”

            Crockett’sbreath came faster.

            “Dexterdidn’t imagine the bond you would develop with my granddaughter, the depth offeeling which blossomed between you. How could he think that such a young,fortuneless boy from London would draw the affection of my eldest granddaughter…mylovely Brontë?”

            Theold man paused. He thought he heard a movement in the grass.