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

“I know they are only loosely related, but young Brontëreminds me of her—determined, beautiful, joyful. I had heard…” Here she paused,tears freely falling from her eyes. With her features softened so, Crockett couldsee into the past, to the young woman who tried to save her beloved matron,whose looks seduced Dexter Fletcher. “I heard Bixby and Dexter plotting. Theywere such wicked men on the inside—outside, they were pleasant, boisterous, butyou knew they were up to something. One morning I cleared the breakfast tableand went to the west wing to begin making the beds. That's when I heard them.I’ll never forget that morning.” Her old hands tremored. “I didn’t hear theexact words, but they said they wanted Bixby out of the way. They said in orderto truly execute the plot, they needed to clear out the Hawsfeffer familycompletely.

            “Ididn’t know if that meant murder, scandal, or threats of violence, but I knewthat I must confess what I heard to Lucinda.” Martha stopped. She pulled herhand from Crockett’s and wiped her eyes. “They found me,” she said abruptly.“They knew I’d heard. Dexter took me into the vault. He…” she stuttered, “I sawthen what he was capable of.” She indicated her bulging, spinning eye.

            Crockett’sheart cracked with grief. “But you told Lucinda anyway…” he said.

            Martharaised her head, a resigned smile on her lips. “I told her anyway.”

            Asthey approached the mansion, the noises in the house grew louder. Martha took adeep breath and again wiped her eyes. The night enveloped them, protecting themfor a fleeting moment from the violence of the past.

            “Ishould think, then, that you’re the real hero of this story,” Crockett saidputting his arm around her. “If it weren’t for you, there wouldn’t have beenanything for me to discover.”

            Marthasaid nothing but pulled free of Crockett and began to pace toward the mansion.After a few steps, she turned and simply said, “It usually is the ones like uswho save them—the forgotten ones, the simple ones. We see it all.” At this hereye twisted quickly, a physiological flourish to her platitude.

            Crockettcame after Martha following her unsteady steps toward the front door of thehouse. From inside the sounds of August’s bellowing, Corinthiana’s vowel-filledcaterwauling, and the occasionally staccato reprimand of May, burst from theopen windows like a storm. Despite the cacophony, the windows glowed withgolden warmth. If anything, the house stood, at that moment, as a formal symbolof family—welcome, warm, and rebounding with noises we’d all eschew underdifferent circumstances.

Just as they approachedthe front door, it opened quickly. Brontë stumbled out, her hair disheveled;August, steps behind her, called out in reprobation.

            Butwhen Brontë saw Crockett and Martha, alive and standing in the dark, shesmiled, her whole face filling with light.

            Crockett’sheart fluttered. For once, a welcoming door illumined his path, making him feelfull of love. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he were cominghome.

Chapter 27: The End of the Affair

            Brontë’sjoy faded as August pulled her back from the entryway. The querulous man shovedher inside then reopened the front door to wave Crockett and Martha into thehouse. Once Brontë’s precious presence was removed, Crockett’s heartconstricted. He ran forward in the earnest hope of meeting Petrarch and settingtheir relationship right.

            Itdidn’t take long to find him. The front entry contained the mansion’s wholecast of characters in various states of dress and emotion. Corinthiana held ahuge tankard of sherry, her eyes crossed with drunkenness. She was ignoring theprotestations of May, who kept screaming intermittently at her mother andsister. June, wearing a robe, appeared ready to pounce on her younger sibling.

            Petrarchand Kordelia were engaged in some version of a conversation. Kordelia noddedenthusiastically while Petrarch gazed upward, a look of complete confusion writon his features. When Petrarch turned his attention toward the door, toCrockett’s relief, a large smile appeared on his face. The young man ran towardhim, speaking quickly and stiltedly.

            “Petrarch—it—I’msorry, it was chaotic and idiotic…I don’t…You must forgive me…”

            Petrarch’seyes twinkled. He patted his belly joyfully. “My boy, I have to say the meanswere very questionable, but it looks like the ends may justify them.”

            Crockett,seized by emotion, reached out and pulled the old man into a warm embrace. Hisvoice shook as he spoke. “I thought I lost you, old man.”

            Petrarch,his eyes shining with nascent tears, squeezed his assistant enthusiastically.“Same, my boy.” He cleared his throat, in an attempt to quell his emotion.“When I heard you were outside, I assumed the worst.”

            Thetwo could say little else. August interrupted their emotional moment and usheredthem into the sitting room. The rest of the house followed them, the intenseemotions transforming from anger to curiosity as their attention turned to theyoung lawyer and the old maid.

All had heard thegunshots, but the chaos and arguments of the inside outweighed anyone’sfortitude to run out and go help whoever was being (possibly) murdered in thenight. Brontë would have fled to aid Crockett, however she had been held backby both August and May who accused her of heightened female hysteria. Theyspent the better part of an hour pouring chilled water on her. May suggestedthey begin powdering Brontë’s breasts with flour (an old trick in the conventto quell female emotion) which was when June grew enraged and stated she wouldnot “have my daughter turned into a pastry!”

            Corinthianawas the most contented. She shuffled in her slow, theatrical gait to the sofaand took a seat. As she sipped on her sherry and stroked a large feather boashe’d thrown about her neck sometime before Crockett and Martha returned to thehouse.

            PipHawsfeffer showed no signs of emotion at all. His injuries now cared for, he saton a chair, leg elevated, humming a French tune to himself. He had evidentlyfallen back asleep due to his medications after Crockett fled the house and didnot share his knowledge of the killer as the family argued about what to do.

            Therest of the house hung in suspense, not knowing quite how to behave. May wrungher hands, June nervously bit her lip, and Brontë was forced to sit next to herfather, a look of