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

            “Well,that’s wonderful,” Crockett said, allowing himself to smile.

            “Buthow did you know it was Bixby?”

            Crockettgrew very tired, the events of the day catching up with him. He yawned as he summarizedthe more precise details of the mystery—the paintings, disguises, the backstairwell, and Martha's insights. He did his best to add more color to thestory, providing the context of Bixby and Dexter’s misadventures in America.

Despite his growinglethargy, he felt his heart swell with pride. He'd found his rutabaga farmerand solved the mystery—Captain Discord would be proud. Although it was not doneefficiently or effectively, it was accomplished eventually, which is the most ajunior detective could ask for.

            AsPetrarch listened, not having his thinking pipe present, he picked upCrockett’s hairbrush and pantomimed smoking that. “I suppose Martha was theonly one who knew all these tentative links that joined the past and present.She was the only one who could guide you to the resolution.”

            “Shewas invaluable. And, once the links were exposed, it being Bixby Von Bunson andDexter made perfect sense. They both knew every nook and cranny in the house.Bixby had retained a key to the family vault after his fake drowning and couldget the sword without Corinthiana’s copy. Dexter knew of the back staircase, sohe could fix the record player and escape without raising suspicion, and, ofcourse, Bixby wrote his own letter of introduction to welcome their cousin,Robert Edward. That’s why he was never under suspicion.”

            “Isee.” Petrarch tapped his head. “So, Bixby Von Bunson found out when he visitedme two weeks ago that Lucinda left the note. He must have known there wassomething buried in the tomb that gave the game away, revealed him to not beBixby Hawsfeffer but his killer.”

            “Yes.”Crockett moved toward his sleeping couch; his eyes were growing very heavy. “Heprobed Martha about the game they used to play—notes in hats—which led to himunderstanding the clue about the true, revelatory note’s location in the tomb. Healso knew you had been ordered never to relinquish the key until after Bixby Hawsfeffer’sdeath. Once he faked his death, he and Dexter did the séance and murderedBeatrice to get Corinthiana to speed the burial ceremony and get into the tombto destroy Lucinda’s revelation.”

            “Butthen you tried to kill me…”

            “Andthat’s when they had to get really creative.” Crockett’s eyes fluttered.

            “So,they created Pimento to frame you and clear their names completely. They’dblame you for all of it, destroy the note, and head off into the proverbialsunset.”

            “Exactly.But then…” Crockett smacked his lips. “When Pip showed up, who would know whatthe note meant…”

            “Theythrew him from a window…” Petrarch nodded.

            Petrarchfollowed up with a few more questions, but before he received answers, Crockettwas snoring peacefully. The solicitor did his best to tuck in his youngapprentice. As he fluffed Crockett’s pillow, the young man’s eyes flutteredopen.

            “Oh...Petrarch,”he said softly.

            “Yes,my boy?”

            “Someoneshould probably go check on Dexter. He’s been dying for several hours out nearthe tomb. Martha and I forgot about him.”

            Petrarchblinked but said nothing. As he shut Crockett’s door, he heard the young mansnoring again and, from what the old solicitor could make out, whisperingsomething softly—what he believed to be the name “Brontë.”

Chapter 28: The Danube Mob

            Crockettawoke in a stupor. His clothes were still covered in dried mud and blood, andhe had nothing to change into. It was still very early in the morning; a lightmist was on the house grounds. The events of the previous night still seemeddistant and dreamlike. Had it not been for the mud and blood, he most likelywould have believed none of it happened.

            Inhis addled state, he was surprised to hear a light rapping on the door. Therewas a moment of sheer confusion and terror when he stared at the wall, unaware ofhow to do much of anything. The brief suspended state was followed by achaotic, rapid firing of his brain cells, which caused him to trip toward themirror to fix his hair. The tripping built into a falling, the culmination of whichsent him sprawling toward the vanity. A sharp crack rang out as his head collidedwith the side of the small fixture. He was both surprised and unsurprised whenhe felt his forehead and found that damp blood was dripping down the side ofhis face.

            “Oh,dear,” he said.

            Sincehis clothes were all soiled to begin with, he picked up a discarded shirt andwrapped it around his head to slow the bleeding. This, of course, rendered theneed to comb his hair unnecessary, so he staggered toward the door and openedit, revealing Brontë.

            WhileCrockett’s face broke into a wide, beaming smile, Brontë looked past him, intothe room, with a hard, humorless gaze.

            “Hullo,”she said dryly. Her face twitched slightly when she saw the makeshift turbanatop Crockett’s head.

            “Brontë…”

            ToCrockett’s surprise, she had already dressed for the day. Instead of her usualtaupe trousers, she wore a long, green dress. Her hair did not hang freely,chaotically, as it had during the week, but was fixed, held back tight.

            “I’vecome to say good-bye,” she said walking to the window. “Father talked to melast night, and we’re to leave for Winterbourne House this morning. I’ll bepacking during breakfast, so this will be our last chance to speak.”

            “Sosoon,” Crockett’s face dropped. “I thought we could go for a walk around thegrounds this morning after breakfast. Perhaps you could pretend to be a canaryonce again.”

            Brontë’smouth tremored but would not reveal a smile.

“No.” She said ithaughtily, turning her face away. “We have to go. Grandmother canceled theburial; she decided to just kind of stuff Grandfather in the tomb and forgetabout it. She is planning a rather nice ceremony for Beatrice, but she says sheneeds a month to plan for it, so we’ll return then. I think she’s planning onhiring some of the local circus performers to do a kind of show.” Brontë’s coldexterior had been slowly cracking, but she suddenly remembered herself. Shestood more erect and bowed slightly toward Crockett. “All that aside, it hasbeen a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cook.” She extended her hand for Crockett toshake. He