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

the house indisrepair, even though their arrival was known in advance. The maid was senileand the groundskeeper wildly eccentric. How had the house managed for so manyyears? What had caused the degradation of the construction of the folly and thewest wing?

            “Youlook like you’re thinking far too intensely.”

            Brontëappeared, now wearing a dress, her hair pinned back from her face. Crockettagain lost himself in her beautiful eyes, his lip twitching with nervousness asshe drew closer.

            “Iwent to help my mother with the beds and ended up being scolded by mygrandmother and told to change. No hat or parasol, but I hope that the dresswill make them happy.”

            Crockettsuddenly jerked as if waking from a dream. He ran a hand through his hair andpondered a response. The seconds elongated, sweat forming along his highforehead. “I uhhh,” he stuttered, “I’m sure it do do that.”

            “Dodo?”

            “Thedress doos—does it. It makes them happy, I’m sure.”

            Brontëlooked interestedly at Crockett’s face. A ghost of a smile appeared thenvanished.

            “Dodo aside,” Crockett continued earnestly, “is everything all right? It seems…itseems as if no one knows quite what is going on. And before your father enteredthe sitting room earlier, you were going to say something.” Crockett’s thickeyebrows went up in thought. “He is quite the conversationalist,” he continued,employing Petrarch’s skill of slight euphemisms. “He held us for nearly half anhour discussing how you were like a gun.”

            Brontëfidgeted for the first time since his and Petrarch’s arrival. Her hand wentnervously to her arm.

            Crockett,concerned he’d offended her, went on, “I’m sorry if that upset you; if you areat all like a gun, I’d say it’s a petite, very feminine pistol.”[7]

            “No,it’s not that…It’s about the general state of the house you mentioned.” Brontëpaused. When she resumed speaking her voice was very low. “Can I trust you,Crockett?”

            “Of—ofcourse!”

            Witha whirl of her skirts, Brontë flew down the hall. She turned to him andbeckoned him to follow.

            Crockettpursued her, his long legs moving with nervous energy generated by the need forescape and the burning emotion he felt in Brontë’s presence. He tailed her outof the hallway, through the main sitting room, now abandoned, and onto thepatio.

            “Where’sPetrarch?” he asked as they came outside.

            Brontësaid nothing, instead flitting to the door and closing it softly behind her.When she had peered through the glass and confirmed no one was following them,she spoke rapidly.

            “Something’snot right, Crockett. Grandfather just disappeared. He knew how to swim, anddespite his age, he was in very good shape.”

            Crockettscratched his head. “The police did an inquest, I’m sure."

            Brontësighed and said, “Crockett, the law enforcement here is a nightmare. They saidit was either a drowning or perhaps a wayward bearded woman who kidnapped himfor beard oil.”

            “I’msorry?” Crockett asked.

            “Theconstabulary always blames carnival folk—a historical oddity—but they didn’t doany due diligence.”

            “Thepolicemen in London aren’t much better.”

            “Wellfor our family, it’s downright offensive. My cousin in America is part of thecarnival circle; we don’t appreciate the stereotyping.”

            “Ofcourse.” Crockett’s head spun. In an effort to return to more fact-basedfindings, he asked, “How did your family come to find out…that he was missing?”

            “Dexter.”

            “Dexter?”

            “Heheard someone fall in the river and scoured the water from the bank, but he sawno one. Because he knew Grandfather was in the boat, he immediately assumed therewas trouble and went into the house where he encountered Grandmother and Martha.Grandmother grew intensely hysterical, so it was Martha who went out with himto investigate further.”

            “Thosetwo…”

            “Exactly.”Brontë’s eyes burned brightly. “They couldn’t have saved him even if he was introuble. It’s true—it is a swim from the middle of the river, especially with thecurrent from the spring rains, but I can’t help but think he could have madeit.”

            “Wherewere your mother and father?”

            “Mother and I were in the eastwing going through an assortment of old boxes and trunks as part of our spring-cleaningritual—we had nothing to do with it. Kordelia, home for the summer from herboarding school, was out reading, and father was shooting.”

            “Couldyour father have shot him?” Crockett asked, between the intrigue and Brontë’s flushed cheeks, he was fullyinvested in the conspiracy theories.

            “Towhat end?”

            Crocketttapped his index finger to his mouth, pensively. “Did anyone hear a gunshot? Kordeliawas out reading, you said.”

            Brontërolled her eyes. “Of course, there were gunshots, Crockett. He was shooting.”

            “Butany interruptions? Any shots more sporadic than others?”

            “Kordeliais cryptic as always. She’s stone silent on everything that happened.”

            “Couldshe have…?”

            Brontë’seyes flicked to the ground. She offered a terse “I don’t think so” in response.

            “Hmmm…”Crockett tried his best to recall the smattering of detective novels he hadread. From the depths of his mind, he pulled out words, which he believed madehim seem authoritative. “In terms of your local police…They weren’t able tofind the body of your grandfather? Was there any physical evidence?” Hesaid this with a flourish, impressed with his own knowledge.

            Brontësighed. “None at all. Even despite their incompetence, there was nothing tocatch. He drowned from the boat. The boat was found floating in isolation.There were no notes, no letters left, nothing incriminating in any degree—”

The eldest Winterbournedaughter jumped slightly as the patio door opened and Mrs. Winterbourneappeared with a tray of drinks.

            “Isee you chose to look like a lady for our guests,” she barked setting down the drinkson a small metal table. “Between the two of you, I really don’t know whichdaughter is more of an embarrassment.”

            “It'sme.” Kordelia appeared from the yard. Twigs decorated her hair. Her eyesretained the glossy, distant look she had at her and Crockett’s first meeting.

            “Darling…”Mrs. Winterbourne edged forward, very much resembling a younger version of thedrunken bear Corinthiana was likened to earlier. “You know I don’t mean…”

            Mrs.Winterbourne embraced Kordelia. The young girl tried to delicately slip away,but her mother kept a firm grip.

            “Mummy,I think it’s very fair to say I’m the embarrassment,” Kordelia said, continuingto pull away from her mother’s show of affection. “Brontë looks as if she’salways ready to ride a horse, but I’ve been expelled