Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe Tedd Hawks (adult books to read .txt) 📖

isn’t haunted; the river simplyhosts a truculent current. And the attic stairs seem to be in very fine condition.”

            Crockettshook his head. “I’m sorry, Petrarch. You’re absolutely right. Brontë swept meup in her wild conjectures.”

            “Ifeel that she would have the power to sweep you into a great many situationsyou usually wouldn’t fall prey to. It brings to mind the incident with Mrs.Brettwick, the day you forgot to draft her father’s will.”

            Crockett’sface grew red. “I don’t know what you mean.”

            “Myboy, I know what it means when a facelights up like yours did when Miss Hawsfeffer entered the room. Don’t beembarrassed. Those sparks of infatuation areextraordinary. But as I’ve told you before, in these circumstances, they are tobe kept to yourself.”

            Crockettturned toward the window. He said nothing.

The two men settledinto a comfortable silence. As Petrarch counted out his jumping jacks, hisbulbous body lurching up and down a few inches with every jump, Crockettassessed the room. Outside the windows the sky was growing darker. The warmafternoon light was disappearing under a shroud of gray clouds. Under the bed,he saw a small speck of white. He moved directly to the object, lifting it upand examining it.

It was a small, whiteglove.

“Petrarch, look at this.”

“Heh.” Petrarch wasbeginning to wheeze. “Looks—like—a woman’s.”

“It does. I’ll ask afterit when we join the rest of the family.”

At that moment, Kordelia,the youngest daughter, appeared at the door. She looked terrified, her face thecolor of milk. Petrarch turned to her, concern immediately registering in hiseyes.

“My dear, are you allright?”

Kordelia trembled. Sheraised a hand to her pale brow. Her eyes, which had always been glossy, werecoated with tears.

“Kordelia…” Crockettmoved closer to her.

“She’s…” Kordelia’svoice shook. “She’s dead…mother’s dead.”

Chapter 4: The Last Arrivals

            Crockettcollapsed whilst Petrarch clucked like an exasperated chicken.

            “Well—cuck—I—just—cuck…”

            “Shefell in the well,” Kordelia continued. As she did, she deftly grabbed a glassof water from Petrarch’s nightstand and threw it on Crockett; she then tossedit aside and went to the center of the room. “It was…the fault of the ram inthe garden.” She ran dramatically to the window. “Do you think it’s thebaron?!” Her voice lifted upward, its tone growing hysterical. “Was it thebaron’s ram?!”

            Crockett,covered in water, stood and pulled his thoughts together. He was unsure whetherhis confusion was due to his shaken mental state or the mere act of being in Kordelia’spresence. He also noted that, even across the room from the young woman, thehalitosis which had lost her points to her sister was very noticeable. “I…I’msorry, does a baron own a ram here?”

            Kordelia’sface changed quickly. The dreamy stare returned; she did a small bow.

“Was that too much?” she asked.

            “Toomuch?” Petrarch had begun to sweat even more profusely. He dabbed his foreheadwith a handkerchief.

            “Thescene,” Kordelia said, “do you think it was too dramatic? My teacher says thatI should elevate the dramatics, but she’s French, you know, and you can’t trustthem.”

            “I’m…thinkingthat your mother isn’t actually dead,” Crockett posited.

            “Oh!”Kordelia said shocked. “I don’t know. Do you know something?”

            “What?”Crockett asked.

            “Ismother okay? I mean with Grandfather…I knew she wasn’t too well, but dead!”

            “No,no!” Crockett looked at Petrarch for help. “She’s perfectly fine—as far as weknow.”

            Kordeliasighed heavily. “Well, Mr. Cook, you really shouldn’t frighten people likethat.”

            “MissWinterbourne,” Petrarch said slowly, “why…did you say those things when youentered the room?”

            “Forthe play of course,” Kordelia said.

            “Ofcourse.” Crockett looked at Petrarch, completely lost.

            “Iguess you aren’t familiar. It’s a famous French play called Mère, Bélier, Mort, Chapeau. You mayjust not recognize it. We’re performing the German-language version of theFrench translated into English. The Swiss do things in unique ways. The Englishversion is called The Viscount’s Ram,which you may be more familiar with.”

            Crockettshook his head. “I…haven’t heard of that production.”

            “It’swonderful, even if it is rather French.” Kordelia’s voice had a habit of risingand falling at incoherent moments, causing declarative phrases to sound likequestions. “There are four scenes where people just eat croissants, which waschanged to meat pies for the English version.”

            “Itsounds complex,” Petrarch jumped in.

            “Verymuch so,” Kordelia responded. “Then, of course, people outside of Vienna alwayshave trouble with the Danube Mob.”

            Crockettfell onto Petrarch’s bed out of sheer intellectual exhaustion. As a perfunctoryresponse he asked, “And what is the Danube Mob?”

            “Well,a long time ago, an instructor was teaching his Austrian literature class aboutthe concept of the French dénouement, the ending phase of a story.”

            Petrarchpatted his belly, his face a mix of confusion, amusement, and intrigue. “Now,”he said slowly, "do you mean Austrian or Hungarian? I am always confusedwith the Austria-Hungary dual monarchy."

            "Whywould Austria be hungry?" Kordelia asked startled. "What do countrieseat?"

            "Hemeans," Crockett interjected, "would the writer consider himselfAustrian, Hungarian, or Austro-Hungarian?"

            Kordeliascrunched her eyes, deep in thought. "Well, my Swiss teacher said Austrian.He never mentioned anything about Ostrich-Hungarians, which I don't think wouldhave enough dexterity in their wings to actually do any writing—"

            "Yes!"Petrarch said quickly. "Austrian it is. We will call this writerAustrian." He gave Crockett a look of fatigue.

            “Yes,very good," Kordelia continued. "Well, one of the brightest studentsin the class was confused, you see, so he thought the instructor had said ‘DanubeMob.’ In his befuddlement, he misunderstood the dénouement to be a mob of Austrianswho enter a story and set things right at the end. Like a deus ex machina,but specifically Austrian, German-speaking, and more interested in blackmailand gambling.”[10]

            Crockettopened his mouth to change the subject, but Petrarch, riveted, asked her tocontinue.

            “So,this student, Henreick Gruber, wrote a play which became famous all overAustria and Germany—and now I suppose must also have found an audience withhungry ostriches—and the Danube Mob became a very common ending to comedies inthe region.” Kordelia took a deep breath. “All that is to say that when Mère, Bélier, Mort, Chapeau was translated into German, the translatorinserted the Mob, which has continued to confuse modern readers andperformers.”

            “Ishould say I am very confused,” said Crockett.

            “Ido love literary history, though,” Petrarch smiled. “But, my dear, after thelesson and the confusion about your dear mother, can we help you with