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

“The scream was yourmother,” Crockett said. “Once the music stopped, she let out a terrified shriek.”

“What happened?” Both concern and excitement werefused in Brontë’s tone.

“It was extremely tense—wewere all afraid. A bird crashed into the window, but that was probably due tothe candles. But…then at the end…”

“Yes?”

            “Someone played 'The Duck Manof the Old Hat.' It's about a man who steals children? I never knew that.”Crockett dabbed his brow thinking of the odd nursery rhyme. "Isn't it abit macabre for a children's song?"

“Well, it’s German,” Brontësaid.

This seemed to settlethe matter.

The house grew quietonce more. The only sound that disrupted the peace was a slight banging comingfrom near them, which was August looking for the source of the wind and song.The séance had shifted the atmosphere from murderous conjecture to activemalfeasance. Everyone, in the light of the new events, had become a suspect insome way, the questions about their characters more pressing than before.

Feeling thistransformation, Crockett turned to Brontë. “Do you get scared in this house?” heasked. “I know you teased me earlier this morning about how fearful I was, butis there anything that makes you uncomfortable here?”

Brontë leaned backagainst the wall. Her eyes looked skyward. Again, just as in the dawn light,the image of a hazel-eyed angel filled his imagination.

Her voice softened. “Iwouldn’t call it fear,” she began, “but it feels as if the house has alwaysbeen on the precipice of disaster. It’s not scary in the way of ghosts andspirits, rather the more mundane horror of some malignant sadness.” She lookeddirectly at Crockett; every trace of irony in her expression was gone.“Everyone in the house has been volatile for as long as I can remember. Fatherdidn’t want to live here, but grandmother put on such a production of tearsthat she convinced my parents to stay. So, father has been unhappy, mygrandmother is constantly watching Martha, sure that some decades-long affairis going on, all this while Dexter parades the grounds in costumes from hisdays in America. Even he is trapped here. After our cousin Bixby returned toAmerica, Dexter had no money to go back, so he was forced to stay in England. Angerand resentment stew here—I have tried to resist its pull, but Kordelia wasaffected. I don’t think she’d be quite as wily if we had a normal, healthyupbringing. Grandfather was terrible to her, disgusted by her peculiarities. Iknow I said I missed him this morning, but I don’t know if it’s true emotion ora kind of grief, a nostalgia that accompanies loss. He was always a mystery;sometimes he was very kind, taking Kordelia and me on his knee to tell us a funnylittle story about the house, but then he could be frightening.” Her eyesclosed in frustration. “It’s not supernatural but very terrestrial, anemotional burden…” Her voice faded like the resonance after a bell rings.

Crockett felt thecompunction to reach out and give her hand a squeeze but resisted. Instead, heoffered his voice in sympathy. “I grew up on the London streets, pickpocketingand sleeping wherever I could find respite. I lived through a lot of anger andresentment, just in a different way and a different place.”

Brontë took a deepbreath and opened her eyes. “I can only imagine. If it helps at all, Grandfatherwas also terrible to the local farmers. He often picked their pockets with hisrental agreements, so I think the distinction of what is criminal and whatisn’t is rather gray.”

They both felt the returnof the effusive, golden feeling which passed between them in their morningconversation. Although they didn’t look directly at each other, they bothharbored small, satisfied smiles.

“Mr. Cook, it’s beenvery nice to have you here the last few days,” Brontë said. “I often feel thatI can talk to people for hours, days, and weeks and not know a pinprick’s worthof their true character. That’s not the case with you.”

Crockett heart liftedhis chest skyward. “I would agree, Miss Hawsfeffer. It’s been a true pleasure.”

The exchange was abrief moment of reprieve before the ominous feeling of threat and suspicion returned.June brought it with her when she suggested they clear the study of thecandles. She made Crockett do a precursory ghost check before she and Brontë feltcomfortable taking up the work themselves.

Once relieved of ghostduties, Crockett returned to the formal sitting room. As he predicted, theatmosphere was altered. Every person he saw appeared to be on edge, flighty.Outside, the day did its best to dispel the malignant feeling. By the noonhour, the warmth of summer fully blanketed the countryside and the fragrantscent of blooming flowers rolled through the open windows.

August solved most ofthe mystery by the time lunch was served. He surmised that the door beingthrown open was attributed to Crockett not closing it tightly, a wind gust atthe right moment pushing it ajar. The music was generated by a phonograph hediscovered in a closet close to the study. All was credited to a simple prank,but the perpetrator did not come forward. In the end, August tongue lashed Kordelia,blaming her for the events, as one of her white gloves was found near thecloset where the phonograph was kept. The prim girl said very little at lunchas her formidable father ranted, his mustache bobbing rapidly.

Brontë did not agreewith August blaming Kordelia, so a second row erupted, even larger than thefirst.

Crockett, using thebasic rubric supplied by his detective novels, tried to logically piecetogether the events, thinking of who would have access to the phonograph andwas near enough to start it. There appeared to be no contraption tied to thedevice to make it move a certain time, so the culprit had to be in closevicinity to make the song begin to play. The only individuals not in theséance, however, were May, Brontë, Petrarch, and Dexter. May and Brontë were onthe patio; Dexter was found by Martha in the back lawn after the events; andPetrarch was headed for the folly wing, his plan to review some papers for hisnext clients, the Mayweathers in East Fletchfordtownhampsonvilleshire. Therewas no logical explanation for any of it. A ghost was a more plausible solutionthan one of the