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

            Shecrept forward softly, keeping her voice low.

            “Ican’t believe you’d keep the key a secret,” she said violently, her soft tonesa flurry of hisses.

            Crockett’svoice shook. “I’m so sorry—Petrarch and I didn’t know that it mattered; Ididn’t want to draw your attention to it for no reason. And, for what it’sworth, I was going to tell you in the room, but Martha interrupted us.”

            Brontë’sgaze softened. “You were?”

            “Iwas.” Crockett’s heart thudded in his chest.

            “Crockett,”she said sadly, “it’s not the fact that you kept the key secret from me; it’s thatI felt betrayed when you turned with them. You seemed always in the same frameof mind with me, secure in the belief that something macabre happened in thishouse.” She breathed in deeply. “I…do you remember the morning when we met onthe lawn, and I told you that no one is truly honest in this house?”

            Crockettnodded. He longed to reach out, pull Brontë into a warm embrace.

            “Ifelt that…I’m sorry if it’s maudlin…” Brontë looked the most uncertain Crocketthad seen her. She was shaking, agitated. “I just thought you did tell thetruth. I trusted you in a way…but then, tonight…” She exhaled dramatically. “Itwas as if I lost it all. You turned to the easy solution with everyone else.”

            “Brontë…”Crockett felt overwhelmed. Although he had been won over by Petrarch’s logicearlier, he now felt as if his only recourse, the only act fate drove himtoward, was to follow Brontë to the very ends of the earth, regardless oflogic, evidence, or propriety. He wanted to speak more, but words would notcome easily, his tongue was leaden with emotion.

Brontë shook her head,tears in her eyes. “Everyone is so happy now, returned to a pre-death blissthat never existed. Even Kordelia…” She took a deep breath. “You don’t knowthis house, the oppression of it. People talk about the ghosts outside on theriver, but they don’t talk of those inside.” Brontë stopped. Her lips ceasedmoving, formed a thin, harsh line. She took a deep breath, the emotion slowlydraining from her face. “It’s been lonely,” she said finally, resolutely. “Butless so with you here.”

            Crockett’sface flushed. He hoped that the earlier luminosity of his expression had dimmedand this show of emotion wasn’t visible. He failed to speak; he was overwhelmedby the many things transpiring in this quiet moment—Brontë’s soft tones, hermoment of vulnerability, her recollection of their first moment alone togetheron the lawn. More than anything, however, was that the connection he felt wastrue: the feeling of being understood. All his years on the streets, then in Petrarch’scarriage house, he had never felt something so vulnerable, like a thread, apulsing wire attached between himself and another person. With Petrarch therewas a paternal bond which had formed into an emotional fondness, but with Brontë…Itwas a current of passion which his guarded heart had never had the urge toemit. Looking into her eyes in that moment, he felt a rush of emotion whichhe’d only ever read about in poetry, a vulnerability and brokenness he nowconsciously understood as love.

            “I,”he said slowly, his tongue thick, “I feel the same.”

A silence unfolded,tender and full. They looked into each other’s eyes, unspoken emotions, aneffusive tenderness, passing between them.

In the heat of theemotion Crockett’s tongue loosened itself. His full, insane theory poured out.“I don’t want to admit that it’s over, either,” he said hurriedly, “that thereis a simple explanation for it. Truthfully,” his face flushed yet again, “I…Iactually had thought the murderer may be Bixby Hawsfeffer.”

            Therewas a brief moment of silence, Brontë’s eyes sparkling with tears, but then herface broke into a wide smile. She laughed into her hand. As she giggled,Crockett heard, what sounded like footsteps behind him.

“I’m so sorry,” Brontësaid trying to recover her composure. “It’s just—it’s a bit, you know…You thinkthe murderer was the murdered?” she asked.

            “No,no!” Crockett grew anxious. “I thought it was his son, Bixby Hawsfeffer, Jr.—Pip—returned.Somehow…from Paris…”

            Brontësmiled, her whole face shining. “So, you haven’t given up on the truth, howeverludicrous it may be.”

            “Ihaven’t,” he said resolutely. “Petrarch wants to, but I don’t. I don’t want tolose it.”

            Brontëcocked her head slightly. “Lose what?”

            Theyoung solicitor, heart pounding, was no longer using his reason. His tendencyto make confused, rash decisions had been enhanced by a multiple of thousandsin the presence of Brontë. With her so close, their affections spoken out loud,he was losing his senses.

            “It,I, well, you know, the truth,” he said stiltedly. He tried his best to calmhimself, to try to subdue the tenderness he felt. “I don’t…want to lose thetruth of us. Of us between us. The truth of which us is a part in which themystery is us.”

            Brontënodded. She looked as if she would speak but halted. Neither of them had anidea how to carry forward; in truth, they both wanted to luxuriate in themoment, live in it for a long while, trying to understand the importance of it.No words could bear the weight of what their emotions felt. It seemedmeaningless to speak.

            Crockettfinally spoke. His words were tentative, almost a whisper; it was as if hebelieved his raised voice would shatter the moment like glass. “I just don’twant it to be over,” he said.

            Brontëtook a deep breath. A full spectrum of feeling crossed her facial features inthe next moment. It started with a flush of embarrassment, turned to a slightfrown, but then burst into an enthusiastic grin. “Yes!” she said quickly. In arush of emotion, she gripped Crockett’s hands. “We don’t give up. Tomorrow wetake our last chance to find out what is really going on. We interrogate everyone,and we move toward a real resolution. Emotions will be high; everyonelikes to pretend that they’re glad Grandfather is gone, but there will besadness, and people will start to talk. It may be luck that Petrarch producedthe key and put us into the final stages. We have little time before the funeral,but we have to use it. We'll get into some deblightful troububble.”[34]

            “Yes,”Crockett