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

“Burying father—or his casket—andBeatrice won’t stop the investigation, May. Things will proceed as planned,”June said curtly.

            All gathered breathed a collectivesigh of relief, except for Brontë, who looked at her mother as if she had just voicedhow much she admired the German Kaiser.

“Mother, I’m fine here,” she said. “Kordelia can go with you to thevillage.”

            “No!” June responded so dramaticallythat everyone in the room looked toward the eldest Hawsfeffer daughter. Torecover, she cleared her throat with several, very unladylike coughs andfeigned a smile. Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed her mother’steacup, taking a long draught.

            “My deeear,” Corinthiana said, “thaaatis my teeea.”

            Ignoring her, June plastered on a cloyingsmile; however, her eyes belied a deep fear. “Brontë, come with Mummy! It willbe nice to get air, and we’ll be out of Pugmanto’s way.”

            “His name is Detective Pimento,Mother,” Brontë said looking at June questioningly. “Anyone else can go—I feellike I’d be happier here rather than making the long journey into town. I’drather not put on formal clothes.”

            “Darling,” June’s voice grew frantic,“you’re coming with me. Get ready. I’d feel safer if you were by my side. Iworry about you, darling!”

            “Do you worry about me?” Kordeliaasked nonchalantly.

            June nodded disinterestedly in thedirection of her other daughter.

            Brontë looked at her grandmother whowas busily cleaning off the rim of her teacup where June had placed her lips.Uncertainly, she left the room after a nod of acquiescence to her mother.

            Martha shuffled in immediately afterBrontë’s departure, her eye spinning more quickly than usual.

            “You!” she said gruffly pointing toCrockett. “The detective wants to see you.”

#

            June was correct. The menacing,no-nonsense detective of the previous night was gone. In his wake was apleasant, almost jolly individual wearing a broad smile. Crockett took him inagain, the same red jacket, the same unkempt sideburns and spectacles. Thefamiliarity described by August and his wife was perhaps more in relationshipto the blandness of Detective Lucian Lucretian Pimento’s presence rather thanany sort of casual, welcoming air he exuded. It was odd that the previous nighthe had been a dramatic, vengeful force, but in the morning light, he appeareddiminished, innocuous in the rays of the sun.

            “Crockett!” he called as the youngman entered the room. “Please, come in. Excuse the formalities of this, butit’s part of the job.”

            Slowly, Crockett crossed the room andtook a seat in the leather armchair that faced the detective. For a long momentneither man said anything. Detective Pimento’s eyes glittered with a knowing,incomprehensible sheen. Crockett eventually shifted in his chair, feeling hewas being looked through rather than at.

            “How are you, my boy?” The detectiveleaned back; the feather in his lapel shook.

            “I’m well enough,” Crockett said. “Ididn’t get much sleep.”

            “No one did. It was quite theevening.” A wry smile turned up the edges of the detective’s mouth. “It soundslike it’s been the general way of things since you’ve arrived at HawsfefferManor.”

            Crockett sighed. “It has been…forlack of a better word, chaotic. Beatrice…Poor Petrarch…”

            “Your dear master…” Detective Pimentotsked compassionately. “What a sad event.”

            “Unbelievably so,” Crockett felt hiseyes grow damp. “I thought I lost him…”

            “Hemeans a great deal to you?”

            “I would say he’s like a father tome.” Crockett quickly wiped his eyes. Self-consciously he cleared his throat.“He took me off the street. Without him, who knows where I’d be.”

            “What a wonderful story.”

            “For me, I suppose.”

            The two men again settled into apregnant silence. Pimento leaned forward; Crockett noticed his breath smelledlike an oven full of coffee beans.

            “What else should I know about you,Mr. Cook? Do you have any secrets that would bear on the case?”

            “No, sir,” Crockett's neck grewwarm. “Nothing that explains the events that have transpired in this house.”

            “But secrets that explain otherthings?”

            Crockett’s ears turned a bright red.

            Pimento laughed heartily, his headfalling backward. “My dear, boy! There is nothing to fear! I only need to hearthe facts. If you’re not guilty then there is no cause for the flush on your cheeks.”

            “I’m sorry, Detective.” Crockettwiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I’m a little unsettled. Things havebeen so muddled here. Since Petrarch and I arrived, we have seen manyoddities.”

            “Oddities?” Pimento savored thesound of the word. His tongue flicked out and flashed across his lips. “Andwhat do you think of these oddities, Mr. Cook?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Take this room, then,” thedetective said. “We’ll go piece by piece through it.”

            “Why this room?” Crockett’scaterpillar eyebrows knitted together.

            “The room with ghosts—the hauntedroom.”

            Crockett, without thinking, chuckledto himself. The séance seemed a dim memory, a bad joke. “It is,” he said. “Thatwas a very interesting morning.”

            “I’m sure. Do you have any thoughtson who played the little trick?” Detective Pimento stared intensely atCrockett.

            “To be honest,” Crockett said,delighted the conversation had become more natural, “Brontë and I have beenattempting some detective work on our own. We think it’s unrelated to the othercrimes—the other situations—I guess is more correct to say.”

            “Really?” Detective Pimento leanedforward. His eyes twinkled, almost merrily, in the warm, golden sunlight.“Unrelated?”

            “I believe it was Kordelia,”Crockett said. “She was the one who led the séance. Her gloves were found nearthe phonograph. She’s very strange, I think harmless, but it seems the type ofjoke she would play.” Crockett tapped his fingers on the desk. “I do think,however, that there was someone assisting her. I don’t think one could executethat kind of trick on their own.”

            Detective Pimento’s smile grewwider. “An admirable theory. One similar to my own. Do you have any idea of theaccomplice?”

            Crockett sat back in his chair.While he assumed the phonograph trick was a result of Kordelia and perhaps herfather looking to expedite the will reading, he still harbored his other theoryabout who truly murdered Bixby Hawsfeffer. “I’m not sure, maybe Augüst—but,as I said, I think it was done in fun. I don’t know if it matters.”

            “My dear boy,” Pimento rose.“Everything in this kind of case matters.”

            Crockett watched the detective moveto the window, the same window the bird had crashed into during