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

            “I,” Pimento interjected joyfully,“have found our killer. It was Crockett. That is the end of our mystery. Theend. It is over. Everyone go on to supper because I have solved it.”

            “But why would Crockett do such athing? He doesn’t have a motive, for…well, any of it.” Petrarch began toscratch his belly more fitfully.

            Brontë’s eyes briefly lit up again,but the spark quickly faded. “Petrarch,” she said, “I didn’t believe it either,but,” a silver tear loosed itself from her eye, “he admitted to trying to shootyou.”

            “Shoot me?!” Petrarch yelled. “Hewould never!” Petrarch thought briefly of the young man, his freezing, hisgeneral panic under stress. He sighed. “I suppose he has been under a bit ofduress.”

            “My dear, Petrarch,” June saidsoftly, “he did confess it. We don’t know…why…exactly…but he said…it.”

            “It was admitted by him,” Pimento saidharshly. “You can’t trust anything about him. His variegated eyes, ha! The verymark of a traitor!”

            Petrarch shook his heademphatically. “Even so! The shot was a terrible one, and Crockett couldn’t havedone the rest! I simply don’t believe it!”

            “Belief,” Kordelia said softly, “islike the foam on the sea, a passing dream of tuna fish.”

            “Darling,” June said wringing herhands, “having heard of the authorship of that play, I’d much rather you startquoting Shakespeare, or even Ben Jonson, if you must go with second-rates.”

            When Martha returned from settlingin Pip and bringing him a tray of ghost biscuits to calm his appetite, shedirected the family to the dining room for supper. Few felt inclined to eat.Corinthiana immediately returned to her chambers, surprised that, knowing thename of Beatrice’s killer, she was no less uneasy than before Pimento made hisrevelation.

            Kordelia and Brontë came to a trucein their embattled sisterhood and held hands as they walked outside to take aturn in the garden. For the first time since he had met them, Petrarch saw anaffection between the two girls, the game of points and comparisons set aside.Their very roles appeared to have exchanged as Kordelia led Brontë, the eldersister laying her head on the younger's shoulder.

            June and August stayed in thesitting room. June appeared to be in shock. Even August, his face usually ashade of red from some unnecessary rage, was pale and thoughtful, his attentionfocused on his wife.

            Petrarch, May, and Robert Edward(once returned from incarcerating Crockett) did sit down to Martha’s meal, butit was a joyless affair. May and Petrarch mindlessly shoveled food into theirmouths as Robert Edward spoke on the general untrustworthiness of the poor.

            “It is ze international truz,” hesaid sadly. “Vun cannot trust ze people vizout ze money. Zey are alvays murderingor looting. Ve should have known as soon as Crockett vas born in his poorness.”

            Outside the storm had lifted, and a handfulof sparse stars peeked through the thinning clouds. Far in the west, a thinline of red sky marked the sunset. A few birds were singing happily in thetrees, their song an odd juxtaposition to the confusion and suffering whichweighed on Brontë’s heart.

            The two sisters strolled beyond thehouse, toward the river. Although the track was thick with mud, neither of thempaid attention to the dirt splattering on their shoes. Kordelia was occupiedwith the look of distress on her sister’s face, the sister who she had alwaysbelieved could not be broken by anything or anyone. For years, as she went inand out of boarding schools and (unfortunately) burned cats, it was Brontë whoremained a pillar of constancy in their home, the one beacon of stabilityaround which the chaos of her mother, father, and grandparents turned. Shewracked her mind for something to say, some brief, warm emollient, which couldbring a smile to Brontë’s lips. Somehow, even the words of a play wereinconsequential in the intensity of the moment (even if they were writ by theirestranged half-uncle).

            Brontë was preoccupied with the(supposed) betrayal of Crockett. It was unbelievable that she had not seen, notnoticed, not conceived that he was capable of such acts. Perhaps everyone, attheir core, could do the most despicable thing when the right circumstancespresented themselves. She would resign herself to the truth of Crockett’sduplicity, but just as she came to the brink of acceptance, she would rememberhis eyes, the way he had looked at her the first time they met, the morning inthe garden, during their adventure in the vault, and the night before theincident with Petrarch. She had seen goodness; she had seen (dare she think it?)love in those green and blue orbs.

            Her thoughts swirled in this loop,denial and acceptance, as she and Kordelia strolled, arm-in-arm, farther awayfrom the house.

            It was Kordelia who eventually brokethe silence, finally deciding on something which she thought could beconsoling.

            “I know I can come off as a bitcrazy,” she said, “but I crazily think Crockett is blameless.”

            Brontë lifted her head from hersister’s shoulder.

            “You see,” continued Kordelia, “wespoke once, out here, and I think he really wanted to figure out what washappening. I told him then that I always believed the worst in everything to besurprised by the better. But,” Kordelia squeezed her sister’s hand, “I don’tthink there was the worst in Crockett. I think he was always better.”

            Brontë now turned toward her sisterand smiled. “I appreciate that, Kordelia. Thank you. I also feel like I knewhim very well, and he’s not capable of any of this. Even if he did, in a confusedfit, shoot a bullet in Petrarch’s room, he wouldn’t harm Beatrice, and I refuseto believe he had any interest in marrying me for money.”

            Kordelia sighed. “It seems to beanother twist in this strange labyrinth.” The girls stopped walking. Brontëlooked toward the sky. Kordelia crossed her arms and turned to the house. “Youknow,” she said quietly, “when I was with Crockett, I told him my fear aboutthis whole situation.”

            “And what’s that?” Brontë asked.

“Thatit’s a spirit from the past.” Her voice lost its warmth; both women shivered. “Thatit’s still not over.”

Chapter 22: Brontë at the Brink

            When Kordelia and Brontë returned tothe house, they were met with the news that Pip