Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe by Tedd Hawks

Author:Tedd Hawks [Hawks, Tedd]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2021-03-18T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16: Detective Lucian Lucretian Pimento

Even with the history of murders, eviscerations, entrapments, and drownings, the fear of Petrarch's demise filled the house with a different kind of tense, raw emotion. The scene resembled that of a pietà, only in lieu of a beatific Mary and a sinewy Christ, at the center of this tableau was a gaunt, variegated-eyed Crockett holding the rotund Petrarch. The supporting cast flanked him in various stages of grief, shock, or (for Kordelia, holding her glove) a kind of alarmed sleepiness.

It was Robert Edward who broke the ominous silence. He noted, in all the chaos, that one of the telltale signs of death was absent.

“Zere’s no blood,” he said, the beginning of a smile creeping over his face.

“Perhaps he was too old to have any,” said Kordelia quietly.

“It’s not the blood,” Crockett said. “His…heart…I think the shock…”

But as if on cue, Petrarch pulled in a deep breath of air. The sudden movement caused Crockett to jump, throwing the old man, his head colliding with the side of his bed.

Everyone gathered gasped. The sound of his head hitting the wooden bed legs cracked nearly as loud as the gun.

Crockett flailed wildly, leaning over the old man and shaking him.

“Petrarch! Oh, no…Oh, Petrarch!”

“My necessitous friend!” August shuffled forward. “Let me try. My great-grandfather was a physician. Or knew a physician. Either way, I should be able to help.”

Crockett stepped aside so August could lean over the body. He gently caressed his face and called Petrarch’s name softly.

“Petrarch? Petrarch, old boy, are you all right?” He gave the passed-out man a moment to respond, before urgently raising his arm and slapping him so fiercely across the cheek that Corinthiana screamed.

“AWWWRRRRKKKKKK!!”

Brontë shoved him off and fell over Petrarch like a mother hen on her endangered chick. Her eyes were wild as she glanced between Crockett and her father. “What is wrong with you both? Let him have some air!” She turned to Martha who was standing just out of sight, concealed in a shadow thrown by the lamplight. “Martha, can you get some water, please? Robert,” she turned to her cousin, “help me lift him onto the bed.”

The two did their best to lift Petrarch’s girth upward, but, at the last moment, failed miserably, his circular body crashing downward, a second great crack of his head on the bed frame resounding throughout the quiet room.

“Perhaps,” Kordelia said dreamily, “we leave him as he is. If we help him too much more even the Danube Mob won’t be able to set him right.”

They compromised by taking the heavy blanket from the bed and placing it over the solicitor. Brontë took a pillow and laid it gently under his head. At this point, a large bump was forming from the first crack, accompanied by a deep purple bruise near his eye where Brontë and Robert had dropped him on their second attempt at aid.

Silence followed as they stared down at him, unsure whether he was dead. They partly wondered if they could all be guilty of murder for the many bumps and bruises they collectively inflicted.

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