“Onlyforty-three?” Brontë asked.
Mrs.Winterbourne refused to let Kordelia go; the youngest daughter then gave up herresistance and sat lifelessly in her mother’s embrace. “You see!” Mrs.Winterbourne called to Crockett. “It’s the Swiss-German influence, thiscoldness. Before Switzerland she was so much more affectionate.”
“Andan arsonist,” Brontë said.
“Thatwas the largest reason for the deficit,” Kordelia said matter-of-factly.“Halitosis was a close second.”
“Arsonist?”Crockett squeaked the question.
“Ithink witch is more apt.” Kordelia finally pulled free of June’s grasp with asudden movement. “I’d gotten into one of Grandmummy’s superstition books andwas trying to summon the ghost of a boy whom I’d had some affection for, onewho died of tuberculosis. It was just a children’s game, but it was duringMichaelmas term and when our dormitory cat went up in flames[8]and carried them into a dry bush, things escalated.”
“Asthey do,” Mrs. Winterbourne said quickly. “The headmaster was not asunderstanding as we would have liked.”
“AndI couldn’t quite articulate what had happened, another reason for the deficitbetween myself and my elder sister,” she said quickly, “so I ended up inSwitzerland.”
Crockettlooked between them, unsure what the reaction to the family yarn should be. Themoment of awkwardness was broken by August Winterbourne peeking his head outfrom inside the house.
“Darling,”he said, “Petrarch is settled. Do you want to take the necessitous lad to his room?I’d do it myself, but your mother gave me the vault key and wants me to go downand bring some things up for the impending funeral.”
“Ofcourse, my duck.”
August’splump face disappeared from the doorway with a faint flutter of his mustache.
“Wellthen, Crockett, let’s get you settled in.”
#
Crockett’squarters resembled one of the many flophouses he frequented as a child. Once itmay have been a grand place, but in the present, it was a ramshackle assortmentof broken furniture, damp rugs, and drafty windows. His view of the housegrounds consisted of a dusty vantage point overlooking a number of dead orhalf-alive trees in the side garden.
Petrarch’s room wasbetter—there were no holes in the windows and velvet drapes flanked the glass.He also had a large, comfortable feather bed to relax into at the end of theday. Crockett had only a bed that sagged heavily in the middle, which stoodbeneath a dripping roof. The stained divan in the corner, quickly displaced itas the location where he would sleep. It smelled of livestock, but at least itdidn't have a pool of water in its center.
“Thisshould be something someone from your caste will enjoy,” Mrs. Winterbourne said,kicking an old newspaper to the side. “If you need anything, you can always askMartha.”
Sincethere was not much to do in the way of getting comfortable, Crockett changedout of his muddy clothes and set aside his hat for safekeeping. To refreshhimself, he washed his face in a basin full of dun-colored water. He then wentto visit Petrarch and discuss the mysterious conversation he had with Brontë.
Whenhe entered Petrarch’s room, the old man was stripped down to his undergarments,doing calisthenics in the middle of the room.
“Keepinglimber, Petrarch?”
“Always,my boy.” The old man tipped to his left side; his arm extended in a crescentover his head. “After I made sure all my things were whole after our topple inthe mud—you’ll be very happy to know my thinking pipe is in top condition!—Iwent immediately to my exercises. One must make sure the body stays as agile asthe mind. I may look like a sphere, but I roll like a ball!”
“Didthe late Mr. Hawsfeffer keep himself fit as well?” Crockett asked.
“Hedid, indeed,” Petrarch said, his breath growing a bit shorter. “We often talkedabout our exercise regimen. You know Bixby ran a mile every day around thegrounds. In a suit. He always kept things very decorous.”
“That’svery interesting.”
“Iwouldn’t say very, dear boy. Many menof the upper class take to exercising in their Sunday best. Mr. Gerald inLondon swims every morning in his wedding formals.”
“Now,relatively, that is far moreinteresting.”
Petrarchwinked at his protégé as he bent over, his protruding belly hindering him fromdipping too low to the ground.
“Doyou think it odd, Petrarch, that Bixby drowned? He seems to have been in verygood shape…”
Petrarchlifted slightly. “My boy, even men in the best shape, once they get to be myage, are prone to accidents. Bixby Hawsfeffer was a very excitable man. When Ifirst heard that he had died, I thought it may have been an issue with hisheart.”
Crockettnodded gravely. “You can’t swim if your heart goes out, even if you’re the bestswimmer in the world.” He thought for a moment, the bizarre past of the familyemerging to the forefront of his consciousness. “It’s so odd about the river;it’s swallowed so many of the family.”
“Hmmm.”Petrarch remained leaned over, his voice a slight grunt. “There does seem to bea malevolent force in the house with the power to expel things from insideitself. But,” Petrarch lifted up before dipping back down over his toes, “Iassure you Crockett, it’s nothing supernatural or out of the ordinary for theseupper classes. I once worked for a family that had a narrow attic stair thatkilled the maid, the matriarch, and several dozen rats. People were quick toblame specters, but it was simply shoddy carpentry.”[9]
“Isuppose if you have a lot of money you can be as eccentric and reckless as youlike.” Crockett shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think I’ll ever quite get usedto monied people.”
“They’revery unpredictable. Indeed, when Bixby visited me in my office he was in a veryodd, excitable state.”
“Really?”Crockett unwittingly took a step forward. “Why?”
Petrarchlifted himself up. His eyes twinkled. “Crockett, you’re letting yourimagination run away with you. It was family business that had him upset, not afear of murder or a diabolical plot. Trust me, when you’ve been a solicitor aslong as I have, you know the ordinary from the extraordinary, and this was anumber of very ordinary concerns. The house
