Sincerely,
Tedd Hawks
A Note on the Note about the Author’s Note
2 January 2021
Reader,
Thecomplexity of the given case makes it important to mention that the H—— and W——family, upon discovering that their story was going to be published so manyyears after the initial crimes were committed, have reneged upon their firstrequest for anonymity. At this point in time, they are grateful for anyattention or publicity sent their way.
Theykindly asked for their real names to be restored to the text, which ispresented before you as the Hawsfeffer and Winterbourne families. The heiressof what little fortune remains, Ms. Kinzay Sprout née Winterbourne, also asksthat you follow her Instagram @badgrrlKinzay47.
Sincerely,
Herman Schloop, Esq.
Prologue: The Complex History of theHawsfeffers
Hawsfeffer Manor sitsin stately, smug assurance at the edge of the Tiddlymouth River. The house wasbuilt in the middle of the nineteenth century, the great Baron Von Bunsonconstructing it for his new wife, the sickly and pale Gladys. The two had onlyone child, Bixby, who chose to move to America rather than keep the grounds andheritage of his family. The estate then fell to his cousin Bixby Hawsfeffer (theauthor apologizes, there are several Bixbys, but the name was the rage of thetime), who would make it his family home.
Itis important to note that the fate of Baron Von Bunson is the subject of muchlocal myth. After Gladys’ death and his own late-life ailments, he turned overhis estate to Bixby Hawsfeffer, who, local rumor conjects, kept his unclelocked in the attic until the poor man’s death. To this day there are legendsthat the ghost of Baron Von Bunson roams the grounds at night. It is a commonpastime for youths from the area to set up a camp at the edge of theTiddlymouth and see if the Baron’s ghost flits over the surface of the waterduring the midnight hour. Many have claimed to have seen him floating over the waves,singing an old German nursery rhyme, which roughly translates to “Duck Man of theOld Hat.”[1]
BixbyHawsfeffer made the most of his uncle’s fortune, investing in ventures inAmerica via his cousin, Bixby Von Bunson, who went into the American West. Goldwas struck and both Bixbys reaped the benefits. Hawsfeffer Manor went from a ten-room,two-story mansion to a twenty-room, double-winged monstrosity. The localslooked on in wonder as the once subtle, stately home turned into “anAmericanized terror.” All over the house, Bixby Hawsfeffer put Western-themedmemorabilia, inspired by the stories told by his American ex-patriot cousinBixby Von Bunson during Von Bunson’s visit back to the Hawsfeffer estate in 1869.The ballroom is still decorated with murals of cowboys, Indians, and coveredwagons.
TheHawsfeffer family went from condescended-upon middle class to egregiouslypompous upper class in a matter of months. With the new money, Bixby’s sonBixby, Jr. (another Bixby, yes; for the sake of the reader, however, this Bixbyshall be referred to by his childhood nickname, “Pip”) was sent to a privateschool in France, where he took a liking to powdered wigs and other men.Shortly after this disgrace came out to the family, Bixby the elder’s wife,Lucinda, passed away. The countryside was filled with gossip on whether shetook her own life, died by accident, or was murdered. She vanished into the riverjust as the Baron had many years before. Local children are also said to campat the river to watch for her ghost, who sings a beautiful harmony of “Duck Manof the Old Hat” with Baron Von Bunson.
Ourstory centers on Bixby Hawsfeffer, who received the manor and estate (not hisson, the homosexual French Pip-Bixby, or his cousin, the American ex-patriated BixbyVon Bunson). His eldest daughter (from his second wife, Corinthiana, whom hemarried after Lucinda’s death), June Hawsfeffer, stayed in the mansion with hermother and father into her adulthood. In the spring of 1887, she marriedanother local, landed gentleman, Mr. August Winterbourne, who agreed to cedehis less monstrous mansion to live on his wife’s family’s estate. They had twodaughters, Brontë and Kordelia, who were raised as best they could be, despitethe disappearances, ghostly harmonies, and general malfeasance manifest in thehouse.
Ourstory begins at the foot of this gnarled family tree, its branches so twistedit’s difficult to tell a Hawsfeffer from a Von Bunson from a Winterbourne.
Afterthe remodeling of the family home, the death of Lucinda, and the birth of thetwo girls, the Hawsfeffers lived in relative ease. There were no new tragediesand no additional German nursery rhymes sung by ghosts on the edge of the river.
Butin 1912, the patriarch, Bixby Hawsfeffer, died, leaving his will and hisgrief-stricken second wife, Corinthiana, to deal with his entombment. There wasno body, the elder Bixby having lost his balance and plunged into theTiddlymouth River.[2]The river itself is a tributary to the nearby Blustenwich River, which eventuallyleads farther out to the deeper and bluer waters of the English Channel. Thehope of ever finding his body was gone when Corinthiana sat down at her smallsecretary and began writing notes, the first to her solicitor, PetrarchBluster, the second to her youngest, childless daughter, May. A third letterwas sent late the same day, the contents a mystery to all, even to the oldmaid, Martha, who slipped out in the middle of the night to post it under thecover of darkness.
Thisis all very confusing but necessary information. The author humbly suggests ifone has questions as to the lineage of the Hawsfeffers or the number of Bixbys,they please direct their inquiries to the character list at the beginning ofthis text.
Inmost cases a cliffhanger of sorts would now be suspended before the reader tokeep momentum into the next chapter, but after ghosts, two possible murders, correspondencedelivered under the cover of night, and several drownings, it may be best toleave just a moment of solace before moving into the horrific details of thedeath which is the subject of this novel.
Chapter 1: The Solicitor and His Assistant
The carriage was stucka mile from Hawsfeffer Manor. Petrarch Bluster, not yet having emerged from theinterior of the coach, was already slick with sweat—neat, fat droplets coveringhis large, moon-like face. Beads of perspiration had accumulated
