“I’llrefrain from speaking about my time on the London streets, then.” Crockettsmirked.
Petrarch’s eyesparkled. “Indeed, an intelligent course to take! Now, what can you tell meabout the daughters of Corinthiana?”
“Juneand May. May has never married and was going to become a nun until unknowncircumstances arose.”
“Getthee away from a nunnery.”
Crockettlaughed.
He held a deepadmiration for Petrarch’s wit and joyful presence. It was this that drew theyoung solicitor to him when he was homeless in his early teenage years. Theymet at a fortuitous time; the thirteen-year-old Crockett, in his attempt atjoining a wild street gang, intersected with the old lawyer. He had been taskedto rob the old man as part of his initiation, but after shadowing him for a fewhours and finding him charming and disarmingly humorous, he decided to notpilfer from him, the two sharing a cup of tea instead. The old man, caring forhis sick wife, and the young Crockett, who had never had a home or family,found an immediate esprit de corps which bound them together. Crockett, alwaysmore of a lover than a fighter, gave up street shenanigans for books and began histutelage under the old solicitor.
“The other daughter,June,” the young man continued, “is the mother of two daughters, Brontë andKordelia. She is the most level-headed of the lot, married to AugustWinterbourne, who agreed to move into Hawsfeffer Manor.”
“AndAugust?” Petrarch asked.
“Lovesgoing shooting in his free time. He is also widely reputed to be boastful,arrogant, and obnoxious.”
“Welldone, my boy! I knew you had talent, but even I am still impressed by yourmemory at times.”
“Itry.” Crockett tipped his hat.
“Thereis one last matter I want you to be cognizant of during this affair. It’s notgossip, of course, but I think something to be very tactful about.” Petrarch pulledout a handkerchief to dab his brow. “I’m sorry to bring it up, but I know thata few times you have been caught by surprise and reacted rather rashly becauseof it.”
“Iam still very sorry for throwing that cat from the window,” Crockett saidsadly. “But I didn’t expect him in the office, and he did rather look like atiger.”
“I suppose after theamount of gin we had that evening, even a barstool would look like a tiger—forgiveand forget!” Petrarch gently patted Crockett on the back. “In this case, thereare no domestic feral cats, however there is a domestic secret. When I wentover the will with Master Hawsfeffer just a fortnight ago, there, shall we say,were not many things to leave to the family.”
“Youmean, perhaps, a bad investment?”
Petrarchsighed. “Many bad investments. Additionally,their wealth connection to America with Bixby Von Bunson deteriorated.”
“Youknow, I have never heard the name Bixby until you brought me onto thisparticular case.”
“Itwas common for a brief moment. I myself have four cousins named Bixby orBixbiana. You, having no family, perhaps missed having Bixby connections.”
“Veryplausible.”
“Very—but!—returningto the family, all the money is dried up. The America connection is gone, andthey have made a number of poor investments, one in a diamond mine under aFrench bakery and another in searching for the Loch Ness Monster after JohnMacleod’s sighting in 1908.”[5]
“Theyhad no help managing the money?”
“BixbyHawsfeffer was…shall we say…hard-headed. He made a plan and stuck to it,regardless of how intelligent or plausible it was.”
“Insome ways that is a trait to admire.”
“Indeed.I complimented him on it the day he was in my office.” Petrarch tried tosuppress a smile.
“So,there’s no money?”
“Allthat’s really left are physical items—the jewels, the family heirlooms, thehouse. If anyone asks you about anything in the will, we are, of course, tokeep it confidential, but tensions may rise. I’m honestly surprised the familydoesn’t know; the only staff kept in the house are the maid and groundskeeper,both, most likely, kept on due to the length of their tenure in the house. I’vealso heard rumors that the family hasn’t taken a holiday or made expendituresmore than the hiring of a roofer or cobbler in years. Either way, the family,aside from Corinthiana, appears to be in the dark about the lack of anyinheritance. Bixby took that secret with him to the bottom of the river.”
“Drowningsreally are such tragedies. There is never closure.”
“Andthis family is full of them. There was Baron Von Bunson, who mysteriously diednear the river, Bixby Hawsfeffer’s first wife, who also vanished into thewater, and now Bixby himself.”
“Perhapsthe rumors of a haunting are true. There is a long list of foreboding incidentsin this place.”
Petrarchlet out a loud, emphatic laugh. “Crockett, trust me, there is nothingsupernatural to worry you. You’re new to the eccentric-country-folk part of ourbusiness, but, more often than not in these places, you simply have a number ofodd characters with large, ugly houses. Ghosts are merely open windows;rattling chains are shaken by bored housekeepers; and the local townsfolk, headsfull of vivid images from gothic novels, impose a haunted history based entirelyon conjecture.”
Atthat moment, as if kismet, the house appeared before them. The localdescriptions of its monstrous nature were not embellished; it was clear it couldelicit a number of wild theories and stories based on its incongruous construction.In the center, the original house glowed in classical glory—large and whitewith Corinthian columns lining its entrance. The wings extending to the eastand west, however, were uneven, an odd smattering of architectural styles. Onthe west was a large brick structure that collided with what looked like a sadversion of the American White House. The east wing appeared completelyunfinished, a rickety, wooden structure leading to a large folly, the castleturret halfway completed, the brick on the top raw, and undulating like jaggedteeth.
“Youcan look and see as the money went away.” Petrarch sighed. “That woodenplankway on the east side leading to the folly was supposed to
