He had been correct inhis assumption of movement. Crockett did make the slightest of noises, inadvertentlydigging his hands into the dirt at the mention of Brontë’s name. All schemes ofescape ceased as his thoughts turned to Bixby’s speech, the possibility that Brontëwas tethered to him in some miraculous way, across class and boundaries oftitles.
Bixbyshivered with anticipation as he continued. He was sure the slight stirring inthe dark had been the turn of the tide in his direction. “She saved you!Against all odds, she went into the darkness of the vault and set you free forthis final confrontation. Neither of us could have imagined that sudden burstof action.” Bixby gained momentum. He continued earnestly. “And imagine the joyPetrarch will feel when he sees you returning, triumphantly, with Lucinda’snote in your hands. He said you were ‘the brightest young man in London,’ andthis will only prove it irrevocably. I think when you return home you canexpect a very large raise in salary.” Bixby smiled to himself, sure the youngman was entranced. “All thoughts of your attempt on his life and the subsequenthead injuries will be forgotten. How could he hold you accountable when you’vewon the prize? I would say the sacrifices were well worth the joy of seeing youexpose such a grand revelation.”
Crockettclosed his eyes blocking out the light of the stars. He had never intended toharm Petrarch. The old solicitor knew how much he meant to him—if all wererevealed and he exposed the mystery, would this frightful week and its eventsbe forgotten?
“Weall make mistakes, Crockett.” Bixby’s eyes flowed through the darkness lookingfor any indication of the young man’s presence in the tall grasses. He had madethree full trips down the bank. Whether he exposed Crockett by convincing himto come to him or by finding him hiding in the grass, he would soon bevictorious. “I’ve made my share of them, and, through you, I hope to make someamends. Come with me into the house. Allow me my own confession. My family maylose their reputation, but at least give me my honor back. Allow me to speakand clear the air—I’ll tell them everything.”
Bixbythen heard a slight rustle, not the wind, but the sound of a body moving in thebrush. He was not sure where it was, but he had its attention. His voice rosein pitch as he charged forward; it was difficult to suppress the joy creepinginto his words. His pace wading through the tall grass quickened.
“Honor,dear boy,” he said. “We often think others have not earned it. You must know—growingup in the streets, stealing to get by, no education. But you have won it now.You have done what you needed to do to solve the case, restore peace to myfamily, and make amends with your mentor, and,” he took a deep breath, “win theheart of my beautiful granddaughter.”
Crockett’seyes opened. He lifted up slightly and rested on his knees. He was on the vergeof standing upright, moments from raising his hands in the air to submit to theold murderer. Bixby sounded genuine in his desire to be restored to his family.If Crockett began the reparations, could he earn the hand of Brontë in theprocess?
“Come into the house with me and let them bothadmire you, Petrarch and my granddaughter.” Maniacal glee dripped from Bixby’ssoft voice; Crockett was too distracted to hear the threat. “They’ll be soproud, Crockett. Euphoric.”
Crockettrose.
He had been lying onlya few feet away, concealed in the brush and shadows. Bixby saw his multicoloredeyes shine in the dark. The young man’s face was peaceful, almost angelic.Bixby's eyes flicked to the piece of paper held in Crockett’s fist. The killerwas sure there was still a way to make it all work out. He could kill Crockett,finish Martha, and put them in alignment. Who would doubt that the senile oldmaid wasn’t behind the murder? She could be Crockett’s accomplice.
Bixbyraised the gun. The expression of calm in Crockett’s face fled. His eyes widened.
“Nevertrust an actor, dear boy,” Bixby said.
Theold man pulled back the hammer.
But,at that moment, whether sent from some divine being or a magical interventionfrom the Danube Mob, there was a gust of dramatic wind.
HadBixby been less garish, less obvious with his theatricality, the cape wouldn’thave been problematic. But in the sudden rush of air, it lifted and sweptacross his line of sight. Already a bad shot, the old man fired up and into thedark, his penultimate bullet lost in the night. The gun roared as he toppled tothe ground.
Crocketthesitated as he watched the old man writhe in his costume. He remembered hisold days in the street gang, his avoidance of all roughhousing and fighting.Petrarch was his escape from the pugilistic lifestyle of the streets. The lifeof a solicitor's assistance freed him of the wild, untamed underworld ofLondon. But as Bixby screamed and twisted in the fabric, he knew his time wasshort. He must be the brute or face the terror of the old thespian again.
Heleapt onto Bixby and attempted to hold the man down. Bixby was still covered inthe cape, unable to see, but he thrashed wildly.
“Getoff me you contemptible, impoverished—”
Bixbybucked and threw Crockett to the side. Lucinda’s note fluttered out of his hand.For a moment, Crockett’s heart nearly burst out of his chest in fear. Theepistle hovered, just out of his reach, like a white moth flapping through thedark. Clutching maniacally, he was able to pull it back toward him. Theconfusion gave Bixby time to right himself. The cape swirled backwards, and theold patriarch turned the barrel of his gun on Crockett.
Crockettthrew his hands up, the note clenched tightly.
“Giveit to me,” Bixby’s voice was feral. “This idiocy ends now.”
Crockettstuttered. “It’s…don’t do it! It’s…your legacy! Your family!”
Bixby,mad with rage, reached out hungrily for the note. He again lost his balance;Crockett used the opening to
