Crockettpulled the shirt tighter and patted her shoulder. “There now, all fixed, Ithink.”
“It’sa shame the doctor left after tending to the homosexual. I suppose we’ll haveto call him again.”
“Wereally should have made him a bed this weekend.”
Marthalaughed, a sound which, after hearing it, Crockett thought he’d like not tohear too often. It was an odd mixture of a foghorn and locomotive engine, amore technological version of Corinthiana’s “AWRK!”
Progressto the house was slow between the two of them. Martha was more wounded than sheinitially let on, her steps heavy and short. Her breathing came with visible effort.When they got to the tomb, Dexter was passed out. Blood still poured from hisleg; his face was an ashen gray.
“Shouldwe help him?” Crockett asked.
Marthashrugged. “Someone will later. I say we wait a bit. If we’re lucky, he’ll die.”
“You’dbe having a very lucky night, then,” Crockett said.
Martha’seye spun more quickly with joy.
Theywere on the track through the garden and to the main house when Martha stoppedand turned to Crockett.
“Wouldyou…” Martha hesitated. “Would you read me the note in your hand? I know itwill be a big family hullabaloo, but I’d like to know. When you’re the help,they never let you know. I’m the one who put it in the tomb before they sealedit—right under the carved hat like she told me to. I never read it, though; Ikept my word to her. I never expected it all to end the way it did. I only wishI heeded my own doubts and fled the house with Lucinda and Bixby Hawsfefferbefore it was too late.”
Crockettnodded, excited himself to see the words on the parchment for which he riskedhis life. There was a bit of mud on the folded paper, but it was all clearlylegible, in the same hand as the note they shared with Corinthiana only a fewdays before.
Dearest Pipsy,
It is my strongest hope thissomehow finds you. It is a wishful link in a gossamer chain that I hope spansfrom Petrarch’s desk, to the tomb, to you, who can finally know the full truth.
Your father's cousin, Bixby VonBunson, returned to England a few months ago with an American oddity in tow, aMr. Dexter Fletcher. To be sure, this new guest unsettled me from the start,his blankness a source of terror. I have never met a man who is so instantlyforgettable, himself like the impression of a dream you have upon waking.
At first arrival, nothing seemedout of the ordinary. Your father and Bixby Von Bunson got along well. Yourfather never brought up his successful scheme to kill Bixby’s father (that isanother story for another time, but you know we never really cared for your great-uncle),but, since Bixby Von Bunson had been estranged from his own family, we thoughtperhaps the feeling was all very mutual.
After a few months of ourgathering, however, Bixby’s intentions and his presence grew more malevolent.He demanded more money, more time, more power. When he first arrived, heconvinced your father to invest in an expansion of the west wing, an imitationof the American White House. Your father loved the idea, but slowly VonBunson’s claws pushed further in. He solicited outside help and had murals donein his likeness (and the likeness of the perverse Mr. Fletcher). He expandedthe plans without input from your father, putting in a secret vault, andsigning an initial agreement for an eastward expansion which included a large,gothic tower.
Over the past few weeks things haveswelled in intensity. Mr. Fletcher has grown bolder, all but outrightthreatening me in times we pass alone in the hall. He has taken to reading allepistles entering and leaving the house, perpetuating the feeling that we areliving in a jail. Bixby Von Bunson disappears for long stretches altogether.Your father, never one to ask for my counsel, asked me the best course ofaction to take. I think we need to go away, to run, but your father will nothave it. Dear Martha is the one who confessed she heard Bixby and Mr. Fletcherdiscussing in earnest whispers a plot, the details of which we have no realclarity; however, Martha stated she believes our lives are in danger.
Immediately upon hearing this, Iset my plan into motion. It was my desire to protect you, our family, and ourfortune to the best of my feminine ability. Petrarch should have the note whichwill be released upon your father’s death. I hope it guided you here. As I said,it may be a fool’s hope, but the possibility of it is enough for me to facetomorrow and its uncertainty with more alacrity than otherwise would bepossible.
At the last, I must also issue an apologyfor many things, but the one for which I’m most culpable is not taking a standagainst your father in the light of your announced homosexual proclivities.Whilst I do disagree with your inclinations strongly in the face of God andman, you are family, our only son, and I love you dearly. I hope that, should theworst happen and our fortunes are lost, this note finds you, if only for you tobe reached by my earnest apology, my deepest love, and my warmest wishes that,whatever life sets before you, you triumph knowing that I am, and will alwaysbe, proud of you.
In deepest love,
Mummy
Both Crockett's and Martha's faceswere wet with tears. The illumination of a mother’s final words to her sonleaving them in states of differing, but total, catharsis.
A preternatural calm followed thereading. Crockett took a deep breath and then gently pressed his hand intoMartha’s.
“Youknew,” he said softly. “You tried to warn them.”
“Iwas very young,” Martha said. “I admired Lucinda very much. The reason I wentto that silly séance this week was to…I know it’s absurd, but I hoped there wasa chance she would speak.” Martha shook her head, but then the hint of asmile appeared on her face.
