“Howcan you be sure?” Crockett asked.
“Hetold Grandmother ‘I’m not here for ze money.’”
“Self-explanatory.”Petrarch winked at Crockett. “And your Aunt May?”
“Shewas supposed to arrive this afternoon, but we haven’t had any word.” Brontëlooked quickly to the entrance of the room before turning back to Petrarch andlowering her voice. “To be honest…I think…”
Beforeshe could finish, August’s booming voice broke the calm. “Brontë? What are youdoing with the guests?”
Brontëraised her eyebrows at Petrarch and Crockett. “I took them away to alleviatestress for Grandmother. I was just telling them that we’re waiting for Mr.Harrington and Aunt May.”
“Fine,fine.” August entered the room, his mustache shaking irritably. “Go help yourmother in the east tower. She’s preparing the rooms for these gentlemen.”
“Father,I don’t think—”
Beforeshe could finish the thought, August’s neck swelled and his face flushed red.“I said GO! Ingrate, go!”
Brontëturned her eyes to the floor and left the room.
Crockettand Petrarch glanced quickly at each other. Crockett’s caterpillar eyebrowsknitted together in concern.
“Children!”August ranted as he crossed to the fireplace. “You pour your lifeblood intothem and then they betray you. BETRAY! Brontë is dressing like a man and Kordelia,my god, the girl barely utters anything sensical since we sent her toSwitzerland. The corrupting forces of boarding school.” He rapidly turned toCrockett. “Be glad your status as a gutterslug didn’t allow you to be corruptedin such a fashion—poverty can be a blessing.”
“Couldyou perhaps…” Crockett started.
“Ablessing!” August picked up the gun from the mantle and pointed it out of theroom, in the exact direction Brontë had exited. “Sometimes you want to brainthem.”
Slowly,he dropped the gun. His chest swelled with a large, dramatic breath. “Butthat’s only occasionally.”
Augustthen went on for the better part of a half hour comparing raising children toshooting thrush. The complex analogy never fully bore fruit.
“Andthat is, of course,” he said in summation, “why a gun is like your daughter’swedding day.”
Petrarchand Crockett nodded enthusiastically but had nothing to add. The soft tickingof a distant clock filled the quiet.
Feelingenough time had passed to transition topics, Crockett spoke. “Awwgist?”
“Augüst. Yes?”
“CouldI trouble you for water? I think both Petrarch and I could use a drink afterthe journey.”
“Thekitchen is through there,” August said, his voice returning to a calmer timbre.“Martha should be about. She can get you some refreshment. Apologies we haven’toffered anything. It’s…” he sighed heavily, “it’s been a terrible week.”
Crockettfled the room anxious to leave August's stifling presence.
The transition from thewarm pinks of the living room to the shadowy, dark-paneled corridor to thekitchen was stark. It was in this darkness, out of sight, that he took a momentto lean against the wall and reflect on their arrival. The day had been amonumental disaster, from the stuck cart, to the gunshot, to the irritableexplosion of August Winterbourne. The household appeared to be a pot,simmering, the temperature climbing higher. Even the spritely girl, Kordelia,seemed out of place in this house, a fairy light in a room full of longshadows. Brontë alone stood as if she belonged in the mansion, as if she woreher position here as strongly, as confidently, as she wore her slacks thatmorning.
Hetook a deep breath, the Hawsfeffer and Winterbourne characters dancing throughhis mind's eye.
“Whoare these people?” Crockett muttered softly to himself in the dark hall.
“Whoindeed?” A croaky voice came from the shadows. “Ask yourself who are theyreally—what are they really.”
Crockettslowly turned and saw her standing in the doorway. In the half-light she lookedeven more menacing, the glint of her spinning eye sparkling as it turned in themaid’s wrinkled face. It took all the young man’s resolve to stay upright,resisting the need to shamelessly collapse for the second time in an hour.
“Becareful in this house. It’s swallowed many a secret,” she said, spittle flyingfrom her contorted mouth. “Nothing is quite what it seems.”
Chapter 3: A Suspicion
Crockettwatched Martha drift backward, out of the hall and into the darkness of the kitchen.His heart pounded in his chest; his hands grew wet, beads of sweat forming onhis palms.
“Sorry,my dear,” a soft voice sounded behind him.
Heturned to see a beautiful, blonde woman in her autumn years smiling at him fromthe lighted doorway.
“You’llhave to forgive Martha. She gets…ominous around guests. She adds a mélange ofsupernatural charm to the house, but I can assure you that we are a veryordinary, aristocratic family with nothing to hide.”
Crockettblinked. “Thank you for that…assurance.” He leaned forward and extended hishand. “I'm Crockett Cook. I’m assisting Mr. Bluster.”
“Charmed,my dear.” The woman said grandly. “I’m June Winterbourne, the deceased Mr.Hawsfeffer’s eldest.” After gently dropping Crockett’s hand, she studied hisface. “Kordelia said you looked a bit like a destitute horse with variegatedeyes.”
“How…”Crockett searched for something candorous Petrarch may say. He finally settledon “Thoughtful.”
“Shecan be. Switzerland ruined her, but she was expelled from English schools, sowe had to do something.”
“How…thoughtful.”
“Aren’twe?”
Crockettshifted on his feet and looked toward the kitchen.
“I’msorry, dear, did I interrupt you in the middle of something?”
“Iwas just going to get a drink for myself and Mr. Bluster.”
“Ah!Yes, I’m sorry we haven’t been more hospitable. We’re not used to having guestsin the house. To be honest, Martha and Dexter have perhaps rested a bit toomuch on their laurels in the past few decades. My father preferred doingeverything himself, and there weren’t guests, so things have fallen into a bitof disrepair.”
“You’vebeen wonderful, Mrs. Winterbourne, but if you could direct me to the kitchen,I’ll prepare us something cold.”
“You’lldo none of that!” Mrs. Winterbourne bustled quickly by him. “I’ll fetch Marthaand have it brought out to you. You and Mr. Bluster should go relax on thepatio while I get refreshments.”
Thehall empty, Crockett took another moment to breathe. Something seemed—to saythe very least—off-kilter. The family was in a frantic state,
