I’m getting ready to launch the third and final book in the Beatrice series! Below you’ll find a teaser of the first chapter. If it tickles your fancy (or even your non-fancy), you can pre-order or buy here!
Enjoy!
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Chapter 1: Openings
Petrarch’s description of Brogodovia had failed to convey the true beauty of the seaside city. Crockett stood in awe of it at the exit of the metropolis’s central train terminal. Watching people pass by, he tried to fathom how they could simply go about their daily business when they were surrounded by so much splendor.
“Brontë ….” Crockett set down his suitcase and took off his bowler. He felt obligated to show reverence. “What is this place?”
Brontë lifted her eyes from her current book. It was a manual on detective work (this one focused on the importance of eyebrows in revealing malfeasance). When she gazed upon the view for the first time, her mouth fell open and a soft, breathy sigh escaped her lips.
“My word, Crockett,” she said. “It’s a fairy tale.”
The city was covered in a sparkling sheen of opalescent beauty. White towers reflected the morning sunlight and flared out in fleeting rainbows. Men in ivory overalls swept the cobblestone road and emptied out trash from sculpted cans placed every few feet along the sidewalk. Multi-colored banners were strung across the street illustrating a golden crown and a striking bird.
“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Crockett pulled his gaze away from the city and looked at his wife. Their awe gave way to joy as they reached out and took hands, admiring the view together.
Framed as they were in the arched entry of the train station, they could have been the subject of a painting: Adequately Handsome Couple upon Arrival. Brontë wore a pressed white blouse and starched trousers. Her brown hair was twisted up in a bun, giving her the look of an explorer ready to set sail on a new expedition. Crockett looked both more formal and more child-like. He wore a brown suit which hung loosely on his thin frame. The cool breeze from the sea caused his mop of brown hair to whip erratically, falling over his two-toned eyes—one of which was green, the other blue.
“Oh!” He pointed to an elegant façade down the road. “Look at that church!”
He indicated a massive gothic building which rose high above the others. It was yet too early for the Sunday services, but a few excited nuns milled outside on the street. At the building’s highest point, an angel soared above the tallest spire, peering down on the world below with a look that could be read as either magnanimity or disdain.
Brontë’s eyes, however, did not follow her husband’s upward. She perused the streets, where, aside from the glittering buildings, she saw many seedy characters watching them from alleys and corners.
“I feel this place has two faces, Crockett,” she said. Her eyes were on a young woman with an eye patch who was jeering at a passer-by. “We should be cautious.”
At that moment, Crockett felt someone bump into him. He turned and saw a tiny old woman with a beaming smile.
“Oh, hello!” she exclaimed. “Have you just arrived?”
“Indeed.” Crockett smiled. “We have come from England.” He bowed politely and then indicated Brontë next to him. “This is my wife.”
Brontë pursed her lips. “Hello,” she said curtly. While the old woman looked pleasant enough, something in her eyebrows indicated she was not greeting them out of kindness.
“Well”—the old woman rubbed her gnarled hands together—“I hope you enjoy our fair city. There is much to see!” She tottered off, waving good-bye.
Crockett returned the wave and then hugged Brontë. “See, darling! The people are as shining as the city.”
“I don’t know,” Brontë said. “I feel that something is off here. I hope this dread goes away once we get away from the train.”
“It’s nothing to worry about. But we will get you away from here if that’s what you want. Let me just get some money for a cab.” He reached into his jacket to get his wallet. He laughed as his fingers began digging into his pocket. “We’ve successfully traded places. Remember how terrified I was when we got to Praktisch—” His laughter abruptly stopped; his face grew pale. “Where is my—” He patted down his coat frantically. When this proved unsuccessful, he dug into his trouser pockets, then leaned down to get into his suitcase.
But there was no longer a suitcase to search.
“Oh dear,” he said.
Brontë joined the hunt, but it was not for the bag itself. She looked behind them and saw the old woman and a child wearing a beat-up top hat rooting through Crockett’s suitcase.
“I knew it.” Her voice lowered. “Crockett … that old woman nabbed it.”
Crockett spun and saw the pair of thieves. “Well! I’ll go and get it back—”
He took one step forward before he saw something which shattered his plan. A tall, burly man emerged from the shadows and patted the old woman on the back. She handed him the wad of cash which had been in Crockett’s wallet.
“Oh no ….”
Brontë gripped Crockett’s hand. She gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“I have some money. Let’s get a cab to Petrarch’s. We should use more caution going forward.”
“I suppose so ….” Crockett gazed longingly at his stolen suitcase. The child saw him looking over. The boy laughed and mocked him by tipping his top hat.
“Well, I never,” Crockett said. “Two faces is right, Brontë. Even the children need to be watched.”
Brontë waved to a carriage close to them. The driver nodded and pulled closer.
“A failure which comes with a lesson is no failure at all,” she said. “We now know to watch out for children, old women, and, less surprisingly, massive muscular men who hide in the shadows.”
Despite the theft, Crockett could not resist taking one more appreciative look at the city around them. He smiled up at the angel on the cathedral and gave the statue a solemn salute.
#
“My word!” Petrarch laughed. “A child and a grandmother. Indeed, I should have warned you things are a bit dodgy around the train station.”
Crockett and Brontë were seated across from Petrarch in his new sitting room. Despite his short tenure in Brogodovia, the space was already beautifully decorated. Paintings of the English countryside were spaced around the walls, and thick carpets and draperies gave the room a cozy, pleasant air. Brontë leaned from her seat to peer out the window at the bustling street below. Now that it was later in the morning, the scene was livelier. Vendors, barkers, and various businessmen were rushing to and fro across the cobblestone road.
Crockett’s attention was warmly fixed on his old mentor. They had been separated for weeks while they both prepared to move to Brogodovia from England. In the past decade, they had rarely been apart. Even though Brontë had been by his side for the entire duration of their move, he had still felt a longing for his old friend—his words of wisdom and his contagious laugh had been dearly missed.
“Regardless,” Crockett said, “even if we were robbed, it was nice they pilfered us in English. I didn’t know if we’d struggle with language here.”
“Ah!” Petrarch winked. “Brogodovians sit at the center of many continental trade routes. As a result, most are tri- or even quadrilingual.”
“Oh,” Crockett looked at Brontë nervously. “I hope they all have good doctors then.”
Neither Brontë nor Petrarch had time to correct Crockett’s misunderstanding, as Petrarch’s new wife, Greta, bustled loudly into the room.
“You two should know better!” She stamped toward a table behind Petrarch to serve tea. “You ran off that train like moronic children. They should act more intelligently, Petrarch.” She patted her new husband lightly on the head whilst staring daggers at Brontë and Crockett. “These two need to sharpen up and be less British bumpkin, if they want to succeed here.”
Crockett blushed. “I suppose we do have much to learn. Even growing up on the London streets, I wasn’t prepared for treacherous grandmothers.”
“No one is, my boy.” Petrarch looked as if he were going to continue, but he began to cough.
“And you, dear, need to keep the windows closed,” Greta scolded. “I believe the city soot is getting caught in your windpipe.”
Petrarch ceased coughing. He sighed heavily. “I suppose so. This cough has been horrendous since we arrived, and I’ve been very tired.”
“Some rest and relaxation will do you good.” Crockett reached over and gripped the old man’s hand. “Now that you’re settled, the malady will correct itself swiftly. You’ve had a very busy few weeks with the move and the wedding.”
Brontë also wanted to say something comforting, but Petrarch’s pale countenance was worrisome. She felt a plucky retort would be dishonest. Instead, she changed the subject. “Where did you say we will be staying, Petrarch?”
The old man beamed. “We found a small apartment very close to us.”
“But don’t become nuisances,” Greta barked. “I play whist on Wednesdays, so I don’t want you dropping by then.”
“We can avoid that.” Crockett suppressed a smile. He caught Brontë’s gaze and winked. “We won’t show up uninvited.”
“The least you could do,” Greta said. “And Brogodovia has a new telephone system. Ring us before charging over like Spanish bulls.”
“Telephones!” Brontë’s eyes lit up. “This city is full of surprises.”
“Telephone or not, I say you are welcome at all hours!” Petrarch chuckled. “When you begin working with Detective Malak, we will probably have to engage in some intense deliberations at all times of day. I have all my thinking pipes laid out in the study.”
“That will be the most intelligent room in Brogodovia,” Brontë said.
“Perhaps in continental Europe!” Crockett added.
Petrarch’s pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Well, you’ll begin work tomorrow morning, and we’ll see how intelligent the room is.” He reached to his side and into a small attaché case. He pulled out a bundle of papers. “Detective Malak handed these over to me yesterday. It’s a sampling of some of the work they are doing.”
Crockett took the pile. He handed half of it to Brontë.
“My word, Petrarch.” Crockett blanched. Three of the first five cases were murders. “This detective has his work cut out for him.”
“I don’t like talking about these things in the formal sitting room.” Greta had finished setting up the tea service. She smoothed her dress. “And it may aggravate Petrarch’s cough.”
“Nonsense! Every sitting room could do with a little talk of murder.” He laughed and reached out to grip Greta’s hand. “And to answer your previous question, yes, Detective Malak does indeed have his work cut out for him. And you will too! He is rather desperate for people to help. It’s why he was thrilled I said I had two amateur detectives in tow.”
“We’ve been studying very assiduously, Petrarch.” Brontë continued to thumb through the case files. She grimaced upon seeing a photograph in one. “Oh my. Killed with a bathtub! How does one get murdered with a bathtub?”
“Bathrooms are often crime scenes, my dear,” Petrarch said. “When we were leaving London, one of our neighbors was killed with an entire water closet. Ghastly business.”
Brontë looked at Crockett. Between this new information and the earlier robbery, she wondered if the abrupt decision to move to Brogodovia was ill-advised.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the jangling of the telephone. Petrarch, caught in another sudden coughing fit, squeezed Greta’s hand and mimed for her to pick up the receiver. She crossed the room and answered.
“Hello,” she said sharply. “Yes? Detective Malak? He’s right here.”
Petrarch sipped his tea and composed himself. He rose and took the phone from his wife.
“Yes?” He settled the receiver to his ear. “Oh dear. No mistaking that.” He looked over at Brontë and Crockett. “Yes. They’ve just arrived. I think they’d be very much interested. We’ll head that way. Outside of town? Good. We’ll look for him. Thank you.”
Petrarch set down the phone and turned to Greta. She raised her eyebrow.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Another one. Same circumstances as last week.”
“Where?”
“This one in a remote location, in the countryside.”
Greta tsked. She looked over at Crockett and Brontë. “You two have arrived at an interesting time.”
“Another bathtub?” Brontë asked.
“Not quite.” Petrarch walked near the window and looked out. He folded his hands behind his back. “It’s, well ….” He turned and shook his head. “I can’t say anything yet, but we may have a killer who is … making a kind of pattern.
Brontë’s eyebrows rose. “A pattern? One person has committed multiple murders?”
“Like the Ripper.” Crockett tried to suppress the shaking of his hands.
“Very similar,” Greta said. She pursed her lips. There was a chilled silence before she added: “He steals their hearts.”
“Steals them?” Brontë felt her face flush with excitement. “How does he …?”
“Well, my dear,” Petrarch said, “you’ll find out very soon. You can leave your bags … err” —he chuckled at Crockett—“non-stolen bags here. One of Detective Malak’s men will be here shortly to pick us up and take us out to the crime scene.” The old man crossed the room and opened a small cabinet. He took out a bottle of gin and three glasses. “We’ll each take a drink. Trust me; you’ll need it for what we are about to see.”
Crockett reached out and took Brontë’s hand.
Petrarch poured the three drinks and raised one of them to his young friends. “Welcome to Brogodovia!” he said. “The game has begun.”