Page 21 of When 're Silent

“Another piece connected toacting,” Amelia said quietly, her analytical mind seemingly piecing togetherthe implications.

“All of this seems to be connectedto Richard III as a play,” Finn’s response was cryptic even to his ears. Yet hecould not shake the feeling that they were being drawn deeper into a mazeconstructed long before their own lifetimes had begun. The note in his hand wasa guidepost, one that pointed down a path shrouded in menace and mystery.

As he folded the note, tucking itcarefully into his pocket, Finn knew that their investigation had just taken aturn into the obscure corridors of history. They were no longer merely huntinga murderer; they were excavating the secrets of the dead, hoping to findanswers among the echoes of silent screams and ancient bloodlines.

“Why did he use an older form ofEnglish?” Finn mused out loud.

“Because he’s trying to show howsmart he is,” Amelia answered.

“Maybe,” Finn sighed. “Or maybe hejust wants to be dramatic.”

“I think he varies things,” Ameliaanswered. “He’s doing that deliberately to put us off.”

Finn’s attention was now caught byrows upon rows of nearby books. “That’s some collection.”

“My late husband’s.”

Finn’s eyes roamed over the highshelves and dark wood paneling of Lady Agatha’s library. The scent of oldleather and the faint mustiness of paper filled his nostrils as he searched forsomething, anything, that might serve as a clue. He half hoped to stumble upona family secret that would point to the killer, like the old horror storiesfrom the 20s he often read as a kid. Amelia was similarly engaged, her gazesharp as she perused the book titles and examined ornate objects with care.

But there was nothing to be found.

“If that’s all,” Lady Agatha said,looking tired. “I would like some privacy now.”

“Let’s wrap it up,” Finn said,scanning the last shelf before him. His hand lingered on the spine of a bookabout the Wars of the Roses, feeling the grooves of the embossed fabric. Hewithdrew it, flipped through the pages out of habit, and then replaced it witha sense of finality. They had exhausted their search within the dim confines ofthe rectory and come up empty-handed.

“Thank you for your time, LadyAgatha,” Amelia said.

“I’ll show you out myself,” theelderly lady smiled, wearily.

Leaving the library behind, theytraversed the creaking hallways one last time. Finn noted the portraits liningthe walls, their solemn faces watching over them in silent judgment. There wasa whisper of the past here that clung to the air like cobwebs; it was tangibleyet elusive, hiding its secrets well.

“Thank you for your hospitality,Lady Agatha,” Finn said as they reached the front door. Her nod was brief, amere dip of her chin, as if she too were weighed down by the knowledge thattheir visit had stirred more shadows than light.

“Take care,” Amelia added, offeringa small smile that seemed out of place in the gloom of the hallway. LadyAgatha’s hand lifted in farewell, the jewels at her throat catching the waningdaylight as the door closed behind the detectives.

***

The drive back to Hertfordshire HQwas quiet, the weight of unanswered questions filling the car like a thirdpassenger. Finn gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, while Amelia satbeside him, her fingers tapping against the open case file in her lap. Thescript from Dominique’s package lay atop the other papers, its edges curlingslightly.

“Anything from Agatha’s reactionsstrike you as off?” Finn asked, breaking the silence. His gaze remained fixedon the road ahead, leaving the periphery of his vision to capture Amelia’sresponse.

“Other than her obvious dismay atthat note? Not overtly,” Amelia considered, biting her lip thoughtfully. “Butthere was a hesitance when we mentioned the anonymous calls. As if she knewmore than what she let on.”

“Could be family secrets,” Finnmused, adjusting his rear-view mirror. “Plantagenets have skeletons aplenty intheir closets, no doubt. But none that seem to want to dance with us.”

“Or we’re not playing the righttune,” Amelia countered, leaning back against the headrest. “Dominique’s fears,the play script, the note... It’s all connected somehow. I just can’t shake thefeeling that we’re missing a crucial piece.”

“Or someone’s deliberatelymisplacing it for us,” Finn said, his tone grim. “Max Vilne wouldn’t hesitateto make this as convoluted as possible if he were the puppet master.”

“He’s nothing to do with this,Finn,” Amelia said, gently patting his arm. “We need to stay focused on thecase at hand.” Amelia’s determination was palpable, her eyes reflecting thestreetlights as dusk settled around them.

“Agreed,” Finn replied, feeling thefamiliar stir of resolve within him. “I’ll spend some time looking over Richardthe Third. I’ve read it before, but there seems to be some connection. We mightget lucky with something the killer has used from it.”

Finn pressed the accelerator,urging the car through the snarl of London traffic with a deftness born ofyears on these streets. The day’s fading light cast long shadows across thedashboard, mirroring the darkening of his thoughts. They had combed Lady Agatha’shome with precision, turning over memories and minutiae alike, yet each clueseemed to only burrow deeper into obscurity.

“Crossroads,” he muttered under hisbreath, eyes scanning the horizon where city met sky—a junction of ends andbeginnings.

“Sorry?” Amelia glanced over, herprofile outlined against the backdrop of the passing cityscape.

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