Page 32 of When 're Silent

“No, silly,” she said. “Robert theBruce was King of Scotland hundreds of years ago. He fought an extensive waragainst English rule and set in motion Scotland’s independence, which lasteduntil the early 1700s. He was sometimes referred to as De Bruce.”

“A king?” Finn rubbed his chin. Heturned and looked at Jillian’s still body on the floor. A theory was bubblingaway. Amelia could clearly see it.

“You’ve got something, don’t you?”Amelia asked.

“A severe case of the handsomes,”Finn said, excitedly, “but also a theory. Rebecca Hanover, we know she wasrelated to royalty and nearly gave up her birthright. Dominique Plantagenet, wethought their connection was working in the theater, but we did mention theroyal connection… Didn’t you say that Plantagenet was the name of a king?”

“That’s right,” Amelia nodded.“They originated on the continent, but they were essentially the royal familyin England from the 1100s until the 1400s. Come to think of it, Richard thethird was a Plantagenet I think.”

“And Robert De Bruce was king ofScotland!” Finn said with verve. “Hanover. Plantagenet. Bruce. All kings orqueens. Our killer has a theme.” He stood slowly, his body tense with therealization. “The death of monarchs. It’s not just random royals. Hanover,Plantagenet, now Bruce—names steeped in history, tied to thrones and power.”

“Talk about having a type,” Ameliasaid, half-joking. But Finn was not smiling. This was the work of someoneobsessed, someone whose vision was painted in shades of blood and glory.

"Means and opportunityaside," Finn pondered aloud, "I wonder if the murders mimic thedeaths of royal kings. Is the killer recreating what happened in the past withtheir descendants!?"

“Guess we’ll have to catch ourhistory buff to find out,” Amelia said, her voice edged with determination.

“It feels as if the killer wasdisturbed this time,” Finn mused. “He hasn’t set the scene as carefully. He’sleft quite a mess from the struggle.”

"Maybe he heard someone nearbyand thought he'd be seen," Amelia answered.

Jillian Bruce’s body lay silent,her final notes left unplayed. Finn felt a surge of anger and pity. Did allthree women die simply because of their last names?

Finn’s eyes flickered across theroom, pausing at the spatters of blood that painted the walls—a gruesome frescothat told a story of violence and terror. He felt the familiar tightening ofhis jaw, the burning need for answers that always came with threads likethis—threads that, when pulled, would unravel the tapestry of a killer’s mind.

His attention was then snared bysomething out-of-place amid the chaos—an incongruous object on the otherwisepristine table by the door. It was a ticket, abandoned carelessly on thesurface, its edges barely stained with the faintest touch of red. The name‘Jillian Bruce’ emblazoned across its face, alongside the title of a concertomeant for that evening. She was to be the violinist; the star now fallen todarkness.

“Damn,” he murmured, picking up theticket between two fingers, examining it under the light. Details mattered.They were the lifeblood of an investigation like this—the difference betweencatching a ghost and letting him slip through the cracks.

“Playing tonight,” Finn said moreto himself than to Amelia, who had returned. “She never made it to the stage.”

“Another performer misses her finalcurtain call,” Amelia added quietly. Her words, though spoken lightly, carriedthe sorrow of the unfulfilled destiny that lay before them. “That is a thought,you know. Two actresses are dead, now a violinist. Perhaps someone in thetheater or entertainment world is connected to this.”

“Exactly,” he agreed, pocketing theticket. It was a lead, albeit a cold one, but it was all they had. “Let’s seeif there’s anything else around here that might help,” Finn suggested, movingtoward her belongings, his mind whirring with the possibilities. The ticket hadbeen an oversight, but it was their oversight now, and he intended to make themost of it.

Finn stood motionless for a moment,the chaos of Jillian’s apartment sinking into his bones. The place was meant tobe a sanctuary for creativity, not a tomb. His hands brushed over letters andenvelopes, and then he paused, feeling the familiar texture of paper usedcenturies ago. The script was elaborate, archaic, Old English twisting likethorny vines upon the page. He recognized the style—it bore an eerieresemblance to Professor Hemingway’s academic hand, yet they’d all but ruledhim out. Finn’s brow knitted together as he examined the threatening content,words weaving dark promises and echoes of historic grudges.

“Take a look at this,” Finn said,his voice steady despite the chill that clawed up his spine. Amelia leanedover, her detective’s curiosity replacing any revulsion at the grim backdrop.

“Another dialect of ancientEnglish. I can’t read this one, but no doubt it’s old threats in an oldertongue,” she observed, her fingers deftly capturing images of the letters withher phone. “We should get it analyzed. Jillian knew someone hated her. If shehad been receiving threats, maybe she wrote about it somewhere in a diary orjournal?”

Finn looked around at the clutteredtable. There was no sign of a diary, but there was an address book, its pagesfilled with names and notes. One name snagged his attention, penned sharply,almost violently: Margaret Thompson. Beside it, a scrawled comment: “hatefulwoman.”

“Why would you write down someone’saddress you hate?” Amelia thought out loud.

“Just because you dislike someone,”Finn said, “that doesn’t mean you don’t want to keep tabs on them. Maybe theydidn’t start out as enemies.”

“I suppose...” Amelia said,sounding unconvinced.

“Do we know of anyone connected toRebecca and Dominique by the name of Margaret Thompson?” Finn asked, showingAmelia the entry.

“Margaret Thompson... That namerings a bell,” Amelia mused aloud as she tapped at her phone, the glowilluminating her determined face. “Yes, I thought so. She’s a published author.She’s written extensively against the crown, advocating for stripping wealthfrom royal descendants.”

“The sort of stuff James Blackwoodwould read?”

“Yes,” Amelia answered. “But Idon’t know much more about her.”

For a moment, he considered aconspiracy; that Professor Hemingway, James Blackwood, and now this MargaretThompson could all be in on it somehow. But the suspicion faded as quickly asit had arrived.

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