Page 46 of When 're Silent

“Not to mention the use of OldEnglish and even older English dialects on the notes,” Amelia said, soundingaggravated.

“Someone who is an archivist wouldalso know a lot about history, emblems, and cryptography,” Finn replied, agleam in his eyes. “It all fits. So let’s get him!”

“But Finn, there’s something else,”Rob said, his voice grim.

Finn could feel the bad news on thehorizon.

“What is it?” he asked, nervous.

“A woman by the name of SarahBeaufort was attacked near your location ten minutes ago,” Rob explained. “Shewas dragged from her home and taken away.”

“That’s terrible,” Finn said. “Butthe killer was here about twenty minutes ago…”

“Be that as it may,” Rob said.“Sarah Beaufort was taken in a hurry. Witnesses spotted a man with black hairand sharp features drag her away from the house. We have constables scouringthe area.”

“Chief,” Amelia said loudly so shecould be heard on the line. “What connection does this have to our killer?”

“Sarah Beaufort is a distant cousinof the King’s,” he said. “This can’t be a coincidence.”

“Agreed,” Amelia said. “If you arescouring the area, we’ll head to this Victor Hastings. We might get lucky.”

“No,” Rob said. “I already havesomeone closer. You two, go to the library where Hastings works, we’ve had apossible sighting of him there, and it’s closer to your current location.”

“Be safe,” Rob said. “The man isclearly a maniac.”

“Come on, Amelia,” Finn said.“Let’s be done with this once and for all.”

The curtain was rising on a newact, one where he and Amelia weren’t merely players, but playwrights scriptingthe final scenes of a murderer’s macabre production.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The ancient timbers of the door toMilton Library groaned a reluctant welcome as Finn Wright pushed against itsweathered surface, his mind churning with the incriminating threads that werenow inexorably weaving together. Amelia Winters stepped in beside him, hersharp gaze sweeping across the expanse as if to seize upon any shadow thatdared to dance out of place.

“Here we are,” Finn murmured, moreto himself than to Amelia. The air was thick with the musk of knowledge, andthere was something about the sheer volume of history contained within thesewalls that anchored him to the moment, despite the chaos of the case swirlingaround them.

The hum of silence that filled thelibrary was punctured only by their footsteps, the sound amplified by thecavernous space. He could sense Amelia’s presence—a steadfast force at hisside—as they ventured deeper into the labyrinth of literature. The dim lightingcast long, monstrous shadows between the aisles, creating an ominous tapestrythat seemed to cloak their approach.

With each step, the carpetswallowed the sound of their advance, lending a predatory stealth to theirmovements. Finn’s eyes traced along the spines of countless tomes, someleather-bound, others threadbare from the touch of time. They spoke silently offorgotten tales and concealed wisdom, and amongst their volumes, he felt thewhisper of answers drawing near.

“Feels like stepping back in time,”Amelia said, her voice low but carrying in the stillness. Finn glanced at her,the briefest flicker of a smile crossing his lips in shared jest. Even now,amidst the grim hunt for a killer, their camaraderie found a way to assertitself.

“Let’s hope it leads us toHastings.” Finn’s hand brushed against the grain of a shelf as they passed,feeling the etchings of age. He considered the suspect—Victor Hastings—his mindconnecting dots that once seemed disparate. An actor, archivist, and anti-monarchist,Hastings’ life was steeped in the past, perhaps too deeply.

“Check this out,” Amelia gesturedtowards a section where the books appeared older, the leather cracked andtitles faded. Finn leaned closer, the scent of decaying paper and ink tuggingat the edges of his consciousness. It was the smell of antiquity, of secretsbound in hide and pulp, and it resonated with a haunting familiarity.

“Antique parchments, historicalnarratives... it fits,” Finn whispered, and he could feel the dark pulse of thecase throbbing beneath the surface. The connection to theater, his access toancient documents—it all culminated here, in the lair of knowledge thatHastings curated. “I wonder if he was consulting Professor Hemingway for hisexpertise as well. Maybe the old man unwittingly helped him put together thenotes.”

“It fits almost too well,” Ameliaadded, her eyes reflecting the gravity of their situation. She traced a fingeralong the dusty cover of a book on British monarchies, and Finn saw theimplication in her gesture. Their killer didn’t just live in the past; he wasusing it as a weapon.

As they moved through the rows, theweight of their findings pressed invisibly upon them, each revelation addingmomentum to their search. Victor Hastings had crafted a stage from death andhistory, and now, ensconced within the heart of his domain, Finn could feel thecurtains drawing back, ready to reveal the final act.

Finn’s hand brushed against thespines of ancient tomes, his eyes scanning for the entrance to Victor Hastings’personal study. The air was thick with the musk of old leather and the silentwhispers of centuries past. Amelia moved ahead, her flashlight cutting throughthe dimness, casting elongated shadows between the bookshelves that seemed tostretch on indefinitely.

“Over here,” she murmured, pausingbefore an almost hidden door, its edges well-blended with the mahogany wallpaneling. Finn nodded, stepping forward to push it open, the hinges releasing afaint groan that echoed like a prelude to darker revelations. They steppedinside, their presence disrupting the stillness of the secluded room.

The study was a sanctuary of thepast; maps unfurled across the walls like tapestries of exploration, depictingrealms whose boundaries had long since shifted. Family trees branched out inintricate detail, the bloodlines of British royalty traced with painstakingprecision. And there, in a glass cabinet, lay an assortment of signet rings,each one a symbol of lineage and power—silent witnesses to the heritage thatHastings both revered and despised.

Amelia pointed towards a crestsimilar to the one they had found at Rebecca Hanover’s home. “These aren’t justcollector’s items,” she said, her voice laced with grim understanding, “they’retrophies.”

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