Page 45 of When 're Silent

“Could’ve been anyone,” Finnmuttered, pushing himself to his feet, his body protesting with sharp stabs ofpain. “But it wasn’t. It was him.”

“Let’s hope our constables arequick on their feet,” Amelia replied, though her tone betrayed theunderstanding that they were grasping at straws.

Finn straightened his jacket,setting his jaw with determination. The encounter had been brief, but it was aconnection, however tenuous, to the shadow that had haunted them since thefirst murder. The game was escalating, and so too must their resolve.

Through the haze of his recentstrike to the head, Finn’s thoughts sharpened as he weaved between theostentatious furnishings of Clara Tudor’s apartment. The ambient light castlong, dancing shadows on the walls, a macabre performance to match the gravityof their situation. Amelia paced nearby, her silhouette framed by the backdropof opulence turned mausoleum.

“Play it back for me, Finn,” shesaid, her voice a calm command amid the disquiet. “Why linger? Why let us getso close?”

He rubbed at the tender spot on hisskull, feeling the narrative unfurl like a scroll within his mind.“Recognition,” he muttered, his gaze drifting to the now silent grand piano,its black lacquer reflecting distorted images of their investigation. “Theclues, the notes to the constabulary... It’s all breadcrumbs.”

Amelia paused, her eyes narrowing.“But why?”

“Because,” Finn began, steppingcloser to her, “he wants to be seen. The thrill isn’t just in the hunt or thekill—it’s in the chase. He’s taunting us, hovering just out of reach. He wantsthe spotlight, but not the handcuffs.”

A hushed moment passed betweenthem, and then Finn reached into his jacket, extracting the photograph of ClaraTudor he had found earlier. He handed it to Amelia, who studied the image—thevictim alive, smiling at a fundraiser for The Noble Stage.

“Look at this,” he urged, pointingto the details that now screamed significance. “Another tie to the theater Andif our killer revels in the dramatic...”

“Then they might be an actor!”Amelia finished, her voice steady but with a hint of incredulity. “It wouldfit. The flair, the staged scenes...”

“Exactly,” Finn agreed, histhoughts aligning like actors taking their marks upon the stage. “This isn’tjust about ancestry or revenge; it’s theater, Amelia. Deadly theater.”

She handed the photograph back tohim, her expression contemplative, yet tinged with a steeliness he’d come toadmire. “So, we’re looking for someone who can blend into any role. Someone whounderstands timing, spectacle...”

The constable’s entrance was asabrupt as the message he carried, a disruption in the stillness of ClaraTudor’s apartment where death lingered like an unwelcome guest. He held out apiece of parchment, its edges worn as if it had traveled through time todeliver its silent testimony. Finn accepted the offering with a practiced hand,his gaze locking onto the symbols inked into the paper—arcane, enigmatic.

“Two notes this time. Symbolsagain,” Finn murmured, the cryptic script twisting beneath his scrutiny.

Amelia leaned over his shoulder,her presence a steady force. “We should take these to Thaddeuss; he might makesense of it.”

Finn shook his head, a flicker offrustration igniting within him. “No. We’ve been dancing to the killer’s tunelong enough.” He straightened, the resolve hardening in his eyes. “It’s timefor us now to direct the play.” Amelia’s lips twitched in a semblance of asmile, her way of acknowledging the layered metaphor that was both their copingmechanism and unspoken understanding.

He withdrew his phone, its screen acold glow against the dim backdrop of opulence and tragedy. Dialing with deftfingers, he waited for the familiar voice on the other end. “Rob, it’s Finn.Listen, I need a rundown of local archivists dealing with ancient texts.”

“Archivists?” Rob’s voice crackledthrough the line, tinged with both curiosity and urgency. “What’s the angle?”

“Cross-reference them with anyonewho’s been an actor at some point. It’s a hunch,” Finn said, his mind piecingtogether the shadows of a profile. “Our killer might be playing the mostdangerous role of their life.”

“Got it. I’ll get back to you assoon as I have something,” Rob replied, the undercurrent of his words areflection of the trust forged between old college friends turned colleagues.

“Thanks,” Finn said before endingthe call. He pocketed the phone and glanced at Amelia. “Our killer’s not juststaging murders; they’re curating a performance. And if we’re right about thetheater connection, they won’t be able to resist an encore. “

"Why do I get a feeling youhave a plan and that it will be more dangerous than necessary?" Ameliasmiled.

“You know me too well, Winters,”Finn said. “If our theory holds, the killer is both an actor and an archivistof some description. Someone who has access to those old parchments. He is alsothe last in line of The Temple of the Silver Sun. He is combining hisconnection to the theater with his connection to that cult that wanted to wipeout royalty.”

Finn’s phone rang. “Hello?”

“Finn, it’s Rob,” the ChiefConstable said. “You were right on the money. The second we searched for anarchivist and an actor, we got a single hit in the London area. A man namedVictor Hastings. He once played Oliver Cromwell in the West End, but in recentyears he’s been a freelance archivist. He spends most of his time thoughworking at Milton Library. And get this, he has been previously arrested forvehemently protesting against the monarchy. He got a little violent and spent ayear in prison.”

“My God,” Amelia said, listeningin. “This could be him... Didn’t we speak with a Hastings back at theUniversity library? Professor Hemingway’s assistant?”

Finn clenched his fist. “Yes...Under our noses... Can you get us an address?” Finn asked.

“Him playing Cromwell in a play,too...” Amelia said. “A famous anti-monarchist.”

“And Doctor Carter said that thefragments,” Finn shook his head. “That the ink fragments on the notes used irongall, something only someone who is passionate about history would use. Like anarchivist!”

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