Chapter 17
“Names?”
“Marian Cole and Sophie Vance.”
Margaret’s face changed.
“Marian,” she said.
Alexander turned toward her. “You know where she is?”
“I know where she was.”
“Mother.”
“She worked for your father for nearly thirty years. After the scandal, she left the estate and moved to a retirement community near Bath.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because she sent me a letter asking me not to.”
I stepped closer. “What did it say?”
Margaret’s fingers tightened on her cane.
“She said she had been afraid for a long time. She also said that if she ever spoke, she wanted to speak to you—not to Alexander.”
A strange ache moved through me.
“Why me?”
“Because she believed you were the person most harmed by her silence.”
Alexander looked at the note again.
“Where is she now?”
“Still at the community, as far as I know.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“Then she may not be expecting anyone.”
“Could you contact her?”
Margaret glanced toward Nora.
Nora nodded. “I can ask the house manager to call.”
“No,” I said.
Both women looked at me.
“If someone is monitoring the estate, a call from here may warn them.”
Alexander studied me. “You think the person behind this is still inside the family?”
“I think the note was left where we would find it. I think Rebecca made a recording because she was afraid to speak openly. I think someone knew we would search the archive tonight.”
“And you think they know about Marian.”
“The note says she will arrive at breakfast. Either the writer knows where she is, or they expect her to come.”
Margaret lowered her eyes.
“There may be another possibility.”
“What?”
“Marian might already be here.”
A faint sound passed through the passage above us—the distant opening of a door, followed by footsteps.
Everyone looked toward the stairs.
Nora went first, with Alexander behind her. I followed, carrying the ledger beneath my coat. Margaret remained close beside me, breathing carefully as she climbed.
At the top of the steps, the west corridor was empty.
The house had fallen quiet. Most of the lights had been lowered, leaving only the soft glow of the Christmas tree and the lamps along the hall.
Then I saw the woman standing at the entrance to the library.
She was in her late sixties, perhaps, with silver-blond hair tucked beneath a wool hat. A small suitcase rested at her feet. She wore a dark coat and held both hands around the handle of a walking umbrella.