Chapter 6
The sound of the latch turning hung in the frosty air of the living room, freezing both Julian and Sarah in their tracks. The old estate was full of settling groans and drafty whispers, but this was deliberate. Julian motioned for Sarah to stay back, his dark eyes fixed on the arched entryway leading to the grand hallway. He crossed the Persian rug in silent, measured strides, his hand reaching out to grip the heavy wooden doorframe.
He peered into the corridor. The overhead sconces were dimmed to a faint amber glow, casting long, wavering shadows along the patterned wallpaper. There was no one in sight, but the faint scent of rain and damp earth drifted from the direction of the mudroom. Someone had just come in from the outside, or perhaps someone was still moving through the house while the police officer slept in the guest wing upstairs.
"Julian?" Sarah whispered from the shadows of the living room, her voice tight with renewed anxiety. "Who is there?"
"Stay here," Julian murmured back without turning around. He stepped out into the hallway, the hardwood floor chilling the soles of his stocking feet. He walked cautiously toward the rear staircase that led directly down to the estate’s massive underground archive and storage rooms—the very place Clara had spent the last six months organizing.
The archive room was locked during off-hours, but as Julian approached the heavy oak door at the end of the lower corridor, he noticed something strange. The brass key was still inserted in the lock, turned halfway. A narrow strip of yellow light cut across the dark floorboards from underneath the door. Someone was inside.
Julian swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pushed the door open with the palm of his hand, the heavy wood swinging inward with a slow, agonizing squeak.
Standing by the center mahogany table was Beatrice. She wore a heavy silk dressing gown over her nightclothes, her short grey hair slightly disheveled. In her hands, she held an open leather-bound journal, its yellowed pages illuminated by the harsh beam of a battery-powered work lamp resting on the table. Around her, metal filing cabinets stood open like gaping wounds, their contents spilled out across the floor in chaotic piles.
Beatrice did not jump or scream when Julian entered. She simply looked up, her stern face masked by a profound, exhausted sadness that Julian had never seen before in all his thirty-five years.
"You shouldn't be down here, Julian," Beatrice said quietly, her voice losing its usual sharp edge, sounding suddenly fragile and old.
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Julian stopped dead in his tracks, looking at the mess around her. "What are you looking for, Mother? What did Clara find that brought you out of bed at midnight?"
Beatrice closed the leather journal with a soft thud that echoed in the subterranean room. She lifted her head, her gaze steady and unwavering. "She found the truth about the foundation of this estate, Julian. The truth about how your grandfather built this fortune, and why my own marriage was built on a foundation of silence and extortion."
