three:The Whispering Walls

The Whispering Walls

The rain had stopped, but the walls of Seacliff Manor still seemed to weep.

Edmund Blake stood at the grand window of his guest room, his breath leaving small clouds on the cold glass. Below, the sea stretched toward the horizon—grey, restless, unknowable. He had discovered the truth behind Juliette's death, exposed the past long buried, and confronted the man who had tried to hide it all. Yet closure felt like a fiction.

He should have left the manor by now. But something—some instinct honed by years of investigation—told him it wasn't over.

Someone in this house was still lying.

And the second death had yet to be explained.

Because Thomas Harding's murder had not been solved.

He turned from the window and faced the small writing desk where Clara had left the sealed envelope the night before. It bore no name, only a wax seal—the Blake family crest. Not his, he thought grimly. Not truly.

He broke the seal and unfolded the page inside.

​Mr. Blake,

You have stirred old ghosts. But you have missed something—something that was never meant to be found. The garden holds its own secrets. Look beneath the lilies before the storm returns.

—A friend

He read it twice. The handwriting was neat, slanted, unfamiliar. And the reference to the lilies brought one place to mind: the secluded east garden near the sundial, overgrown and rarely tended, where Juliette once painted in the afternoons.

Blake folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his coat.

It seemed the past wasn't quite finished with him.

The east garden was quiet, kissed by dew and shadow. Ivy curled along the stone paths, and the early morning mist clung low over the flowerbeds. Blake made his way past the ancient sundial, his boots brushing wet grass, until he stood before the bed of white lilies—once Juliette's pride, now slightly overgrown.

He knelt and ran his fingers through the soil. It was softer than he expected. Freshly turned.

Using a small trowel borrowed from the potting shed, Blake began digging, careful not to disturb the roots too roughly. Just beneath the surface, something hard knocked against the metal blade. A small wooden box, lacquered but water-warped, about the size of a jewellery casket.

He brushed off the dirt and opened the lid.

Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lay a bundle of aged papers and—more chillingly—a silver locket with a cracked face. The image inside was faded but unmistakable: Juliette, and a young man—Thomas Harding.

Blake inhaled slowly. So the rumours of their affair were not merely gossip. They had been lovers, perhaps even engaged in secret.

He unwrapped the papers. There were letters—at least a dozen—written in Thomas's hand. Several addressed simply "My beloved," but one had a name:

​Juliette—

I will tell them. I'll tell them all. I cannot let him win. I know he threatened you, but I won't leave you to bear this alone. I've made arrangements to meet with Frederick. We'll bring the truth to light. Even if it destroys him.

—T.H.

The date on the letter was May 2nd—the very day Juliette had died.

Blake's thoughts raced.

Had Thomas discovered the Earl's secret? Had he planned to reveal it with Frederick's help?

And had someone silenced him for it?

But more troubling still—why had these letters been buried?

Who had wanted them hidden so badly?

Back in the manor, the house was slowly stirring. Blake made his way to the morning room where Clara was finishing a cup of tea, her auburn hair still damp from her walk. She looked up as he entered.

"You've found something," she said without preamble.

He handed her the locket.

Her fingers trembled. "That's her. And Thomas."

"There's more." He set the letters on the table.

She read in silence, face pale.

"These were hidden under the lilies," he said. "Someone wanted this connection buried—literally. And I don't believe it was Juliette."

Clara's voice was low. "Then it was someone who feared the scandal. Someone who needed them apart."

"Or someone who didn't want Thomas to expose the truth."

Her eyes met his. "The Earl."

Blake nodded slowly. "But I also suspect he wasn't the only one who knew."

They were interrupted by a knock. Mrs. Havers entered, balancing a tray of warm scones and marmalade.

She paused when she saw the letters.

"I remember that locket," she said softly. "Juliette wore it the summer she died. But then it vanished."

Blake studied her face. "Do you know who might've buried it?"

Mrs. Havers hesitated, then lowered her voice. "You should speak with the gardener. Wallace. He's worked here longer than anyone. Even me. He saw things."

"Where is he now?"

"In the greenhouse, likely. He always avoids the house when there's trouble."

Blake rose at once.

In the old greenhouse, the scent of soil and citrus was heavy. Moisture clung to every surface, and ferns brushed Blake's shoulders as he entered.

Wallace, a stooped man in his seventies with a weathered face and sharp eyes, looked up from trimming a potted lemon tree.

"Mr. Blake," he said, without surprise. "I wondered when you'd come."

Blake offered the locket. "You ever see this before?"

Wallace nodded. "Buried it myself. Twenty years ago."

Blake raised an eyebrow. "You buried it?"

"Juliette gave it to me. Said if anything happened to her, I was to keep it safe. But then she… fell. And things got messy. So I hid it. Figured it was better than letting it fall into the wrong hands."

"Whose hands?"

Wallace wiped his palms on a cloth. "People who'd do anything to protect their names. Their legacies. I thought if I kept it buried, the truth might rest with her."

"But someone else knew. Someone else wanted it found." Blake pulled the note from his pocket. "You write this?"

Wallace shook his head. "No. But I saw someone near the lilies two nights ago. After the storm. Slipped into the garden just before dawn."

"Who?"

"I couldn't tell. Wore a cloak. Could've been man or woman."

Blake frowned. "Did you tell anyone?"

Wallace smiled grimly. "You're the first person who's asked."

Back in the drawing room, Blake paced before the fireplace, thoughts colliding.

He was certain now: Thomas Harding had discovered the truth about Juliette and the Earl. He had tried to help her. Planned to expose the Earl with Frederick's help. But before he could, Juliette died—and then Thomas vanished from Seacliff, only to return two decades later and end up dead himself.

But why return after all that time?

And why now?

As he pondered, Captain Pryce entered, his boots muddy from the stables.

"I hear you've been digging up the garden," the captain said.

Blake smiled thinly. "Seacliff is full of things buried beneath the surface."

"Careful, Blake," Pryce said, lowering his voice. "The walls here whisper to each other. But some of them scream."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you're not the only one hunting ghosts. And not all of them want to be found."

The day darkened quickly as clouds gathered once more over the Cornish cliffs, casting a grey hush over the manor. In the drawing room, Blake sat alone, the letters spread out before him and a growing sense of urgency pressing against his chest.

He reread Thomas's final message to Juliette.

​"I've made arrangements to meet with Frederick…"

But Frederick had never mentioned such a meeting. He had spoken of plans and regrets, but not of a meeting that night. Had he kept it secret? Or had he failed to show?

Blake needed answers from the only other person who might know: Frederick's widow, Lady Clarissa Harding.

He found her in the west wing sitting room, dressed in dark silk despite the heat from the fireplace, her features as composed as marble. She looked up as he entered, her eyes cold and unreadable.

"I was told you wished to speak with me," she said.

Blake inclined his head. "About your husband. And Juliette."

Her lips tightened. "That was a long time ago, Mr. Blake."

"I'm aware. But the truth never sleeps quite so easily."

She said nothing, her gaze steady.

"Did you know they planned to expose the Earl?" he asked.

There was a flicker—a subtle tightening at the corners of her mouth.

"My husband was many things," she said at last. "A dreamer. A man of ideals. But also weak. He fled Seacliff rather than fight."

"Because he feared the Earl?"

"Because he feared what the truth would do. To Juliette. To this house. To me."

Blake blinked. "You?"

Lady Clarissa rose and walked to the window. "I was already with child when Juliette died. Frederick and I had married in haste. He had once loved her, you see—but she refused him. Chose her freedom instead. But he never stopped caring for her. And I… well, I knew I would never be her."

Blake said nothing.

She turned back. "He told me everything the night she died. And we decided, together, to leave. To raise our son far from this place."

"Then why return now?"

Her voice dropped. "Because our son, Charles, began asking questions."

Blake felt his breath hitch.

"He was close to Thomas," she continued. "Looked up to him. When Thomas returned to Seacliff and asked to see the Harding archives, Charles helped him. He wanted to know who Juliette was. And what she meant to his father."

"Are you saying Charles found something?"

"I'm saying… he may have." Her eyes sharpened. "And if he did, then you should be very careful, Mr. Blake."

Blake rose slowly. "Do you know where he is now?"

"He's taken to walking the cliffs after dark. Like his father did. You'll find him there, if the fog allows."

The cliff path was slick and narrow, twisting above the roaring sea. Blake walked carefully, his lantern casting a yellow circle on the rocky ground.

Ahead, near the edge of the bluff, stood a figure in a dark coat.

Charles Harding turned as Blake approached, his face drawn and shadowed.

"You've been digging in graves, Mr. Blake," he said.

"And you've been chasing ghosts."

Charles gave a bitter laugh. "There's nothing left of her. Not even bones. Just silence and lies."

"You helped Thomas. Found letters. Documents. What did he discover that made him return?"

Charles hesitated. "He found a birth certificate. Hidden in my father's files. It listed the child's name as 'Edmund Juliette Blake.' No father listed."

Blake's heart beat loudly in his chest.

"Thomas believed the child had been sent away after Juliette's death," Charles continued. "Raised in secret. He thought… he thought it might be you."

"I only learned a week ago," Blake said quietly.

Charles turned to the sea. "Thomas wanted justice. He believed exposing the Earl would cleanse this place. But he forgot that this house devours the righteous."

Blake took a careful step closer. "Did someone kill him for what he knew?"

Charles's voice was low. "I don't know. I only know that the night before he died, he said he had everything he needed. And he was going to confront the Earl."

Blake stiffened. "Did he?"

Charles looked away. "I never saw him again."

That night, Blake sat by candlelight in the library, piecing together timelines, letters, testimonies. The facts aligned too neatly to be coincidence.

Juliette dies. Thomas flees. Frederick disappears. Clarissa raises her son in exile.

And twenty years later, Thomas returns, uncovers the child's identity—Blake's identity—and is silenced before he can reveal it.

Someone in the house was playing a long game. Someone who had everything to lose if the past was dragged into the light.

A shadow moved behind the stained glass. Blake turned sharply, but there was no one there.

Still, the whispering walls of Seacliff seemed to sigh louder.

Rain returned in the early hours of morning, drumming softly against the stained-glass windows of the library. Blake remained seated in the high-backed leather chair, his thoughts swirling like the sea below the cliffs.

He had barely slept. The letters, the locket, the conversations with Charles and Lady Clarissa—each revelation peeled back another layer of Seacliff's immaculate veneer. The truth, long buried, was beginning to surface.

But so was danger.

A soft knock broke the silence. Clara entered, her hair tousled from sleep, shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

"You're still awake," she said, not surprised.

He gestured toward the fire. "Join me."

She sat beside him and stared at the flames.

"I spoke to Charles," Blake said.

"And?"

"He believes Thomas uncovered the truth about Juliette's child. He believes that child was me."

Clara didn't respond immediately. She reached for a poker and stirred the embers before speaking.

"I've suspected something for days. The way you move through this house. How you notice things others miss. You belong here, even if you don't want to."

Blake leaned back. "If Thomas was killed for what he knew, then whoever did it is still here. Watching. Waiting."

Clara turned to him. "Do you think it was the Earl?"

Blake hesitated. "Perhaps. Or someone working to protect his legacy. Someone with access. Someone trusted."

She looked pale. "That could be anyone."

"Yes. Which is why I need to speak with him. Alone."

The Earl of Seacliff, Lord Reginald Whitmore, was not a man easily surprised.

When Blake requested a private audience, the old man simply nodded and led him into the north study—an austere room lined with first editions and naval charts.

Blake stood before the hearth, arms folded.

"You knew," he said.

The Earl raised an eyebrow. "Knew what?"

"That Juliette was pregnant. That the child survived."

The Earl's face tightened.

"I didn't at first," he said slowly. "She refused to tell me who the father was. Said it didn't matter. But after her death… there were rumours. I made inquiries. Quiet ones."

Blake's voice was low. "And when you learned the truth?"

"I paid for his care. Anonymously. Through intermediaries. It was the least I could do."

"You didn't think to raise me yourself?"

The Earl's voice grew cold. "Do you know how many people wanted this house—this family—destroyed after Juliette's fall? I had to protect what remained. I made hard choices."

Blake stepped closer. "Did Thomas Harding threaten to reveal it?"

"Yes," the Earl said, without hesitation. "He returned full of fire and righteousness. Said he would tell the papers. I begged him to consider what that would do. Not just to me—but to you."

"And when he refused?"

The Earl stared at the fire. "I told him to leave. I never saw him again."

"Do you expect me to believe you didn't kill him?"

The old man's face crumpled with sudden fury. "I'm many things, Mr. Blake. But not a murderer. That stain doesn't wash out."

After the meeting, Blake walked the upper corridors of the manor, lost in thought. He passed the music room, the parlour, the corridor of family portraits—his own mother among them, young and luminous.

As he approached the grand staircase, a voice called out softly.

"Mr. Blake?"

It was Mrs. Havers. Her face was pale, eyes anxious.

"I think you should see something."

She led him down into the servants' wing, past linen closets and wine cellars, until they reached a low door at the back of the pantry. She unlocked it with a brass key and stepped inside.

It was a records room—old, dusty, lined with boxes.

She pulled one down and opened it.

Inside were logs. Staff schedules. Inventories. Incident reports.

"This box belonged to the former butler, Mr. Thorne. He kept meticulous notes. Even things he wasn't supposed to."

Blake flipped through pages until one entry caught his eye.

​May 2nd – Lady Juliette had a visitor in the east garden. Mr. Harding. Argument overheard. Lady distressed. Later that night, physician summoned. No details given.

He turned the page.

​May 3rd – Lady Clarissa and Lord Whitmore meet privately. Tension high. Lord orders staff silence regarding previous night.

Another page.

​May 4th – Wallace assigned to burn personal effects from Lady Juliette's room. Refused. Dismissed briefly, then reinstated.

Blake frowned. "He didn't burn them. He buried them."

Mrs. Havers nodded. "Thorne knew. That's why he kept records. But he died a year after Juliette."

Blake closed the box. "This is evidence."

"Be careful," she whispered. "Thorne kept records to protect himself. But he still died in this house."

Later that evening, thunder rolled in from the coast, and the power flickered once before plunging the manor into semi-darkness.

Clara found Blake in the candlelit hall. "The generator is failing," she said. "Wallace went to check it."

Blake lit another taper. "I need to see Charles. Now."

They found him in the old nursery, standing beneath a cracked mobile of stars, staring at a faded mural of ships on a painted sea.

"I know who killed Thomas," Charles said, before Blake could speak.

Blake froze. "Who?"

Charles turned, his face haunted.

"My mother."

The silence that followed Charles Harding's words was thick and heavy, like the fog curling over the cliffs outside.

Blake stared at him. "You're certain?"

Charles nodded slowly. "She confessed it to me last night."

Clara leaned against the doorframe, her voice low. "Why would she do it?"

Charles exhaled sharply. "Because she thought she was protecting me. Protecting our name. She never wanted the past unearthed. She feared what Thomas had found—and what he intended to do with it."

"She killed him," Blake said, more to himself than to Charles, "because he knew I was Juliette's son."

Charles's voice was brittle. "And because he planned to make it public."

Blake sat down heavily in the old nursery rocking chair, the weight of the truth pressing in.

"What exactly did she say?" he asked.

"She told me she confronted him the night before the party. They argued in the garden—he begged her to help reveal the truth. She refused. Said it would destroy everything. That it would destroy me." He swallowed. "She went back the next night, just before the rain came in. She found him in the library, alone. He said he'd already posted copies of the documents to London newspapers. It was a bluff. She panicked. There was a struggle… she pushed him. His head struck the corner of the hearth."

Clara let out a quiet gasp.

"She didn't mean to kill him," Charles continued. "But once it was done… she staged the scene. Locked the door from the inside. Planted the note. She thought it would pass as a suicide."

Blake's voice was hoarse. "And you? You said nothing?"

"I only learned the truth last night," Charles said. "She broke down. Said she couldn't live with the guilt any longer. She gave me… this."

From his coat pocket, he withdrew a slim, leather-bound notebook. Blake took it carefully.

Inside were pages in Clarissa Harding's elegant hand—confessions, reflections, and at the end, a single line:

​Forgive me. I loved them both in different ways—and destroyed them both all the same.

Blake stood at the edge of the east garden the next morning, mist clinging to the air as the sun slowly burned through.

He held the notebook tightly, the wind tugging at its pages.

The white lilies swayed gently.

Behind him, Clara approached.

"She turned herself in this morning," she said.

Blake nodded. "Charles told me. He said she insisted."

"She said she couldn't live with the ghosts anymore."

Blake looked out to the sea. "It was never about revenge for her. Only fear. Fear of scandal. Of loss. Of being forgotten."

"And what about you?"

Blake turned. "I never knew I was born here. I came looking for a killer… and found my mother's ghost."

Clara touched his arm. "You found your truth. That matters."

He gave a faint smile. "And now?"

She studied him. "You could stay. There's still more to uncover, I suspect. Seacliff doesn't give up its secrets all at once."

He looked back at the manor—its turrets catching morning light, ivy glinting with dew, and the sea humming its eternal song below.

Perhaps he would stay. For a while.

Later that day, a carriage departed Seacliff carrying Lady Clarissa Harding under quiet escort. The staff watched from the gravel path, silent. The Earl remained in his study, unmoved, staring at a painting of Juliette by the sea.

Charles took up residence in the east wing, quietly assuming the role his father had once rejected. The estate had a new steward.

Mrs. Havers reopened the rose garden.

Captain Pryce left without a word.

And in the west library, Blake sat with the locket in one hand, the final letter from Thomas Harding in the other.

​We are shaped by the truths we carry—and the lies we bury. I hope you will find the courage to choose the former, even when it hurts.

That evening, a breeze stirred the curtains.

Blake lit the candles, pulled out a fresh notebook, and began to write:

​Seacliff Manor – 20 Years Later

The truth has finally come to light. But the past has long shadows, and not all questions were answered…

He paused, tapping the pen.

Outside, the sea whispered again.

He kept writing.

eight – A New Suspect Emerges

The sea was quiet the following morning—eerily so.

For the first time in days, the wind that usually whispered across the cliffs had stilled, and Seacliff Manor stood under a cloudless sky, bathed in golden light that seemed too serene for a house that had just sent away a confessed killer.

Blake sat on the stone balustrade outside the east wing, sipping weak tea and reading the final pages of Clarissa Harding's confession once more. The truth she had offered brought closure, yes—but it also stirred new doubts in his mind.

Too many details didn't fit.

Too many loose ends remained.

If Clarissa had truly killed Thomas Harding in a moment of panic… who had moved the letter from his coat to the writing desk?

Who had wiped the blood from the fireplace tools?

Who had left no fingerprints, no signs of entry?

And perhaps most importantly—why had the hidden birth record of Juliette's child been removed from the library archive before the police arrived?

Clarissa had confessed to murder. But someone else, Blake was certain, had helped cover it up. Or had their own reasons to conceal more.

He heard footsteps approach from the gravel path. It was Clara, a slim envelope in her hand.

"This arrived this morning," she said, handing it to him. "Posted two days before the murder."

Blake turned the envelope over. There was no return address. The handwriting was rushed.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded twice.

Seacliff is not what it seems.

Watch the Earl.

And whatever you do—don't trust the gardener.

Blake stared at the final line.

The gardener? Wallace?

Clara leaned in. "You think this came from Thomas?"

"It's possible," Blake murmured. "He was gathering allies. Perhaps someone else in the house suspected something."

He folded the letter carefully. "It seems we've overlooked someone who's seen everything… and said nothing."

Wallace had always been there—quiet, stoic, dependable. He spoke when spoken to, kept the garden immaculate, and appeared to take no interest in the affairs of the manor's guests. But Blake had long known that such silence could be a mask—especially in a household filled with secrets.

He found Wallace near the rose arches, pruning back overgrowth with methodical precision. The older man did not glance up as Blake approached.

"You keep your blades sharp," Blake said casually.

Wallace snipped another branch. "Sharp tools make clean cuts. Clean cuts keep the rot from spreading."

Blake nodded. "A philosophy that might apply beyond gardening."

Now the gardener looked up. His face was lined by sun and wind, his eyes unreadable.

"Come to speak in riddles, have you?"

"Only if that's the language you understand."

They stood in silence for a moment, the morning sun warming the stone paths beneath their feet.

Blake stepped closer. "I received a letter this morning. Anonymous. Warned me not to trust you."

Wallace's expression didn't change. He returned to trimming a stubborn stem. "People write all sorts of things when they're frightened."

"Were you frightened the night Thomas Harding died?"

This time, the shears stopped.

Blake pressed forward. "You were dismissed briefly years ago, weren't you? After refusing to burn Juliette's belongings."

Wallace nodded. "I wasn't about to set fire to a woman's life. There was nothing dangerous in her letters. Only grief."

"You buried them."

"Yes. Along with the other truths no one wanted found."

"And did you dig them up again when Thomas came asking?"

A pause.

Wallace glanced at the house, then back at Blake.

"He came to me the week before the party. Asked if I still had the letters. I told him I did. He read them all. We talked, a long while. He said someone needed to know the truth. But not yet. He wanted to be careful."

Blake's voice was quiet. "And did he say who he was protecting?"

Wallace hesitated. Then: "He didn't name names. Only said there were more players than he'd thought. That it wasn't just about Juliette. That others stood to gain—from silence."

Blake frowned. "Others like whom?"

Wallace shook his head. "That's all he said. But he asked me for something else."

"What?"

The old man's voice dropped. "He asked me to watch someone. To see if anything… strange happened."

"Who?"

"Miss Clara," Wallace said.

Blake blinked. "Clara?"

Blake found Clara in the library, reorganizing the shelf of estate records that Thomas had once pulled apart.

He stood in the doorway, watching her a moment, considering what Wallace had said.

She noticed him and smiled. "You look like a man full of questions."

"I am. Would you mind if I asked a few?"

She set a ledger down. "Go ahead."

Blake walked toward her. "How long did you know Thomas Harding?"

Clara seemed surprised by the question. "Only briefly. A few conversations. He seemed… intense."

"Did he confide in you?"

She hesitated. "He mentioned something about injustice. About a child who was taken from their birthright."

"Did he ever ask you to help him? To watch anyone?"

"No," she said, then frowned. "Why?"

"Wallace says Thomas asked him to watch you."

Clara stiffened. "That's absurd. Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. But I intend to find out."

Clara stepped away from the shelf. "You think I'm hiding something?"

"I think everyone in this house is hiding something."

Their eyes locked.

Blake's voice was softer now. "Clara, if you know anything—anything at all—you need to tell me."

She looked at him for a long time, and then turned her face away.

"I… I did see something that night," she admitted.

Blake's heart jumped.

She continued, "After the dinner party ended, I went to retrieve my book from the drawing room. I took the back corridor past the library… and I saw someone leaving it."

"Who?"

"I thought it was Charles at first. The figure was tall, wearing dark clothes. But then I saw the glint of something in his hand—a cane. A carved handle."

Blake's brow furrowed. "The Earl?"

Clara nodded. "I think so."

The Earl of Seacliff was a man of routine and refined habits—his days structured with the precision of a naval officer, his movements deliberate, predictable. He was not a man often seen wandering the halls at night, let alone near the library after a dinner party.

Blake stared at Clara. "You're sure it was him?"

"I didn't see his face. But I saw the cane. That ornate ivory handle—shaped like a falcon's head. There's no mistaking it."

"He wasn't supposed to be at the party."

"He wasn't," she said. "That's why I assumed I was mistaken."

Blake nodded slowly. "That changes things."

Clara stepped back toward the shelf, picking up her ledger again, her expression shadowed.

"Do you think he killed Thomas?" she asked.

"I don't know," Blake replied. "But it's time we paid him a visit."

The Earl's private quarters were located in the north wing, far removed from the bustle of guests and servants. When Blake arrived, he found Charles standing outside the heavy oak door, arms crossed, eyes clouded.

"He's not receiving visitors," Charles said flatly.

Blake met his gaze. "Then I'm not a visitor. I'm an investigator. And I have reason to believe your father might have been involved in covering up the truth about Thomas Harding's death."

Charles's jaw tightened. "My father has barely spoken since Clarissa left. He sits in that room staring at a portrait of Juliette."

Blake paused. "Then maybe he'll speak to me."

Charles didn't move.

"Please," Blake said more gently. "For your family's sake."

Charles studied him, then stepped aside and knocked once. A low voice called from within: "Come."

The door creaked open, revealing a high-ceilinged chamber filled with books, nautical paintings, and antique weapons. At its center, in a worn leather chair, sat the Earl of Seacliff, pale and thin, his cane resting by his side.

Blake entered quietly. The air smelled of pipe smoke and old wood.

The Earl did not rise. He simply looked at Blake with the weary eyes of a man who had carried too many secrets for too long.

"You're the detective," he said.

"Yes."

The Earl nodded to the chair opposite. "Then sit. I suppose you've come to ask about my sins."

Blake lowered himself into the seat. "That depends on how many there are."

A shadow of a smile crossed the Earl's face. "More than I care to count."

There was a long silence. Then Blake asked, "Were you in the library the night Thomas Harding was killed?"

The Earl looked away, toward the window, where the sea glinted in the distance.

"I was."

"Why?"

"I was retrieving something."

Blake leaned forward. "What?"

The Earl's fingers gripped the arm of the chair. "A letter. Addressed to me."

"From whom?"

"From Juliette."

Blake blinked. "You had a letter from her?"

The Earl nodded. "She left it with the housekeeper before she died. Told her to give it to me only if certain names resurfaced. When Thomas began asking questions, Mrs. Havers brought it to me."

He reached into a drawer and retrieved a folded parchment, brittle with age.

Blake unfolded it and read silently. It was written in Juliette's hand, soft but direct:

​If they come seeking the truth, let them. I only ask that you do not deny our son his name, should he ever find you.

Blake felt a chill settle over him.

"She meant me."

The Earl looked away. "Yes."

"Did Thomas confront you with this?"

"No. I never told him. I was ashamed."

"And were you ashamed enough to kill him?"

The Earl met Blake's eyes. "No. But I found him that night. Already dead."

Blake held the letter in his hands, the weight of its truth heavy. The Earl leaned back, his eyes fixed on a painting above the fireplace—Juliette in a garden of lilies, sunlight woven into her auburn hair.

"You found Thomas dead?" Blake asked quietly.

The Earl nodded. "I came to the library just after eleven. I'd waited until the hallways were clear. I didn't want anyone to know I'd received the letter. When I arrived… he was lying by the hearth. His head was bloodied. He was already gone."

"Why didn't you call for help?"

The Earl's voice was brittle. "Because I panicked. I assumed Clarissa had something to do with it. She'd argued with him publicly. He was stirring up old ghosts. And I knew if the scandal came out… the family's name would be ruined. Again."

"So you tampered with the scene?"

"No. I didn't touch anything. But I left. Silently. I locked the door behind me. I didn't know it was already locked from inside—or how. Later, when I heard the commotion, I pretended to be asleep."

Blake studied him. "Then who staged the scene?"

The Earl's hands trembled slightly. "I don't know. But someone else was there after me."

"Did you see anyone?"

The Earl hesitated. "A shadow. In the corridor. Slender figure. Moving fast. Could've been a woman."

Clara? Blake wondered. Or someone else entirely?

The Earl looked directly at him. "You believe I killed him?"

Blake didn't answer immediately. Then: "I believe you've carried enough guilt to act as if you did."

The old man gave a dry, broken laugh. "That much is true."

Back in the corridor, Blake paused outside the study. His thoughts were racing now—Clarissa's confession, Wallace's warnings, Clara's sighting, the Earl's letter from Juliette. Every new revelation contradicted something else.

And still, the biggest question remained: who moved the birth record?

Blake returned to the west wing, where Mrs. Havers was dusting the tall windows.

"Mrs. Havers," he said, "you were the only one with keys to the archive, weren't you?"

The housekeeper looked up. "Yes, sir. The key never leaves my ring."

"Was the archive ever opened the week of the party?"

"Only once. Mr. Thomas requested access. I unlocked it for him."

"And after he died?"

She frowned. "No one asked again. Why?"

"Because the record of Juliette's child has vanished."

The woman paled. "But… that's impossible."

"Could someone have copied your key?"

Mrs. Havers stiffened. "Not unless they took my ring."

Blake's eyes narrowed. "Did you ever misplace it?"

"Once. For a few hours. During the storm."

Blake stepped outside onto the gravel walk and looked out over the sea, his mind whirling.

Someone had taken the housekeeper's key.

Someone had gone into the archive after Thomas's death—not to find the truth, but to hide it.

And whoever that was might have been the same person who staged the library scene.

It was time to speak with Charles Harding again.

He found the young heir in the stables, brushing down a chestnut mare.

"Charles," Blake said, "we need to talk."

The man turned slowly. "More accusations?"

"No. More puzzles."

Blake stepped closer. "The records of Juliette's child—my birth—were removed after Thomas's death. Someone stole them from the archive."

Charles looked genuinely shocked. "Why would anyone do that?"

"To keep me from proving who I am. To prevent any claim I might make. To bury it all."

Charles's face darkened. "But you wouldn't—"

"I don't want titles. Or land. I want the truth."

There was a pause.

Then Charles said, "There's something I haven't told you."

Blake raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"After Thomas died, I received a letter too. Slipped under my door. It said: 'Loyalty is everything. Don't let him take what's yours.'"

"'He' meaning me."

Charles nodded.

"And you think someone's trying to turn you against me?"

"I think someone wanted to make me doubt you. To divide us."

Blake considered that.

Which meant…

Someone was still playing a deeper game.

Blake stood for a long moment in the stables, watching Charles's face, reading the tension behind his practiced calm. He could sense it now—how tightly wound everyone in the house was, like strings drawn taut across the same instrument. One wrong note, and everything would unravel.

The question now was: who was pulling the strings?

He returned to the manor as the afternoon sun angled through the high windows of the main hall. The house was oddly quiet again—too quiet. Clara was nowhere in sight, and Mrs. Havers had disappeared into the kitchen. Blake wandered the corridors, thinking, weighing each conversation from the last few days.

That was when he found it.

At the back of the library, behind the bookcase where Thomas had once gestured dramatically during a conversation, a faint scuff mark caught Blake's eye—almost imperceptible, a scrape in the wood floor that curved slightly, like something heavy had been dragged.

He pulled at the shelf, tested its weight. Then he noticed a loose panel at the base.

Behind it was a small compartment, shallow but wide enough to conceal papers—or a diary.

Inside, dust had been disturbed recently. Something had been there. Something had been taken.

He turned and strode straight for Wallace in the garden.

"You buried Juliette's letters," Blake said without preamble. "But was there something else you hid? Something Thomas found and put in the library?"

Wallace stared at him for a long time.

Then he sighed.

"There was a diary."

"Juliette's?"

The old gardener nodded. "He asked for it. Said it might contain answers about the child. About you."

"Where is it now?"

Wallace's voice dropped to a whisper. "Gone. Someone took it. Just after the confession. Same day Clarissa left."

Blake's mind raced. "That means someone knew Clarissa wasn't the true threat. That they had to remove the one thing that could connect me to Juliette directly."

He turned away.

This wasn't over.

That evening, as the guests settled for dinner, Blake paced alone in the drawing room. A storm was building again—he could see it out the window, dark clouds crawling toward the sea.

Then, without warning, Clara entered.

She looked pale, shaken.

"I remembered something else," she said softly.

Blake stopped. "Go on."

"The night Thomas died… just before I saw someone leave the library, I heard music. A music box. Very faint."

"A music box?"

She nodded. "One I hadn't heard before. It wasn't coming from the salon. It was coming from… the study."

Blake's blood went cold.

There was only one music box in the study. It had belonged to Juliette—and no one had touched it in twenty years.

He turned to her. "Did you tell anyone else?"

"No," Clara whispered. "I wasn't sure it was real."

Blake was silent for a long time. Then he said:

"Tomorrow, we open the study. Completely. I want everything in that room examined."

Clara nodded slowly. But Blake saw the flicker of fear in her eyes. Not for herself—but for what they might find.

That night, Blake sat at the desk in his room, notes spread before him, candle flickering in the draft from the chimney.

He wrote a single sentence across the top of the page:

"The killer is still here."

And beneath it, one more:

"They've always been here."

He closed his notebook and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

If the diary had vanished, it hadn't gone far.

And if the killer had staged the scene so precisely, so carefully…

They weren't just covering up a murder.

They were protecting something deeper.

A legacy. A lie.

Or both.