A Key and a Portrait
The small brass key sat in Edmund Blake's palm like a riddle. No markings. No tag. Just a simple, unadorned instrument—yet something about its weight felt purposeful.
Back in his room, Blake laid it on his desk beside the scorched fragments of the solicitor's letter. The pieces of the puzzle were forming borders, but the picture within remained stubbornly incomplete.
He considered the guest list again:
•Clara Devlin, the elusive artist with an uncanny intuition.
•Lady Evelyn, guarded and elegant, with a touch of quiet grief.
•Captain Pryce, gruff, perhaps loyal, perhaps dangerous.
•Dr. Ellsworth, whose calm demeanor now carried the faintest crack.
•The Earl, at the center of it all, charming and enigmatic.
And Thomas Harding—dead, but not voiceless. His notebook had more to say.
Blake visited Harding's bedroom again mid-morning. The police had yet to arrive; the Earl had insisted they wait for confirmation from the coroner before involving the local constabulary. Blake, unbothered by the delay, took the chance to continue digging.
Harding's suitcase remained as he had left it—half packed, efficient, almost clinical. A folded overcoat. Three shirts. One necktie. His writing case, neatly zipped, had been untouched. Blake unzipped it and sorted through the contents: paper, fountain pen, ink bottle, a few notes about share prices, and at the bottom—a velvet pouch.
The pouch contained a gold signet ring and a smaller brass key, identical to the one Blake had found in the fireplace.
He now had two.
Interesting.
He checked the drawer of the nightstand.
Locked.
The first key didn't fit. But the second—click. It slid open with a whisper.
Inside, folded carefully, was a single sheet of paper. On it, a photograph had been clipped: a black-and-white portrait of a woman standing at the edge of a cliff, paintbrush in hand. Wind in her hair. Intense eyes staring just beyond the frame.
Clara Devlin.
Below the photo, handwritten in Harding's tight script:
"She was there that night. No one else saw her. But I did. She knows."
Blake slipped the paper into his pocket just as a voice called from the hallway.
"Mr. Blake?"
It was Lady Evelyn.
He stepped into the corridor and found her standing beside the grandfather clock, her expression unreadable.
"There's something I need to show you," she said quietly. "Privately."
Without further word, she led him down a hallway he hadn't yet explored, past shuttered windows and dusted portraits, until they reached a narrow sitting room—elegant but unused. The air inside was dry, like a sealed box.
Evelyn closed the door behind them.
"When I was a girl," she began, "I used to spend my summers here. This was my mother's favourite room. No one comes here anymore."
Blake looked around. The room was preserved in time—faded chintz armchairs, a delicate tea table, and on the wall opposite, a large painting.
"I thought you should see this," she said, nodding toward it.
It was a portrait—one Blake hadn't noticed in the manor's collection. The woman in the painting was young, sharp-featured, with dark eyes and an expression both determined and weary. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she wore a brooch shaped like a seahorse.
There was no name on the frame.
"Who is she?" Blake asked.
"My aunt," Evelyn said. "Juliette Godfrey. She died here. Years ago. Threw herself from the cliff."
"A suicide?"
"That's what the family said." Evelyn's voice grew brittle. "But she wasn't the type. She was strong, intelligent. Ambitious."
"And how is she connected to Harding?"
Evelyn turned to face him. "That's just it. A month before we all arrived here, I found a letter in the library archives. It was from Harding. Dated years ago. Addressed to Juliette."
Blake's brow furrowed. "So they knew each other?"
"Yes. And not only that—she was engaged to him. Quietly. No one in the family ever spoke of it."
"And the letter?"
"I burned it," Evelyn admitted. "I panicked. I wasn't sure what it meant. But now… with Thomas dead…"
Blake exhaled slowly. The circle of secrets was tightening.
"Was Clara Devlin here when Juliette died?"
Evelyn blinked. "No, Clara wouldn't have even been born."
Blake nodded, then looked back at the painting. Something about the woman's face—her bearing—reminded him of Clara.
Not in appearance, but in presence.
Another piece of the puzzle.
Later that afternoon, Blake requested tea in the drawing room and invited Clara to join him.
She arrived in a soft green dress, her hair swept back, her fingers stained faintly with paint. Her eyes, as always, held too much.
"Are you all right?" she asked softly, as if she already knew he wasn't.
"I've been thinking about your painting," Blake said gently. "The one of the library. With the shadow."
Clara hesitated. "It came from a dream. Not quite a memory, but something close."
"And you saw someone at the window?"
She nodded.
"I think you saw Thomas Harding's killer," he said. "And I think you know who it was."
Her eyes filled, but she said nothing.
Instead, she opened her satchel and handed him something.
A sketchbook. Rough-edged. Charcoal drawings layered over each other. Some incomplete. Some disturbing.
She pointed to one.
It was a face.
A man's face, lined with years, hair swept back, eyes hollow.
"It came to me last night," she whispered. "I woke up and couldn't stop drawing. I think I've seen him before."
Blake stared at the drawing.
It was the Earl.
Only older.
Weaker.
Sicker.
And behind him, in the drawing, a blurred silhouette. The shape of a younger woman. With the same intense eyes as Juliette.
Or Clara.
He closed the sketchbook.
"Clara," he said, "do you know who your mother was?"
She looked up at him, wide-eyed.
"I never met her," she said. "She died when I was a baby. I was raised by my uncle."
"Did she ever live here? In Seacliff?"
"I… I don't know."
Blake stood.
"I think it's time we spoke with the Earl."
five – The Earl's Secrets
The Earl was in his study, standing by the window with a brandy glass in hand, though the hour was too early for drinking. The fire crackled low behind him, and the afternoon sun laid golden slants across the Persian rug.
Edmund Blake entered without preamble, Clara Devlin behind him like a shadow.
The Earl turned slowly. "Ah, Blake. Miss Devlin. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Blake did not sit. "There are questions that need answering, Lord Redmayne. And I believe you've held your tongue long enough."
A pause. The Earl did not smile, but he did not protest either. "Go on."
Blake took out the charcoal sketch Clara had drawn and handed it over. The Earl examined it, and for a moment, his mask slipped. His fingers trembled. His shoulders sagged. He recognised the face—his own.
But older. Gaunter. Haunted.
He looked up. "Where did this come from?"
"From Clara," Blake said. "Drawn in a daze, a memory perhaps. I believe this image—this emotion—comes from somewhere real."
The Earl did not answer immediately. He walked to the fireplace and stared into the flames.
"Do you know who her mother was?" Blake asked.
Silence.
Clara stepped forward now, her voice softer than wind. "Was it Juliette?"
The Earl froze. Then slowly, he nodded.
"Yes. Juliette Godfrey was your mother, Clara."
The world tilted slightly in the room. The truth hung heavy in the air.
Clara swallowed. "And my father?"
The Earl stared into the fire. "We never knew. Juliette kept it to herself. She left suddenly—ran from the manor after a terrible argument with her sister, my late wife. When she returned months later, she had you. A child born out of wedlock was… scandalous. Especially in our circles."
He turned to face them.
"She died not long after. Fell from the cliffs. They said it was suicide, but I never believed it."
Clara's voice broke. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it was not my place. Your uncle—her brother—took you in, raised you in London. We thought it best. Easier. Kinder."
"But you watched me from afar," she whispered. "Didn't you?"
"I did," the Earl said. "And when you showed promise as an artist, I arranged for your gallery patronage. Quietly. From a distance."
Blake spoke again. "And what of Thomas Harding? How did he know Juliette?"
The Earl's face darkened. "He loved her. Desperately. They were engaged, but it was a secret. My wife disapproved—she hated Juliette's independence, her modern ideas. When she learned of the engagement, she destroyed it."
Clara sat down slowly, eyes glistening.
Blake moved in closer. "What was Harding doing here, after all these years? Why come back?"
The Earl sighed. "To confront the past. He told me he had discovered something—about Juliette's death. That it wasn't suicide. That someone made it look that way."
"And he told you this before he died?"
The Earl nodded. "Only briefly. The night before the party, we shared a brandy. He said he had found a letter, perhaps a will. Something that proved Juliette feared for her life."
"Did he show you?"
"No. He said it wasn't safe yet. That he needed more time."
"And then," Blake said quietly, "he was poisoned."
Blake left the study with Clara. She walked in silence beside him, her face pale. The corridors of Seacliff stretched long and hushed, as though the house itself was holding its breath.
When they reached the main hall, Clara stopped him.
"There's something I didn't tell you," she said, her voice low. "Last night… I saw someone. Outside my window. Watching."
Blake's eyes sharpened. "Who?"
"I couldn't see clearly. A tall figure. Male, I think. Just standing there, near the topiaries. Then he disappeared into the garden."
"Was it a dream?"
"No. I was awake. I had just returned from the library."
Blake narrowed his eyes. "Come with me."
They returned to the garden.
It was nearing dusk, and the air was scented with lavender. Blake walked along the gravel paths until they reached the row of hedges beneath Clara's window.
He knelt and studied the soil.
Fresh footprints.
Heavy. Male.
One print had a partial heel mark—military in style.
Blake stood and looked toward the distant shed beyond the topiary line.
"Captain Pryce," he murmured.
Dinner was strained that evening.
Captain Pryce arrived late, claiming he'd fallen asleep in his room. Blake noted his polished boots—and the faint trace of garden soil on the soles.
The conversation around the table was stilted. The Earl made no mention of Clara's lineage. Lady Evelyn watched her niece with something between wariness and regret.
After the meal, Blake intercepted Captain Pryce near the stairs.
"A moment, Captain?"
Pryce nodded. "Of course."
They stepped into the reading room.
"I understand you served in Egypt," Blake began.
"Yes. Briefly."
"Know anything about cyanide?"
Pryce raised a brow. "Enough to know it's not a subtle weapon."
"Would you recognise it if you saw it?"
"Probably."
Blake stepped closer. "And would you use it to silence someone who knew too much?"
There was a pause. Then Pryce's mouth twitched.
"If I were a killer, Blake, I'd choose something far less poetic."
Blake met his eyes. "But you were in the garden last night. Beneath Clara's window."
Pryce didn't flinch. "I walk most nights. It helps me sleep."
"Even in the rain?"
Another pause.
Blake waited. Pryce gave nothing.
Later that night, Blake sat in his room, reviewing his notes by candlelight.
A killer walked among them. One who knew the manor well. Who had access to poison. Who feared the past—feared what Harding had uncovered.
But perhaps Harding had hidden more than letters.
Blake reached into his pocket and removed the second key.
It didn't fit Harding's drawer. It didn't fit his writing case.
What else had Harding brought with him?
A box?
A journal?
He would search again.
But first, he wrote a note:
To the Earl:
There is more than one ghost at Seacliff.
And I intend to meet them all.
six – Rain on the Cliffs
The rain came softly at first—just a murmur on the windows of Seacliff Manor. Then, like a sudden turning of the tide, it grew steady, rhythmic, relentless. The sea beyond the cliffs churned in greys and greens, barely visible through the storm-misted panes.
Edmund Blake sat in the breakfast room alone, the remains of tea and toast forgotten beside him. A notebook lay open on the table, filled with thin, slanting handwriting. His own notes—observations, timings, glances exchanged, footprints measured.
The manor, as grand and proud as it was, had grown quieter since the night of Thomas Harding's murder. The household moved more slowly now, with voices lower, doors creaking more ominously than usual. Something poisonous had seeped into the walls.
Blake's pencil tapped gently against the rim of his cup. He had a killer to uncover. And he was running out of patience.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
He turned.
Clara Devlin stood at the doorway. Her hair was slightly damp, and she wore a wool shawl draped over her shoulders. There was a tentative expression on her face—unsure, but not afraid.
"You asked to speak with me," she said.
Blake gestured toward the chair opposite him. "Yes. Sit. Please."
She did so without question.
"I need to ask you more about your mother," Blake said gently. "Juliette."
Clara lowered her gaze. "What would you like to know?"
"Anything. Details. Memories. Stories your uncle told you."
Clara was quiet a moment. "She painted. That's the only thing I ever really knew. My uncle kept a few of her sketches. He said she used to sketch at night—when everyone else slept."
Blake nodded. "Like you."
She looked up. "Yes. I suppose it's in the blood."
He paused. "Did your uncle ever speak of this house? Of the manor?"
"Only once. I was very young. He said… this place took things from people. That it had a way of swallowing the truth."
Blake leaned forward. "Did he ever say who your father was?"
"No. I asked once. He changed the subject. That was the only time I saw him angry."
Blake noted that carefully. "Your mother died here, on the cliffs. Did he ever question it?"
Clara hesitated. "He said it broke him. That's all."
Outside, thunder rumbled far over the ocean. Blake stood and crossed to the window. The sea mist was rising now, a curtain that blurred the edges of the world.
He turned back. "Someone wanted her silenced. Just like Harding. I believe they're connected."
Clara stood too, the colour draining from her cheeks. "Do you think the same person… killed them both?"
"It's a possibility I can't ignore."
Blake spent the rest of the morning walking the corridors of Seacliff Manor. He visited rooms he hadn't entered before: the music room, now dust-laden and quiet; the old servant stairwells; the forgotten linen closets. The manor had its own memory, and Blake intended to explore it all.
In the west wing, a corridor of ancestral portraits lined the walls—stern men in medals, women in lace, one even in riding gear. At the end of the hall, a large portrait of Lord Redmayne's late wife dominated the space.
She had Juliette's eyes.
Blake stood studying her face, then turned as Lady Evelyn's voice called softly from behind.
"You've found her," she said.
Blake nodded. "She looks like her sister."
Evelyn joined him, her gloved hands clasped in front of her. "She hated Juliette. Envied her, I think. For her freedom."
"Did she also know about Thomas Harding?"
Evelyn's mouth drew into a thin line. "Yes. She despised him. Said he was beneath her."
"She knew about the engagement?"
"She discovered it one winter. There was a fight, loud enough for half the house to hear. My aunt forbade the marriage. Threatened to cut Juliette off entirely. And Juliette… she left."
Blake studied Evelyn carefully. "Do you believe she took her own life?"
Evelyn looked at the portrait. "No."
The rain thickened as the day wore on. It danced on the rooftops, rattled at the windows, and turned the gravel paths of the estate into muddy veins. Inside, the hearths were kept lit, but the warmth did little to quiet the unease threading through Seacliff Manor.
Blake took lunch in the small drawing room with Lady Evelyn and the Earl. Clara was absent. So too was Captain Pryce. That, in itself, was noteworthy.
Lady Evelyn stirred her soup without tasting it. The Earl sat opposite Blake, unreadable as ever.
"I must ask you both again," Blake said after a moment, "about the night Thomas Harding died."
The Earl raised one brow. "We've told you all we know."
"Humour me."
Evelyn sighed. "I had gone up to my room before midnight. I suffer from migraines. I took a tincture and went to bed."
Blake turned to the Earl. "And you?"
"I remained in the library until shortly before the body was found," the Earl said.
"Were you alone?"
A pause.
"I was."
"Then no one can confirm your whereabouts."
"No more than anyone can confirm theirs."
Blake smiled faintly. "Indeed."
He rose from his seat and crossed to the sideboard where an antique decanter of port stood beside crystal glasses. He poured himself a small measure, then turned.
"Harding told you he had found something. A letter, perhaps. Evidence."
"Yes."
"Could it have been hidden somewhere in the house? Somewhere he'd kept private?"
The Earl frowned. "He was staying in the green guest room. There's a writing desk there."
"I've already searched it. It was locked, and when opened, empty."
The Earl looked genuinely puzzled. "Then I don't know."
"Unless he hid it elsewhere. Somewhere less obvious."
He sipped his drink, deep in thought. Then, without another word, he set the glass down and left the room.
Blake returned to the green guest room. The rain outside had dulled the natural light, and he lit the standing lamp near the bed.
He scanned the room methodically. Floorboards. Paneling. Inside the wardrobe. Behind the paintings.
Nothing.
Then, kneeling beside the fireplace, he noticed something.
A stone at the hearth's edge was looser than the others. Just slightly.
Carefully, he worked his fingers around it and pried it upward.
Behind it lay a small black tin box, about the size of a paperback book.
Blake lifted it out.
The lock was simple. He picked it within seconds.
Inside were several folded sheets of heavy cream paper. The first was a letter, written in a woman's hand.
If something happens to me, do not believe what they tell you. I fear my life is in danger, and I believe it comes from within these walls. There is more than jealousy here—there is hatred, deep and old. If I do not survive to tell my story, let this letter be my voice. —Juliette.
Blake exhaled slowly.
Beneath the letter was a photograph—faded with time. It showed Juliette standing in the manor's rose garden. Beside her stood Harding, younger then, in uniform. The image was creased in the middle, as though someone had unfolded it too many times.
There was also a folded napkin, monogrammed with the manor's crest. Tucked inside it was a small brooch—gold and emerald, shaped like a serpent.
He held it up to the light.
Recognition flickered. Lady Evelyn had worn such a brooch on the first night Blake arrived.
But hers had been missing the emerald.
This was the original.
He stood. The pieces were beginning to align.
That evening, as the storm lashed against the cliffs and lightning fractured the sky, Blake called a private meeting in the parlour.
Present were Clara, Lady Evelyn, the Earl, and finally, Captain Pryce, who had returned to the manor with boots caked in mud.
He stood beside the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, watching Blake with narrowed eyes.
Blake waited until the room was quiet, then began.
"I found something today. Something Thomas Harding left behind."
He opened the tin box and laid the contents out on the table. The letter. The photograph. The brooch.
Lady Evelyn paled the moment her eyes fell on it.
"That brooch," Blake said softly, "is yours, Lady Evelyn. Or it was. Before it disappeared. Before Juliette died."
She said nothing.
The Earl stared at her. "Evelyn?"
She gave a brittle laugh. "Yes. It was mine. I gave it to her. Once. When we were girls. She kept it, even after everything."
Blake studied her. "This was found hidden in the fireplace of Harding's room, along with a letter written by Juliette. She feared someone in this house meant her harm. She never sent the letter. But she left it for someone to find."
Clara spoke quietly. "You knew she didn't fall."
Evelyn didn't look at her. "I suspected. But I had no proof."
"And yet you said nothing all these years."
"What would you have had me do?" Evelyn snapped. "Raise scandal? Accuse my own family?"
"Yes," Blake said. "If there was a murderer among them."
Pryce shifted by the fire. "And who do you think it was, Blake?"
"I don't know. Not yet. But I do know Harding was close to proving something. And now he's dead."
He let that hang in the air.
Thunder cracked overhead.
"We must go back to the beginning," Blake said, "and re-examine everything."
The parlour emptied slowly. Clara lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on the brooch as if it might speak. Then she turned and slipped quietly into the hall. Blake remained where he stood, staring into the dying fire.
Pryce moved beside him. "You're circling something, Blake. I can see it."
Blake didn't answer at first. "You served under Harding, didn't you?"
"I did."
"You respected him?"
"Yes."
"Then help me find his killer."
Pryce's jaw tightened. "You think it was someone in this house?"
"I'm certain of it."
Pryce folded his arms. "You suspect Evelyn."
"I suspect many things. Including that someone is trying very hard to keep the past buried."
The captain gave a short nod. "What do you need?"
"A soldier's eye. And a steady hand."
"You've got both."
The next morning dawned pale and cold. The rain had stopped, but the mist remained—a heavy veil over the gardens and cliffs.
Blake stood in the rose garden, boots damp with dew, staring at the stone bench where Juliette had once sat in the old photograph. The same bench still stood, half-covered in moss.
Clara approached from the path, wrapped in a grey coat. "I've never seen this part of the garden," she said.
"Few people do. It's half-forgotten."
She sat beside him on the bench.
"You remind them of her," Blake said.
Clara looked out toward the cliffs. "That's not always a good thing."
"No. But it may be useful."
She turned to him. "What do you mean?"
"I need to see how people react. To you. To your presence. Sometimes guilt speaks in silence."
"You want me to be bait?"
"I want you to be visible. To ask questions. To act as though you suspect."
"I do suspect."
Blake nodded. "Then let them see it."
That afternoon, Clara made her way through the manor like a ghost of the past. She visited rooms she hadn't entered before, asking questions with innocent curiosity. She lingered near conversations. She brought up Juliette's name casually, watching for flinches, stumbles, deflections.
In the drawing room, she spoke with Mrs. Havers, the long-serving housekeeper.
"Did you know my mother well?" she asked.
Mrs. Havers gave a tight smile. "I cleaned her linen. Polished her mirror. I suppose that's knowing her, in a way."
"Did she have any friends here? Among the staff?"
"She was kind to everyone. But kind isn't always safe."
"What do you mean?"
Mrs. Havers hesitated. "Kind people… they draw sharp eyes."
She wiped her hands on her apron and turned away, ending the conversation.
In the kitchen, Clara sat with Miss Cooke, the younger maid. She was nervous, always wringing her hands.
"She was so beautiful," the girl whispered. "She used to hum in the hallway. Like she didn't care who heard her."
"Did people resent her for that?"
"They resented the way she made them feel. Like they were smaller."
Clara leaned in. "Did you ever see her fight with anyone?"
The maid looked around, then whispered, "Once. She and Lady Evelyn. In the conservatory. They shouted. And then someone slapped someone. I ran."
"When was this?"
"The summer before she died."
Meanwhile, Blake met with the manor's groundskeeper, Mr. Trask—a man with weathered hands and a voice like gravel.
"She walked the cliffs," Trask said. "Even in the rain. Said it cleared her mind."
"Did anyone ever follow her?"
"She thought someone did. Told me so, once."
"What did you say?"
"I told her not to walk alone."
"Did she listen?"
Trask gave a hollow laugh. "She said solitude was her only friend."
Blake's eyes narrowed. "Did she ever meet with Thomas Harding outside the house?"
"Only once, that I know of. Down by the boathouse. Evening light. Thought they were lovers."
"Was anyone else there?"
Trask nodded. "Someone watched them. I saw the shadow move."
"Could you tell who it was?"
"No. But they wore green."
That night, Blake sat at his desk, arranging his notes. Threads were forming. Rage. Jealousy. Silence.
But still no proof.
A knock at the door.
Captain Pryce entered. "I found something."
Blake rose. "Where?"
"In the west attic. Behind old trunks."
Pryce set a box on the table. Inside were several of Juliette's sketchbooks—brittle with age, edges curled. The first pages were full of drawings: sea birds, flowers, faces.
Then, near the middle, things changed.
The sketches turned darker—shadows behind doors, screaming mouths, a man's silhouette with hollow eyes.
"She was scared," Pryce said.
Blake flipped further. In one sketch, a brooch was drawn—a serpent, identical to the real one.
Below it, written in delicate pencil:
I see him in the hallways. In the glass. He waits for night.
Pryce said, "Do you think she was losing her mind?"
"No," Blake said. "I think she was warning herself."
The discovery of Juliette's sketchbooks sent a ripple of unease through the manor. Blake kept them locked in his room, reviewing each drawing like a sacred relic. The images revealed far more than words ever could—her descent into fear, the eyes that watched her, the brooch that haunted her.
Late that night, Blake summoned Lady Evelyn for a private conversation.
She arrived with quiet dignity, her shawl drawn tightly about her shoulders.
"You've been busy," she said, glancing at the sketchbook on the desk.
"I've been trying to understand what kind of world Juliette lived in, here. What she feared."
Evelyn sat opposite him. "You think I know."
"I think you knew more than you ever said."
She looked down at her gloves. "When I found out she'd fallen for Thomas Harding, I was furious. It wasn't just the scandal. It was her betrayal. She knew how it would shame the family."
"She wanted to marry for love."
"And I married for position. For duty. That was the way of things."
Blake leaned forward. "You once gave her your brooch. Why?"
Evelyn hesitated. "We were close. Before all of it. I gave it to her when she was sixteen. She never gave it back."
"She sketched it, in her final weeks. And wrote that she saw someone 'in the glass.' Who was that?"
Evelyn's lips trembled. "I don't know. Truly."
Blake studied her. "Did your husband ever grow close to Juliette?"
The question landed like a stone.
Evelyn closed her eyes. "He adored her. It was not proper. And it was not returned. But I saw it in the way he looked at her. Like she was the sun."
"And did she know?"
"She pretended not to. For my sake."
A silence passed between them, filled only by the ticking of the mantle clock.
"You believe your husband killed her," Blake said softly.
Evelyn didn't answer. But she didn't deny it.
Meanwhile, Clara wandered into the manor's old chapel, a small stone structure on the eastern edge of the estate. Few guests visited it now—its pews were covered in dust, its altar neglected.
She lit a candle and sat quietly, her thoughts heavy.
The door creaked behind her.
Captain Pryce entered, hat in hand. "Didn't expect anyone here."
"Neither did I," Clara said. "It's peaceful."
He nodded and joined her at the front pew.
"Your mother loved this place," he said. "She used to come here when things got too heavy in the house."
"Did you know her well?"
He exhaled. "Not as well as I wish. But well enough to see she was in danger."
"Why didn't you stop it?"
"Because I was young. And scared. And not brave enough."
Clara looked at him. "Do you think my father was someone in this house?"
"I think the truth was buried. But it's clawing its way back."
They sat in silence a moment longer, listening to the wind through the stained-glass window.
Pryce reached into his coat and withdrew a folded paper. "I found this wedged under a loose plank in the old stables. I think it's for you."
Clara unfolded the page. The handwriting was faint but familiar.
Clara,
If you ever find this, it means I couldn't protect you the way I wanted. I was afraid, but I knew you deserved to know. Your father was a man who stood tall even when the world told him to kneel. He was brave, and he loved your mother deeply.
Never let them take that from you.
—Uncle Frederick
Her hands shook.
Back in his room, Blake reviewed every name, every motive. It was a web of silences, half-truths, and inherited shame.
He drew a fresh page and wrote four names at the top:
•Lady Evelyn
•The Earl
•Captain Pryce
•Clara
Then he added a fifth: Mrs. Havers.
She had been here the longest. She had known every secret. Every generation.
And she had spoken in riddles.
Blake left his room and crossed the manor in darkness.
He knocked on the housekeeper's quarters.
A moment later, Mrs. Havers opened the door, eyes sharp despite the hour.
"You're not sleeping," Blake said.
"Neither are you."
He entered the room. It smelled of lavender and old wood.
"I need you to tell me what really happened to Juliette."
Mrs. Havers didn't move. "I saw her fall. I watched from the window. She stood on the edge… and then she was gone."
"Did anyone follow her?"
"I don't know. But someone was already there. Waiting."
"Who?"
"I couldn't see. The mist had risen. But they wore green."
Blake's breath caught. "The same as the figure seen near the boathouse?"
She nodded. "I buried it. I thought it safer."
"You thought protecting them was safer?"
"No," she whispered. "I thought protecting you was."
Blake stared. "Me?"
She turned to the small table in the corner and opened a drawer.
She handed him a thin leather-bound notebook.
Blake flipped it open. The writing inside was not Juliette's.
It was Frederick's.
Blake stood in the housekeeper's room, notebook in hand, as the wind howled beyond the shuttered windows. Mrs. Havers watched him with a weary sadness, as though she'd been holding her breath for years—and was only now letting it go.
The first page bore Frederick's name in bold, confident letters. Edmund flipped through slowly. The entries were dated from over two decades earlier—months before Juliette's death.
March 5th
I've seen it now. The way he looks at her. It is not a father's gaze. It's darker than that. Juliette pretends not to see, but I know she's afraid. She spoke of leaving. I told her I'd help her go.
Blake's fingers tightened around the page.
March 19th
She told me she was with child. She wouldn't say who the father was—but I knew. She said she wouldn't let him keep the child, that she'd leave this cursed house and never return. I begged her to be careful.
April 2nd
She tried to confront him. I don't know what was said. She was shaken after. More than shaken—broken. I saw bruises on her wrist. She said it was nothing, but her eyes… they were different.
May 1st
I told her to run. We made a plan. I was to bring her down to the station the night of the summer gathering. She was to fake a headache and slip out while the guests were distracted.
May 2nd
She's dead.
Blake closed the notebook slowly.
Mrs. Havers spoke quietly. "He never let her go. And when she tried… he made sure no one would ever hear her voice again."
Blake looked up. "You mean the Earl."
She nodded. "He was a proud man. Too proud to be rejected. Too proud to let scandal stain his name."
"And Frederick?"
"He tried to tell the truth. But the Earl threatened him. Said he'd ruin his family, ruin Juliette's name. So Frederick buried it. He went abroad. He was never the same."
Blake pressed a hand to his temple. The puzzle was no longer a tangle of maybes—it was a dark corridor leading directly to the Earl of Seacliff.
"Why give this to me now?" he asked.
"Because you're his son."
The words fell like thunder.
Blake stared at her.
"No," he said. "That's not possible."
"You were born a year after Juliette died. But your mother was no noblewoman. She was a servant—sent away when she fell pregnant. Frederick helped her. Paid for her to raise you far from here. But he never stopped watching. Never stopped hoping you'd come back and find the truth."
Blake sank into the chair, the notebook trembling in his hands.
He had come to solve a murder.
And found himself buried inside it.
The next morning broke with fractured sunlight. The mist clung low, but the rain had passed.
Blake stood on the cliffs, notebook in his coat pocket, eyes fixed on the waves below. The sea that had swallowed Juliette had never given her back. But now, at last, she had a voice again.
Pryce joined him.
"You look like you've aged ten years overnight," the captain said.
"I have," Blake replied.
Pryce studied his face. "What will you do?"
"I'll confront him. Let him know the truth is no longer his to contain."
"And then?"
"Then I'll leave. I have no desire to be lord of a cursed house."
The confrontation came quietly, in the Earl's study.
Blake laid the notebook on the desk without a word.
The Earl read the first pages, then sat back in silence.
"You always wondered who your father was," he said at last.
"I no longer care."
The Earl sighed. "I did love her. But she made choices—"
"She made the choice to live. You made the choice to take that from her."
A flicker of something passed the Earl's face—regret, perhaps. Or the shadow of it.
"You'll do what you must," he said.
Blake turned to leave.
"Edmund—" the Earl called, once.
Blake paused but did not look back.
"You have her eyes," the old man said softly.
Then Blake walked away.
That evening, Blake found Clara in the garden. The sun, rare and golden, had broken through the clouds at last.
She held the sketchbook in her lap.
"I can't believe how much of her is still here," Clara whispered.
"She left more behind than they knew," Blake said.
They sat in silence for a long moment.
Then Clara turned to him. "Will you stay?"
"No," he said. "There's nothing for me in this place now."
"But you solved the mystery."
"I uncovered the truth. That's not the same as solving it."
She looked at him. "Where will you go?"
"Wherever the next mystery takes me."
He rose, and for a moment, he looked like a man who had shed an invisible chain.
Clara stood as well. "Thank you. For bringing her back to me."
Blake gave her a gentle smile. "She never truly left."
He walked toward the waiting car. The mist began to lift.
Above the cliffs, for the first time in days, the sky was clear.