Page 21

T he library at Alastair Court was quiet.

The tension was unmistakable. Professor Tresham sat among the ancient books, but even he could not concentrate.

Barrington stood by the desk, his expression unreadable as he held the note delicately between his fingers.

Townsend looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he studied the scrawled words. Grenville and Bridget stood nearby.

Barrington carefully unfolded the parchment that he’d taken out of Alastair’s mouth. His eyes narrowed as he read the inscription: “ For those who betray the Shadows, silence is eternal .” He exhaled slowly, recognition crossing his face.

“This is no idle threat,” he said grimly.

“It bears the Order of Shadow’s seal, meant to silence and intimidate.

I’ve seen it before.” He angled the parchment toward the firelight, revealing a faint symbol, a raven with wings spread wide inside a diamond.

“They want us to know exactly who is responsible.”

Grenville crossed his arms, his jaw tight. “They didn’t just kill him. They made an example of him. The question is, why now?”

Townsend tapped his chin thoughtfully. “If Alastair was meeting someone to share something, the timing was deliberate. The Order of Shadows didn’t want to risk him talking.”

Bridget stepped closer, her gaze fixed on the symbol. “The Order of Shadows?”

Barrington nodded. “They’re not a legend. The Order of Shadows is a centuries-old syndicate that manipulates power behind the scenes of the aristocracy, politics, and commerce. Most never hear of them. That’s how they operate. Until now.” He met Grenville’s eye. “Which is why I sent for you.”

Grenville glanced at Bridget before speaking. “I suspected it was more than a courtesy visit,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t expect… this.” His voice lowered, shaded with something darker. “Not the Order.”

Bridget’s fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve. This Order wasn’t some whispered threat. Alastair was dead because of them. Justice, not fear, pushed her forward. She couldn’t let his death be swept into silence. Not when the truth was close enough to touch.

A hush settled again, heavy with shared understanding.

The door creaked open, breaking the stillness. Marjory stepped inside, pale but composed, her gaze scanning the room before settling on Barrington.

“I thought I might find you here,” she said quietly. “Have you discovered anything?”

Barrington’s expression remained neutral. “We found this,” Barrington said, showing her the note. “It was on Alastair. Do you know anything about the Order?”

“Not at all.” Marjory’s eyes widened as she read the message, her hand flying to her mouth. “That handwriting…” She swallowed hard. “I—I’ve seen it before.” She looked at them, her eyes full of pain. “I don’t recall where.” Her voice was a whisper.

“Don’t worry. It will come to you,” Townsend said smoothly, his gaze sharp as he observed her reaction. “Was Alastair involved in anything… unusual?”

Marjory shook her head vehemently. “No. At least, not that he told me. But he—” She hesitated, glancing away.

“He’d been distant lately. No, distracted.

He’d been asking strange questions about my family, people long dead, ancestors I barely remember hearing about.

I thought it was just another one of his scholarly pursuits.

” Her voice dropped, and her cheeks flushed. “But I never imagined… this.”

Bridget’s expression softened. “Did he say anything to you about being blackmailed? Or mention anyone suspicious?”

Marjory shook her head again, her voice trembling. “No. I thought he was trying to protect me from something, but I don’t know what it was. If he was being blackmailed, he never told me.”

No one spoke. Her meaning had been clear enough.

“We’ll figure this out,” Barrington said firmly. “Alastair may have taken secrets to his grave, but we’ll uncover the truth.”

Marjory nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Thank you. Please… let me know if you find anything else.”

She left the room quietly. The moment the door clicked shut, Townsend exhaled. “She may not know what Alastair was involved in, but she’s hiding something. Or someone.”

Barrington paced the length of the room.

Grenville crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “You believe Alastair uncovered something specific?”

Barrington turned toward the bookshelves, his eyes sharpening with understanding.

“In his search for the past, Alastair must have found something. Something about the Order of Shadows.” He reached for the nearest shelf, his fingers skimming the spines of the carefully arranged volumes.

“If he discovered information they wanted hidden, that could explain why he was silenced.”

Bridget studied the vast collection before them. “But what exactly was he looking for?”

Barrington exhaled. “That’s what we need to find out.

” He turned to the others gathered in the room, his tone shifting to one of command.

“The books need to be searched. If there’s a record, a letter, anything tucked between these pages, we must find it before it disappears.

” His gaze landed on Professor Tresham. “You may have some idea where to start looking.”

Tresham, who had been silent until now, straightened slightly, his curiosity piqued despite the grim circumstances.

“Alastair’s collection is extensive. But if he had found something particularly valuable, something that threatened the Order, it wouldn’t be among his usual acquisitions.

We should begin with any books he kept separate, any volumes he recently obtained or studied in private. ”

Barrington nodded. “Good. We need to search here as well as question everyone carefully. Someone in this house knows more than they are saying.” His voice dropped slightly, the tension in the room thickening. “And I have no intention of waiting for them to come forward on their own.”

A charged silence followed, each person exchanging wary glances. They all understood that this was no longer just about Alastair’s death. It was about what he had uncovered, and what it might cost them to reveal it.

*

The late afternoon light filtered through the tall library windows. Grenville and Bridget searched the library drawers. They unrolled ancient parchments, scanning them for any references to the Order.

Grenville pulled open a drawer, every movement controlled, but a current ran beneath his skin. He wasn’t calm. He was concentrating, holding back the surge of something bigger. Something that had started when Bridget touched that note.

Even amid the grim task of unraveling Alastair’s secrets, Bridget couldn’t help but note how Grenville’s steady presence anchored her, a quiet comfort that she dared not yet name.

“Marjory said Alastair kept things to himself,” Bridget said as she looked through a library drawer. “But everyone has a habit, a place where they believe their secrets are safe.”

Grenville arched a brow at her. “Speaking from experience?”

Bridget shot him a cynical glance. “Observation.” She crouched and inspected the small cabinet beside the desk.

Minutes passed as they worked in silence. Grenville sifted through a stack of papers, searching each one before setting it aside. Bridget ran her fingers along the underside of the desk drawer, searching for a hidden compartment.

She paused, her fingertips froze on an uneven edge.

“Captain,” she whispered, sharper than a summons, more like a warning or a victory.

Grenville’s head snapped up. He was already crossing to her as she carefully pulled out a folded sheaf of parchment tucked against the back of the drawer.

The parchment was aged, the ink faded, the letters deliberate but frustratingly faint.

A shiver ran down her spine as she studied the markings.

“This… this is the same as the scrap of parchment I gave you,” she whispered, not quite trusting her voice. “Alastair didn’t just tear it. He meant to protect it.”

She looked at him then, not just for confirmation, but connection. And it hit him, how deeply she’d believed they’d find this. How fiercely she’d fought to follow the truth.

Grenville pulled the scrap from his coat pocket, the one Bridget had taken from Alastair’s grasp. Carefully, he aligned the edges. The two pieces fit seamlessly together.

Bridget pressed her lips into a thin line. “Alastair didn’t just tear this out to keep it.” She exhaled. “He wanted to make sure no one else did.”

Grenville studied the reunited parchment, his brow furrowing. The ink was too faint in certain places, the letters smudged with age. Some words were clear, but others, especially the crucial ones at the seam where the paper had been torn, were nearly illegible.

Bridget frowned. “Some of this script… it’s Old Scots.”

Grenville’s expression darkened. “I’ve seen this language before.” His voice was low, edged with recognition. “Alastair bought that odd book outside the antique shop in Spain. I remember because he couldn’t read it, but he was certain it was important.”

He stepped to the bookshelf, scanning the titles before pulling out a worn, leather-bound volume. He set it down before Bridget, flipping through the brittle pages.

Bridget ran her fingers over the worn parchment. “This is the book Miss Gray read Friday evening. She said it was disturbing.”

Together, they paged through the book. The script was painstakingly written, archaic in style, the meaning just out of reach. Then they stopped. Several pages had been violently torn from the binding, leaving ragged edges where words had once been recorded.

Bridget inhaled sharply. “Whatever he found in here,” she murmured, “he believed it was worth risking everything.”

Grenville studied the missing pages, his brow furrowed. “And whoever wants it back will kill again if necessary.”