Page 23

Finn stood under the subdued glow of the Monarch Club’s lobby chandelier, staring at his bloodied hands as he wiped them with a towel Rob had found somewhere. Each dab of cloth against his skin felt surreal, as if this moment existed outside time. Jeremy Ford’s death lingered in his mind—he could still hear the man’s last ragged breath echoing in that cold, hidden cellar.

“It happened so fast,” Finn whispered, voice tight with guilt. “He… died in my arms. I should’ve moved faster.”

Amelia reached out and gently covered one of his hands with hers. A moment of shared grief passed between them, and she squeezed his fingers softly in reassurance. “We can’t save everyone, Finn. You did what you could.”

Rob, standing just to their side, surveyed the scene grimly. In the background, a group of anxious club members clustered, murmuring in half-panicked tones. Uniformed officers guarded the main doors, while additional staff hovered at the edges of the lobby, wide-eyed. The club’s opulence—its marble floors, plush rugs, and gleaming vases—felt hollow under the weight of what had happened.

Rob looked at Finn. “We’ve secured the building. No one gets in or out. If the murderer’s still here, we’ll find him.”

Finn nodded, disposing of the bloodstained towel. His eyes darted across the room, landing on Lady Pembroke. She stood a short distance away, arms folded over her emerald gown, watching him with an air of open suspicion. Gone was her earlier playful demeanor; now, her face was etched with tension.

He approached her, heart heavy from the night’s events. She straightened, chin high, and said, “Mr. Foster, I suppose a new introduction is in order?”

Finn exhaled slowly. “Yes—about that. My real name is Finn Wright. I’m a consulting detective working with the Home Office, looking into these… murders.”

A flicker of hurt danced across her features. “I see.”

Amelia stepped up beside him. “Inspector Amelia Winters, Metropolitan Police. I’m sorry about the ruse, Lady Pembroke, but we needed discretion. People’s lives depend on it.”

Lady Pembroke turned her gaze away for a moment, collecting herself. “It’s all such a mess,” she whispered. Her composure wavered as she caught sight of Finn’s stained cuff. “And poor Jeremy. I can’t believe he’s—” She swallowed, pressing her lips together.

Amelia, her voice measured, asked, “We understand the recent deaths might tie back to a midnight game that took place on March tenth, 2003. Jeremy mentioned it.”

Finn glanced sideways at Lady Pembroke, adding softly, “He also alluded that Marcus Pembroke was there. That he…” He hesitated, uncertain how to bring up the rumor. “That he took his own life sometime later.”

Lady Pembroke’s eyes misted. She pressed a hand to her brow, as though holding back tears. “Marcus was there, yes. He was part of the… conspiracy. They all planned to fleece Terrance Mansfield—poor fool never saw it coming. After Terrance vanished, Marcus was consumed by guilt.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she took a shaky breath before continuing. “He tried to find Terrance, to make amends, but the man had disappeared. And the not knowing, the weight of what he’d done, ate at Marcus until he…” She let the words trail off, the implication clear.

Amelia's expression softened. "I'm sorry. But then, why do you still gamble at these secret games? Doesn’t it… hurt, after what happened to your husband?”

A flash of defiance lit Lady Pembroke’s eyes. “I do it out of petty revenge, Inspector. Whenever I win, I donate the proceeds to a charity Marcus loved. It’s a small thing, but it’s my way of honoring him—and making sure his name doesn’t fade into a footnote of guilt.”

Finn nodded in understanding, though the heaviness in his chest remained. “And Terrance Mansfield—have you ever heard whispers that he returned to the club, maybe seeking vengeance?”

Her lips curved into a sad, humorless smile. “Over the years, there have been ghost stories—a phantom wandering the halls, the spirit of Mansfield. People teased each other about it. I never took it seriously. Now… I wonder if he truly has been lurking around like some Phantom of the Opera.”

A commotion disrupted them. At the lobby doors, a cluster of irritated club members confronted two officers. Their voices rose, echoing across the ornate space.

"We're Members of Parliament!" one man declared. "We have important duties—this lockdown is illegal!"

“This is an active crime scene,” Rob said, stepping forward. “No one leaves. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

Amelia moved to join him, leaving Finn alone with Lady Pembroke for a moment. The murmur of protest and heated rebuttal filled the lobby with chaotic energy. Lady Pembroke cast one last haunted look at Finn and then stepped aside to watch the argument unfold from a distance.

Finn rubbed his temples, exhaustion pulling at him. Three murders. If the killer was indeed Terrance Mansfield… who could be next?

A sharper commotion drew his attention to a far corner of the lobby. He spotted James Rutherford gripping Theodore Crawford’s arm, speaking in a low, forceful tone. The manager looked flustered, his balding head glistening with perspiration under the chandelier. James was practically marching Theodore away from the crowd and into a nearby hallway. Finn thought James looked a similar size to the attacker, but it was hard to gauge because of how dark it had been.

What is he up to?

Finn’s instincts prickled. Rob and Amelia were preoccupied at the doors, fending off the outraged VIPs. I should see what James is up to.

Quietly, he slipped through the scattered club members, weaving past side tables and potted plants until he reached the corridor. He caught a glimpse of James and Theodore vanishing through a door. The plaque on it read: Theodore Crawford – Manager.

Finn set an ear to the door. Muffled voices leaked out, tense and agitated.

“You know the only way we get out of here is by going the 'old way',” James said.

“Impossible,” Theodore answered. “It's not been used for years.”

“I don't know where it is,” James said. “But I know the entrance is somewhere in the library. You better show me! I want out of here and the police are guarding the exits!”

He turned the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

Theodore stood behind his ornate wooden desk, worry etched on his face. James Rutherford, mid-sentence, swung around and stiffened. “Devlin,” he said, a note of irritation in his voice. “What do you want?”

Finn forced a casual shrug, feigning the same accent he used as “Devlin Foster.” “The place is locked down, James. I’m not keen on staying all night. I saw you two slip away—thought maybe you’d have a solution?”

James’s eyes flicked to Finn’s hands, noticing the faint red smears still visible on his cuffs. He let out a small noise of distaste. “You should wash up, Mr. Foster. That’s… unsightly.”

Finn grimaced. “Hard to do with officers swarming every bathroom. Look, I was the one who found Jeremy dead. People say it was Terrance Mansfield, and that more will be next. Isn’t that why you want out?”

James bristled. “We’re not afraid of a ghost story, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Finn angled his head. “If you don’t show me a way out, I’ll have to tell the police you’re planning something. And I imagine they won’t like that.”

A flicker of anger crossed James’s face. “I could ensure you never set foot in this club again, Devlin. Is that what you want?”

Finn mustered a brief, wry smile. “I’m willing to sacrifice my membership if it means avoiding negative press for my business ventures.”

Theodore—who'd been standing rooted behind the desk—raised his hands plaintively. "Alright, that's enough. If you want to be led out, you should speak with the police." His voice dropped, quavering. "The old way is sealed off for a reason… No one's used it in years and for all I know the damned thing has caved in."

James scowled, turning on Theodore. “We’ll take our chances, and so will a few of the most influential members who need to leave quietly. If you don’t cooperate, I promise I’ll see you removed as manager. I’ll make it my personal mission.”

Theodore’s eyes flickered with panic. He glanced at Finn for a moment and then relented. “Fine. I’ll… show you. But I don’t know the condition it’s in.”

James nodded sharply, then offered a perfunctory smile to Finn. "Meet us in the library in five minutes. If you're late, we'll start ripping out the bookcases to find the way ourselves." Without waiting for a response, he strode to the door, yanked it open, and disappeared into the corridor.

A heavy silence followed. Theodore sank into his chair, letting out a long, shaky breath. He pressed his fingers to his temple. “God, this is all so dangerous…” Then his gaze fell on Finn. “Can't you just end this Devlin Foster ruse and stop him?”

Finn gave a rueful nod, dropping the charade. “Yes, I could. But, Teddy, sometimes you have to hold onto your hand until the right moment to call. I wonder if Terrance Mansfield has been using this 'old way'?”

Theodore laced his fingers, knuckles whitening. “Why not just tell the police about this old exit so they can search it? Surely that’s simpler, safer.”

Finn rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. “I suspect that the people who want out are the same ones involved in that 2003 game where Terrance Mansfield lost everything. If Mansfield is alive and seeking revenge, those folks are in the cross hairs I want to see who goes—and more importantly, how they behave. Because one or more of them could be in on all of this, wiping out business and gambling competitors.”

A dull flush stained Theodore's cheeks. "But you're at risk as well. That part of the building is ancient, rarely used. It could collapse for all we know."

“I need to do this,” Finn said. “If there’s a secret route in and out, it might be how the killer has been moving unseen, and perhaps James and his little gang will be implicated.”

Theodore hesitated, then exhaled. “Alright.” He pulled open a deep drawer in his desk, rummaging until he found a tarnished old box. Inside was an oversized key, dark with age and rust. He placed it gently on the desk. Then from another drawer, he retrieved a heavy flashlight—something akin to a torch, sturdier than the one Finn had carried before.

“We'll need some light and the key,” Theodore said before pocketing them. “We can’t lose any more lives tonight. I just hope you know what you’re doing. ”

Finn flicked his gaze to Theodore. “So do I,” he murmured.