Page 24

Finn and Theodore stepped into the Monarch Club’s grand library, still feeling the tension from the frantic events in the basement and the fallout of Jeremy Ford’s death. The space was subdued, lit by only a few well-placed lamps that gave off a warm golden glow against the shelves of old leather-bound tomes. Despite the ornate surroundings, Finn’s mind was on high alert—he half expected the killer to leap out from behind the rows of books.

Waiting by one of the reading alcoves stood James Rutherford, Charles Blackwood, and Mason Wilkins—the last three remaining players from the infamous Mansfield Card Game. James had his arms folded, foot tapping in agitation. Blackwood anxiously wrung his hands, while Mason shifted from foot to foot, looking like he might bolt at the slightest provocation.

Finn arched an eyebrow and mustered a wry smile. “What a coincidence—all three of you survived that card game in 2003. And here you are, the only ones desperate to leave through this old secret exit… other than Terrance Mansfield himself, of course.”

James Rutherford grimaced, Mason Wilkins paled, and Charles Blackwood turned an even more pronounced shade of nervous. Mason shifted uneasily, clearing his throat. “And why, uh… why is Devlin Foster coming with us?”

“Let’s just say,” Finn replied smoothly, still using his false accent, “I have a vested interest in not being implicated. If a killer’s running around and the press show up, I don’t want to see my name plastered everywhere.”

Charles Blackwood, looking spooked, shot Finn a suspicious glare. “For all we know, you are the killer. Maybe you’re Terrance Mansfield, all done up in prosthetics or something.”

Finn let out a short laugh. “I doubt any amount of plastic surgery could make Terrance Mansfield look two decades younger. Come on. Let’s not be melodramatic.”

Theodore cleared his throat, glancing around as though paranoid that uniformed officers might walk in any second. “Look, we have to be quick before the police do a full sweep. We can’t be caught sneaking around, or we’ll be detained.”

Charles Blackwood straightened his suit jacket. “I have a plane to catch. If you think I’m sticking around while people get their throats cut, you’re mad.”

James Rutherford’s brow furrowed, tension evident in every line of his posture. “I’ve heard the old story that there’s a hidden door in the library leading to some ‘old way’ passage, but I never knew the exact details.” He leveled a meaningful look at Theodore. “We’re running out of time. Where is it?”

Theodore pressed his lips together in disapproval. “We should be cooperating with the authorities, but… fine.” He produced a key from his pocket and strode toward a tall bookcase near the far wall. He removed two thick volumes from a middle shelf and inserted the key into a hidden hole at the back. A little grunt escaped him as he tried to turn it—the old lock resisted. Finn stepped in, adding his hand and strength to Theodore's until the mechanism gave a resounding click.

With a creak, the bookcase swung out like a door. A gust of cool, stale air drifted from the revealed passage. Finn took a quick glance at the other library door—the ornate one leading to the secret poker room—then quipped with a smirk, “An ornate door to a forbidden card den, and now a secret passage behind the bookshelf. Does anyone do actual reading here?”

Theodore snorted. “They’re all too drunk to care,” he said, shaking his head.

Finn chuckled but then raised a hand. “Hold on. I need to make sure a driver can pick me up. Business calls, you know.” He fished out his phone and typed a quick text to Amelia: “Going in a secret passageway in the library. Get on radio.”

He pocketed his phone, and the group ventured inside—Theodore leading, the others following in single file. Theodore flicked an old switch on the wall. The corridor was cramped, walls made of rough stone, the air thick with dust. Weak overhead bulbs flickered at intervals, revealing an uneven floor, but long stretches of passage were in complete darkness.

“Most of the bulbs have long since gone out,” Theodore said.

“How far does it go?” Finn asked, glancing around warily.

Theodore peered back. “It winds through crawlspaces between the Club’s walls, then descends. Eventually, it comes out in a cellar that connects to a safe house a few streets over. The safe house is owned by the club.”

Finn angled his flashlight downward, noticing a scattering of footprints visible in the thin layer of dust. “Looks like we’re not the first ones down here recently,” he observed quietly. “I thought you said no one’s been here for years.”

Theodore shrugged, tension visible in his posture. “Last time I remember was a board member sneaking out to dodge paparazzi. Could’ve been more than a year or two ago, though.”

Finn thought the prints looked brand new, but decided not to share this. He shifted the beam onto the three men ahead of him—James Rutherford, Charles Blackwood, and Mason Wilkins. “So,” he said lightly, “any of you heard from Terrance Mansfield since he vanished in 2003? Maybe a postcard from some tropical paradise?”

Mason’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “N-not a peep.” His stammer betrayed his anxiety.

Finn pursed his lips. “Strange how someone can vanish without a trace. Hiding in the shadows for so long.” He paused, letting the tension mount. “Until recently, anyway.”

Charles Blackwood rubbed his arms as though cold. “I don’t want to discuss it. I just want out of this damned place.”

They continued, the passage sloping downward. Finn noticed several other passages slipping off at right angles to the main one. He wondered where they went. The floor grew slick underfoot, and the walls narrowed. The group slowed, stepping carefully past potential pitfalls. Suddenly, Mason Wilkins gave a startled yelp—his foot slipped, and he toppled sideways. With a shriek, he fell into a black pit off to the side of the corridor. The hole had no guardrail or warning sign—just a yawning gap in the gloom.

“Mason!” Finn lunged, catching the man’s hand just in time to stop him plummeting. Mason’s eyes were wide, fear etched into every line of his face.

“Help him!” Finn barked at the others. But James and Charles froze, startled, while Theodore moved too slowly. Grunting, Finn put all his strength into hauling Mason back onto safe ground.

Mason collapsed against the wall, panting. “Th-thank you,” he stammered.

“What's down there?” Finn said, catching his breath.

"Old tunnels, sewers, things like that," Theodore answered.

James Rutherford’s attention swung to Finn. His face looked tense, but there was something else in his expression—suspicion. Finn noticed James fixating on his face, brow knit in confusion. “Devlin,” James said, voice trembling, “what’s that on your…?”

Finn brought a hand to his face, realizing his mustache—the false facial hair he’d used to hide his identity—was peeling off. A flap of synthetic hair hung loose. Damn it. He looked up just in time to see Charles Blackwood recoil.

“He’s wearing a disguise!” Blackwood cried, stepping back. “It’s Terrance Mansfield, after all!”

James, Charles, and Mason’s eyes bulged as they stared at Finn. Panic erupted in their expressions, and they bolted in different directions along the corridor’s branching routes, their footsteps echoing wildly.

“No, wait—!” Finn called, but it was useless. They vanished into the darkness.

Theodore remained at Finn’s side, breathing hard. “So… your cover’s blown, Mr. Wright.”

Finn shrugged, ripping off the rest of the mustache and tossing it aside. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.” His gaze roamed the passages where James, Charles, and Mason had fled. “Though I doubt they’ll get far.”

Theodore wiped sweat from his brow, his hand trembling.

Finn noticed something sticking out of his wrist cuff.

Theodore sighed. “I told you this is dangerous. The place isn’t stable. Anyone could slip or—”

Finn fixed him with a piercing look. Images, thoughts, deductions—they all rushed through his mind. Theodore was a similar size to Jeremy’s killer. And he struggled with the lock in the door... A cold rush of dread washed over him as the realization made itself known.

“Teddy,” he began softly, “about this key… I had to help you turn it earlier. I felt your wrist and it had a support on it.”

Theodore’s jaw tightened. “My wrist support? I have carpal tunnel... Very common for people to have wrist injuries.”

“Yes, but we’ve got a killer who twists the knife in every victim. It’s a distinctive motion, likely from an old wrist injury.” Finn’s eyes fell to Theodore’s arm. “Who’s got more access to these secret passages than the manager himself?”

“You can't be serious! I've been helping!”

“Almost a little too much,” Finn said, realization coursing through him. “And you have access to everything . You could have even tampered with the sign-in sheet and removed it just to make us suspect the killer was a visitor from outside the club, rather than from within!”

A flush of alarm spread across Theodore’s features. “That proves nothing! I manage the building, that’s all. I am protecting The Monarch and its members. It's my duty.”

Finn’s heart pounded. “These corridors lead everywhere, don’t they? Sir Richard Doyle’s private study, the basement. How else could someone come and go undetected? You slit Jeremy Ford’s throat in the basement, then returned upstairs without anyone seeing— through a hidden route only you knew.”

“You can’t prove that,” Theodore insisted, his voice shaking.

Finn lifted his chin toward the dusty footprints. “You claimed no one’s been down here for years. Yet I see fresh footprints… yours, I’ll bet, if we compare them to your shoe print. But more to the point,” he said, stepping closer, “there must be some link to Terrance Mansfield that we'll soon uncover. The poker chips, the vengeance. Who are you really?”

“I...” Theodore began, but he looked like he was now resigned to the truth.

Theodore’s expression flickered from denial to something colder—almost controlled. “Terrance built himself from nothing. We were in a foster home together. Not blood brothers, but we were family. He looked after me. Then he called me after that rigged card game… told me how they destroyed him, took every last penny. He couldn’t bear it, said he’d end it all. I suspect he flung himself into the Thames on a quiet stretch. And just like that, a great man was gone.”

Finn’s stomach twisted. He recalled Jeremy’s claims about Mansfield disappearing. “So Terrance died… and you wanted retribution?”

Theodore nodded, eyes burning with long-nursed wrath. “It took me years to infiltrate The Monarch Club. Once I was manager, I learned who was there that night. Then I began… balancing the scales. ”

He reached inside his coat and drew a slender knife, the same style that must have murdered three men already. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Finn. I actually like you. But collateral damage can’t be helped.”

Finn barely had time to react as Theodore lunged. The corridor was tight, and he threw himself sideways to avoid the blade. Sparks flew as metal scraped stone. Theodore pressed forward, movements surprisingly agile despite the wrist brace.

Finn blocked, adrenaline surging. Their footsteps reverberated in the cramped space. Theodore feinted left, then slashed. Finn ducked, deflecting the blow. The knife grazed his sleeve, a near miss. He launched a counterattack, grabbing Theodore’s wrist. They grappled, twisting around. Dust cascaded from a small ledge as they knocked against the rough-hewn walls.

Theodore wrenched free, stabbing again. Both men fell to the ground. Finn seized Theodore's arm, smashed the knife’s tip against the ground. The blade bent, then cracked with a sharp snap. Theodore let out a guttural snarl, knocking Finn backward. Finn’s flashlight clattered aside, casting skewed shadows.

Finn slammed to the ground, dazed. His attacker now towered over him, the broken blade still clutched in his hand—its jagged edge glinting dully in the flicker of the fallen flashlight. “I usually go for a precise kill,” Theodore murmured, eyes gleaming with hate, “but with this broken knife, it’ll have to be slow.”

He raised it high. Finn tried to roll away, but there was nowhere to go. Theodore’s grin twisted in a cruel smile. He drove the blade downward—

A sudden movement flashed in Finn’s peripheral vision. Amelia. She barreled into Theodore, a fierce cry on her lips. The force of her tackle carried him off balance. His arms flailed, grasping at air, and he plunged into the same gaping hole that Mason Wilkins had nearly fallen into moments before. But this time, no one could save him.

A distant crash and echoing shout confirmed Theodore’s fall. Then there was a hollow silence.

Breathing hard, Amelia stumbled. Finn scrambled to his feet, heedless of the dust coating his clothes. He steadied her, heart racing as he took in her presence—the best thing he’d seen all night. They clutched each other in a brief, desperate embrace.

“You okay?” she managed, voice tight with concern.

Finn nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. His heart still hammered from the near-death struggle. “I’ll live,” he breathed.

They edged to the hole, shining a flashlight down. At the bottom, the faintest shape of Theodore lay still amid debris. The drop was significant—some old, disused shaft. Amelia grimaced. “We’ll need a team to retrieve him. I can’t believe he’s the killer…” She shook her head, struggling to reconcile the mild-mannered manager with a merciless murderer. “Why, Finn?”

He exhaled, an ache in his ribs reminding him how close it had been. “He blamed the Club for Terrance Mansfield’s death. Spent years infiltrating it to exact revenge on those who ruined the man he saw as a brother.”

Amelia pressed a hand to her mouth, absorbing the harsh truth. Finn reached out and gently clasped her shoulder. Despite the horrifying events, relief coursed through him. They had unmasked the killer—and survived.

Turning to her with a wan smile, he mustered a hint of his usual levity. “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in… over a game of cards?”

He nodded toward the corridor, where muffled voices of approaching officers told him backup was finally here. The case—this bizarre and grisly affair—was coming to a close.