Page 4

Finn and Amelia stood with Rob in one of the Monarch Club’s side corridors, away from the flashing cameras outside. The noise from the paparazzi had turned into a faint hum, but the tension in the air was unmistakable. Theodore Crawford, the balding and increasingly anxious manager of The Monarch, hurried toward them, dabbing at his forehead with a linen handkerchief.

“I just had a report,” Theodore said breathlessly. “More photographers and a television crew have gathered. It’s turning into a madhouse. A few of them even tried to chance their hand and push their way inside.”

Rob exchanged a glance with Amelia and Finn. “I’ll see what I can do about that,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We can post more constables at the entrance if need be.” Then, turning to Theodore, he added, “In the meantime, I want you to provide these two”—he inclined his head toward Finn and Amelia—“with anything they need. I’ve got to handle crowd control and keep the press off our backs.”

“Of course,” Theodore replied, nodding nervously.

Finn clapped Rob on the shoulder. “Make sure they get your good side,” he joked.

Rob managed a half-smile. “Right. Good side, sure,” he said dryly, before striding down the corridor toward the front doors, already placing a call on his mobile phone.

Once Rob's footsteps faded, Finn and Amelia turned back to Theodore, who pocketed his handkerchief, visibly struggling to maintain composure. Amelia gave him a measured look. "We've just been at Sir Richard's study. Now, we need to gather information about the last people to see him alive. Let's start simple—who was the last person to speak with Sir Richard before he was found?"

The manager pursed his lips. “From what I’ve heard, it was Frederick, one of our staff. He’s a junior member on the service team, assigned to late-night rounds and guest requests.”

Finn raised an eyebrow. “Frederick. Right, we’ll need to talk to him.”

"Yes," Theodore agreed. He straightened his shoulders as though reminding himself of his managerial duties. "He's quite shaken, understandably. I left him in a small lounge off the main corridor, with one of our waitresses comforting him."

“Show us,” Amelia said, her tone gentle but insistent.

Theodore turned and led them through the corridor, taking a direction opposite to the grand staircase they’d used earlier. As they walked, they passed a lavish sitting room with old oil paintings and ornate furniture, but it was the next room that caught Finn’s eye. Through a set of open double doors, he glimpsed a spacious hall—perhaps the club’s games room. Polished wooden floors reflected warm light from high brass chandeliers, while a row of green-baize tables stood at the center.

Finn paused, scanning the tables. “So this is where the members spend their leisure hours, I presume?”

“Indeed,” Theodore replied, his voice careful. “Games, billiards, friendly card sessions. The membership prides itself on tradition, you see. We offer activities that have been part of the club’s culture for generations.”

Amelia arched an eyebrow. “Card sessions. So, they do play? But no gambling?”

The manager's hand went immediately to his handkerchief, but he only patted his chest, apparently resisting the urge to wipe more sweat from his forehead. "Correct, Inspector. Officially, no betting. Members can play for fun if they wish, but we maintain a strict policy against wagering. It's in the club's bylaws, and we are prohibited by law to allow high-stakes poker games."

Finn caught the slight tremor in Theodore’s voice. The manager’s face had tightened the moment “gambling” was mentioned. Amelia must have noticed it too; her gaze narrowed, though she said nothing.

Theodore’s pace picked up as he led them away from the games room, through another handsome corridor decorated with gilded mirrors and framed photos of past club events. Eventually, they stopped at a modest wooden door.

“This is the lounge,” Theodore said. “Frederick’s inside with Maggie, one of our waitresses.”

He pushed the door open to reveal a snug room far less grand than the other areas of the Monarch Club. Soft chairs and a low table sat on a thick rug, the walls paneled in dark wood that seemed to muffle all outside noise. A faint whiff of lemon cleaning product hung in the air, suggesting it didn’t see as much traffic as the main halls.

On a small sofa to the left, a young man in a uniform—presumably Frederick—sat hunched forward, his face buried in his hands. Beside him was a woman with honey-blonde hair coiled in a neat bun, wearing a waitress’s black-and-white attire. One of her hands rested gently on Frederick’s shoulder in a comforting gesture.

“That’s Maggie,” Theodore said softly. “She’s been trying to help him calm down.”

Amelia nodded. “Thank you, Theodore. We’ll take it from here. Could you and Maggie give us a few minutes with Frederick?”

Maggie looked up, surprise crossing her expression as she realized the manager was not alone. “Yes, of course,” she said with a polite smile. She stood, smoothing her uniform skirt. She was in her late twenties, perhaps, with a kindly face and warm hazel eyes that flicked from Frederick to Finn and Amelia as though weighing their intentions. “Frederick, I’ll be right outside if you need me, alright?” she told him gently.

Frederick lifted his gaze to meet hers, nodding gratefully. He seemed pale and exhausted.

Theodore lingered near the door, wringing his hands. “I’ll be just around the corner if you need anything,” he said, his voice thick with reluctance. Nevertheless, he took Maggie’s cue and stepped into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind them.

Alone in the lounge with Frederick, Amelia and Finn approached carefully. The plush rug absorbed their footsteps, so it felt like they glided across the room.

Amelia took a seat in a chair opposite Frederick, while Finn stood slightly behind, arms crossed in a stance that was approachable yet poised. “Frederick,” Amelia said, her tone gentle but firm, “we’re Inspector Winters and Finn Wright, a consulting detective with the Home Office. We’d like to ask you some questions about the last time you saw Sir Richard Doyle. Is that alright?”

The young man nodded, clearing his throat. Up close, he looked no older than his mid-twenties—a bit underweight, hair hastily combed, uniform shirt slightly rumpled. “Yes. Whatever I can do to help.” His voice trembled.

“Take your time,” Amelia encouraged. “We understand this is distressing.”

Finn pulled over a small stool, sitting near Amelia but leaving the main focus on her questioning. She had a knack for putting people at ease in interviews, and it seemed Frederick needed kindness more than intimidation.

Amelia began, “When was the last time you saw Sir Richard? And where?”

Frederick swallowed. “It was… last night, quite late. Possibly around midnight. He was in his private study. I knocked to inform him the kitchen would be closing.” He paused, eyes flickering with memory. “He told me not to worry… that he wasn’t hungry anyway. He even made a small joke about how late-night eating was bad at his age.”

Finn glanced at Amelia, remembering what they had heard from the crime scene. This lined up with the timeline so far.

Amelia pressed gently, “After that, did you see him speak to anyone else or leave the room?”

Frederick shook his head. “No. I just apologized again about the kitchen, and he slipped me some money as a tip. I’ve always been surprised by his generosity. It can be uncommon around here. Then I left him. Everything seemed normal.”

“So you didn’t notice anything suspicious outside his door or in the corridor?” Finn chimed in.

Frederick mulled that over, brow knit. “Nothing. It was quiet. Hardly anyone roams that late, except if there's... Guests playing cards or a late drink in one of the smaller rooms.”

At the mention of cards, Finn exchanged a brief look with Amelia. She nodded, taking the cue. “Frederick, we’ve heard rumors. Are there ever ‘unofficial’ card nights here—games that involve a lot of money?”

Immediately, the young man tensed, gaze dropping to the floor. “I… I don’t want to get in trouble, Inspector. The club has strict rules.”

Amelia’s voice remained calm. “We’re not here to get the staff in trouble. But a man is dead, and we need every clue we can get. Was there gambling in the club last night, or any night?”

Frederick’s eyes darted around, as though the walls might have ears. Then he exhaled shakily. “Yes. Sometimes, after midnight, a group of members gather in one of the game rooms. They keep it hush-hush, but… they bet real money, big sums. Most of the staff knows to look the other way. It’s management’s unspoken rule: don’t meddle, so long as no one makes a fuss.”

“How about last night?” Finn asked. “Any sign of an after-hours poker session?”

Frederick grimaced. “I think so, but I’d been running errands around that time. I didn’t see them playing, as I'm not really allowed to be around them when they play because I haven't been here long. If they did, it would’ve been behind closed doors.”

Amelia took a measured pause. “Alright. Thank you. That aligns with what we suspected. You’ve been very helpful, Frederick.”

Tears rimmed the young man’s eyes, clearly shaken by the day’s events. “I can’t believe Sir Richard is gone. He was kind to us… even if some of the members can be—”

He trailed off, seeming uncertain whether to say more. Amelia decided not to push him just yet. “We understand. If you recall anything else—any detail—please let us know immediately.”

Frederick nodded, blinking rapidly.

Finn stood, removing his gloves in an absent-minded gesture. “We appreciate your honesty. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” He attempted a small reassuring smile, though it felt stiff in the weighty context.

They led Frederick to the lounge’s door, opening it to find Theodore and Maggie hovering just outside. Maggie quickly slipped back into the room, throwing Finn and Amelia a thankful look. She moved to Frederick’s side, offering more gentle comfort.

While the waitress resumed consoling Frederick, Finn and Amelia stepped fully into the corridor, closing the lounge door behind them. Theodore waited anxiously, his posture rigid. “Everything alright?” he asked.

Amelia answered with a measured nod. “We spoke with him. He’s had quite a shock, but he gave us some helpful information.”

Finn turned to Theodore. “We’d like a list of everyone who was in the building last night, including members, staff, visitors—anybody.”

The manager bobbed his head in agreement. “Of course. We maintain a sign-in sheet at the front desk for members. I can show you the log.”

“Lead the way,” Amelia said.

Theodore walked them back toward the main reception area. Sunlight poured in through tall windows overlooking the bustling square. Outside, camera flashes still popped as paparazzi jostled near the door, though a pair of constables now held them at bay behind a rope barrier. A tension buzzed in the air—the sense that a single misstep could send the press into a frenzy.

At an imposing mahogany desk near the entrance, Theodore rummaged through a large ledger, flipping pages with hurried motions. He paused, eyebrows knitting. “Strange,” he mumbled, scanning each page more carefully. He then opened a drawer beneath the desk, rifling through more documents. “It should be here, but…”

“What’s missing?” Finn asked, even though he already suspected the answer.

Theodore’s face went ashen. He pulled out the ledger fully, revealing that a section of pages had been torn out. Where once was a crisp binder of sheets, there now lay ragged edges. “The sign-in sheet,” he said, voice trembling. “This is where we keep daily logs of who comes and goes. It’s… it’s been ripped out entirely.”

Amelia and Finn exchanged a grim look. “Someone doesn’t want us knowing who was here last night,” Finn murmured.

The manager exhaled shakily, horror dawning on his features. “This club has prided itself on order and privacy for decades. Now a murder, missing logs… Good heavens, this is a nightmare.”

“It’s a problem, but we’ll solve it,” Amelia said with quiet conviction. “We’ll need you to think if there’s any other record—partial or otherwise—of who entered.”

Theodore gripped the edge of the desk, nodding frantically. "I'll check everything. Old receipts, staff shift rosters, anything that might help, but we are discrete here at The Monarch. The sign-in sheet really is our main record of who comes and goes."

Finn sighed and looked around at the opulent surroundings. Someone was already playing games with them.