Page 6

Finn felt the tires satisfyingly crunch along the narrow country road beneath them, framed on both sides by tall hedgerows mottled with the earliest signs of spring. The sky was a patchwork of pale clouds over faintly blue expanses, and faint sunlight glistened off puddles left behind by last week’s rain. In the passenger seat, pointed at a sign for a village called Fleawater, biting back a smile.

“‘Fleawater,’ huh?” Finn said from behind the wheel, as though reading her mind. He sounded amused, perhaps picturing some cutesy tourist stand hawking flea-themed souvenirs. “Charming name. Really sells the place.”

Amelia smirked. “I’m sure the local council can’t do much about centuries-old place names. But can you close your window? It’s not exactly warm out.”

“Sure thing,” Finn replied. He reached for the metal handle by his shoulder and rolled the window up. The mechanism squeaked in protest as it neared the top. Suddenly, the handle snapped free in his hand, leaving the window sealed shut, but the tool itself completely detached.

“Oops,” he muttered, freezing with the broken handle in his palm.

Amelia’s gaze darted his way. “What was that?”

“Eh… nothing,” Finn said, feigning nonchalance. He quickly tucked the handle into the side pocket of the door, hoping she wouldn’t notice. He cleared his throat, refocusing on the road.

She arched an eyebrow. “I won’t even ask.” But a hint of a grin tugged at her mouth. Finn knew his ride wasn’t practical, and he was forever trying to maintain the illusion that his vintage car—so dear to him—was perfectly fine, even though it practically rattled at every bump and threatened a meltdown on longer rides.

They continued onward, passing a placid pond reflecting the silhouettes of bare-limbed willow trees. Beside the water stretched a gentle slope of farmland, its fence posts wobbling under a patchy growth of ivy. Eventually, the road narrowed further, and they turned onto a smaller lane where three cottages nestled in an idyllic row. Two of them had tidy gardens out front, while the third, in the middle, overlooked a broad meadow dotted with daffodil shoots.

Finn slowed to a stop, turning the engine off. He inhaled deeply through the half-open driver’s side window. “I’ve got to hand it to you Brits. Nobody does a meadow like this.”

Amelia shot him a sidelong look. “You mean we in the UK. Remember, I’m part Scottish. Not just English.”

With a grin, he replied, “Right, the feisty part I like the most.” She half-smiled at that, shaking her head. “So the middle cottage, that’s the place?”

“That’s what Sir Richard’s manager said,” Amelia confirmed. “His niece, Maggie Doyle, apparently lives here.”

They climbed out of the car. The early spring air nipped at their cheeks, carrying the faint scent of damp earth. A few daffodils poked their heads above the roadside, adding splashes of pale yellow among the greenery. Amelia pulled her coat tighter, and together they walked up a short gravel path leading to the middle cottage’s front door.

Finn took in the details: a simple whitewashed exterior, two windows on either side of the door, and a small porch flanked by potted plants. Despite the cheerful setting, a sense of gravity weighed on them both. They were here to notify someone about a murder—a messy business no matter how charming the venue.

Amelia knocked on the door. Moments later, they heard faint footsteps within. The door creaked open, revealing a woman in her thirties. She had her hair tied back in a messy bun, several loose strands escaping around her face. Specks of colorful paint blotched her blue overalls, one strap hanging loosely off her shoulder as though she’d paused mid-project. She blinked at the sight of them, brow furrowing in curiosity.

Amelia held up her police badge. “Maggie Doyle?”

“Yes, I’m Maggie,” the woman said, perplexed. Her gaze flicked from Amelia’s badge to Finn’s neutral expression.

“My name is Inspector Winters, Hertfordshire Constabulary. This is my colleague, Finn Wright, consulting for the Home Office,” Amelia said, each word carefully measured. “May we come in for a moment?”

Maggie stepped aside. “Sure. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting visitors.” She sounded cautious but not alarmed.

As they entered, Finn caught a whiff of turpentine—likely from paint—and the faint musty scent of old wood. The cottage’s living room was bright despite mismatched furniture. Against one wall stood large canvases, some leaning face-out, others covered by draped sheets. A battered coffee table supported jars of paintbrushes. A half-finished painting, partially concealed by a sheet, suggested ongoing artistic work.

Finn watched as Amelia studied the space quickly before facing Maggie. “We’re here about your uncle, Sir Richard Doyle. I’m sorry to inform you that… he passed away.”

Maggie’s lips parted, but no tears came. There was, instead, a pause of surprise, like someone registering a distant weather report. “Oh,” she said. After a beat, she added, “I—didn’t realize he was… ill.”

Finn exchanged a glance with Amelia. They hadn’t yet mentioned it was murder, but Maggie’s reaction was subdued. He wondered if the two had been on speaking terms.

“It wasn’t an illness,” Amelia explained gently. “He was killed. Murdered. I'm very sorry, I know it's not easy to hear.”

Maggie’s expression shifted subtly, tension in her jaw, but still no sign of overt grief. “I’m… sorry to hear that,” she said, voice subdued. She motioned toward a small, paint-splattered love seat. “Have a seat, if you want. I should… well, maybe you’d like some tea?”

Amelia shook her head. “We appreciate the offer, but we won’t impose. We do need to ask some questions, though.”

As Finn sat down, eyeing a stray paintbrush that poked from between the seat cushions, Amelia continued in a careful tone, “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem very upset by the news.”

A small sigh slipped from Maggie’s lips. She moved a canvas aside and perched on the arm of a chair. “I suppose I’m not. Or at least not in the way you'd expect. Sir Richard was my uncle, sure, but we never truly connected. He fell out with my mother years ago—before I was even old enough to understand. Then my mother died when I was sixteen, and I heard not a word from him. Not a penny, either, and I was basically broke for a while."

Finn studied her body language—hands curled around her knees, shoulders stiff. A mixture of resentment, possibly. “You must have been angry about that sort of rift,” he said softly.

She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Rift implies there was something to break. We never had a relationship in the first place. He was a millionaire, or so I’m told, but he never offered help. I made my own way as an artist. This cottage? All me. No money from Uncle Rich. I guess that’s what the tabloids called him, right?” She shrugged.

Amelia nodded, seemingly accepting the matter-of-fact tone. “So it’s safe to say you two never reconciled?”

“No,” Maggie replied. “He wrote me one letter last year. That’s it.”

Finn’s eyebrows rose. “A letter? Do you remember what it said?”

Standing, Maggie wiped her palms on her overalls. “Actually, yes. Hang on.” She walked out of the living room, presumably to fetch the note.

While she was gone, Finn’s attention was drawn to the sheet-covered painting in the corner. He hesitated, then softly lifted the edge of the cloth. Beneath it, a half-finished caricature depicted a pig-like figure in a top hat and monocle, devouring wads of banknotes. Vivid brushstrokes swirled around it, a swirl of greens, browns, and angry reds. The big man's face was contorted, almost monstrous.

Amelia let out a low hiss. “Finn, that’s her private work.”

“Couldn’t resist,” he muttered, sheepishly lowering the sheet back. “But if I had to guess, that’s Uncle Rich. Pig with money. Free therapy on canvas.”

A faint grin swept across Amelia’s lips. “I’d guess she titled it ‘Uncle Dick.’” Her voice remained low, playful but cautious.

Footsteps in the hall signaled Maggie’s return. Finn hastily set the cloth in place, straightening up just as she re-entered, clutching a folded sheet of paper.

“Here,” she said, handing it to Amelia. “Dated July 2022. The only time he reached out since I was a kid.”

Amelia accepted it, scanning the brief lines. Finn leaned in and had a look while she read. Sir Richard apologized for not stepping in when Maggie and her mother needed help, mentioning he was “burdened by grief and… complicated financial troubles.” The letter vaguely referenced substantial gambling debts, claiming he had no means to assist anyone else for many years. “If it weren’t for my horrid gambling days, I could have been a better man.”

Those words sparked a series of thoughts in Finn’s mind. Gambling … The poker chip...

Maggie exhaled, arms crossed. “He wrote that he was sorry, that he wished he could’ve done something. But by then, it’d been so long, I just… I didn’t even respond.”

Finn’s gaze flicked over the scrawled signature. “It’s possible he was sincerely remorseful.”

“Maybe.” Maggie pursed her lips. “But there’s more to family than money, you know? A phone call. A single visit. A shoulder would’ve been enough. In the end, though, all he offered was regrets.” She let out a slow breath. “You can keep it if it helps. I’m not in the habit of preserving memories of him.”

Amelia carefully refolded the letter, slipping it into a small plastic evidence bag from her pocket. “We appreciate your cooperation. If anything else comes to mind—people he might’ve argued with, or details about his gambling—please call.”

Maggie merely nodded. She seemed drained, not from grief over Sir Richard’s death but from the mention of old hurts. “If that’s all—?”

“Can you tell us what your movements were in the last two days?” asked Finn.

“I was away in Liverpool, actually,” she answered. “I was meeting a potential new agent to represent me and spent an extra day there for sightseeing. I only got back a few hours ago. I stayed at the Winguard Hotel. I’m sure they will have CCTV?”

“We’ll look into it,” Amelia said.

“That’s all for now,” Finn said gently. “We’re sorry this is how you had to hear about your uncle.”

Maggie’s eyes flicked toward the covered painting in the corner, then back to the investigators. “I suppose it’s closure, in a way.”

With that, Amelia and Finn took their leave. Outside, the air felt cooler than before. The late afternoon sun slanted across the meadow, making the green shoots of daffodils glow. There was a stillness to the rural surroundings that clashed oddly with the dark circumstances they were investigating.

Amelia glanced over the farmland, her hands in her coat pockets. “So Sir Richard had gambling debts, and he wrote to his niece about them. That lines up with the poker chip we found in his mouth. Possibly someone he owed money to?”

Finn stood beside her, exhaling. “Could be. Or maybe he was collecting on someone else’s debt, and that turned sour. Either way, the gambling angle’s consistent.”

She noticed a distant look in his eyes. “You seem distracted.”

A quick smile curved his lips. “Just imagining you running through this meadow in a short summer dress, hair loose, daisies in your arms. Is that too picturesque?”

Amelia huffed a laugh. “You really do have a one-track mind, Wright.”

He chuckled. “I like to hold onto the small joys in life.”

Finn noticed Her gaze sweeping across the rolling fields. The color of early spring spread unevenly, patches of new grass in some spots, remnants of dull winter brown in others.

“It’s getting dark soon,” Amelia said, noticing how the sun dipped toward a distant line of trees. “Let’s check the niece’s alibi and run through what we have so far. Then, we should head home and pick up the threads of this in the morning.”

“Home,” Finn echoed, turning toward the Corvette. He opened the passenger door for Amelia. “Does that mean you’re staying at my cottage again tonight?”

She slid into the seat, arching an eyebrow. “Sure, why not. Purely for convenience, of course—closer to the station than my place.”

Finn snorted softly, settling behind the wheel. “You keep telling yourself that, Winters.” He started the engine, which rumbled a complaint before settling into a steady, if noisy, idle.

A gentle hush fell between them as they pulled away from the row of cottages, heading back to the main road. The quiet felt companionable, each lost in thought: about Sir Richard’s checkered family history, about the letter that might illuminate a motive, about the swirling rumor of high-stakes card games behind the refined facade of The Monarch Club.

Soon they’d be back to formulating leads, analyzing forensic reports, and dealing with the unsubtle glare of paparazzi. But for this fleeting drive along the countryside, they allowed themselves a small measure of peace. Because as Finn always suspected, something would be just around the corner to break it.