Page 24 of When You’re Forgotten (Finn Wright #10)

Finn rubbed a thumb against the dull ache in his forehead, trying to stay focused on the immediate task.

It was midday, or perhaps a bit past—time seemed to blur in Brynmor Hall’s oppressive atmosphere—and he and Amelia were still waiting on the promised financial information that might shed light on the Penrose family’s motives.

The latest tragedies—the suspicious death of Catherine, and the lingering questions around James—had left them scrambling for any solid lead.

He sat at the end of a velvet-cushioned settee, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees.

Amelia had taken a seat on the couch across from him, tapping away at her phone, presumably coordinating with Rob about the upcoming warrants.

The crackle of the fireplace undercut the conversation’s tension, giving the sitting room a semblance of warmth that neither of them truly felt.

“What next, partner?” Amelia asked, lowering her phone. “Rob’s working on the warrants, but we might not get them until tomorrow.”

Finn nodded, scanning the notes they had on the table.

“While we wait, I’ve been thinking; maybe it’s time we dig deeper into Wilkie’s death.

The older brother’s demise seems to have set the stage for a lot of these…

family fears. And both James and Catherine’s deaths mirror his, even though it happened several years ago. ”

Amelia frowned, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Judd mentioned Wilkie’s name only in passing, and Hobbs gave us that story about Wilkie being found in the cellar. But we need more detail if we’re to find any deeper connection to what’s happened to James and Catherine.”

Finn let the files fall closed, exhaling. “Mrs. Hughes might be our best bet. She’s been around the family for decades—her late husband was apparently close to Wilkie. She might know what truly happened back then.”

Amelia nodded. “Good idea. Let’s see if we can get her to open up.” She rose from the sofa, letting out a tired sigh.

Finn stood and followed Amelia out of the sitting room.

The corridor beyond was bright from tall windows letting in a mild midday sun, a welcome break from the gloom of the previous evenings.

Paintings of stern-faced Penrose ancestors seemed less menacing in the daylight, though the residue of tragedy still clung to the walls.

They found Mrs. Hughes in the large hallway near the base of the main staircase, quietly organizing a silver tray with tea cups as though trying to maintain normalcy.

When she noticed them approaching, her shoulders tightened.

She set the tray on a small table and turned to greet them with a forced half-smile.

“Mr. Wright, Miss Winters,” she said, bobbing her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Can I get you anything? Tea, or—?”

“Not at the moment, thank you, Mrs. Hughes,” Finn replied gently. “We actually wanted to speak with you about Wilkie Penrose. Hobbs mentioned the other day that your husband knew him well. We realize it may be a painful subject, but it might hold clues about what’s going on around here.”

A flicker of apprehension crossed her features. Her gaze darted from Finn to Amelia and back. “Why bring up Wilkie? That was so many years ago. The police back then concluded it was a heart condition, or at least that’s what was… rumored.”

Finn exchanged a knowing glance with Amelia.

Another Penrose death explained away as “heart condition” or “fear.” “We suspect Wilkie’s death might be relevant to the pattern of tragedies.

You see, James built the panic room after Wilkie died.

And now we have James and Catherine dead under suspicious circumstances.

If there’s a link—any small detail might help us.

It feels like this could have all started with Wilkie. ”

Mrs. Hughes pressed her lips together. “I don’t see how raking up the past helps anyone,” she said quietly, though there was a tremor in her voice.

“Wilkie was a sweet man, if troubled. My husband—God rest him—was pained by that death for months. They were close, you see. I…” She trailed off, eyes distant, as though recalling the pain.

Amelia softened her tone, stepping closer. “We understand it’s painful, but can you recall any odd details about Wilkie’s final days? Who was around him, how he acted? Maybe an argument, or a fear he voiced?”

Mrs. Hughes looked down, fingering the edge of her apron.

“He… he had nightmares. Terrible ones, so my husband said. Wilkie often roamed the halls at night, claiming he heard voices. James teased him for believing ghosts haunted the place, but Wilkie never found it amusing. Then one night, he locked himself in that… that wardrobe in the cellar.” She paused, chest rising with a shaky breath.

“But I can’t speak more of it. I’m sorry, I—”

A sudden chime sounded from her phone. Mrs. Hughes fished it from her apron pocket, glancing at the screen. In an instant, her face paled further. She quickly tapped to read the message, an anxious flicker in her eyes, then stuffed the phone away.

“Is something wrong?” Finn asked, suspicious of how flustered she looked.

She forced a stiff smile. “Pardon me, Mr. Wright, Miss Winters. I must attend to something. Excuse me.” Without waiting for their response, she turned on her heel and hurried off, leaving the silver tea tray abandoned on the side table.

Amelia raised her eyebrows at Finn, who exhaled heavily. “She knows more than she’s saying.”

“No doubt,” Amelia muttered. “But pressing her further now might push her into shutting down completely. Let’s regroup.”

They walked back toward the sitting room they’d just left.

The hallway felt cooler, as though a draft had sneaked in from somewhere.

A pair of uniformed officers lingered near a side entrance, conferring in low voices.

With so many potential dangers—an unknown masked figure, or even external threats from Wendell— the police presence was a welcome relief, albeit minimal.

Once inside the sitting room, Amelia paused, letting out a frustrated sigh.

“We’re stuck. The financial records aren’t here yet, and Mrs. Hughes just ran off before telling us about Wilkie.

” She plopped down on the sofa, tapping her phone screen.

“I’ll keep an eye on my messages in case Rob sends the warrants soon. ”

Finn glanced at the large window that overlooked the estate grounds.

Through the tall panes, he noticed a figure moving across the lawn.

Squinting, he recognized Mrs. Hughes’s shape.

She moved briskly, glancing over her shoulder as though ensuring nobody followed.

Then she disappeared in the direction of the walled garden at the corner of the estate.

Finn’s heart quickened. “There’s Mrs Hughes, leaving the house. Could be the ‘something’ she had to attend to. Perhaps I should stretch my legs, I feel like visiting that walled garden.”

Amelia followed his gaze. “I get the feeling you’re about to go sneaking.” She smiled, knowingly.

“I shouldn’t leave you,” Finn said.

“If you think we can glean something more, you need to go,” Amelia said, her voice laced with reassurance.

He hesitated, remembering how they were both prime targets—Amelia for Wendell’s threats, and either of them for the masked figure. “I hate leaving you alone. With Catherine’s murder fresh, we can’t be sure it’s safe.”

She frowned, standing. “I’m not fragile porcelain, Finn. The police are patrolling the outer edges of the estate, and the sitting room is well within their territory. I’ll be fine. I’ll keep my phone on, obviously.”

He opened his mouth to object further, but caught the steely determination in her expression. “All right,” he conceded. “If you hear anything or sense trouble, call me. I won’t be long. Mrs. Hughes might vanish if I don’t move now.”

Amelia nodded, crossing to a side table to gather a stack of case notes. “Go. Meanwhile, I’ll dive back into the files. If the financial data arrives, I can start sifting through it.”

Finn mustered a half-smile, stepping forward to brush a reassuring hand along her arm. “Stay safe, okay?”

“You too,” she replied, leaning into his touch for the briefest moment. Then he grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, striding out of the sitting room, leaving Amelia with a watchful look in her eyes.

*

Outside, the sky was patchy with clouds, the sun drifting in and out.

Patches of damp lawn glistened, and the fresh air tasted cleaner than the hushed corridors of Brynmor Hall.

Finn walked a brisk pace across the grass, crossing to the high stone walls that enclosed the walled garden.

The gate stood slightly ajar. Through the arch, he could see rows of flowering bushes and neatly trimmed hedges—though the flowers were past their prime in the current season, many still offered a subdued, pleasant color.

He heard voices drifting from inside, low and urgent. Slowing, he moved with care, slipping to one side of the gate to peer in. Mrs Hughes was there, in her usual black dress and apron, her posture tense. And she was not alone.

She stood near a stone bench, talking to a man who kept his back half-turned to Finn’s vantage point.

The man was at least in his fifties, broad-shouldered but lean, wearing a dark jacket and a flat cap.

He gestured with animated hands, though the words came in hushed tones that made them difficult to decipher.

Finn edged closer, picking his steps gingerly on the damp ground. He paused behind a tall hedge, leaning just enough to overhear fragments of their exchange.

“…Now they want to know about Wilkie,” Mrs Hughes said, voice trembling with evident worry. “They keep pressing me. I can’t hold them off forever.”

The man replied in a raspy whisper, “This is all going to blow over soon, and once it does, we’ll be able to make plans.” His accent was local, but the tone bristled with secrecy.

Finn’s pulse quickened. Plans about what? Another cover-up about the Penrose tragedies? He crouched lower, shifting to see the man’s face. Mrs Hughes nodded anxiously, glancing around as though spooked.

Suddenly, the man stepped away, out of the walled garden’s far opening.

Mrs Hughes lingered a moment, then followed a different path around the shrubs.

The conversation had ended abruptly. Finn had only gleaned a snippet, but it was enough to confirm Mrs Hughes was indeed hiding something related to Wilkie’s death, or perhaps the more recent murders.

He decided to keep spying—maybe the man would show himself fully.

Making a silent pivot, Finn circled the garden’s perimeter, his shoulders tense.

Reaching the far side, he glimpsed Mrs Hughes departing toward the house, a worried expression etched on her features.

She must not have spotted him. But the man…

Finn crouched behind a short hedge. A moment later, a figure emerged from behind the tall rose trellises.

Even from this partial vantage, Finn could take in the man’s details: mid-fifties, with strands of gray hair peeking from under that flat cap, a lined face that spoke of a rugged life, possibly working outdoors.

His jacket was scuffed in places, and though his posture was upright, he moved with cautious precision, glancing around as if checking for witnesses.

Finn shrank lower, holding his breath. The man paused at the garden gate, scanning left and right, face partially revealed in the daylight. He had a hawkish nose and a faint scar across his left cheek. Then, evidently satisfied he was unobserved, he slipped through the gate.

Finn let the man gain a few yards' distance, then stealthily followed.

The man cut across the lawn toward the tree line, edging the estate.

His stride had a certain nimbleness that reminded Finn of the masked intruder's agile moves, though he couldn't be sure.

The man paused once by a tall oak, glancing over his shoulder.

Finn ducked behind a stone planter, heart thudding, relieved that the man didn't spot him.

Continuing on, the man entered the woods, the canopy swallowing him.

Finn lingered at the edge, eyes narrowed, uncertain if he should attempt to trail him further.

The occupant of the walled garden might well be the same person who rummaged through James’s study or maybe an accomplice. In any case, he was suspicious.

Finn debated calling for backup: if he confronted this man alone, he might end up outnumbered if there were others in the woods. He reached for his phone, only to remember how easily a simple chase could end in an ambush. Catherine’s fate weighed heavily on him.

Yet the pull of the unknown was strong. He had a chance to uncover the masked figure’s identity, or at least someone with knowledge of the family’s secrets. Gritting his teeth, he pulled up short. The man’s silhouette vanished behind a cluster of pines. If Finn didn’t act now, he’d lose him.

He swallowed his doubt, glancing behind him—no sign of Mrs Hughes or any policeman.

The estate’s perimeter was guarded, but these woods offered countless hiding spots.

Tensing his shoulders, he started forward, easing into the undergrowth to follow.

If this man was linked to Wilkie’s or Catherine’s demise, capturing him or gleaning a clue might prove vital.

Stepping over a low branch, he inhaled the earthy scent of moss and decaying leaves.

The forest shadows loomed, dense enough to block direct sunlight.

Every twig underfoot threatened to snap, potentially alerting the unknown man.

Finn tried to tread lightly, senses on high alert for a glimpse of movement or a cough in the gloom.

The hush of the woods closed around him, reminiscent of the time he chased the masked figure at night.

But this was day, and he felt more confident in the partial sunlight filtering through the canopy.

Still, his heart thrummed, a taut readiness coiling in his stomach.

If the man was indeed the masked attacker, then caution was essential.

He spotted a flash of that scuffed jacket through a break in the trees. The man pressed on deeper. Finn inhaled, summoning nerve. He’d follow carefully, track the man’s route. Perhaps it would lead to a hideout or a meeting with an accomplice.