Page 27 of When You’re Forgotten (Finn Wright #10)

A subdued hush fell over Brynmor Hall as night settled in, lending the corridors a hushed, almost reverent air.

Finn ambled alongside Amelia, traversing a long gallery on the second floor, dim lighting flitting over oil paintings and centuries-old tapestries.

The household had gone quiet after dinner—what little dinner there was, given the tension of Catherine’s death and the swirl of investigations—yet the two of them couldn’t rest just yet, they felt a walk around the house to make sure all was well was the right thing to do.

Amelia paused before a particularly grand tapestry depicting a knight in battle against a mythical beast. She brushed her hand near the embroidered edges, not quite touching it.

“This Edwin Pierce you mentioned, I still think it’s strange that the ex-groundskeeper is living out in the woods,” she said, her voice soft enough to not echo too far.

“I wonder if his story about James using escorts is true.”

Finn nodded, turning to the tapestry before them.

Its colors looked muted, possibly from decades of dust and time.

“Yes, we can’t take anything at face value.

Still... Edwin said James wasn’t exactly…

faithful to Marianne. Called them ‘escorts.’ How high class, I don’t know.

He claims James spent a fortune on them, which might tie into the family’s finances, if he was secretly living a life of excess. ”

Amelia inhaled, letting the hush of the hall press in around them.

“I can’t quite imagine Marianne tolerating that if she knew.

Still, could be a reason for some deep resentments.

Or, if she didn’t know, maybe others did—like Catherine or even someone on the staff like Donald.

All potential triggers for blackmail or conflict. We already know Mrs Hughes knew.”

Finn glanced at a painting of a Penrose ancestor, scowling from his ornate frame. “Plenty of motives for those to resent James, maybe. But who’d go so far as to kill Catherine, too? Unless it was to stop her from revealing something to us.”

She shook her head, footsteps measured against the stone. “That’s the burning question.” She eyed a portrait with mild fascination. “Look at that expression,” she murmured. “He looks half-ready to come out of the frame and scold us.”

Finn offered a quiet laugh, unspooling some tension. “No wonder people tell stories about these ancestors’ ghosts roaming the halls, dooming those who dishonor the family.”

Amelia’s mouth quirked. “Maybe they still believe it.” She pivoted to a smaller painting—a woman in a Victorian gown, her eyes so sharp and lifelike it was unnerving.

They continued along the gallery, turning a corner where a line of suits of armor stood at attention. Amelia let her gaze pass over them, remarking in a lower voice, “If only they could stand guard for us, we might sleep better.”

“Agreed,” Finn said.

A distant sound carried from somewhere below—like a muffled argument, pitched with urgency. He stilled, then Amelia caught it too. They shared a look, adrenaline snapping awake.

“That’s coming from the downstairs, I think,” Finn said, heart picking up pace.

They hurried back the way they came, descending the wide staircase with careful haste.

The manor’s hush gave way to a distinct shouting.

As they neared the ground floor corridors, the voices grew clearer.

Finn recognized the raised tones of Marianne, her accent taut with emotion, and Donald’s gruff baritone:

“You can’t pin that on me!” Donald barked.

“Who else could have done it?” Marianne retorted, equally livid.

Amelia shot Finn a quick glance. “Are they talking about the murders?”

They moved toward the kitchen, rounding the final bend into a broad passage.

The door to the kitchen was lying open. Donald the cook’s bald head gleamed with sweat, and Marianne stood facing him, arms tense at her sides.

Donald’s apron was stained from the evening’s meals, and his eyes blazed with anger.

“I told you, James never had an issue with my methods,” Donald spat, throwing his arms wide. “I cook the same as I always have. If Evan’s got food poisoning, it’s not my fault.”

Marianne’s voice shook with frustration. “Evan is in the hospital and very ill! He is certain it was the soup you gave him yesterday evening for supper. That alone is serious. If you served something contaminated—”

Donald let out a scoff. “Wasn’t my cooking. Maybe the fool ate something else, he isn’t the brightest. You can’t just blame me for someone falling ill!”

Marianne cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"I'm just glad it wasn't given to the rest of us or our guests.

It's not the first time. Remember, a year ago, we all fell sick with a mystery bug.

James said he thought it was food poisoning.

I stuck up for you! This is the last straw.

I have enough nightmares around here about a murderer in our midst without staff carelessness doing the deed for them! You're fired, Donald."

Silence clapped down, thick and charged. Finn exchanged a worried look with Amelia. He saw Donald’s face flush, his fists clenching. “Fired? You can’t do that. I’ve been loyal to this household for years—since before you even married James.”

Marianne stood her ground, voice brittle. “James is gone! I have that authority, and I’m using it. Take your severance from Mrs Hughes tomorrow morning, or if you wish to dispute it, talk a solicitor. But you’re no longer welcome here.”

Donald let out a bitter laugh, turning to see Finn and Amelia standing at the threshold.

“Wonderful. The detective duo’s arrived.

Well, you two, I hope you fare better than me in this madhouse.

This place is cursed—everyone wants to kill someone else, this time it’s my career that’s dead.

” He hurled the last words with venom, then tore off his apron and tossed it onto a counter.

His face twisted with bitterness. “Good luck with the murders or ghosts or whatever. I’m out. ”

He stormed past, shoulders brushing Finn’s.

“Watch your back, detective,” he muttered, then vanished down the corridor, footsteps echoing.

Marianne stood trembling, eyes red-rimmed, as though she’d had enough crisis for a lifetime.

She noticed Finn and Amelia, gave a weak shake of her head, then stalked off in the opposite direction without another word.

Finn let out a sigh. Amelia murmured, “This house is creaking under the strain.”

He nodded grimly, seeing the empty apron on the counter.

"And now Donald's out. Another staff member is gone.

The tension's boiling over for everyone.

" He glanced down the hall where Marianne had disappeared, uncertain if he should follow.

But the sound of her fading footsteps told him she needed a moment alone.

Amelia set a hand lightly on his arm. “Let’s leave her be. We should probably call it a night.”

Finn rubbed his forehead, a dull headache forming from the day’s upheavals.

“Yeah, best. We can pick up in the morning, see if the local police have gleaned anything new about Catherine’s murder or the intruder.

” He glanced around warily. “Anyway, are you all right staying alone? With Wendell’s threat and the masked figure still out there… ?”

She pressed her lips together in thought. “Actually, I was going to suggest we share a room tonight. We keep talking about being careful, and… I’d feel safer if we stick together. This house is big and full of nooks for someone to hide in.”

Finn felt relief mixed with an amused warmth. “You sure about that? Doesn’t that break your ‘professional boundaries’ rule?” He tried a teasing grin, though concern for her safety underpinned his question.

Amelia gave a small, wry laugh. “Business now, pleasure later, remember?” She gently patted his cheek. “I’m not up for a chase in the dark if I hear something in the hall. I’d rather have you right there next to me if something goes wrong.”

He nodded, feeling both protective and quietly thrilled at her closeness. “All right. My room, then. Let’s go.”

They turned away from the kitchen’s lingering tension, heading up the grand staircase once more.

The gloom in the corridors pressed in, but at least they had each other.

Finn knew there were police officers at the gates of the sprawling estate, but he hoped Rob’s reinforcements would arrive in the morning.

Upon entering Finn’s dimly lit room, Amelia exhaled heavily, scanning the plush bed and the small reading lamp on the side table. “At least there’s a lock on the door,” she said, crossing over to secure it.

Finn peeled off his jacket and draped it on a nearby chair. The tension in his limbs told him how physically and mentally exhausted he was.

A faint smirk broke across her face, though she tempered it, stepping to the bedside. She sank onto the mattress, letting out a tired groan. “This day felt like a week.”

“True. And we still have no real suspect pinned down.” He moved to the lamp, dimming it, letting the glow drop to a softer ambiance. “We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

Amelia settled under the covers. Finn did the same, flicking off the overhead light. Darkness fell, relieved only by the faint glow of the small lamp. Outside, the wind sighed against the window. They both shut their eyes, hoping for a few hours of rest.

*

About 45 minutes later, Amelia’s phone pinged, echoing in the quiet. She jolted, rummaging on the nightstand. “That’s my email alert,” she murmured, sitting up. She tapped the screen and read, eyes widening. “Finn, the warrants just came through. The financial data on everyone in the house.”

Finn blinked away the fog of near-sleep, propping himself on an elbow. “Now? It’s nearly two in the morning.”

She nodded. “Yes, Rob must’ve pulled strings. Should we wait until morning or…?”