Page 7 of When You’re Forgotten (Finn Wright #10)

Finn felt a distinct hush settle over Brynmor Hall as evening descended upon the estate.

The corridor lamps, turned low, cast soft halos of light against the paneling.

Shadows stretched along the walls, and a stillness, tinged with the faint scents of varnished wood and old upholstery, clung to every corner.

He and Amelia made their way toward the kitchen, guided by a subtle glow deeper in the hallway.

Donald Jones, the cook, was supposedly inside, and Finn was keen on hearing the man’s perspective on James Penrose’s final night.

As they approached the kitchen door—a sturdy wooden affair with a wrought-iron handle—Finn caught a whiff of something both savory and buttery. He swung the door open for Amelia and stepped in behind her, taking in the scene:

The kitchen was large, reflecting the manor’s old-world grandeur.

A looming, iron-enamel stove occupied one entire wall, its surface cluttered with pots, some still warm from the day’s cooking.

Rows of copper pans hung overhead from a pot rack.

A broad wooden island dominated the center of the space, scoured clean but scarred with the marks of countless chopping sessions.

Along the far side, two ample sinks and a marble-topped counter gleamed under the gentle overhead lights.

A few herbs in tiny pots stood on the windowsill, faintly silhouetted against the dark outside.

A heavyset man in his late twenties—a round, ruddy face and thick arms—stood behind the island. He wore a plain white chef’s jacket stretched over a solid belly and had a dish towel flung over one shoulder. At the sight of Finn and Amelia, he stiffened, setting aside a knife he’d been wiping.

“Evening,” Finn began, offering a disarming nod. “Are you the cook here?”

Donald bobbed his head, eyes flicking from Finn to Amelia. “Yes. That’d be me. Donald Jones. Usually just ‘Don’ is enough.”

Amelia, stepping forward, gave a polite smile. “I’m Inspector Amelia Winters, and this is Finn Wright. We’re investigating Mr. Penrose’s death.”

Donald’s gaze dropped to the floor for a beat. “Right. Heard folks say they were bringing in experts or something. So… how can I help?”

Finn took a moment to note the man’s posture. He seemed nervous, shoulders hunched slightly, brow damp with perspiration. “We’d like to know where you were two nights ago,” Finn said softly, “the night James Penrose died.”

Donald set down his dish towel, glancing away. “I—I was out. Not here. Went to Myrlin’s Nook.” His voice wavered just enough for Finn to sense tension. “It’s a pub in the nearest village, about seven miles down the main road.”

“People saw you there?” Amelia prompted, crossing her arms loosely.

Donald lifted a shoulder, trying to appear casual. “Plenty did. It was quiz night.” He cleared his throat. “Even had a team with a few villagers I know. We were… trying to beat the local champions, but we lost, of course.”

Finn studied the cook’s face for any flicker of falsehood. “That’s good,” he said, letting the man sense his calm. “So if we ask around, folks’ll confirm you were there all evening?”

“From about half-six to half-ten.” Donald shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Didn’t get back to my Aunt’s house in Blethyn village until near midnight, once I walked some of the distance.

My car’s on the fritz, you see. But my Aunt can vouch for that.

I usually stay here on the estate, but we were asked to leave for the night. ”

Amelia glanced at the expansive counters, an array of utensils neatly arranged. “What did you think when Mr. Penrose asked the staff to leave that night? We heard that was unusual.”

Donald wiped his hands on his apron, expression turning guarded. “Did you talk to Mrs Hughes or something?”

Finn gave a nod of acknowledgment. “We’ve spoken to a few staff. They said sometimes Mr. Penrose dismissed you all, but you said it was different this time?”

A faint quiver of nervousness crossed Donald’s features.

“Aye, it was. Usually if he wanted quiet, he’d mention it a day or two ahead—maybe he had a big meeting or wanted the place to himself.

But two nights ago, it was last-minute. He seemed…

anxious, telling us we had to go. I said I could put food out for him and anyone else that might be here.

But he kept looking at the time, saying he’d handle everything for the evening himself. ”

Amelia exchanged a glance with Finn. “Did he give any explanation for why he wanted everyone gone?”

Donald spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “None that I heard. Listen, I’m not exactly in the loop. I live and breathe this kitchen—when they want food, I make it, but I don’t pry into their business. It pays better if I just keep my head down, you know?”

An edge of discomfort laced his voice, making Finn suspect the man didn’t relish being drawn into the estate’s drama. With the corners of his mouth turned down in a mild frown, Finn decided to dial back the directness. “That’s fair,” he said. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

Visibly relieved, Donald exhaled. “Sure. I’m not trying to hide anything. Sorry if I seem jumpy—I just never expected Mr. Penrose’s passing.”

Amelia offered him a small smile. “We’ll let you get back to work. Before we go, we might want dinner in the blue jay sitting room, if that’s okay? Unless you’d prefer we eat here? We don’t want to add to your workload.”

Donald waved a dismissive hand. “No, no. I’ll have your meal brought to you if you’d like. I can do a roast leftover or something quick. Send one of the staff to deliver it, yeah?”

“That’d be great,” Finn responded. “Thanks for your help.”

He and Amelia turned, stepping from the kitchen back into the corridor’s dim hush. Behind them, the cook cleared his throat, seemingly relieved to have them gone. The door swung shut with a soft thud, leaving them enveloped once again in the manor’s quiet atmosphere.

“Interesting,” Amelia said, her tone low. “He clearly wanted nothing to do with James’s personal life.”

Finn nodded. “Which might be honest—some employees just keep to themselves. But the way James insisted on the staff leaving at the last minute stands out.”

“Agreed. Let’s see if Mrs Hughes can help fill in the gaps,” Amelia replied, and they strolled deeper into the hallway.

Oil paintings hung on the walls—stately portraits of men and women in old-fashioned attire, presumably the Penrose ancestors.

The faint tang of dust and polish lingered as they walked.

They found Mrs Hughes in a small side office, hunched over a desk with a ledger open, flipping pages in the low lamplight. Her trembling right hand hovered over a notepad while her left turned the page. At their footsteps, she glanced up, startled.

“Oh—Mr. Wright, Miss Winters.” She stood respectfully. “I was… updating accounts.” Her voice wobbled a touch, and she quickly moved the ledger aside.

Finn smiled gently. “We won’t keep you long, Mrs Hughes. We wanted to ask if we can have a list of everyone who works here regularly—the staff, maybe even part-timers. We’re trying to see who might have any insight into James Penrose’s final day.”

“Of course,” Mrs Hughes replied. “I’ll compile something promptly. Most are here daily, some only monthly for special tasks. The gardener is a part-timer, for example.” She shut the ledger and rose fully. “When do you need it?”

“As soon as you’re able,” Amelia said. “Tomorrow morning would be fine, if that’s easier.”

Mrs Hughes dipped her chin. “I’ll have it ready for you immediately.”

“Thank you.” Finn cleared his throat. “Also, I recall you mentioned there’s a place the security cameras feed into—some kind of monitoring room, perhaps? Could we see it?”

The housekeeper’s brows lifted. “Certainly. Right this way, please.” She guided them back into the corridor.

They wove through a couple of winding passages until Mrs Hughes paused at a narrow door that might have been easy to overlook.

She pushed it open, revealing a cramped space lined with shelves stacked with supplies: extra linens, cleaning materials, old boxes.

At one end stood a desk with a modest setup of screens and a bank of electronic equipment humming quietly.

“This is the security station,” Mrs Hughes explained, stepping aside so Finn and Amelia could enter.

She turned a switch on the wall, and the overhead light brightened, illuminating the screens.

Each displayed a grainy black-and-white live feed of the estate’s exterior: one pointed at the front driveway, another at the back gardens, and a couple more capturing side angles of the sprawling grounds.

Finn leaned in for a closer look, scanning the monitors. “So no interior coverage at all, I see.”

Mrs Hughes shook her head apologetically.

"The family insisted on privacy. Mr. James Penrose didn't want cameras inside.

He thought it invasive, especially when he'd have important guests here like politicians.

He believed the staff should be trusted and that the family deserved not to be watched in their own home. "

“That’s fairly normal for old families,” Amelia muttered. “Though with all these valuables, you’d think they’d want internal security. Especially if finances were a concern.”

Mrs Hughes pressed her trembling hand to her chest. “It was Mr Penrose’s choice, not mine. I wish we’d had some cameras inside now... If there’s nothing else…?”

Finn glanced at Amelia, who shook her head. “No, thank you, Mrs Hughes,” Finn said. “We appreciate your help.”

With a slight bow, Mrs Hughes stepped back. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good evening.” She slipped out, the door closing behind her, leaving the faint hush of electronics filling the space.

Finn hovered near the screens, scanning each camera angle. “Just exterior coverage,” he said quietly. “Nothing inside.” He turned to Amelia. “Strange, isn’t it?”