Page 21

Finn eyed the patchy dark sky, a tapestry of slate-gray clouds, as he and Eleanor Matthews left their parked car on a narrow Tottenham street in North London. The oncoming night tinted the air with a faded hue; the lingering chill of March made everything seem colder than it was. Across the road, a row of old brick houses stood in neat lines—some well-kept, some in states of decline. In front of the third house, paint peeled around the windows, and a leaning fence swayed in the occasional gust of wind.

“This is it,” Finn said quietly, checking the address on a small notepad he carried. “Ely Abrams’s place.” A wave of anxious energy pulsed through him.

Eleanor nodded at his side, hands in her jacket pockets. She looked every bit the refined art expert she was, but tension lined her posture. “I hope he can tell us something useful,” she murmured.

“And give us something concrete on Harrison Blackthorn,” Finn muttered, stepping onto the front path. The yard was small, the grass unkempt. A battered sign by the door read A. R. A. M. S. in faded letters, perhaps leftover from some freelance business venture. “Ready?”

Eleanor gave a brisk nod. “Let’s see if he’s home.”

Finn rapped on the door, three firm knocks. No answer. He tried again, louder, then leaned an ear to the wood. Silence, except for a faint groan of the house settling. He glanced at Eleanor, who shook her head.

“One more try,” she said. “Ely, it’s Dr. Matthews and Finn Wright from the Home Office! We just want to talk! We’re not here to arrest you,” she called through the door. Nothing but the whisper of wind responded.

Finn tested the knob—locked. He peered through the nearest window, cupping his hand around the glass to block reflections. The interior looked dim and cluttered with scattered boxes. “We might try around back,” he suggested.

They circled the house, stepping gingerly over broken paving stones. In the small backyard, an aging wooden fence sagged, and a shed door hung ajar. The back door to the house itself was slightly open, as though someone had left in a hurry or was too nervous to fully secure it.

“This is suspicious,” Eleanor breathed. She eased the door open further. The hinge squeaked in protest. “Ely?” she called, carefully stepping inside. The musty aroma of old carpet and stale air enveloped them.

Finn followed, flicking on a small flashlight from his coat. They stood in what appeared to be a cramped kitchen. A half-eaten sandwich lay on a plate next to the sink, the bread gone hard, as if abandoned days ago. A sense of disquiet rippled up Finn’s spine. “He left in a hurry,” he said softly. “Or he’s still here, just… unwilling to show himself.”

They moved into a narrow hallway lined with dusty family photos and abstract prints. The place was in disarray—cupboard doors half-open, a couple of cardboard boxes near the stairs as if someone had started packing. “Ely?” Finn called again. “We just want to talk about the paintings. No trouble.”

Eleanor checked a side room—empty, with a desk piled high in battered art books. “Nothing,” she whispered, voice echoing faintly.

Finn’s flashlight caught a glimpse of a folded ladder descending from a ceiling hatch near the upstairs landing. His pulse ticked up a notch. “Looks like an attic entrance,” he said, gesturing. “Let’s see if he’s up there.”

Eleanor nodded, trailing him up the stairs. The second-floor landing was dim, only a dusty light fixture overhead providing a weak glow. The pull-down hatch looked unremarkable except for a faint scuff, as though it’d been used recently. Finn gently pulled on the cord. It creaked open, dust raining down in a soft cloud.

“Ely?” he called upward, shining his flashlight into the darkness. “We’re coming up. Don’t panic.”

He climbed first, the ladder shaky but holding his weight. At the top, he aimed the beam around the low-ceilinged attic. Boxes lay scattered, cobwebs draped across beams. He noticed a faint movement in the far corner. The shape jerked at the light’s touch.

Eleanor popped her head through the hatch behind him. “Ely?”

A muffled gasp. Then, from behind an old chest of drawers, a slim figure emerged—Ely Abrams. He looked disheveled: rumpled shirt, hair matted with sweat, eyes wild with panic. Clutched in one hand was a small flashlight, its beam flickering. The other hand trembled as if he expected an attack.

“Stay back!” Ely rasped. His voice cracked. “Who are you?”

Finn raised both hands, the flashlight angled away from Ely's face. "Finn Wright—consultant detective. This is Dr. Eleanor Matthews. We're part of the team working on the Victoria Palmer case. We're here about the forged paintings. We're not arresting you, okay? We just need your help."

Ely’s shoulders slumped, relief battling with terror. “H-How did you find me?”

Eleanor stepped carefully off the ladder and onto the attic floor. “You’re the only person who can verify the entire set of forgeries that ended up at the Blackthorn Gallery. I guess you're hiding, given the recent murders?”

Ely swallowed hard, nodding. “It’s not safe,” he whispered. “Harrison… he threatened me.” He wiped a shaky hand over his face. “I… I had no choice.”

"Threatened you how?" Finn asked gently, stepping closer. "We know about the fakes. We suspect the murders are connected to them, and the killer knows about the forgeries. People who discovered the forgeries ended up dead. You might be in danger, too, having lied about the paintings being legit."

Ely closed his eyes, voice trembling. “I signed off on those paintings under duress. Harrison Blackthorn told me if I didn’t authenticate them as genuine, he’d ruin me. Or worse. He claims he has powerful connections that would rough me up.” A bitter laugh slipped out. “I believed him.”

Eleanor inhaled slowly. “So that’s how The Cornfield , The Blue Boy , and The Medusa were passed off as real. You used your professional reputation to rubber-stamp them?”

Ely nodded, shame twisting his features. “Yes. Every time an expensive piece of art is to be displayed in an exhibition, it must be verified as the real deal. I’m not proud that I lied. Once I realized the extent of the operation, I tried to back out. But then people started turning up dead. I panicked. I… I’ve been hiding here for days.” His eyes darted around the attic, as though expecting an intruder. “But it’s no use. He’ll find me eventually.”

“How many more forgeries are there?” Eleanor asked.

“I don’t know… Many…”

“This is art fraud on an unprecedented level,” Eleanor said in a low voice.

Finn exchanged a glance with Eleanor. This was bigger and more dangerous than they’d feared. “Ely, we can protect you,” Finn said quietly. “If you’ll give us a statement about Harrison’s threats and the details of what he forced you to do, we can help. We think the murderer might be close to him. We need any information you have.”

Ely’s breath quivered. “I only know that, initially, for that exhibition, one set of masterpiece forgeries was made, maybe half a dozen. They were swapped out in secret and displayed in the gallery, while the real ones were sold privately. But there’s one more from that set—still in Harrison’s possession.” He paused, eyes flicking to Eleanor. “It’s a Jan Griffier piece. The Great Fire of London. He kept it in his private office, away from prying eyes.”

Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. “ The Great Fire of London ? That painting is quite famous, known for depicting the city ablaze in 1666. Are you sure he has a forgery of it?”

Ely gave a hollow nod. “Yes. I recognized immediately what was going on with it. I only did a quick check, but it’s definitely not the original. He told me Mary Whitmore was the only other person who knew about it. She’s his assistant, or something more, I’m not sure. She asked me to keep quiet. She looked scared, too. I think she's in on it.”

Finn’s mind raced. Another painting possibly connected to the killer’s pattern. If the killer used each forged painting as inspiration for a murder, that meant whoever was next might be staged like someone from the Great Fire scene. The thought churned his stomach. “We have to stop this. You said Mary Whitmore knows about the forgery. Where is she now?”

Ely shrugged helplessly. "No idea. She's often at the gallery or doing personal errands for Harrison. She might even know more about the forging ring, about who physically produced them. I just know she's aware it's a fake."

Eleanor took a step forward, voice gentle. “Listen, Ely. We need your testimony, your knowledge. If we can prove Harrison threatened you, we can unravel his entire operation. Let us get you into protective custody.”

Ely sagged, tears glinting in his eyes. “You can’t guarantee my safety. Harrison’s people are everywhere.”

Finn placed a steady hand on Ely’s shoulder. “We can’t guarantee anything, but we won’t let you face this alone. We can arrange secure lodging. The Home Office can protect crucial witnesses, especially in a murder investigation.”

Silence hovered, broken only by the scuttling of something in the eaves. Ely swallowed and finally nodded. “All right,” he whispered. “If it stops more people from dying, I’ll talk. Just… keep me safe.”

Eleanor exhaled relief. “We will. Thank you.”

Ely looked down at the dusty attic floor, overwhelmed. “The Jan Griffier forgery is definitely in Harrison’s office, behind a locked display case. Mary was worried someone would find out. She confided in me once, said she feared losing her job or worse. She also mentioned that the real painting was apparently sold off to some collector overseas.”

Finn jotted notes in a small pad. “We’ll see about verifying that. In the meantime, gather what you need here. We’ll put you under watch.”

Ely gave a shaky nod, brushing dust off his shirt. “All right. Let’s… let’s get out of this place.”

Downstairs, they helped Ely pack a small bag of essentials. The tension in the house felt suffocating, as though each window might conceal watchers. Eventually, they stepped out into the cold late-afternoon light. Finn used his phone to call for a support vehicle from the constabulary, someone to pick Ely up discreetly. While waiting, they hovered near the battered fence.

When the unmarked police car arrived, two plainclothes officers emerged, nodding at Finn in recognition. The hand-off was quick. One officer offered Ely an encouraging pat on the arm, then ushered him into the backseat. Ely forced a thin smile at Finn and Eleanor through the half-lowered window.

“I’ll do what I can,” Ely said, voice quavering. “You just catch whoever’s behind these murders.”

“We will,” Finn promised, stepping back. The car pulled away, leaving him and Eleanor on the sidewalk, the wind scuttling dried leaves around their feet.

Eleanor breathed out, relief mingling with a fresh wave of urgency. “So the Great Fire of London forgery is the most recent piece we know about. If this killer is replicating each painting in a gruesome murder, that might be the stage for their next crime. But there could be many more forgeries he’ll use as the basis for more death.”

Finn nodded, tucking his phone into his jacket. “And Mary Whitmore is the only other person who knows, according to Ely. If Harrison suspects she might reveal the truth, Mary could be next on the killer’s list. We have to find her.”

Eleanor pressed her lips together, glancing at the sky. The sky was almost completely. “Time isn’t on our side. Whoever’s staging these murders has escalated quickly—three victims in short succession. We can’t risk a fourth.”