“You know I’m not one to argue with the examiner, but 1818 deserves at least an A-.”
“You exceeded the word limit.” Maggie nudged Ellie in the ribs and pointed up at an engraved memorial brick above the front door proclaiming ‘BLACKWOOD BELL FOUNDRY HOUSE 1820.’ “As impressive as that was, we don’t have time for that kind of thinking. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears open, and don’t go too far into your own head.”
Maggie’s voice took on a serious edge, making a lump appear in Ellie’s throat. She’d known this was important, but she felt like she was still in the early-mid part of the script and her grandmother was running around in the nail-biting sequel. Swallowing the lump, she heard footsteps on the other side of the heavy red door, and she knew she didn’t have time to dissect what her gran had meant, but what’s that the point; Maggie knew her too well.
“We’re looking for continuity errors,” Ellie said to herself, pushing forward a smile as the door swept open.
As the door swung open, Ellie found herself face-to-face not with the expected young woman who’d grunted at them through the intercom, but with a man she immediately knew to be James Blackwood. Sylvia hadn’t described his appearance, but if Ellie were to picture a pretentious avant-garde artist, James was it. His dark hair was slicked back, and he wore a velvet smoking jacket that looked like it belonged in a period drama over a slightly shredded t-shirt that read ‘ART IS DEAD,’ and glasses the size of jam jars taped together in the middle with a bundle of plasters.
“So, you’re one of my dear late father’s les mystérieux trois,” James said, his voice carrying a hint of theatrical flair as he stepped aside. “Please, do come in. This must be your… sidekick?”
“My granddaughter, Ellie.”
“How do you do?” James said, and before Ellie knew what was happening, he scooped up her hand and planted a soft kiss on the back of her fingers. His grey stubble poked into her flesh as she pulled her hand away. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting one another before? I’m sure I would remember a lady such as yourself.”
“A lady such as myself hasn’t lived in Meadowfield for a while,” she said, stepping inside to hurry after her gran. “If you’ll excuse me.”
As James closed the door behind them, Ellie’s eyes widened as he sealed out the light. She walked forwards as her eyes adjusted, bumping into the back of her gran. When they finally adjusted, she saw the cacophony of history and opulence inside the grand cottage. A long entrance hall ran down to the back of the house, with densely decorated rooms branching off in every direction. Dark wood panelling lined the walls, adorned with an eclectic array of artwork, with everything from Renaissance paintings to modernism, photography, framed poetry. A suit of armour stood sentinel in one corner, while a grandfather clock ticked solemnly in another, its face adorned with intricate celestial designs. Tapestries depicting medieval hunting scenes draped the walls, their rich colours muted by age. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting prismatic reflections across the room. It was less a home and more a peak into a life bursting at the seams with creativity.
“Your father decorated this place?” Ellie asked as James caught up with them.
“It was less decorated and more so that it grew around him,” he said, sweeping past them through one of the arches. “I’ve been meaning to start going through everything, but it never seems like the right time.”
Ellie wouldn’t have changed a thing, but she kept that to herself. It was like stepping into a haunted manor from a Scooby-Doo episode, crossed with a Where’s Wally picture. Ellie found herself wanting to examine every nook and cranny, certain she’d discover something new with each glance.
Ellie noticed a young red-headed woman watching her from the end of the hall. She must have been the one who answered the buzzer, though she looked to be in her early twenties rather than a teenager. The woman glared at Ellie with all the attitude of a sullen teen, her right arm strapped up tight to her body in a sling.
Following Maggie into the sitting room, Ellie heard James apologise for the mess. Paint-covered sheets draped over everything, and he explained he was working on his latest sculpture using UV paint. He shone a black-light around the room. The shadows of the sheets began to glow, creating an eerie effect.
As James swept the black-light around the room, Ellie’s gaze was drawn upward. Her eyes widened as she noticed a feature she’d missed in her initial scan of the room. At the back of the living area, a split-level library rose up, its upper floor a bookworm’s dream come to life, even cast in shadow like it was.
Wooden bookshelves lined every available wall space, reaching from floor to ceiling. They were packed with volumes of all sizes and colours, their spines creating a mesmerising tapestry of literary wealth. A wrought-iron spiral staircase connected the two levels, and Ellie had to stop herself from running straight at it to go and inspect the collection further.
“The piece is inspired by the contrast between the ego and reality,” James said, bringing Ellie’s attention back to the lumpy clay sculpture in the middle of the sitting area. He sighed, staring at it with admiration, seeing something profound that Ellie couldn’t. “It truly might be my greatest work.”
When neither Ellie nor Maggie reacted, James didn’t elaborate further. Instead, he invited them to sit down, whipping sheets off two armchairs. Ellie’s trained eye immediately recognised her chair as an antique reproduction from the early 20th century. The red velvet upholstery and ornate wood detailing were unmistakable. Far too beautiful a piece for the velvet on the chair arm to be covered in cigarette burn marks as it was.
“Your father thought that about this final book,” Maggie said, settling in next to Ellie in an equally neglected antique chair. “He was sure he was seeing the world clearly for the first time in years, and he’d poured it into one last novel.”
“And do you know how many times my father proclaimed he could think clearly again over the past few decades?” James dragged a hand down his stubble, still unable to take his eyes away from his work. “So, you’ve read this master work? How did it stand up against his classics?”
“I’ve read a third of it.”
“Not a page-turner?”
“I was only ever given a third.”
Only a third of the book? Ellie glanced at James, who seemed equally taken aback by this information. He reached for a crystal bottle within arm’s reach, pouring himself a generous measure of amber liquid.
The young redhead Ellie had noticed earlier wandered into the room, her injured arm still in its sling. James gestured towards her with his drink.
“This is Emma, Thomas’ daughter.”
Emma’s eyes darted between Maggie and Ellie. “Did I hear that right? You were only given a third of the book?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.
Maggie nodded, her expression unreadable. “Yes, and I suspect the other two people entrusted were only given a third each as well. Three parts making a whole.”
James let out a mirthless laugh, shaking his head as he turned to look out at the garden. Even on this bright afternoon, the grounds appeared dark and overgrown, mirroring the chaotic interior of the house.
“My father did love to play games.”
As James began to pace, he cleared his throat and recited, his voice taking on a theatrical quality, “‘To those who seek my Last Draft, a journey starts within the mind. In my chamber where thoughts took flight, beneath your feet, a hidden sight. Under one who knows they stand apart, where echoes of secrets warm the heart.’”
He paused, turning to gaze out the window once more. Ellie found herself holding her breath, the weight of Edmund Blackwood’s words hanging in the air as she tried to figure out what it meant.
“If the chamber is a bedroom and thoughts taking flight are dreams,” Ellie started. “Then it was under his bed?”
“It was under the floorboards,” Emma said, her tone matter-of-fact. “There was this one board in his bedroom that always squeaked. That’s where we found the wooden box.”
“And inside?” Maggie asked.
James let out a choked laugh. “Another riddle, if you can believe it. The old man couldn’t resist one last mystery.”
“What did this riddle say?” Ellie asked, leaning forward in her seat.
James and Emma exchanged glances, a flicker of discomfort passing between them. James cleared his throat. “We... don’t actually know. Thomas took it for himself and wouldn’t share.”
“The only reason we even know there was a riddle is because Charles mentioned seeing it.”
