“A little tenacious, perhaps,” James half-agreed.
“Hmm,” Anne grumbled before checking her watch. “I can’t stand around here all day nattering. I’ve got here and another cottage across the green before I clock off for today, and I’ve already given The Old Bell and inside and out.”
She offered Ellie a quick smile but didn’t stop to chat before busying off into the house. Ellie felt a twinge of disappointment. She had wanted to ask Anne about the coin Sylvia had mentioned, but more importantly, about Edmund and the little game he’d left behind.
Ellie watched as James balanced a cigarette he’d lit up precariously, ash sprinkling onto the floor as he resumed throwing paint at his sculpture. His movements were erratic, almost manic, as he worked.
“So, now that you’ve got my alibi,” James mumbled, his words slightly muffled by the cigarette, “haven’t you figured it out yet?” His tone was almost condescending, as if he were speaking to a child rather than an adult.
Ellie didn’t react. She had asked for his alibi, true, but it wasn’t something she could confirm. Everyone else seemed to have some connection to the value of Edmund Blackwood’s Last Draft. She made a mental note to ask around, to verify everyone’s whereabouts during the time of the murder.
“Figured what out?”
“That there are many people who want that manuscript for different reasons,” James continued, his voice taking on a lecturer’s tone. “Emma works in antique dealing, you know. Charles is in the historical society. Thomas was greedy and bankrupt.” He paused, taking a drag from his cigarette. “And that Rhiannon woman? She’ll get a fat commission from the publisher if she delivers them a posthumous masterpiece.”
It was all good information to know, but why was James throwing the rest of his family under the bus? What was his angle, if not misdirection?
“And what about you?” she asked, her eyes studying his reaction.
James’s expression hardened, his earlier flirtatious demeanour vanishing. “I was the only one close to my father,” he said, his tone sharp. “And I’m the only one who doesn’t want that book. Now, if you don’t mind, you’ve distracted my creative process for too long. I need to express my grief through my art.”
James’s quick deflection and sudden change in attitude made her doubt his insistence that he was the ‘only one’ who didn’t want the book, but she thanked him for his time and left him to it. If she wanted to uncover the truth, she needed to speak with someone who truly knew what was going on, and if the historical dramas got one thing right, it was that the household staff always knew what was going on right under their noses.
Blackwood House didn’t have a full staff, but it did have Anne Collins.
As she contemplated how to find Anne without appearing suspicious while searching the unknown layout of the house, Maggie appeared at the top of the stairs and slowly made her way down, following her conversation with Charles.
“I’ll tell you later,” Maggie said before Ellie could ask. “Did James say anything else?”
“He offered an alibi. He was here alone, and apparently, he’s the only one who doesn’t want his father’s manuscript.”
“Charles has a slightly different view of his uncle,” Maggie said as Ellie opened the front door for her. “According to him, he thinks James wants to get the manuscript to destroy it.”
“Why?”
“I told you, I’ll tell you later.”
“And that was just a teaser?”
“Precisely.” Maggie reached for the gate before Ellie could. “So, what was your first impression of James Blackwood, local artiste extraordinaire?”
“Sylvia said he was pretentious, and I’d say she’s right.”
“If Sylvia Fortescue thinks he’s pretentious, she might have a point.”
“A bit intense,” Ellie replied, choosing her words carefully. “A bit of a ‘suffering artist’ cliché, but he’s grieving, right?”
“James has always been like that. He’s never made money from selling art. He’s been living off Edmund’s royalties for years, so who knows how he’s making a living now?”
Once on the other side of the black gates, Ellie looked up at the house. She was sure there was a silhouette behind the red stained glass, as though someone was watching them from high up in the gothic tower.
“Did you notice that peculiar thing that happened?” Maggie asked after a moment.
Ellie raised an eyebrow. “I noticed lots of peculiar things.”
“What I noticed,” Maggie said, her voice low, “was that I told them I’d read a third of this elusive manuscript, the final work of Edmund Blackwood, and not one of them was interested in knowing about the contents.”
Ellie gasped, more at the fact she hadn’t noticed. “That is strange. James made it sound like they were all clawing to get their hands on it for different reasons.”
“Interesting,” Maggie mused. “So... what do you think, Ellie?”
Ellie took a deep breath. “I think I need to read this manuscript,” she said firmly. “So, for the love of Jane Austen, in all this chaos, please tell me you made a copy.”
“Edmund made me promise not to,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
A sigh escaped Ellie’s lips, her shoulders slumping in disappointment. But then a mischievous glint appeared in Maggie’s eyes.
“I didn’t copy it,” Maggie continued, leaning in conspiratorially. “I got the lad at the post office to do it. Told him it was my grandson’s creative writing college project. He didn’t even look at it. I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should.”
Ellie’s eyebrows shot up. “Where is it?”
“In the bookshop,” Maggie replied, a hint of pride in her voice. “So if the police don’t find it, we can read it when we get the keys back.”
Next door to Blackwood House, Ellie spotted DS Angela Cookson and her team outside The Old Bell. They were seated at a table, enjoying lunch in the warm sunshine and somehow finding things to laugh about. Ellie averted her gaze, not wanting to draw attention to herself. She still had that coin burning a hole in her pocket. The small museum was only around the corner, and if she was lucky, it would be open. She’d passed her mother’s house on the way, and she sighed, knowing she should check in on her.
“Then I’ll see you back at home for dinner later,” Maggie said, not needing to explain why she wouldn’t be tagging along. “And keep your wits about you.”
“Should I be worried?”
