“With Charles Blackwood?”
“Hmm.” Maggie’s pace quickened as the black gates grew closer. “He’s good company, I’ll have you know, and I think you’d like him if you gave him a chance.”
“Maybe when he’s not a suspect in a murder.”
“Yes, I see your point,” Maggie said, a smile taking over her face as she nodded at the entrance. “Would you look at that? The gates are wide open for us. I do hope the Blackwood family hasn’t changed into their pyjamas yet. They have some explaining to do.”
Chapter 21The Statue
The gate to Blackwood House stood ajar, creaking in the evening breeze, as if ushering Ellie and Maggie in as invited guests. They dodged the weeds sprouting through the gaps in the courtyard’s paving stones towards the looming silhouette that was Blackwood House against the blood-red sunset sky. The open front door stood open, another ominous invitation. Ellie nudged her grandmother, pointing out the lapse in security.
“We still need to be careful,” Maggie whispered.
Before Ellie could wonder what could be happening, a blaze of red hair blurred past the open front door. Emma Blackwood skidded to a halt in the hallway, her voice raised in pursuit of Charles, who was already halfway up the stairs. “I know what happened at the party,” she called out, her words echoing through the grand entrance hall. “Keep up the silent act, but I know. And our dear late father knew too.” Thinking she was alone, she added, “Creep.”
Emma noticed them on the doorstep, lunging for the door as though intent on slamming it shut. But Maggie was quicker. With surprising agility, she thrust her walking stick forward, wedging it between the door and the frame.
“If it’s all the same with you, we’re coming in,” Maggie declared, her tone brooking no argument as she pushed the door wide open. “I’d suggest you all gather in the sitting room. Be a good girl and spread the word around the house, won’t you?”
Emma stood frozen, her mouth agape. The tape across her nose came loose, and she pressed it back down before whirling around and storming off through a door to the right. Ellie was proud of her gran’s boldness in that moment.
Up the stairs, Ellie caught a glimpse of Charles disappearing at the top of the staircase. Through an open doorway, she noticed another staircase spiralling upwards, this one stone, presumably leading to the tower. From somewhere above, the distinct sound of a vacuum cleaner, or some other machine, groaned through the air.
Ellie followed Maggie into the sitting room where they found James Blackwood bundling up his paint-splattered sheets before stuffing them into a cardboard box. At their entrance, he let out an exaggerated groan, his eyes rolling in a perfect circle for as long as the groan raged on.
“Haven’t you two got a bookshop to put back together?” James cried, forcefully feeding another splattered sheet into the mess bursting from the box. “What could you possibly want of me now?”
Maggie, undeterred by his attitude, replied with a hint of satisfaction, “I’m glad we caught you.” She glanced around the room before asking, “Where’s your sculpture gone?”
James clicked his tongue and pointed a finger upwards. Ellie followed the gesture to the split-level library section overlooking them. That space had seemed like a haven during her first visit, but with the vague shape of the lumpy sculpture looming over the bannister, the library, lost in the lump’s shadow, had lost its welcoming pull.
“It’s my masterpiece,” James declared, his voice filled with even more arrogance than Ellie remembered from their previous encounter. He stood up straighter, a smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he gazed up at his creation.
“Is that why you wanted to destroy your father’s final manuscript?” Maggie asked, her voice dripping with challenge. “In case it was a masterpiece it’s rumoured to be?” Maggie paused, her tone shifting to one of dismissal. “I wonder how that rumour started, because it’s not, by the way. I’ve read a third of it, not that you cared to ask about the contents.”
“I never did care for my father’s writing.”
“No, it seems not. I have proof that you did want to destroy it if you got your hands on it.”
“A big if.”
“It’s not like people aren’t trying to find the pieces.” Maggie took a few brave steps towards him and Ellie hurried behind. “James, I have a signed testimony from a witness who overheard a conversation held between oneself and... oneself. You were talking to yourself in the mirror.”
Ellie turned to her grandmother, and she had no idea where this signed testimony had come from all of a sudden. Had it come from Charles? Ellie hadn’t been expecting her gran to be the one with the surprising information to share when they entered Blackwood House.
James scoffed, his earlier smugness giving way to a hint of unease as he ran his fingers through his oily hair several times in quick succession. “You’re bluffing.”
“Try me,” Maggie replied, her tone unwavering. “Are you a gambling man, James? The character based on you in your father’s book likes to bet on the horses a little too much.”
The hair combing stopped, and he glared at Maggie like he wanted her skin to alight in flames, and in the tense silence that followed, it became apparent James hadn’t considered that he would have inspired a character in his father’s work. But they weren’t there for a book club meeting. She caught James’s eye, needing to cut through the thick atmosphere.
“Invisible ink,” she stated. “What do you know about invisible ink and why would it be on your father’s manuscript?”
James’s eyebrows drifted up, more surprise replacing his shock from moments ago. “Invisible ink?” he laughed, but it sounded forced to Ellie’s ears. “What are you talking about?”
Ellie watched as Anne descended the stairs, her eyes darting between James and Maggie. Emma trailed behind, still fussing with the tape on her nose.
“Invisible ink, is it?” Anne asked, noticing Ellie as she entered. “We really do have to stop meeting like this. How’s things, Ellie? Your mother filmed her big comeback yet?”
“I… I’m not sure. Anne, do you know something about this invisible ink?”
“Aye, as it so happens, I do. Edmund would use it sometimes,” she revealed, her tone softening with reminiscence. “He’d write little notes and leave them around for people to find. Things that didn’t look as they appeared at first. He liked little tricks like that. Clever like that, he was.” A fond smile was replaced by something more urgent. “Maybe he made some notes in his manuscript, if that’s what the police found? I’d see him doing that by hand sometimes when I was cleaning. Making notes. In the margins, mind. Proper. Neat, and all.”
James scoffed. “My father didn’t write up his own manuscripts. He used a dictaphone, sent that off to the publisher, and they’d send it back typed in the post.”
“Exactly,” Anne replied, planting her hands on her hips as she marched closer to James with sure steps. “That’s why I said he’d use a pen to scribble in the margins. His next round of notes for the publisher. He couldn’t sit at a computer for hours and type, mind, and his publishers were happy to work that way. I do know how publishing works, James. I have submitted before.”
“And how many rejection letters?” James asked, leaning forward with his hands behind his back as a cold smirk cut his expression like a knife. “Enough to paper the walls of this place, I heard.”
“You cheeky—”
“Are you a writer who cleans on the side or a cleaner who writes to keep the flicker of her dead dream alive?” James cocked his head, daring her to keep going with a flash of the whites of his eyes. “You knew nothing of my father. You cleaned his toilets and wiped his drool, and don’t act as though you were his saving grace and guiding light another second longer if you want to keep a job in this house. Do you hear me?” He was shouting now, a vein throbbing in his neck fit to bursting. “I’m glad I’ve been able to make myself clear, finally.”
Ellie and Maggie exchanged glances, and Ellie knew her gran was thinking the same thing: were they watching James or Jimmy right now, and did it matter if there wasn’t much difference?
To Ellie’s surprise, Anne didn’t buckle under James’s cruel assignation. She maintained her cool, backing down and retreating back towards the staircase without another word to James. As she adjusted her apron, Ellie heard her mutter, “Nice to know where I stand,” under her breath. The atmosphere in the room had soured, but Ellie saw an opportunity to do something her gran wouldn’t—confront Charles.
As Ellie stepped towards him, she felt her gran reaching for her, trying to silence her, but she shrugged off the attempt. Her eyes locked onto Charles, who had wandered into the room while his uncle had been asserting his dominance over the person who ran around after them day after day.
