The weeks that followed the inquest were, on the surface, a period of quiet and recuperation. The scandal that had briefly flared in the wake of the coroner's proceedings subsided into embers, then into ash, then into the forgetful silence that eventually covers all things in a village like Ashwick. The gossips moved on to fresher meat: a bankruptcy in the market square, a scandalous elopement in the northern provinces, a fire that had consumed a barn and two horses on the outskirts of the village. Judge Marcus Voss and his mysterious death became yesterday's news, and yesterday's news, in Ashwick, was as dead as the judge himself.
Elena returned to Ashwick Hall, and Camille returned to the house on the moor, and for a time, they saw each other only occasionally, at church or in the village, exchanging the careful, public pleasantries of two women who were known to be friends. But beneath the surface, something else was happening. Something that neither of them spoke of directly, but that both of them felt: a slow, gathering pressure, a sense that the story was not yet over, that the final chapter had not yet been written.
It was on a Tuesday evening, some six weeks after the inquest, that the next chapter began.
Elena was in the study, the room that had once been Marcus's private domain and was now, by slow degrees, becoming her own. She had rearranged the furniture, removed the more oppressive of the legal tomes, hung a landscape that Camille had given her on the wall above the mantelpiece. The room still carried the faint, lingering scent of brandy and old paper, but it was lighter now, airier, a place where a woman might sit and think without feeling the weight of her husband's ghost pressing down on her.
She was reading a letter that had arrived that morning from the family solicitor, a dry, precise document that detailed the transfer of Marcus's estate into her name. The house, the land, the investments, the accounts in the Bank of Valdoria—all of it was hers now, free and clear, with no entailments or encumbrances to complicate the inheritance. She was, for the first time in her life, a woman of independent means. A woman who owed nothing to anyone.
The thought should have filled her with satisfaction, or relief, or something resembling joy. But as she sat in the quiet study, the letter in her hand, she felt only the familiar, hollow vacancy that had been her constant companion since Marcus's death. The money was hers, but she did not know what to do with it. The freedom was hers, but she did not know how to use it. She had spent seven years learning to be invisible, and now that she was free to be seen, she did not know who she was.
A knock at the door interrupted her reverie. Mrs. Alden entered, her face pale and anxious, a silver salver in her hand.
"There is a letter for you, ma'am," she said. "It was delivered by hand, just now. The boy said it was urgent."
Elena took the letter. The paper was thick and cream-colored, of a quality that suggested official business, and the handwriting was one she had come to know well: the crisp, formal hand of Inspector Cordelia Holt.
She opened it and read:
Dear Mrs. Voss,
I am writing to inform you that the investigation into the death of your husband has been reopened. New evidence has come to light, evidence that I believe will be of considerable significance to the case. I will be visiting Ashwick Hall tomorrow morning at ten o'clock to discuss this evidence with you. I trust that you will make yourself available.
Sincerely, Inspector Cordelia Holt
Elena read the letter twice, and then she set it down on the desk. Her heart was beating faster now, but her face remained composed, her hands steady. New evidence. The words echoed in her mind, cold and ominous. What new evidence could there be? She had destroyed the vials, the tinctures, everything that connected her to Agnes Blackwood and the apothecary's cottage. The journal was already in the inspector's possession. The photograph of Camille and Marcus had been burned in the fireplace weeks ago. There was nothing left to find.
And yet, the inspector had found something. Or claimed to have found something. Or was bluffing, laying a trap, waiting for Elena to make a mistake.
She rose from the desk and went to the window. The gardens were beginning to stir with the first faint signs of spring, the snowdrops pushing through the frozen earth, the buds on the trees swelling with the promise of new life. It was beautiful, in a quiet, melancholy way, but she could not take pleasure in it. Her mind was elsewhere, racing through the possibilities, the contingencies, the stories she might tell.
She needed to see Camille.
She sent a message by the hand of the stable boy, and within two hours, Camille was at Ashwick Hall, her cheeks flushed from the ride across the moor, her dark eyes bright with a fear she was trying very hard to hide. They sat together in the study, the inspector's letter on the desk between them, and they talked.
"New evidence," Camille said. "What could it be?"
"I do not know. I have been through every possibility, and I cannot think of anything she might have found. Unless—" Elena paused, and a cold, sick feeling settled in her stomach. "Unless Agnes Blackwood has spoken."
"Agnes Blackwood? The apothecary?"
"Yes. She lied for me at the inquest. She said she had not given me monkshood, when in fact she had. If she has changed her story, if she has told the inspector the truth—"
"Would she do that? Would she betray you?"
Elena thought of the old woman, of her gnarled hands and her dark, knowing eyes, of the story she had told about her mother, the woman who had been hanged from an oak tree by the people of the village. "I do not know," she said. "She has no reason to be loyal to me. We are not friends. We are merely two women who share a secret."
"Then we must prepare," Camille said, and her voice was steadier now, firmer. "We must decide what we are going to say, what we are going to do, if the inspector has proof."
Elena looked at her, and she felt a surge of something that was almost gratitude. Camille had every reason to walk away, to distance herself, to protect her own precarious position. And yet, she was here, offering her loyalty, her solidarity, her unwavering support. It was more than Elena had ever expected from anyone.
"Thank you," she said. "For being here. For everything."
Camille reached across the desk and took her hand. "We are in this together," she said. "Whatever comes. Whatever the inspector has found. We are allies. We are friends."
The word still felt strange to Elena, a relic of a life she had thought she would never have. Friend. She had been alone for so long, had learned to survive on silence and secrecy and the cold, patient cultivation of her own invisible strength. And now, here was Camille, offering her something she had never expected to find: a companion, a confidante, a fellow traveler on the dark road she had chosen.
She did not sleep that night. She lay in her bed, the curtains drawn against the darkness, and she listened to the wind in the chimney and the creak of the old house settling around her, and she waited. The hours passed with the slow, deliberate pace of a funeral procession, and when the first gray light of dawn began to seep through the curtains, she rose and dressed with the same meticulous care she had applied to every public appearance she had ever made.
She chose a dress of dark blue wool, the dress she had worn to her first meeting with the inspector, a lifetime ago. It was a dress that made her look serious, intelligent, capable. It was a dress that belonged to a woman who had nothing to hide.
At ten o'clock precisely, a knock sounded at the front door. Mrs. Alden answered it, and a moment later, Inspector Cordelia Holt was shown into the study. She was wearing her dark gray overcoat, as always, and she carried a leather portfolio under her arm. Her winter-sea eyes surveyed the room with the same calm, methodical attention she brought to everything, and when they settled on Elena, there was something in them that Elena had not seen before. Something that looked, against all reason, like satisfaction.
"Mrs. Voss," the inspector said. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Of course, Inspector. Please, sit. May I offer you some tea?"
"No, thank you." Cordelia Holt sat in the chair opposite Elena's desk, and she placed the leather portfolio on the desk between them. "I will come straight to the point. The investigation into your husband's death has been reopened because of new evidence that has come to my attention. Evidence that I believe will be of considerable significance to the case."
"So you said in your letter. May I ask what this evidence is?"
The inspector opened the portfolio and withdrew a single sheet of paper. It was a letter, written in a hand that Elena recognized immediately: the flowing, feminine script of Camille Delacourt.
"This letter," the inspector said, "was found among the effects of Miss Delacourt's mother, after her death. It appears to have been written some months ago, before your husband's illness began. It is addressed to Miss Delacourt's mother, and it contains certain statements that are of considerable interest to my investigation."
Elena felt her blood go cold. "What kind of statements?"
The inspector adjusted her spectacles and began to read aloud: "Dearest Mother, I find myself in a strange and difficult position. The man I have been seeing, the judge, has become increasingly anxious in recent weeks. He speaks of a threat, a danger he cannot name. He says that his wife is not what she seems, that she watches him in ways that disturb him, that he has begun to fear for his safety. He has asked me to keep certain documents for him, papers that he says will protect him if anything should happen. I do not know what to think. I do not know what to do. But I am afraid, Mother. I am very afraid."
The inspector set down the letter and looked at Elena with those winter-sea eyes. "The letter is dated three months before your husband's death," she said. "It suggests that he was aware of a threat to his safety, and that he had entrusted certain documents to Miss Delacourt for safekeeping. Documents that might, if found, shed light on the circumstances of his death."
Elena was silent for a long moment. Her mind was racing, but her face remained composed, her hands steady. Camille had written this letter. Camille had known that Marcus was afraid, had known that he had given her documents for safekeeping. And Camille had not told her.
"I was not aware of this letter," she said carefully. "I do not know what documents my husband might have given to Miss Delacourt. He did not discuss his affairs with me."
"No," the inspector said, and her voice was dry, uninflected. "I did not suppose he did. But I wonder if Miss Delacourt might be able to enlighten us. I have sent word to her, asking her to join us here this morning. I expect her at any moment."
Elena felt the world tilt around her. Camille was coming. Camille, who had written a letter that implicated her, that suggested Marcus had been afraid of her, that spoke of documents that might contain proof of her guilt. Camille, who had been her ally and her friend, who had held her hand and sworn to protect her. Camille, who had lied to her.
The door opened, and Camille Delacourt walked into the study. She was wearing a dress of dark wool, and her face was pale, her dark eyes wide and frightened. She looked at Elena, and then at the inspector, and then at the letter on the desk between them.
"Miss Delacourt," the inspector said. "Thank you for coming. I was just showing Mrs. Voss the letter you wrote to your mother, the one in which you mentioned the documents Judge Voss entrusted to you. I wonder if you might be able to tell us what those documents were."
Camille stood very still. Her hands were trembling, and her eyes were fixed on Elena's face with an expression of desperate, pleading intensity. "I—" She stopped, and her voice broke. "I do not know what you are talking about."
"Miss Delacourt," the inspector said, and her voice was cold now, cold and sharp as a blade. "I have the letter in my hand. It is in your handwriting. It was found among your mother's effects. There is no point in denying it. What documents did Judge Voss give you?"
Camille's face was very pale, and her hands were trembling more violently now. She looked at Elena, and Elena looked at her, and in that moment, everything that had passed between them seemed to hang in the balance. The trust, the friendship, the alliance. The secrets they had shared. The blood that bound them together.
"The documents," Camille said, and her voice was barely a whisper. "They are in my studio. I will give them to you."
"Camille—" Elena began, but Camille shook her head.
"I am sorry," she said, and her eyes were bright with tears. "I am so sorry, Elena. I did not know how to tell you. He gave them to me weeks before he died. He said they would protect him. He said that if anything happened to him, I should take them to the constabulary. I did not—I did not know what to do."
The inspector rose from her chair. "I think," she said, "we should go to your studio, Miss Delacourt. All three of us. I believe it is time we saw these documents for ourselves."
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