Read Chapter 31: The Interrogation of Beatrice

The evening light bled through the tall windows of the drawing room, painting the walls in amber streaks. Evelyn stood beside Lord Blackwood at the room's center, the diary clutched in her hands like a talisman, the worn leather warm against her palms. Annabel lingered near the door with Mrs. Hutchins, the housekeeper's face lined with something between fear and resolve. Mr. Thorne, ashen but steady, stood beside Evelyn, his knuckles white where they gripped his cap.

Lord Blackwood had summoned his mother with the quiet authority of a man who had stopped pretending. Lady Beatrice swept in with practiced poise—a gown of deep aubergine, her hair pinned immaculately—and her eyes moved over the assembled group with a thin, amused smile. "A family meeting? How touching. Though one might wonder why the staff are present." Her gaze landed on Thorne and Mrs. Hutchins with faint disdain.

"Because they are part of this household, Mother. And because they know what you have done." Lord Blackwood's voice was low, but it carried the weight of cold iron. He gestured to Evelyn. "Miss Hartley has compiled a record."

Evelyn stepped forward, opening the diary to a marked page. "Miss Reeves wrote everything. Your plan to have Annabel committed. Your correspondence with Dr. Whitmore. The forged resignation letter. The intercepted letter to Magistrate Hollings." She paused, letting each word settle. "She also wrote about the night you threatened her—that you found her reading the original testament and warned her that loyalty had a price."

Beatrice laughed—a bright, brittle sound. "A dead woman's scribbling. How convenient. The poor creature lost her mind before she disappeared. Everyone will believe that."

"I believed it for eleven years." Lord Blackwood's jaw tightened. "I will not believe it any longer. The diary is dated. The entries match household records. And the handwriting..." He nodded to Mrs. Hutchins, who produced a stack of old correspondence from her apron pocket.

"Miss Reeves's letters to the estate agent in Hampshire, my lord." Mrs. Hutchins's voice trembled. "I kept them—she asked me to post them, but I never did. Forgive me. But the hand is the same."

Beatrice's smile flickered. She stepped toward her son, her voice softening into the gentle, wounded register Evelyn had heard before. "Julian, you are being manipulated. This girl—" she gestured to Evelyn, "—and that child—" she flicked a hand toward Annabel, "—have poisoned your mind with fancies and grief. Do not let them tear our family apart."

Lord Blackwood did not move. "Where is Miss Reeves, Mother?"

The room held its breath. A log shifted in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Beatrice's smile died slowly, the warmth leaving her eyes like water from a cracked vessel.

"Where you buried her," Evelyn said, quietly, deliberately. "Or did you leave that to other hands? Mr. Thorne?"

Thorne swallowed hard, his voice rough. "She paid me a hundred pounds to abandon her at the crossroads after dark. I thought... I told myself I was only following instructions. But I saw the man she sent after. He carried Miss Reeves into the woods near the eastern boundary."

Beatrice turned on him, her eyes flashing. "You treacherous little gutter-rat. You took my money—"

"And I have been sick with it ever since." Thorne's voice broke. "Every night I see her face."

Annabel stepped forward, and her child's voice was remarkably steady. "You tried to have me locked away. You told the doctor that I was mad. You thought if I vanished, the estate would be yours."

"And it will be." Beatrice's composure cracked—genuinely, this time. Her lips drew back from her teeth. "You little fool. You think I raised you with love? I raised you so that you would be pathetic enough to die quietly. And instead—" She laughed again, but the sound was ugly now, unhinged. "Instead you survived. While Julian grieved, while his father rotted, I kept this family together. And now you stand before me—all of you—shaking a dead woman's diary in my face."

"Miss Reeves is not the only one who wrote things down." Evelyn pulled a folded letter from her sleeve—the introduction she had carried from Miss Reeves's room. "Her sister in Kent holds a second testament. The one your grandfather prepared. The one that gives everything to Annabel's line."

Beatrice went very still. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then her shoulders seemed to settle, and when she lifted her chin, she was not the grieving widow or the wounded mother. She was something else entirely.

"Very well." Her voice was flat. "I had her killed."

Lord Blackwood closed his eyes. Annabel inhaled sharply, and Mrs. Hutchins let out a small, strangled sob.

"Not because she threatened me with the law." Beatrice smoothed a wrinkle from her gown with eerie calm. "She was a clever woman, your Miss Reeves. She found the cold store beneath the summer house within a week of arriving. She guessed what it was for—the family cellar, where minor indiscretions were... stalled, before disposal. But she refused to be practical. She started writing letters, asking questions. Speaking to the girl about the will. I could not allow that."

She looked around the room—at her son, at Annabel, at the servants—with undisguised contempt. "You all stand there as though you have won something. Listen to me carefully: I buried her in the woods to the east, beneath the gnarled oak where the plough never reaches. If you dig, you will find her. And if you dig, you will find nothing else, for I am not in the habit of leaving records of my work."

Her voice sharpened, a razor blade sliding through silk. "You have served me all these years, Julian. You and your father before you. And the moment I act to preserve what is rightfully ours, you gather the servants to try me like a common brigand." She turned on the room. "You should all be grateful. Annabel's existence was a sickness. I was merely the cure."

Lord Blackwood swayed, catching himself on the arm of a chair. He opened his mouth, but words did not come.

Evelyn stepped between him and Beatrice, her voice quiet but cutting. "You confess, then. Before witnesses."

Beatrice smiled—a slow, cruel tilt of her lips. "I confess to removing a threat. If you wish to call it murder, you may. But I tell you this, Miss Hartley: you will never prove the intent, for I have already arranged my own testimony with Dr. Whitmore and his colleagues. The woman was unstable. I acted from fear for my family."

Mr. Thorne stepped forward. "I will speak. I have done wrong in this house, but I will not let you send another soul to the wood."

"And I." Mrs. Hutchins lifted her chin. "I kept her letters for a reason, my lady. I was waiting for evidence enough."

Lord Blackwood found his voice. "Mother, you will go to your rooms and remain there until the magistrate arrives. If you resist, I will have you bound." He turned to Thorne. "Go for Magistrate Hollings at first light. Tell him everything."

Beatrice laughed once more as she walked toward the door. "You will bury me in an asylum, Julian, and think yourself just. But I have raised you well enough to know: when you open that grave, you will not find peace. You will find only what you have lost."

The door clicked shut behind her.

The room fell silent. Annabel's small hand found Evelyn's and squeezed.