Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Carriage House
Julian took the notebook from Anna’s hands.
The leather cover was embossed with Clara’s initials: C.W. The pages were swollen and warped from dampness, filled with hurried, frantic handwriting in blue ink.
"Where did you find this?" Julian asked, his voice shaking as he flipped open the cover.
"In the floorboards beneath the carriage house," Anna replied, stepping toward the light of the emergency lantern. "My name isn't Anna, Mr. West. It’s Anna Vance. My mother was Clara’s private nurse during her final six months. When Clara died... the hospital records said it was heart failure due to postpartum complications."
Officer Miller lowered his flashlight, staring at Anna. "That was the official coroner’s report."
"It was a lie," Anna said, her voice cracking with suppressed grief. "My mother kept a journal because she knew something was wrong. She wrote down every medication Clara was given, every visitor who entered the east wing after dark, and every threat made by Robert West and Vivian Hale."
Julian stared down at the open page under the yellow lantern light.
December 14:
Clara discovered that Robert and Vivian were systematically siphoning trust funds from the West Foundation into offshore accounts using forged corporate signatures. When Clara threatened to go to Julian, Vivian introduced a 'calming tonic' into her evening tea. Her heart rate dropped dangerously low tonight. I tried to warn Julian, but Robert locked me in the carriage house basement.
Julian’s vision went red. The papers in his hand fluttered as his grip tightened until his knuckles tore through the heavy cardstock.
He looked up from the notebook, his face distorted by a rage so profound it made Officer Miller step back.
"Where is Vivian?" Julian demanded.
"She didn't come back from the hotel," Robert wheezed from the floor, clutching his chest. "She... she had a private car waiting by the East Gate. She’s heading for her private airstrip in Westerly."
Julian didn't waste another second. He handed Sophie gently to Officer Miller.
"Keep my daughter safe," Julian commanded.
He spun around, sprinting down the hidden spiral staircase behind the wardrobe, taking the steps three at a time into the damp, subterranean chill of the old foundation tunnels.
The stone tunnel smelled of wet earth and sea salt, echoing with the rapid pounding of his leather shoes against the brick floor. Ahead of him, a sliver of pale security light marked the exit leading toward the cliffside carriage house.
As Julian burst through the rotting wooden door into the lower level of the carriage house, he caught the flash of taillights speeding away down the private gravel service road toward the coastal highway.
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A black Mercedes sedan was accelerating into the storm.
Julian didn't hesitate. He leaped into his own range rover parked outside the carriage house stables, revving the engine until tires screamed against the wet gravel, and shot out of the estate gates in hot pursuit.
