Chapter 8 - The Dead Man in the Family Portrait

Percival laughed once.

It was the sound of a man who had reached the edge of disbelief.

“My father is dead.”

Inspector Pike did not answer immediately.

The red ledger contained signatures from both Benedict Shaw and Alistair Hawthorne. Several transfers were dated two years after Alistair’s funeral.

“Forgeries,” Percival said.

“Possibly,” Pike replied. “But we verify before we assume.”

Celandine remembered something.

Evelina’s letter had said the proof began with the dress.

Not ended there.

They returned to Hawthorne House before dawn.

The engagement guests were gone. Police officers quietly sealed Benedict’s study and the east wing. Dr. Harrow had been taken for formal questioning. Margot remained under protection.

In the portrait gallery, Percival stopped before a painting of his father.

Alistair Hawthorne looked stern and broad-shouldered, one hand resting on the same silver-headed cane Edwin now used.

Celandine stepped closer.

“The cane.”

Edwin frowned.

“This belonged to Mr. Alistair. He gave it to me before he died.”

“Before he died?”

“Three days before the funeral.”

Percival turned.

“You saw him three days before the funeral?”

Edwin’s confusion deepened.

“Yes. Why?”

“My father was supposedly unconscious for the last week of his life.”

Silence filled the gallery.

Edwin slowly removed his hand from the cane.

At the silver head was a narrow seam.

Percival twisted it.

A small compartment opened.

Inside was a rolled strip of paper.

A railway ticket.

One-way.

London to Antwerp.

Dated the morning after Alistair Hawthorne’s funeral.

Isabetta whispered, “That is impossible.”

“No,” Celandine said.

“It means the funeral buried someone else.”

Inspector Pike immediately ordered a search of old medical and cemetery records.

By sunrise, the first answer came.

Alistair Hawthorne’s coffin had never been opened at the family burial. Benedict Shaw had insisted on a sealed casket because of “severe illness.”

The doctor who certified Alistair’s death had been Lucien Harrow.

Percival sat alone in the library for nearly an hour.

When he finally emerged, he looked older.

“My father helped Benedict steal from the trust,” he said. “Then he disappeared.”

Inspector Pike nodded.

“And Evelina discovered signatures proving he was still alive.”

That gave Benedict another reason to silence her.

If Evelina exposed the trust fraud, investigators would examine Alistair’s death.

The entire Hawthorne family history would collapse.

Then a police officer entered with an urgent message.

They had located Benedict Shaw.

His car had been abandoned near a private airfield.

Inside were passports, cash, and one first-class ticket to Zurich.

But Benedict was not there.

Someone had taken him before the police arrived.

The officer placed a photograph on the table.

A security camera had captured Benedict entering another vehicle.

The driver’s face was partly hidden.

His hair was white.

His posture was rigid.

On his right hand was a large square signet ring bearing the Hawthorne crest.

Percival stared at the image.

His father had worn that ring every day of his life.

A second message arrived minutes later.

The police had traced the vehicle to an old hunting lodge on the northern boundary of the Hawthorne estate.

A property no one had used in years.

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Officially, it still belonged to a dead man.

Alistair Hawthorne.