Chapter 3: Manor Search

The grand, imposing shadow of the Pendelton family manor loomed under the weak morning sun, a stark contrast to the small, practical office where I’d spent the last twenty years. I knew Silas wouldn’t keep anything incriminating at the bank; his personal library, filled with ancestral records and legal tomes, was the obvious place. It was a risky move, bordering on outright trespass, but I had no choice.

I parked my old Ford pickup around the back, near the overgrown kitchen garden, and slipped in through the service entrance I’d used a thousand times as a boy. The house was quiet, the air stale with the scent of old wood polish and disuse. Silas kept odd hours, often cloistered in his study or out on “business” in the early mornings, and Julian would be at his law office in town.

I made my way through the labyrinthine hallways, past portraits of stern-faced ancestors, each one a silent judge. The library was at the far end of the west wing, a vast room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light cutting through the heavy velvet curtains.

My knee ached with every step, but I ignored it. I scanned the shelves, looking for anything out of place—ledger books, old property deeds, anything dated around 1944. That was the year my mother, Eleanor, had passed away, and also when Silas had taken over “managing” most of the family’s assets. He’d always been meticulous, almost obsessively so, about keeping his records.

After an hour of fruitless searching through rows of legal encyclopedias and outdated economic texts, I noticed a large, ornate campaign desk pushed into a shadowed corner. It wasn’t a family heirloom, not in the traditional sense. My mother had acquired it from an estate sale in Richmond just a few months before she died. She always loved it, saying it reminded her of her own father’s study.

I remembered her keeping a small, hidden compartment in it. I knelt, my bad knee protesting fiercely, and felt along the underside of the central drawer. My fingers traced a familiar seam. With a soft click, a narrow panel sprang open.

Inside, nestled amongst a handful of dried lavender sprigs, was an envelope. It was thick, creamy parchment, and felt strangely heavy. My mother’s elegant, looping handwriting was on the front, but it was unaddressed. The postmark was faded, barely legible, but the year ‘1944’ was clear. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I pulled it out carefully, my fingers trembling. The paper crackled with age. I could almost smell her faint scent of rosewater and almonds. This was it. This felt important. I quickly tucked the letter into my jacket pocket, the heavy, unfamiliar weight pressing against my side. I closed the secret compartment and retreated, my mind racing. I had found something, but what exactly, I couldn’t yet say.