Chapter 4: Barnaby’s Slip

The next morning, I told Arthur I had an errand to run in town, something vague about antique hunting. He nodded, preoccupied with Genevieve’s latest complaints about the “lack of modern amenities.” It was easy enough to slip away. My destination was not some quaint antique shop, but the unassuming storefront of Finch Realty, nestled between a dusty old bookstore and a perpetually closed dry cleaner.

I dressed carefully, choosing a smart, but not ostentatious, suit I hadn’t worn since before my divorce. I needed to appear competent, discerning, and wealthy enough to be taken seriously, but not so flashy as to draw undue attention. This wasn’t Elara, Arthur’s new wife. This was Elara, potential high-value client.

Barnaby Finch’s office was exactly as I’d imagined: slightly too glossy, with framed “Sold” signs plastered on the walls and an almost suffocating scent of cheap air freshener trying to mask the smell of stale coffee and desperation. Barnaby himself was slick, with thinning hair combed meticulously across his scalp and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He reminded me of a snake oil salesman, all charm and no substance.

“Ms. Reid,” he greeted me, his voice oily smooth as he ushered me into his cramped office. “A pleasure. What brings you to Finch Realty?”

I offered a polite, practiced smile. “Mr. Finch. I’m Elara Vance, actually. I’m exploring the possibility of acquiring a property in the area. Something unique, with significant historical character. Perhaps a challenge, if you understand.” I paused, letting the words hang, implying a certain level of discerning wealth.

He practically purred. “Ah, a connoisseur! I understand perfectly, Ms. Vance. Many of my clients seek properties with… untapped potential. What kind of unique features are you imagining?”

“Well,” I began, leaning forward slightly, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “I’m particularly interested in properties with, shall we say, unique historical markers. Perhaps an old well on the property? Or unusual, older tiling in a cellar? Things that might seem insignificant to others, but to a discerning eye…”

Barnaby’s smile widened, a calculating glint in his eye. He thought he had a mark. “Ah, yes, absolutely! I’ve handled properties like that. Why, just recently, I assisted a lovely couple—the Blackwoods—Genevieve Blackwood, Arthur Blackwood’s daughter, you know her, of course? They were interested in precisely those kinds of features at their father’s manor. Fascinating place, Blackwood Manor.”

My breath hitched. He had taken the bait, completely. “Indeed,” I said, forcing my voice to remain calm, even as my insides twisted into knots. “Blackwood Manor is exquisite. But why would they be interested in something so… specific? I thought they were looking to potentially sell off some assets, not invest in a well.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair, seemingly quite pleased with himself. “Oh, no, Ms. Vance, not to sell. Quite the opposite, in fact. Genevieve was very particular. She didn’t want a typical appraisal. She hired a local antiquarian, Mr. Perkins, to specifically ‘evaluate’ certain obscure, non-architectural ‘points of interest.’ Said it was for a private client, a group really, who had a… unique appreciation for historical energies and resonances.”

My mind raced. *Mr. Perkins. Historical energies. Resonances.* It was all falling into place, terrifyingly. The old, sealed well in the garden. The strangely patterned tile in the cellar. These weren’t random. These were the spiritual focal points, the very places the manor drew its energy from, places where its “domus spiritus” would be most vulnerable. And Genevieve, through Barnaby and Mr. Perkins, was systematically mapping them.

“Interesting,” I managed, my voice a little tight. “And what did Mr. Perkins find, if you don’t mind me asking?” I pushed, hoping he would reveal more, but he suddenly grew cautious, a flicker of suspicion finally entering his eyes.

“Oh, you know, just historical curiosities,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Nothing for public record, of course. Very private. Very exclusive. But trust me, Ms. Vance, I know how to handle these… sensitive transactions. If you have any such unique properties yourself, perhaps something with a strong historical ‘presence,’ I’d be happy to discuss their ‘hidden value’ with you.” His gaze lingered on me, sharp and speculative.

I knew then I had pushed him as far as I could. Any more, and he might realize who I truly was. I stood, offering another cool smile. “Thank you, Mr. Finch. You’ve given me much to think about. I’ll be in touch.”

As I walked out of that suffocating office, a chill colder than any draft in Blackwood Manor ran down my spine. It wasn’t just greed. It was something far more insidious, something spiritual. Genevieve wasn’t just plotting to inherit money; she was planning to despoil the very soul of the house, to sell its essence like a commodity. The thought was sickening. My hand instinctively went to my pocket, touching the cool, smooth surface of the stone tablet I now carried with me everywhere. It pulsed faintly, a silent warning, a call to action. I had to find Mr. Perkins. Now.