Eleanor Caldwell was publicly shamed by her sister and ex-husband during the Order's Consecration, accused of sabotaging his ascent, but then a decree from the High Council stunned everyone.
The next few days were a blur of meetings and paperwork, each task a quiet act of reconnaissance. I immersed myself in the Northern Vows’ administrative duties, meticulously reviewing budgets and operational reports, all while keeping Bethany’s words about “reallocating tithes” at the forefront of my mind. My request for more detailed breakdowns of “discretionary allocations” to Arthur Beaumont hung heavy in the air.
Finally, Arthur appeared in my office, a thick binder clutched nervously in his hands. He looked even more anxious than before, his face drawn and pale, dark circles under his eyes. He clearly hadn’t slept much.
“Head Steward Caldwell,” he began, his voice barely a whisper. “As you requested, I have compiled a more thorough accounting of the… discretionary allocations.”
He placed the binder on my desk with a soft thud, carefully avoiding my eyes.
“It took some time, as these funds were often disbursed quickly, under… special directives.”
I opened the binder. Inside, the usual neat rows of figures were present, but the vague descriptions persisted, though with slightly more detail now. There were still numerous entries that raised red flags.
“Thank you, Arthur,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Let’s review these together.”
We moved methodically through the documents. He explained the smaller expenditures with practiced ease, but his composure faltered as we approached the larger, more ambiguous sums. His gaze kept darting to the clock on my wall.
“Here,” I said, pointing to an entry dated approximately four months prior. “This sum, 50,000 Order Guilders. It’s labeled ‘Operational Surplus Utilization – Northern Vows Community Initiative.’ Can you elaborate on this specific initiative?”
Arthur’s hands began to tremble. He adjusted his spectacles, pushing them so far up his nose that they almost rested on his forehead. He cleared his throat, but no words came out.
“Arthur?” I prompted gently, my tone unwavering. “What specific initiative benefited from this 50,000 Guilder allocation?”
He took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes wide with an almost desperate fear. He clearly felt cornered.
“It was… a broad initiative,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “For the general betterment of the Northern Vows districts. Marcus… Head Steward Finch, at the time, felt it was an essential repurposing of funds.”
“Repurposing of funds?” I repeated, the phrase hanging in the air.
My mind immediately flashed back to Bethany’s casual comment: “reallocating tithes.” And then, an even more specific memory surfaced: a casual conversation I’d overheard between Marcus and a junior Scribe, years ago, where he’d dismissed financial questions about an expense as merely “repurposing assets.”
Arthur, perhaps seeing the sudden shift in my expression, or simply overwhelmed by the pressure, realized his error instantly. His face drained of all color, turning a ghastly shade of white. His eyes, for the first time, locked onto mine, filled with absolute panic.
He had walked directly into my trap, though I hadn’t even consciously set one. His accidental slip, “repurposing assets,” perfectly connected to Marcus’s past methods and Bethany’s revealing tirade.
“I… I misspoke,” he stammered, his voice barely audible, his eyes wide and pleading. “It was just… an operational adjustment.”
“An adjustment, Arthur?” I asked, my voice still calm, but with an underlying steel he couldn’t miss. “Or a diversion?”
He recoiled as if struck, his hands flying up slightly in a gesture of surrender. His terror was palpable.
“No, Head Steward! Never a diversion!” he insisted, though his voice lacked any conviction. “Just… a re-prioritization. Marcus often used that term when… when the funds needed to be directed elsewhere.”
The admission, though still couched in careful language, was a confession. “Directed elsewhere.” The implication was clear: not to the stated purpose. My suspicions had found their first concrete anchor. The veil was beginning to lift.
Arthur’s breath hitched, and he stared at me, his eyes now welling up with tears. He looked utterly broken, trapped between a powerful former administrator and a newly appointed one who was clearly not going to let him off the hook. He began to nervously chew on his lower lip, his gaze once again dropping to the desk. The silence in the room stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the frantic beat of my own heart.
He knew. He knew everything. And now, he knew I knew.
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