A sudden, sharp cough cut through the heavy silence of Arthur’s raw confession. The sound was muffled, coming from behind the mound of collapsed rubble that sealed the exit. Arthur’s head snapped up, his eyes darting towards the sound, his face twisting in fresh alarm.
“Hello?” a voice called out, hoarse and strained. “Anyone there? I’m stuck back here.”
My heart leaped. “Dominic?”
“Clara! Arthur?” Dominic Cross’s voice was clearer now, closer, though still coming from behind the debris. “I followed Arthur down here. Saw the storm rolling in, thought he might try to access something relevant to my own research on the municipal land leases. Then the whole place came down.”
A scraping sound, then a grunt of effort. Dominic’s head and shoulders appeared through a narrow gap in a shattered plaster partition, surprisingly close to where Arthur’s Legacy Box had fallen. He pulled himself through, landing lightly on his feet, dust clinging to his tweed jacket. In his hand, he held a powerful flash lantern, its beam cutting through the gloom.
“Luckily, the impact opened up this old service cavity,” he said, gesturing back to the broken wall. “And I found something interesting.”
He held up an old metal strongbox, smaller than Arthur’s, but just as ancient. It was covered in a thick layer of plaster dust. With his free hand, he brushed away the debris from its surface. Inside the box, nestled amongst what looked like crumbling newspapers, lay a thick, sealed leather folder.
Its surface was embossed with a familiar, elegant design: the Pembroke family crest. Underneath, handwritten in faded ink, were the words: “October 2009.”
Arthur stood frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief, not at Dominic’s sudden appearance, but at the strongbox and the folder it contained. His face had gone utterly ashen.
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