CHAPTER 4 #2
“So did twenty people.”
“Not twenty people lied about it.”
Adrian looked toward Romy again.
She held his gaze.
“I did not touch that grille.”
Then he walked away.
Leo waited until he was out of earshot.
“That went well.”
Romy rubbed her temples.
“Never lie about a door when a photographer is in the building.”
“Is that the third lesson?”
“Third official lesson.”
“What was second?”
“Never reveal skills.”
“I thought that was first.”
Romy looked at him.
“I’m tired.”
“Good. I was worried the lessons were getting complicated.”
A volunteer appeared carrying a tray.
Not champagne this time.
Tea in thick white cups and shortbread that looked as though it had come from an emergency tin.
Leo took two pieces.
Romy took three.
Neither commented.
Outside the front windows, television vans had begun arriving.
That was how fast death moved now.
A body upstairs.
A headline outside.
Facts somewhere in between, trying to put their shoes on.
At 9:18, Nell Ashby arrived.
Asterleigh Rectory belonged to her family trust, though she had spent most of the project avoiding any appearance of aristocratic ownership. She was in her early fifties, practical, usually warm, and known for arriving at site meetings in muddy boots.
Tonight she wore a navy coat over evening clothes and looked as though somebody had aged her in the car.
“Romy.”
“Nell.”
Nell took both her hands.
For one second, Romy thought she was about to offer comfort.
Instead she said, “You mustn’t speak to the press.”
Romy pulled her hands free.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Not even to correct anything.”
“What needs correcting?”
Nell hesitated.
That was enough.
Romy took out her phone.
Seven missed calls.
Four messages.
Three news alerts.
Leo leaned closer as she opened the first.
The headline came from a local news site.
DESIGN CRITIC DIES AT MEREWICK SHOW HOUSE.
The second line was worse.
Sebastian Pryce had been found dead inside a room approved by Pattern House Conservation shortly before the invitation-only preview.
Romy read it twice.
Then a third time, because anger sometimes made simple sentences harder to process.
“Approved.”
Nell said, “We don’t know where they got that wording.”
“Daniel’s completion sheet is sitting in a police evidence folder.”
“I’m not accusing Daniel.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Romy.”
“That room was not approved by Pattern House in the way they’re implying.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because the article doesn’t.”
Nell lowered her voice.
“The Show House committee has retained crisis counsel. Until we have verified information, nobody connected with the project should make individual statements.”
“Individual statements.”
“Please don’t make this harder.”
Romy stared at her.
There it was.
Not blame.
Not yet.
Something almost as bad.
Distance.
Nell trusted her, perhaps.
The committee trusted survival more.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“I said fine. I didn’t say I liked it.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
Nell looked tired enough that Romy’s anger loosened slightly.
“This is terrible,” Nell said.
“Yes.”
“For Sebastian.”
“Yes.”
“And for everyone involved.”
Romy did not answer.
The order mattered.
Sebastian first.
Everything else after.
She could resent the headline and still remember that.
At 10:07, Ellis allowed Pattern House staff to leave after their files had been copied and their contact information reconfirmed.
“Do not discuss witness timelines with each other,” he told Romy and Leo.
Leo frowned.
“We already know most of them.”
“You don’t know what each person told me.”
Romy said, “We’ll behave.”
Ellis looked at her.
“That sentence has never reassured me.”
“It should. I rarely offer it.”
Outside, the September air felt cold after hours inside Asterleigh.
The press had multiplied.
Romy kept her head down.
A reporter called her name.
“Ms. Vane, did Pattern House approve the blocked ventilation?”
Another voice followed.
“Were there safety concerns before tonight?”
Then another.
“Did Sebastian Pryce raise concerns with you before he died?”
Romy kept walking.
Nell’s instruction suddenly felt less like cowardice and more like a flotation device.
Leo unlocked the Pattern House van.
They got inside.
Neither started the engine.
For several seconds they sat in silence.
Then Leo said, “I hate them.”
“You don’t know them.”
“I hate the profession.”
“You’re studying media conservation.”
“Different media.”
Despite herself, Romy laughed.
It hurt.
That made her laugh again.
Leo looked relieved.
“Can we get chips?”
“At ten fifteen?”
“Yes.”
“You’re twenty-three.”
“That was not an answer.”
They stopped at a takeaway on the road back into Merewick.
The chips were too salty.
The tea was strong enough to remove varnish.
They ate in the van under a yellow streetlamp while Leo scrolled through his camera without opening any files the police had copied.
Romy stared at the paper wrapping in her lap.
“This is not how I pictured your first official day.”
Leo bit into a chip.
“I thought there’d be forms.”
“There were forms.”
“I thought I’d lose one.”
“You still have time.”
He looked at her.
“I’m not leaving.”
She frowned.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
“No.”
“You had the payroll face.”
Romy looked through the windscreen.
“I should never have told you that existed.”
“You didn’t. Your face did.”
She said nothing.
Leo folded the chip paper carefully.
“This is one horrible night. Pattern House is still Pattern House.”
“That sentence is too optimistic for someone working in conservation.”
“I learned optimism before employment.”
“Unfortunate.”
He smiled.
The pause that followed was gentler.
Then Romy’s phone buzzed.
An email.
A client in Cheltenham.
They were due to begin a painted-panel assessment next Thursday.
The message was polite.
That made it worse.
Given tonight’s reports, they would appreciate reassurance regarding Pattern House’s inspection processes before confirming site access.
Romy read it once and locked the phone.
Leo had already seen her expression.
“Client?”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Nervous.”
“Same thing?”
“Not yet.”
They drove back to Pattern House.
By 11:24, Romy was at her desk.
Leo should have gone home.
He had not.
The office felt impossibly ordinary.
Sample boards leaned against one wall. Rolled drawings filled the rack by the window. A mug containing six pencils and one paintbrush sat beside the computer. Somebody had left a half-used packet of oat biscuits in the kitchen cupboard.
Leo put the kettle on.
Romy opened the Blue Study project folder.
She checked the 6:31 photograph again.
Metadata intact.
The image was exact.
Date.
Time.
Device.
Original file.
The spacer gap visible.
Facts.
Beautiful, stubborn facts.
At 11:41, the second client email arrived.
This one came from a country-house trust considering Pattern House for a winter interiors programme.
They wanted to postpone Monday’s planning call until “the circumstances at Asterleigh are clearer.”
Romy read the sentence.
Then closed the laptop.
Leo set tea beside her.
“No more email.”
“You’re an assistant.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t control email.”
“I control the kettle, and right now that gives me authority.”
Romy wrapped both hands around the mug.
Outside, Merewick was quiet.
No cameras.
No reporters.
No committee members.
Just the office she had rebuilt one invoice, one client, one difficult decision at a time.
After Julian Staveley died, people had looked at Pattern House and seen scandal.
She had hated that.
This was worse.
Now people were looking at Pattern House and asking whether Romy knew how to do her job.
Scandal could fade.
Competence was the foundation.
Lose that, and there was nothing left of the business except rent and tools.
“Go home, Leo.”
“No.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“So?”
“So you have a life.”
“Debatable.”
“Leo.”
He stood.
“Fine. But I’m coming in tomorrow.”
“We may not be allowed back at Asterleigh.”
“I meant here.”
Romy looked at him.
He shrugged.
“Official placement.”
That ridiculous phrase again.
She almost told him he did not have to prove loyalty.
Instead she said, “Nine.”
“Eight thirty.”
“Nine.”
“Eight forty-five.”
“Go.”
He left grinning.
The office door closed behind him.
Romy sat alone.
At 12:08, she finally turned off the main lights.
Her phone rang.
Ellis.
She answered before the second ring.
“What happened?”
“Good evening to you too.”
“It’s after midnight.”
“Yes.”
“Which means you’re not calling socially.”
A pause.
Then, “Pathology is not complete. Fire investigation isn’t complete either.”
Romy sat back down.
“But?”
“We’ve confirmed something about the Blue Study.”
She waited.
Ellis continued.
“The fireplace did not cause the carbon monoxide through a defect.”
Romy gripped the phone.
“What kind of defect?”
“Any kind.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The flue connection everyone keeps assuming failed was never in use.”
“That’s what I told the fire officer.”
“It’s stronger than that.”
“How?”
“The decorative fireplace was never connected as an operational heating source for the show house.”
Romy stared across the dark office.
“So a defective fireplace could not have poisoned Sebastian.”
“No.”
“Then where did the carbon monoxide come from?”
Ellis was silent for one beat.
“That is now the problem.”
Romy looked at the 6:31 photograph still glowing on her monitor.
The gap had been open.
The fireplace had never been connected.
Sebastian had walked into that room alive.
Someone had changed something after Romy left it.
Ellis spoke again.
“Romy.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever happened in the Blue Study, it was not a fireplace accident.”