CHAPTER 13
LIABILITY
“I was never alone with Sebastian that evening.”
Marcus Fenn’s denial stayed with Romy all the way back to Pattern House.
Not because she believed him.
Not because she did not.
Because the sentence had been built too carefully.
Never alone.
Not never saw him.
Not never spoke to him.
Not never entered the Blue Study.
Never alone.
Romy parked behind the office at seven twelve and sat in the van for another minute with both hands on the wheel.
Rain slicked the pavement and turned the shop windows opposite into blurred reflections. Her phone showed nine unread emails.
She considered not opening them.
Then remembered she owned a business.
The first message came from the insurer.
TEMPORARY COVERAGE RESTRICTION.
Pending further review of the Asterleigh Rectory fatality, Pattern House Conservation was temporarily restricted from undertaking new on-site work involving occupied public buildings.
Museums.
Visitor attractions.
Schools.
Publicly accessible heritage properties.
Event venues.
Any site where members of the public would remain present during Pattern House activity.
The restriction did not cancel all coverage. Office-based documentation could continue. Private unoccupied sites might proceed with written approval. Existing emergency stabilization work could be reviewed individually.
Romy kept reading until the language became a list of ways she could remain technically open while doing less and earning less.
The second email came from Nell Ashby.
Payment on Pattern House’s final Asterleigh invoice was being placed on temporary hold pending clarification of contractual responsibility.
Romy stared at the screen.
The invoice covered the final installation period, Leo’s documented hours, specialist materials, two subcontractor payments Romy had already made, and enough cash to steady the next month.
Frozen.
Not disputed.
Not rejected.
Frozen.
A clean word for money that had stopped moving.
The third email came from the Cheltenham client.
POSTPONEMENT CONFIRMED.
The fourth came from the country-house trust.
Project deferred until the new year.
The fifth was from Leo.
Subject: I FOUND SOMETHING STRANGE BUT NOT CASE STRANGE.
Romy closed the inbox before discovering what qualified as not case strange.
She rested her forehead against the steering wheel.
Pattern House had survived Julian Staveley. It had survived cancelled work, ugly headlines, police attention, and people lowering their voices when they said Romy’s surname.
She had rebuilt slowly.
Carefully.
Now Sebastian Pryce had died in a room carrying Pattern House documentation, and every protective structure Romy had spent years putting in place was responding exactly as designed.
Insurer protecting itself.
Client protecting itself.
Property owner protecting herself.
Nobody needed to accuse Romy.
They only needed to stop taking risks on her.
Her phone rang.
Malcolm.
She considered letting it go.
He would call again.
“Hello.”
“You sound terrible.”
“Good evening to you too.”
“Where are you?”
“Van.”
“Why?”
“It has seats.”
“Are you outside Pattern House?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming over.”
“No.”
“That was not an invitation.”
“Then don’t phrase it like one.”
“Romy.”
She closed her eyes.
“What?”
“I read the insurer notice.”
Her eyes opened.
“How?”
“Elin forwarded it.”
Of course she had.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“After I had something useful to say.”
“So never.”
“I can hear where I get my temperament.”
“That is not funny.”
“It was a little.”
Malcolm went quiet.
Then, “How much do you need?”
Romy’s grip tightened.
“No.”
“I didn’t ask whether you wanted help.”
“And I didn’t ask for money.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t.”
“Romy.”
“No.”
“You have staff now.”
“One placement student.”
“Staff.”
“I can pay Leo.”
“For how long?”
She said nothing.
“How much is the Asterleigh invoice?”
“You are not paying my invoice.”
“I am offering a loan.”
“No.”
“Interest free.”
“No.”
“Documented properly.”
“No.”
“Temporary.”
“No.”
His silence became anger.
“You would rather lose Pattern House.”
“That is manipulative.”
“It is a question.”
“It was not phrased as one.”
“Fine. Would you rather lose Pattern House than take money from me?”
Romy got out of the van. Rain touched her face as she walked toward the office.
“I am not losing Pattern House.”
“You just had multiple categories of work suspended.”
“Temporarily.”
“You have two clients postponing.”
“I know.”
“Nell froze payment.”
“I know.”
“Then stop saying no out of pride.”
Romy unlocked the office.
“It is not pride.”
“What is it?”
She switched on the lights.
Sample boards. Drawing racks. Desk. Leo’s mug upside down beside the sink.
The ordinary life of a company that might exist on paper longer than it existed in practice.
“I built this.”
“I know.”
“I need to know whether it survives because the work is sound, not because you filled the account when things went bad.”
“That is pride.”
“No. It is structure.”
Malcolm breathed out.
“You cannot conserve a business.”
“I’m trying.”
“You cannot patch it invisibly and pretend the damage never happened.”
Romy stopped.
“That was almost good.”
“I have listened to you for years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Take the money.”
“No.”
“If payroll is at risk, will you tell me?”
She hated promises involving money.
“Yes.”
“Before you miss anything.”
“Yes.”
“Before Leo knows.”
Romy looked toward the desk.
“Yes.”
Malcolm’s voice softened.
“That is all I wanted.”
“That was absolutely not all you wanted.”
“No.”
“Good night.”
“Eat something.”
“I have food.”
“Biscuits are not food.”
“Everyone has turned against biscuits.”
She ended the call.
Ten minutes later, she opened Leo’s email.
The strange thing was not useful.
Six duplicate photographs in the Show House archive had conflicting filenames and identical timestamps.
Nothing more.
Romy smiled anyway.
Then a local news alert appeared.
She knew she should not open it.
She did.
PATTERN HOUSE QUESTIONS REOPEN OLD VANE CONTROVERSY.
The columnist connected Sebastian’s death, Pattern House’s insurer review, and Elin Vane’s old scandal in fewer than ninety words.
The piece called the family “unusually accident-prone around valuable things.”
Then came the sentence designed to travel.
Perhaps carelessness runs in the family.
Romy stopped reading.
Her face went hot.
She shut the browser, opened it again, and read the sentence once more.
That was the trap.
Bad writing could still injure efficiently.
Elin had nothing to do with Sebastian Pryce, Asterleigh, carbon monoxide, felt, charcoal, Marcus Fenn, Celeste Arden, or the Blue Study.
The columnist had found a surname and used it like a hook.
One accusation had become family atmosphere.
Romy put the phone face down.
For the first time since Sebastian died, she felt genuinely frightened.
Not of police.
Not of guilt.
Of erosion.
A client here.
An insurer there.
A payment delayed.
A name made slightly less trustworthy every time it appeared beside suspicion.
Businesses did not always fail dramatically.
Sometimes people simply stopped calling.
The front door opened.
Nina walked in carrying a coat and an expression Romy knew too well.
“No.”
Romy stared.
“You haven’t even said anything.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re standing in the dark half of your office looking homicidal.”
“The lights are on.”
“Emotionally dark.”
“That is not a real condition.”
Nina held up Romy’s phone.
Romy looked at the empty desk.
“When did you take that?”
“When you were arguing with yourself.”
“I was not.”
“Silently.”
“Give it back.”
“No.”
“Nina.”
“The Fig & Thistle has stew.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then resent it while eating.”
“I have work.”
Nina walked toward the door.
Romy did not follow.
“Do you want me to call Malcolm?”
“That is extortion.”
“Effective extortion.”
Romy took her coat.
The Fig & Thistle was warmer than Pattern House and louder than she wanted. Nina put Romy at a corner table away from everyone.
A bowl of beef stew arrived without being ordered.
So did bread.
“You planned this.”
“Yes.”
“Manipulative.”
“Yes.”
“Everyone has become unbearable.”
“Eat.”
For the first five minutes, Nina discussed nothing more serious than somebody moving the pub’s umbrella stand.
Romy understood what she was doing.
She let her.
The stew was excellent. Slow-cooked beef, carrots, onions, thick gravy, too much pepper. Food that required no opinion.
By the time Romy had eaten half, her anger had reduced enough to become language.
“The insurer suspended public-building work.”
Nina nodded.
“Nell froze the invoice.”
Another nod.
“Two clients postponed.”
“I know.”
“Malcolm offered money.”
“Of course.”
“I said no.”
“Of course.”
Romy glared.
Nina spread butter on bread.
“Continue.”
“The columnist dragged Elin into it.”
“I saw.”
“Carelessness runs in the family.”
Nina’s knife stopped.
“That part made me consider arson.”
“Please don’t improve the police workload.”
“I said consider.”
Romy looked down at the stew.
“I can solve this and still lose Pattern House.”
There.
The sentence she had been avoiding.
Nina did not contradict her.
“Yes.”
Romy looked up.
“That was fast.”
“You want me to lie?”
“No.”
“You could solve Sebastian’s murder next week and still have clients who decide they don’t want the association.”
“Yes.”
“Your insurer could still take time.”
“Yes.”
“Nell might still make you fight for payment.”
“Yes.”
“The columnist will still be a fool.”
“That part is permanent.”
“Probably.”
Nina sat back.
“So what can you control tonight?”
“My documentation.”
“Good.”
“The timeline.”
“Yes.”
“What we release publicly.”
“Partly.”
“What Ellis confirms.”
“No.”
Nina pointed her spoon.
“That is his.”
“Fine.”
“The insurer.”
“Not mine.”
“The committee.”
“Not mine.”
“The article.”
“Definitely not mine.”
“Elin’s history.”
Romy looked away.
“No.”
“Nell’s payment.”
“Contractual, eventually.”
“Tonight?”
“No.”
Romy sighed.
“I hate this exercise.”
“That is because it works.”
“It sounds like therapy done by a pub landlord.”
“Landlady.”
“Important distinction.”
“Very.”
Romy finished more stew.
“What actually helps Pattern House?” Nina asked.
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
“That our work was correct.”