CHAPTER 16
THE BLACK BAG
“The charcoal in Celeste’s car is enough to justify a much harder second interview.”
Ellis had said it almost calmly.
By nine the next morning, Romy understood what harder meant.
Celeste Arden had arrived at Merewick station shortly after seven with her solicitor and had not come out. Two journalists were already across the street when Romy and Leo stopped at the bakery.
“They’re early,” Leo said.
“They’re vultures.”
“That seems unfair to vultures.”
Romy looked at him.
“They have an ecological function.”
“So do journalists.”
“Not before coffee.”
Leo handed her a cup.
“Then wait thirty seconds.”
They had not gone to watch Celeste suffer.
Anika Bose had asked her to review comparison images of the charcoal found in Celeste’s vehicle against residue from Marcus Fenn’s brass plate-warmer. Anika was using a county laboratory room temporarily set up in an annex behind the station.
Leo looked toward the reporters.
“Do they know she’s being questioned?”
“They know she came in.”
“That becomes the same thing online.”
Romy opened the bakery bag.
Two cheese scones.
One fruit bun.
“What did you buy?”
“Contingencies.”
“You bought breakfast as if planning civil unrest.”
“I’ve learned from you.”
“That is worrying.”
They entered through the side annex door.
Anika was already inside with three screens active, labelled sample photographs open, and a mug that said ASK ME AFTER MICROSCOPY.
Romy pointed at it.
“Gift?”
“My sister.”
“I like her.”
“You’ve never met her.”
“I like her judgment.”
Anika looked at Leo.
“Coffee?”
“Already fortified.”
Romy put down the bakery bag.
“Charcoal.”
“Breakfast first.”
“You brought me here.”
“And I’ve been here since six thirty.”
Leo opened the cheese scones. Anika took one. Romy sighed and took the other.
For four minutes, they discussed butter.
No Celeste.
No Sebastian.
No murder.
Anika believed scones should be buttered while warm. Leo called that self-evident. Romy said anyone using self-evident around food was preparing future wars.
Then Anika turned to the screens.
“Right.”
The reset ended.
The first photograph showed Celeste’s charcoal bag on a stainless work surface.
Black packaging.
Red label.
COMMERCIAL BEECH CHARCOAL brIQUETTES.
Romy stopped.
“Beech.”
“Yes.”
“The plate-warmer residue was beech.”
“Yes.”
Leo leaned closer.
“That sounds bad.”
“It sounds relevant,” Anika said.
“Difference?”
“One is interpretation. One is fact.”
Romy smiled.
“You’re training him now.”
“I’m protecting the language.”
Anika enlarged several briquettes.
Uniform size. Compressed cylinders with flattened sides. Dark grey. Small fracture lines.
“The product is primarily beech charcoal fines compressed with a starch binder.”
“Can you match that to the plate-warmer?” Romy asked.
“Possibly at class level. Not necessarily to one bag.”
“What have you got?”
“Microscopic structure consistent with beech-derived charcoal. At least two recovered fragments indicate compressed rather than naturally lumped fuel.”
“Meaning briquettes,” Leo said.
“Likely.”
“Same brand?”
“Not established.”
Romy studied the screen.
“What would establish it?”
“Binder composition, trace mineral profile, manufacturing additives, physical form if enough survived. But commercial products are mass-produced. Even a strong similarity may tell us the fuel could have come from this product, not Celeste’s exact bag.”
Anika changed images.
The bag opening was torn along the top seam.
Used.
“Several briquettes are missing.”
“How many?”
“Impossible to know exactly without an original weight record. The remaining mass is low enough to account for multiple pieces.”
“Could she have used them elsewhere?”
“Yes.”
“Could several be what burned inside Marcus’s warmer?”
“Yes.”
“Can you say they were?”
“No.”
Leo exhaled.
“This case keeps getting close to useful.”
“That is most evidence.”
Celeste had bought the bag Thursday at 6:18 p.m.
The exterior shoot had been cancelled Wednesday morning.
Her first explanation had already failed.
Now the bag was open and missing fuel.
“What did Celeste tell police this morning?”
Anika looked at Romy.
“I am not the detective.”
“You’re in a police annex.”
“Still not the detective.”
Ellis entered carrying two folders.
“That was suspiciously well timed,” Romy said.
“I heard you asking questions Anika cannot answer.”
“You hover.”
“I work here.”
“Not in this room.”
“Close enough.”
He set the folders down.
Anika said, “I have not given her anything outside laboratory findings.”
“I trust you,” Ellis said.
Romy looked offended.
“Interesting choice of emphasis.”
He ignored her.
“How close is the fuel?”
Anika repeated the findings.
Beech.
Likely compressed commercial charcoal.
Potentially compatible with Celeste’s product.
Not unique.
Not a bag-level identification.
Romy said, “So you cannot put Celeste’s briquettes in the plate-warmer.”
“No.”
“But her bag contains the right type of fuel.”
“Yes.”
“And pieces are missing.”
“Yes.”
“Several,” Ellis added.
Romy turned.
“What did she say?”
“She says a stylist took some.”
“Which stylist?” Leo asked.
“That is where things become less satisfying.”
Romy folded her arms.
“Go on.”
“Celeste now says that after buying the charcoal Thursday evening, she brought it to her hotel because she hoped to revive the cancelled outdoor-fireplace concept as a smaller private shoot after the preview.”
“That is not what she said before.”
“No.”
“She said she bought it for the Wednesday shoot.”
“Yes.”
“Which was cancelled before she bought it.”
“Yes.”
“So version two.”
“Version three, depending how strictly we count.”
“What stylist?”
“She cannot immediately remember.”
“She cannot remember who took charcoal from a bag central to a murder investigation.”
“She says several stylists and assistants were moving materials between the hotel, cars, and Asterleigh.”
“Names?”
“Four.”
“Which one took the briquettes?”
“She is not certain.”
“When?”
“Possibly Friday afternoon.”
“Before the preview.”
“Yes.”
“For a shoot that did not happen.”
“She says they were testing the briquettes in a decorative fire bowl.”
“Where?”
“Hotel loading area, possibly.”
“Witness?”
“None confirmed.”
“Photograph?”
“None yet.”
“Fire bowl?”
“Not found.”
“Stylist?”
“Unidentified.”
Leo said, “That is terrible.”
“Yes,” Romy said.
“It is not good,” Ellis agreed.
“Is she lying?”
“I know her accounts have changed.”
“That is detective language for yes.”
“No. It is detective language for accounts have changed.”
Anika gave Romy a pointed look.
“I heard it,” Romy said.
Ellis continued.
“The missing briquettes matter. The purchase timing matters. Her reason for buying them has shifted. Her explanation for the missing fuel is unsupported.”
“Enough to arrest?”
“Not by itself.”
Celeste had motive.
Access.
Knowledge of the ventilation argument.
Fresh charcoal.
Missing briquettes.
A changing story.
Anika switched to the plate-warmer residue comparison. The recovered fragments were smaller, burned, partially degraded. Some retained compressed surfaces. One preserved an arc consistent with a manufactured briquette corner.
“Could Marcus’s stored demonstration fuel look the same?” Romy asked.
“Police provided reference material from Fenn Found this morning.”
Ellis looked at Romy before she could react.
“Yes, we searched the relevant storage area with consent.”
“And?”
Anika opened another image.
Marcus’s fuel was different.
Lump charcoal.
Irregular pieces.
Not briquettes.
“Not compressed.”
“No.”
“Wood?”
“Mixed hardwood. Some beech, some oak.”
“But not the same product type.”
“Correct.”
Leo said, “That helps Celeste look worse.”
Anika said, “It makes Marcus’s stored demonstration fuel a poorer physical comparison to the plate-warmer residue than Celeste’s briquettes.”
Romy looked at Ellis.
“Same difference, carefully stated,” he said.
“No. Not same difference.”
Marcus fell.
Not out.
But down.
His plate-warmer still held the fuel. His felt still blocked the grille. His false provenance still gave Sebastian reason to confront him.
But the fuel type resembled Celeste’s possession more closely than Marcus’s available stock.
By eleven, Leo returned to Pattern House to continue the photographic review.
Romy stayed because Ellis asked her to wait.
She sat in a small waiting area with machine coffee and stale digestives.
At eleven twenty-five, Sophie Trent arrived.
She looked witness-nervous rather than Celeste-nervous.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“Ellis did not specify.”
Sophie sat two chairs away.
After a moment she said, “They asked me about licensing.”
“Celeste’s?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“I suppose it’s not confidential now.”
“It might be.”
Sophie gave a thin smile.
“You’ve become responsible.”
“Occasionally.”
“Celeste had several branded licensing arrangements.”
“Furniture?”
“Furniture. Fabric. Wallpaper. Accessories. International collaborations.”
“How important?”
“Very.”
“To income?”
“Yes.”
“And Sebastian’s article?”
“If it ran the way he planned, at least two major partners would probably have suspended their deals.”
Romy sat straighter.
“You know that?”
“One had already called Arden Studio after hearing rumors.”
“When?”
“Thursday.”
“Before Sebastian died.”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
“That if allegations of misappropriation were substantiated, they would review the relationship.”
“Celeste knew?”
“Yes.”
Romy thought of Celeste’s message.
Delay publication.
One month.
Give me time.
Not only embarrassment.
Money.
Contracts.
Staff.
Brand.
“How much could she lose?”
“I don’t know exact figures.”
“Order of magnitude.”
“Millions over several years, potentially.”
That was commercial collapse.
Sophie saw her reaction.
“Now you understand why she begged him.”
“I understood before.”
“No. You understood pride.”
“Did you tell police this before?” Romy asked.
“Some of it.”
“Why not all?”
“I didn’t know what was relevant.”
Everything became relevant after Sebastian died. A business conversation became motive, a missing briquette possible means, a room key opportunity.
“Did Celeste ever threaten Sebastian around you?”
“Not directly.”
“But?”