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"I will, Sir" Finnaffirmed, his jaw set with determination. The weight of uncertainty hung heavyin the air between them as they exchanged parting words, each knowing that thelooming decisions could alter Finn's path irrevocably.
"Are you okay, Finn?"Amelia's voice cut through the heavy silence, her concern palpable in the dimlylit post office.
Finn forced a reassuring smile, hiswords a facade to shield the storm brewing within him. "I'm fine,
Amelia," he replied, thoughthe weight of uncertainty bore down on him like an iron shroud.
Rob approached them, his expressiongrim yet determined. "Forensics is finishing up," he informed them,his tone carrying the gravity of their situation.
Finn's gaze swept over the desolatepost office, each detail etched in his mind like a macabre painting. Thestillness of death hung heavy in the air, a suffocating reminder of HenryWalsh's final moments. "He must have known his killer," Finn muttered,his voice cutting through the silence. "Either willingly walked into thisor..."
Amelia's steady voice interruptedhis thoughts, her practicality a grounding force amidst the grim scene.
"We should speak with his nextof kin," she suggested, her eyes flickering with determination.
As if on cue, Rob stepped forward,his expression grave yet resolute. "His wife is Clara Redwood," heinformed them, his words laden with significance. "She works at the AlbertVictoria Museum."
Finn turned to Amelia, a flicker ofrealization crossing his features. "Victoria? That's a bit of acoincidence, considering we're looking for a killer with a Victorianobsession."
Amelia nodded in agreement, hergaze shifting to her watch as she noted the time. "It's 8:30 AM now,"she stated calmly. "The museum will be opening soon."
“Then we need to speak to ClaraRedwood and tell her that her husband is dead,” Finn said, stoically.
Chapter Eighteen
The brisk London air did little toalleviate the tension knotting Finn's muscles as he and Amelia crossed thethreshold of the Albert Victoria Museum. The grandeur of the Victorianarchitecture loomed above them, one of many tributes to the city's historicalreverence, yet today it served as the backdrop for a grim task.
"Everywhere I look, I seeVilne’s face," Finn murmured, scanning the ornate lobby for signs ofunease or recognition among the staff and visitors. They all seemed blissfullyignorant of the tragedy that had unfolded mere hours ago.
"We’ll get him," Ameliareplied, her tone light but her gaze sharp as it darted through the crowd. Theoccasional banter between them was a thin veil over the seriousness of theirwork.
They found Clara Redwood in heroffice, a room cluttered with artifacts and the scent of aged paper. She hadblack hair, tied back firmly and dark brown eyes that seemed wiser than heryears. She looked up from her desk, framed by bookshelves that groaned underthe weight of leather-bound volumes, her eyes betraying nothing more than mildcuriosity at their presence.
"Mrs. Redwood?" Finnbegan, his voice steady despite the leaden news he carried.
"Clara, please," shecorrected, standing to greet them with a practiced smile that didn't reach hereyes.
"Clara," Finn acquiesced."I'm afraid we have some distressing news. Your husband, Henry Walsh, wasfound dead last night."
Her reaction was a fleeting danceof emotions across her face—surprise flickered into existence before being swiftlyreplaced by a cool detachment. She sank back into her chair, her hands claspedtightly in her lap.
"Dead?" Her voice wassteady, too steady for someone just learning of their spouse's demise."That’s awful."
Finn exchanged a glance with Ameliabefore pressing on, "You don't seem overly upset."
Clara's gaze met his, unwavering."Should I put on a more convincing performance, Detective?"
"Most people would bedistraught," Finn pointed out, noting the absence of tears or the expectedtremble of shock in her words.
"Most people haven't lived mylife," Clara said, a note of finality in her voice as though she'd closedthe book on the subject.
Finn's instincts told him there wasmore beneath the surface, but the museum director's facade was as meticulous asthe exhibits surrounding them. His gaze followed the precise lines of theVictorian dress Clara Redwood was examining, no doubt another piece for themuseum to display.
"Clara," he began, hisvoice cutting through the silence that had settled between them, "howwould you describe your relationship with Henry in recent years?"
"Separated," she saidsuccinctly, as if the word were a scalpel cleanly severing any lingeringemotional ties. "For two years now."
"Separated?" Ameliaechoed, the question hanging between them as Finn processed the information.
