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"Right," Amelia said,filing away the information. "We believe Henry’s murder may be connectedto someone trying to build this Tempus Machine. Like some sort of time machine,as crazy as that sounds."
"The Tempus Machine?"Clara repeated, a slight shake of her head betraying her disbelief."That's not a time machine, Inspector. It was Bellamy's vision of erasingthe Industrial Revolution—returning us to simpler times, free from the shacklesof technology."
Amelia leaned forward, skepticismplain on her face. "But is such a thing even possible? An actualmachine?"
"Hardly," Clara scoffed,waving off the idea. "Bellamy was brilliant but eccentric. His TempusMachine was little more than superstitious nonsense—a fantasy for those afraidof progress."
"Still," Finn musedaloud, "someone believes in it enough to kill for it."
"Perhaps," Claraconceded, her lips pressing into a thin line. "But you won't find yourkiller hiding among the relics in this museum."
"Maybe not," Ameliareplied, her tone light but eyes sharp, "but we'll start by eliminatingevery possibility."
Finn's gaze lingered on thesprawling display of Victorian curiosities, his mind churning with the macabredance of the past and present. The Albert Victoria Museum loomed as a testamentto an era both grand and grotesque, its shadows deepening as dusk fell.Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, a thought struck him. Bellamy’s machine, builtto take down all technology… What if that were done today? How would it look?
"Think about this,Clara," Finn urged, his voice a low rumble. "If someone tookBellamy's Victorian concept and twisted it with today's technology... couldthey not create a virus to collapse the digital age?"
Clara, her face etched with linesof concentration beneath the austere lighting, paused and turned to him."In theory," she admitted, her voice betraying a tremor ofapprehension, "it's possible. A digital plague to send us spiraling back togaslight and steam. It would fit in with Ezra Bellamy’s desires."
"Terrifying thought,"Amelia chimed in, her eyes scanning the surroundings—a habit born from too manysurprises in dimly lit corners. “I hope to God that’s not what our killer isreally dealing in.”
"Clara," Finn continuedas they stepped out into a larger hall, the clamor of the public entering forthe evening exhibition echoing off the walls. "Why would our Victorianenthusiast target Henry? What's the connection?"
Amelia's eyes were sharp,analytical. "Could Henry have known the killer? Maybe got too close tosomething?"
A flutter—an almost imperceptibleshift—crossed Clara's features, like a ripple disturbing still water. Finncaught it, the faint glimmer of knowledge, or perhaps fear, that vanished asquickly as it appeared.
"Clara?" he pressed,locking eyes with her. He sensed the crack in her composed exterior, the hiddentruths screaming to be set free.
"Clara," Finn said, hisvoice slicing through the murmured conversations and footsteps echoing offmarble, "Henry's gone. But if there's anything left unsaid—any secret thatmight help us—you owe him that much."
Her eyes, pools reflecting thegaslight flicker of Victorian shadows, shimmered with unshed tears."He...he wanted to make things right between us," Clara confessed,her voice a fragile whisper amidst the cacophony of the present. "He promisedme a relic...something extraordinary for the museum. Said it would be thecrowning glory of my collection."
"Who gave him that idea?"Finn probed, watching her face carefully.
"Someone he met," shebreathed, her composure waning like twilight into dusk. "A man obsessedwith the past..."
"Max Vilne?" Finn askedsharply.
Clara's nod was subtle yet ladenwith dread. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment, their realityfractured.
A dart, silent and swift as ashadow crossing the moon, pierced the air. It struck Clara's neck, and shecrumpled like a marionette with severed strings. The poison acted fast—toofast.
"Clara!" Finn bellowed ashe knelt beside her, his hands futilely searching for a pulse that was fading,then gone. His head whipped around, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of theassailant—a glimpse of retreating malevolence—but the killer had vanished intothe sea of oblivious spectators.
"Stay with her," heordered Amelia, his voice a low growl of urgency.
Amelia nodded, her expression setin stone as she tended to Clara's lifeless form. Finn stood, every muscle taut,ready to give chase to a phantom that danced mockingly just beyond his grasp.
Finn's heart hammered against hisribs as he whipped around to seek out the assailant. Nothing but a blur offaces in the museum hall met his gaze. The crowd was a shifting tapestry, a mixof tourists and enthusiasts, none appearing more sinister than the next.
"I need backup at the AlbertVictoria Museum, now!" His voice was terse as he keyed the radio clippedto his coat. "We’ve got an armed killer on the loose, possibly Max Vilne.And send an ambulance. We've got a poisoning."
"Roger that," crackledthe response from dispatch.
Returning to where Clara lay, hissteps slowed, the urgency giving way to an oppressive inevitability. Ameliacrouched by Clara's side, her hands no longer fluttering with purpose butresting gently on the still woman's arm.
"She's gone, Finn,"Amelia uttered, her words devoid of the warmth that usually colored them. Herprofessional mask was firmly in place, but the slight tremor in her voicebetrayed her.
