Chapter 8 - THE SHADOW AT THE GATE
The kitchen fell into absolute silence, save for the hum of the Aga and the ticking of the grandfather clock.
"Sophie," Clare said, keeping her voice completely steady despite the pounding in her chest. "Are they still at the hospital?"
"The police are taking statements about the crash, so Vance can't leave the precinct desk yet," Sophie said, breathing heavily. "The roads are blocked by overturned lorries anyway. He can't get an ambulance or a taxi through the valley. But Mum, if he finds a four-wheel drive, he’ll be out there the moment the plows clear the lane."
"He won't get inside," Clare said calmly. "Finish your shift, Sophie. Don't try to drive in this weather. We have Daniel here, and the gates are locked."
"Mum, wait—"
"I love you, darling. Be safe." Clare hung up the phone.
She looked at Daniel. The boy who had spent his early twenties avoiding family dinners and running from emotional complexity suddenly stood up. He walked to the window, pulled the curtain aside, and peered out into the swirling snow.
"The lane is completely drifted over," Daniel said, his voice dropping into a lower register. "Nothing without chains is getting up that hill tonight. But by morning, the gritters will come through."
"Julian has money," Anna whispered, her voice trembling. "Money buys everything. It buys council snowplows. It buys off-duty police. He will come for her."
Clare looked at Anna. "Peter kept files in the study. In the old safe behind the bookcase."
Daniel frowned. "Mum, that safe hasn't been opened since Dad died. The solicitors took everything they needed for probate."
"Not everything," Clare said. "Two weeks before he passed away, Peter told me: *'Clare, if someone ever comes asking about the swallow, the key is inside the brass carriage clock.'*"
Clare turned and walked toward Peter's study at the end of the hall. Daniel and Anna followed closely behind.
The room smelled of old paper, leather, and pipe tobacco—a scent Clare had carefully preserved for three years. She walked to the mantelpiece where the heavy French carriage clock sat ticking faithfully. She lifted the glass case, reached behind the winding mechanism, and pulled out a small, flat brass key.
Daniel moved the heavy oak bookcase with a grunt of effort, revealing the small iron door embedded in the brick chimney breast.
Clare inserted the key. The lock turned with a heavy, satisfying click.
Inside lay a single manila envelope. On the front, written in Peter’s precise, flowing legal cursive, were the words:
May you like
*ANNA & MAYA VANCE — EVIDENCE OF PERJURY & FRAUD (JULIAN VANCE).*
***