Chapter 3

The same long corridors stretched before me, the same faded paintings watched silently from the walls, and the same heavy curtains covered the tall windows. Yet everything felt unfamiliar now. Every closed door seemed to conceal something, every shadow appeared deeper, and every quiet corner carried the weight of a secret waiting to be uncovered.

I could no longer look at Ashford Manor as simply an old family home.

It was a place filled with secrets.

And I had begun to uncover them.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the study, carefully arranging the letters by date. There were seven in total, each written by my mother over the course of several months. Some were brief, containing only a few lines, while others filled entire pages with details about the agreement and the people involved.

I read each one slowly, hoping to find something that might explain what had happened.

But the more I read, the more confused I became.

My mother had mentioned Richard Blackwood several times. She had written about altered documents, missing signatures, and conversations that she believed had been deliberately hidden from the family.

Yet she never explained exactly where the original agreement was.

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.

Twenty-three years.

Twenty-three years of unanswered questions, carefully buried memories, and a truth that my grandmother had apparently carried to her grave.

I opened my eyes again and picked up the first letter.

There was one sentence that appeared in three different letters.

The original document must never fall into his hands.

His hands.

Richard Blackwood.

I placed the letters beside one another and examined the dates.

The first had been written in early spring. The second followed almost a month later. The final letter was dated several weeks after that.

My mother's handwriting became increasingly hurried in the later letters. Some sentences had been crossed out, and a few words were almost impossible to read.

Whatever she had discovered, it had frightened her.

I wondered whether she had ever imagined that one day her daughter would sit in the same room, reading the very words she had written.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.

"Miss?"

I turned towards the doorway.

Mrs. Whitmore stood there, holding a small silver tray.

"Yes?"

"Would you like some tea? You've been in here for quite some time."

I glanced towards the window. The afternoon light had almost disappeared, leaving the room filled with a dull grey glow.

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

She placed the tray on the side table, but her eyes wandered towards the letters spread across the desk.

For a brief moment, her expression changed.

It was subtle, but I noticed it.

"Mrs. Whitmore?"

"Yes, miss?"

"Did you know my mother well?"

Her hands stopped moving.

She looked towards the desk again before answering.

"I knew her when she was young."

"What was she like?"

A faint smile appeared on her face.

"She was a lovely girl. Quiet, perhaps, but very determined. She had a habit of asking questions that nobody wanted to answer."

Despite everything, I almost smiled.

"That sounds familiar."

Mrs. Whitmore looked at me with something resembling affection.

"Yes, miss. I suppose some things run in families."

I picked up my teacup.

"Do you remember when she left?"

The smile disappeared.

"I remember the night."

My fingers tightened around the cup.

"What happened?"

Mrs. Whitmore hesitated before pulling a chair closer to the desk.

"It was raining. Very heavily. I remember because the storm had caused a leak near the servants' staircase. I was going to fetch a bucket when I heard voices coming from the drawing room."

"Whose voices?"

"Your grandmother's. Your mother's. And a man's."

"Richard Blackwood?"

She looked at me.

"I believe so."

A chill passed through me.

"Did you hear what they were saying?"

"Not everything. But I remember your mother's voice. She sounded frightened. Your grandmother was trying to calm her, but the gentleman was angry."

"Angry about what?"

"I couldn't say."

"Did you see my mother leave?"

"Not directly. But the following morning, her room was empty. Your grandmother told everyone that Isabelle had gone away by choice."

Mrs. Whitmore lowered her gaze.

"After that, no one was permitted to speak of her."

I stared at the letters.

"She must have known the truth."

Mrs. Whitmore remained silent.

"Did my grandmother ever receive letters from her?"

The housekeeper looked towards the window.

"I believe she did."

"Believe?"

"I sometimes found envelopes on your grandmother's desk. They were addressed in unfamiliar handwriting, but she always locked them away. I never asked questions."

I felt frustration rising inside me.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

Mrs. Whitmore's expression softened.

"Because I was only a housekeeper, miss. And because your grandmother made it very clear that some matters were better left untouched."

I looked down at my mother's handwriting.

"She was my mother. I had a right to know."

"Yes," Mrs. Whitmore replied quietly. "You did."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she seemed to remember something.

"There was something else."

I immediately looked up.

"What?"

"Your mother came back once."

My breath caught.

"When?"

"About a year after she disappeared. It was late at night. I was in the kitchen when I heard someone at the back entrance. When I went to investigate, I saw your mother standing there."

"She came back here?"

Mrs. Whitmore nodded.

"She looked different. Tired. Older somehow. But I recognised her immediately."

"What did she want?"

"She asked to speak to your grandmother. They went into the library together and stayed there for nearly an hour."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Only a few words."

"Which words?"

Mrs. Whitmore closed her eyes briefly, trying to remember.

"She said something about a box. And then I heard your grandmother say, 'Not until the time is right.'"

My mind began racing.

"A wooden box?"

Mrs. Whitmore looked at me in surprise.

"How did you know?"

"You mentioned it before. Did you see it?"

"Yes. Your mother was carrying a small wooden box. Your grandmother took it from her before they went upstairs. I never saw it again."

"Do you know where it is now?"

She shook her head.

"No, miss. I'm sorry."

I looked towards the bookshelves.

"Perhaps it's somewhere in the house."

"Perhaps."

Mrs. Whitmore stood and adjusted her apron.

"You should be careful with what you uncover. Not everyone who knows the truth wishes to speak about it."

Before I could ask what she meant, she excused herself and disappeared into the corridor.

I remained seated, staring at the empty doorway.

My mother had returned.

For one brief moment, she had been here, in this very house. She had spoken to my grandmother, brought something important, and then disappeared again.

Why?

And what had been inside that wooden box?

***

The evening passed slowly.

I continued searching through the study, examining the bookshelves and the drawers beneath the desk. I even checked the space behind the fireplace, but found nothing except dust and a few old pieces of newspaper.

The wooden box was nowhere to be found.

At last, I gathered the letters and placed them carefully inside their envelope.

As I reached for the final one, something caught my attention.

The paper was thicker than the others.

I turned it over and examined the edges. A small fold ran along the bottom, almost invisible beneath the yellowed paper.

Carefully, I opened it.

A narrow strip of paper slipped out and landed on the desk.

I picked it up.

It contained only a few words, written in my mother's handwriting.

The truth lies beneath the old clock.

I read the sentence twice.

The old clock.

There were several clocks throughout Ashford Manor, but only one immediately came to mind: the enormous grandfather clock in the entrance hall.

I slipped the paper into my pocket.

Perhaps this was the beginning of something.

Or perhaps my mother had been trying to warn me.

I was still thinking about it when the clock on the mantelpiece chimed six.

Dinner was at seven.

I collected the letters, placed them inside my bag, and left the study.

As I walked down the corridor, I glanced towards the other rooms.

The west wing seemed even quieter than before.

I wondered how many people had walked through these hallways knowing something I didn't.

And how many had deliberately kept it from me.

***

At seven, I entered the dining room.

Alexander was already seated at the far end of the table, looking through a newspaper. The room was illuminated by a chandelier, its warm light reflecting off the silver cutlery and polished wooden furniture.

He glanced up as I entered.

"You're late."

I looked at the clock.

"By two minutes."

"An unusual achievement, considering how large this house is."

I ignored his remark and took the seat opposite him.

"Good evening to you too."

He folded the newspaper and placed it beside his plate.

"Did you find anything interesting today?"

I looked at him carefully.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you've spent most of the afternoon in a room that has been locked for years."

"Perhaps I enjoy old rooms."

"Of course."

His expression suggested that he didn't believe a word I said.

Dinner was served shortly afterwards.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke. The sound of cutlery against porcelain filled the room, accompanied by the faint tapping of rain against the windows.

I kept thinking about the letters.

Eventually, I placed my fork down.

"Alexander?"

He looked up.

"Yes?"

"Do you know anything about my mother?"

His expression changed slightly.

"Your mother?"

"Isabelle."

He leaned back in his chair.

"Not much. My father never spoke about her."

"Never?"

"Whenever her name was mentioned, he changed the subject. Sometimes he became angry. Other times he simply left the room."

"That seems rather convenient."

"Perhaps."

"Did you ever ask him why?"

"Once."

"And?"

"He told me that the Ashford family had caused enough trouble for everyone and that I should stay out of matters that didn't concern me."

I stared at him.

"And you listened?"

"I was younger. I didn't know what he meant."

I looked down at the table.

"Do you remember anything else?"

Alexander considered the question.

"When I was younger, I once found my father in his study looking through an old photograph. It showed two families standing together outside this house. Your grandmother was there, along with my father and a woman I assumed was your mother."

"Was she?"

"I think so."

"What happened to the photograph?"

"My father noticed me looking at it and took it away. He told me never to mention it again."

"Do you remember where he kept it?"

"In a locked cabinet. But I don't know whether it's still there."

I studied his expression.

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"Because I didn't think it mattered."

"Everything matters now, Alexander."

He looked down at his plate.

"You're right."

For the first time since I had met him, his voice carried no trace of irritation.

I took a breath.

"Your father altered an agreement between our families. My mother discovered it, and then she disappeared. You must understand why I'm finding it difficult to believe that all of this is just a coincidence."

Alexander was quiet.

"I'm not asking you to believe my father was innocent," he said eventually. "I'm asking you not to decide everything before we know the whole story."

"Then help me find it."

He looked at me.

"Find what?"

"The original agreement."

His expression became serious.

"I don't know where it is."

"Neither do I. But I have a feeling my mother left clues."

He paused.

"Have you found something?"

I hesitated.

For a moment, I considered telling him about the note.

But something stopped me.

I still didn't know whether I could trust him completely.

"Not yet," I replied.

He seemed to notice my hesitation, but didn't question it.

After dinner, I excused myself and made my way towards the entrance hall.

***

The grandfather clock stood against the wall, its dark wooden frame rising almost to the ceiling.

I had passed it dozens of times since arriving at Ashford Manor, but had never paid much attention to it.

Now, I examined every detail.

The carved wooden panels were decorated with delicate floral patterns. The brass pendulum swung steadily behind the glass door, and the clock's face displayed Roman numerals beneath a small golden moon.

I approached it and examined the lower section.

At first, I found nothing unusual.

Then I noticed a small keyhole near the bottom panel.

I took the brass key from my pocket.

It fitted perfectly.

I hesitated before turning it.

A quiet click sounded.

The lower panel opened slightly, revealing a narrow compartment.

I stared at it.

Inside lay a folded photograph and a small envelope.

My fingers trembled as I lifted them out.

The photograph showed four people standing on the front steps of Ashford Manor.

My grandmother.

Richard Blackwood.

A young woman with dark hair, whose face I recognised immediately from the portrait in my mother's bedroom.

And a man I had never seen before.

The photograph was slightly faded, but everyone looked remarkably clear.

My grandmother stood near the centre, wearing a light-coloured dress. Richard Blackwood stood beside her, looking directly at the camera. My mother was a little further away, her expression serious.

The unfamiliar man stood at the edge.

He looked older than the others, perhaps in his late forties, with neatly combed hair and a calm expression.

I turned the photograph over.

Someone had written a sentence on the back.

Ashford and Blackwood families. The summer before everything changed.

I stared at the words.

Everything changed.

I placed the photograph on the small table beside the clock and opened the envelope.

Inside was a single document, its edges worn and its ink faded.

At the top, in bold lettering, were the words:

ORIGINAL FAMILY AGREEMENT

For several seconds, I simply stared at it.

Then I unfolded the first page.

The document described an agreement between the Ashford and Blackwood families concerning ownership of a large estate and several business properties.

According to its terms, both families were entitled to equal shares.

I moved towards the nearest lamp to get a better look.

The writing was old-fashioned and formal, filled with legal language I struggled to understand. But certain sections were clear enough.

The document stated that neither family could transfer ownership or alter the agreed shares without the written consent of both parties.

I turned the page.

There was something else.

A handwritten note had been added beneath the final paragraph.

This agreement was never signed in its original form. The amended copy presented by Richard Blackwood is fraudulent.

I stopped breathing for a moment.

I read it again.

And again.

Someone had written those words deliberately.

I looked at the signature beneath the note.

Edward Whitmore.

Whitmore.

The same surname as Mrs. Whitmore.

I looked at the photograph again.

Edward Whitmore.

The unfamiliar man.

My mind began connecting the pieces.

Could this be the same person Mrs. Whitmore had mentioned?

Had her father known about the altered agreement?

And if he had, what had happened to him?

A sound behind me made me turn.

"Found something?"

I quickly looked towards the staircase.

Alexander stood a few feet away.

His hands were in his pockets, and his expression was difficult to read.

I held up the document.

"Something your father clearly didn't want anyone to find."

He approached slowly.

"Where did you get that?"

"Inside the clock."

He took the photograph from the table and stared at it.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he pointed towards the unfamiliar man.

"Who is this?"

"Edward Whitmore. Does that name mean anything to you?"

Alexander's face had gone pale.

"Whitmore?"

"Yes."

He looked at me.

"That's impossible."

"Why?"

He swallowed before answering.

"Because Edward Whitmore was my father's business partner."

I felt the floor shift beneath my feet.

"Your father had another partner?"

Alexander nodded slowly.

"According to my father, Edward disappeared shortly after the agreement was signed. He was accused of taking money from the company and leaving the country."

I looked down at the document.

"But this says he knew the agreement had been altered."

Alexander read the handwritten note again.

"Then perhaps he wasn't the one who disappeared with the money."

The silence between us grew heavier.

I handed him the document.

"Look at the signatures."

He examined the bottom of the page.

There were two signatures.

One belonged to my grandmother.

The other belonged to Edward Whitmore.

Richard Blackwood's signature was nowhere to be seen.

"Why isn't your father's signature here?" I asked.

Alexander looked confused.

"I don't know."

"Wasn't he supposed to sign it?"

"Yes. If the agreement was between both families, he should have signed it."

"Then how did he produce another version?"

Alexander slowly lowered the document.

"Someone must have changed the terms after this was written."

"Someone?"

He looked at me.

"My father."

I waited for him to say more, but he remained silent.

"Alexander, I need you to understand something. This isn't just about money or property. My mother lost her family because of whatever happened here."

"I know."

"Do you?"

His eyes met mine.

"I said I know."

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he looked back at the photograph.

"There's something strange about this."

"What?"

He pointed towards the back of the photograph.

"Look at the date."

I turned it over again.

There was a small handwritten date in the corner.

Twenty-four years ago.

But my mother's letters were dated twenty-three years ago.

The photograph had been taken only months before she disappeared.

"Why would Edward Whitmore be standing with both families if he was supposedly stealing from them?" I asked.

Alexander shook his head.

"That's what we need to find out."

***

We stood in the entrance hall for several minutes, examining the photograph and document.

Then I remembered something.

"Alexander."

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Whitmore."

He looked at me.

"What about her?"

"She might know something. She knew my mother, and she may recognise this document."

"She might."

I glanced towards the kitchen.

"Is she still downstairs?"

"I believe so."

I gathered the papers and started walking.

Alexander followed.

As we reached the kitchen, we found Mrs. Whitmore arranging the dishes on the counter.

"Mrs. Whitmore?"

She turned.

"Yes, miss?"

"I need to ask you something."

She noticed the photograph in my hand.

Her expression changed immediately.

"Where did you find that?"

"Inside the grandfather clock."

She put down the plate she was holding.

"May I see it?"

I handed it to her.

She looked at the photograph for a long moment.

Her fingers moved gently over the faded image.

Then she looked at the document.

Her face became unusually pale.

"Where did you find this?"

"With the photograph."

She lowered herself into the nearest chair.

I had never seen her look so unsettled.

"Mrs. Whitmore?"

She didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she stared at the signature at the bottom of the page.

"Edward."

"Was he your father?"

She looked up.

"Yes."

I exchanged a glance with Alexander.

"You knew he was involved in the agreement?"

"My father worked with the Blackwood family for many years. He was a careful man, and he believed in keeping everything in writing."

"Then why was he accused of taking money?"

Her expression tightened.

"Because someone needed a reason to remove him from the business."

"Who?"

She looked towards Alexander.

He stood silently beside the doorway.

Mrs. Whitmore took a slow breath.

"My father believed that Richard Blackwood had changed the terms of the agreement. He tried to challenge him, but the documents he presented were dismissed."

"Why?"

"Because the official copy had already been registered. It contained different terms, and everyone believed it was genuine."

I looked down at the original document.

"Then this is the proof."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?"

Mrs. Whitmore shook her head.

"Your mother believed it was. But there was something else she needed."

"What?"

"A second document. Something that could establish when the original agreement was altered and who had authorised the changes."

Alexander stepped forward.

"Did my father have that document?"

Mrs. Whitmore looked at him.

"I don't know, Mr. Blackwood."

"But you suspect he did."

She said nothing.

I moved closer.

"Mrs. Whitmore, why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

Her eyes softened.

"Because I promised your grandmother that I would wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For you to find the truth yourself."

I stared at her.

"My grandmother knew?"

Mrs. Whitmore nodded.

"She knew more than you realise."

"Then why didn't she tell me?"

"She was afraid."

"Of Richard?"

Mrs. Whitmore looked down.

"Of what would happen if the truth became public."

I glanced at the document again.

"Was Edward alive when my mother disappeared?"

The question seemed to take her by surprise.

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Because my father died shortly after the agreement was challenged."

I felt a strange sadness.

"Did my mother know?"

Mrs. Whitmore nodded slowly.

"She found out later. She had been searching for him because she believed he still had the second document. When she finally discovered what had happened, she realised that the evidence was no longer where she expected it to be."

"Where was it?"

Mrs. Whitmore shook her head.

"She never told me."

I looked at the document.

Then at the photograph.

Everything seemed connected, yet something important was still missing.

"What happened to the wooden box my mother brought?"

Mrs. Whitmore looked surprised.

"You know about that?"

"You told me she brought it here."

"Yes."

"Was the second document inside?"

"I cannot say for certain. But I remember your grandmother carrying the box into her bedroom. She locked it away."

"Could it still be there?"

Mrs. Whitmore considered the question.

"Your grandmother's bedroom has not been properly searched since her passing."

I looked at Alexander.

He nodded.

"Then that's where we should look."

***

We were about to leave the kitchen when Mrs. Whitmore spoke again.

"There's something else you should know."

I turned.

"What?"

She looked at the document in my hands.

"My father did not disappear because of the money."

I waited.

"He was trying to protect someone."

"Who?"

Mrs. Whitmore's voice became quieter.

"Your mother."

I felt my stomach tighten.

"Why?"

"Because Isabelle had discovered something that could have destroyed the Blackwood family. My father knew that she was in danger, and he tried to help her."

Alexander looked at the floor.

"Then why didn't he tell anyone?"

"Because he trusted the wrong people."

Mrs. Whitmore stood.

"And that mistake cost him everything."

The kitchen fell silent.

I looked at the woman who had spent years serving my family, arranging meals, opening doors, and quietly moving through the halls of Ashford Manor.

All this time, she had known more than she had ever admitted.

"Mrs. Whitmore," I said carefully, "is there anything else you haven't told us?"

She looked at me for a long moment.

Then she answered.

"More than you can imagine, miss."

***

It was nearly nine when Alexander and I returned to the entrance hall.

The rain had grown heavier, and the wind moved against the windows with a low, restless sound.

He placed the photograph on the small table beside the clock.

"I think we should keep this somewhere safe," he said.

"Agreed."

I carefully folded the agreement and placed it inside my bag.

Alexander watched me.

"You're beginning to understand why I told you to be careful."

"I understand that someone has spent years hiding the truth."

"And that person may still be interested in keeping it hidden."

I looked towards the staircase.

"Do you think someone in this house knows what we're doing?"

He didn't answer immediately.

"Possibly."

"Mrs. Whitmore?"

He shook his head.

"I don't think so."

"Then who?"

"That's what worries me."

I frowned.

"You're being rather mysterious."

He gave a faint, humourless smile.

"Perhaps I've learned it from my family."

Despite the situation, I almost laughed.

Then his expression became serious again.

"Listen. Until we know exactly what happened, don't tell anyone about the agreement."

"I wasn't planning to announce it at breakfast."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

He looked towards the dark corridor.

"Keep the document with you. Don't leave it lying around."

I nodded.

"Tomorrow we'll search your grandmother's room."

"And if we find the box?"

"Then perhaps we'll finally understand what your mother was trying to tell us."

He turned to leave.

"Alexander?"

He stopped.

"Yes?"

"Why are you helping me?"

He remained still for a moment.

Then he looked back at me.

"Because I want to know what my father did."

His voice was quieter now.

"And because I don't think your mother deserved what happened to her."

I watched him disappear into the corridor.

For the first time, I wondered whether Alexander Blackwood was just as trapped by his family's past as I was.

***

I decided to return to my room.

The staircase seemed unusually dark, and the grandfather clock continued ticking behind me.

As I reached the first landing, I heard a faint sound.

A door closing.

I stopped.

The sound had come from somewhere above me.

I looked towards the upper floor.

"Hello?"

No answer.

I waited for a moment, listening.

Nothing.

I continued walking, telling myself that it was probably the wind.

But when I reached my bedroom, I noticed that the door was slightly open.

I was certain I had closed it earlier.

I pushed it gently.

The room looked exactly as I had left it. The curtains were drawn, the bedside lamp was still on, and my books lay scattered across the small table.

Then I noticed the envelope.

It was lying in the centre of my bed.

My mother's envelope.

The one containing the letters.

I walked towards it slowly.

I had left it in my bag.

Someone had taken it out.

My heart began beating faster.

I opened the envelope and checked the contents.

All seven letters were still there.

But one thing was missing.

The small strip of paper containing my mother's message.

The truth lies beneath the old clock.

I searched the envelope again.

Nothing.

Someone had taken it.

I turned towards the doorway.

The corridor was empty.

For several seconds, I stood perfectly still.

Then I noticed something else.

A small folded piece of paper had been placed beneath the envelope.

I picked it up.

The handwriting was unfamiliar.

It contained only one sentence.

Stop searching before you uncover something you cannot undo.

I read it twice.

Then I looked towards the door.

Whoever had entered my room knew about the letters.

They knew about the clock.

And they knew that I was searching for the truth.

I folded the note and placed it inside the drawer.

I didn't know whether to tell Alexander immediately or wait until morning.

But one thing was certain.

Someone in Ashford Manor was watching me.

***

I barely slept that night.

The rain continued until well past midnight, and the old house seemed to make unfamiliar sounds in the darkness.

I kept thinking about my mother.

Had she received warnings like this?

Had she spent nights wondering who she could trust?

And had my grandmother known that the truth would eventually find its way back to Ashford Manor?

At some point, I got out of bed and walked towards the window.

The grounds were almost completely dark. A few lamps illuminated the garden paths, and the bare trees moved slowly in the wind.

From my window, I could see part of the west wing.

One of its windows was slightly illuminated.

I frowned.

The west wing was supposed to be closed.

I moved closer to the glass.

For a moment, I thought I saw someone standing behind the window.

A figure.

Tall and still.

I blinked.

The window was empty.

Perhaps it had been a reflection.

Perhaps it had been my imagination.

I stepped away from the window and returned to bed.

But just before I turned off the lamp, I heard the grandfather clock downstairs strike twelve.

The sound travelled through the house, one slow chime after another.

And with every chime, I remembered the note.

Stop searching before you uncover something you cannot undo.

I closed my eyes.

But sleep did not come.

***

The following morning, I woke earlier than usual.

The house was quiet, and a pale grey light filtered through the curtains.

I dressed quickly and made my way downstairs.

Mrs. Whitmore was already in the kitchen.

"Good morning, miss."

"Good morning."

She looked at me carefully.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not particularly."

She placed a cup of tea on the table.

"Is everything all right?"

I hesitated.

Then I took the folded note from my pocket and placed it beside the cup.

Mrs. Whitmore read it.

Her expression changed.

"Where did you get this?"

"Someone left it in my bedroom."

She looked at me sharply.

"Someone entered your room?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Last night. I don't know exactly when."

Mrs. Whitmore lowered herself into a chair.

For the first time, I noticed genuine fear in her expression.

"Miss, I think we should inform Mr. Blackwood."

"I was planning to."

She looked towards the kitchen door.

"Please be careful. There are people who have waited a very long time for this matter to remain buried."

I looked at her.

"Mrs. Whitmore, do you think the person who left this note knows about the original agreement?"

She nodded slowly.

"I think they know much more than we realise."

I picked up my tea, but didn't drink it.

"Then perhaps it's time we stopped keeping secrets."

Mrs. Whitmore looked at me.

For a moment, she seemed about to say something.

But before she could speak, footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Alexander appeared at the kitchen door.

"Good morning."

"Morning," I replied.

He glanced at the note on the table.

"What's that?"

I pushed it towards him.

He read it.

His expression hardened.

"Someone entered your room?"

"Apparently."

"Did anything else disappear?"

"Only the small note my mother left."

He looked at me.

"The one about the clock?"

I nodded.

He placed the paper on the table.

"Then whoever did this knows about the original agreement."

Mrs. Whitmore stood.

"Mr. Blackwood, I believe there's something we need to discuss."

Alexander looked at her.

"What is it?"

She glanced towards the corridor before answering.

"Edward Whitmore wasn't the only person who knew about the altered agreement."

"Who else?"

Mrs. Whitmore took a slow breath.

"Your grandmother."

I stared at her.

"Yes," she continued. "And I believe she kept the second document somewhere in her bedroom."

Alexander looked towards the staircase.

"Then we should search it."

Mrs. Whitmore nodded.

"But there is something else."

I felt a familiar tension rising inside me.

"What now?"

She looked directly at me.

"When your mother returned to this house, she told your grandmother that if anything happened to her, the truth must be given to her daughter."

My throat tightened.

"She said that?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn't my grandmother tell me?"

Mrs. Whitmore's voice softened.

"Because she believed the danger had not passed."

I looked towards the window.

Outside, the sky was grey, and the rain had finally stopped.

For twenty-three years, my mother's story had remained hidden behind locked doors, forgotten letters, and carefully guarded memories.

Now I knew that she had not abandoned her family.

I knew that Richard Blackwood had something to do with her disappearance.

And I knew that the original agreement was only one piece of a much larger mystery.

But the most troubling question remained unanswered.

Who had entered my room?

And what were they so desperate to keep hidden?

Alexander picked up the document from the table.

"Come on," he said. "Let's see what else this house has been hiding."

I followed him towards the staircase.

As we passed the grandfather clock, I glanced at its wooden frame.

The compartment was still open.

The pendulum continued its steady movement.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

For the first time, the sound seemed less like a reminder of time passing and more like a warning.

Somewhere inside Ashford Manor, another secret was waiting.

And I had a feeling that finding it would change everything.

END OF CHAPTER 3