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"Fine," Mr. Harding spat out, his composure fraying at the edges. "I was at a dinner party, networking for potential clients until midnight. After which, I went straight home. I don't want the news spread because it was with a rival company, I'm thinking of moving on, but until I know for certain, I don't want my employers to know."
Finn nodded slowly, knowing that it was likely such an alibi was true. However, he and Amelia would need to send some constables to question witnesses and verify it while they contended with other aspects of the case.
Amelia focused on the winding path ahead, but Finn could tell that she was making mental notes of the man's responses, measuring the weight of truth against self-preservation. Whenever she bit her bottom lip in deep thought, Finn knew she was thinking something through.
"Did you see or speak to anyone about Thomas or Lily during this party?" she pressed on. “About the renovations at the castle? That must be pretty big news in the area, and as big a client as it gets.”
"Absolutely not," Mr. Harding replied, a little too quickly. "I had no reason to. I was there simply to socialize and network with a potential employer."
"Yet that employer must be impressed that you have the castle in your portfolio?" Amelia's voice was cool, calculated.
"So what if I did mention it? I count the Richmond's as dear friends after working with them for so long, but the problems with the castle and the local reaction... To be honest, I'll be glad to be away from it." The broker's words came out rehearsed, like he'd been expecting this conversation.
"Right," Finn murmured, skepticism lacing his thoughts. 'And now you will be done with it, at least whatever the Richmond's vision was for the castle.' Finn reminded himself, recalling the countless faces of guilt he'd seen before—none of them wore a sign declaring their deeds.
As the castle loomed into view, its half-painted walls like a patchwork, a grotesque Frankenstein against the skyline, Finn couldn't help but sense the castle was at the core of it all.
“You said you had something important to tell us, Harding?” Finn said as Amelia stopped at the Castle Richmond estate gates, showed her badge to a constable, and continued along a winding road through woodland, now more threatening in the near dark.
"Enlighten us, Mr. Harding," Amelia's voice was as sharp as the chill that had settled in the car, "why do you reckon Thomas and Lily were murdered? And what do you know about it?"
Mr. Harding shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting to the window before locking with Amelia's in the rearview mirror. "The locals," he began, "And not just any. Activists! They break into estates and threaten anyone who wants to, in their eyes, deface their heritage. They despised what the couple planned for the castle. They see it as vandalism."
"Vandalism is a strong word," Finn interjected as Amelia's hands steadied the wheel turning a blind corner on the narrow road leading up to the castle. “These people, do they hate any changes so much that they would turn violent?”
"Progress is always hindered by the blind," Mr. Harding countered, a trace of defiance in his tone. "Perhaps it's time this area begins to think about the future rather than clinging to the past. My point is, if you find these locals, you will find the murderer among them."
Finn pondered the truth in those words. History had its place, but so did moving forward. Yet, where was the line drawn between preservation and evolution?
The car crested the final hill, revealing the castle's outline, sprawling across the center of the estate. But the majesty of the ancient stone was overshadowed by the agitation unfolding at its gates. A group of locals had gathered within the estate, brandishing placards like medieval shields; their slogans screamed resistance against the renovations.
“Look! There they are!” the broker said with disdain.
"Looks like we've stumbled upon a siege," Finn quipped, trying to ease the tension that buzzed through the car like static.
"Hardly a siege when the walls have already been breached," Amelia replied, eyeing the crowd with an investigator's curiosity.
"This looks like it could get out of hand," said Finn, wondering if Harding's presence might incense the crowd.
“We're not getting through that,” Amelia said. “I'll park here.”
Amelia pulled up near the people, who were still shouting and holding placards.
Finn's gaze lingered on the faces in the crowd—contorted by passion, fear, and anger. Each person there bore the weight of their convictions, and each conviction was a potential lead to a very real killer.
"Let's hope these protesters stick to wielding signs and not something sharper," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
"Hope so," Amelia agreed, her hand already on the door handle, ready to step into the heart of the conflict.
Finn stepped out of the car, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. The sky loomed overhead, a tapestry of gray threatening rain, as if nature itself shared in the crowd's tumultuous mood. He approached the perimeter where the protesters stood like an ancient army protecting their besieged fortress.
"Good morning," he called out, attempting diplomacy over the din of discontented voices. "I'm Finn Wright with the Home Office. I'm here to help sort this mess—"
"Help?" A voice cut through, sharp as a blade. An elderly woman, her hair a wild halo of white, jabbed a finger in his direction. "You lot are all the same! American money tearing at the fabric of our heritage!"
"Ma'am, I assure you—" Finn's words faltered as more voices joined the chorus of accusation. He hadn't reckoned that his accent would provoke such a reaction.
"Another Yank come to trample on history!" shouted a man with a face as red as the bricks of the castle behind him.
