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"Quite the welcome committee," Finn quipped dryly, despite the intensity boiling in his veins. They crossed the threshold, the heavy door closing with a thud that muted the ire of the crowd.
"Should've had them all arrested," the real estate agent spat, shaking off their hands as if the touch were offensive. He straightened his jacket, attempting to salvage what dignity he could. "This is what I get for trying to bring progress to this place."
"Progress doesn't usually come served with an egg," Finn retorted, scanning the grand entrance hall for signs of further trouble. High ceilings echoed back their footsteps, while tapestries seemed to watch in silent judgment. “I kind of respect how good the aim was.”
"Never mind the damned egg! You're police, aren't you? Why don't you act like it?" The real estate broker's voice was thick with disdain.
"Because, unlike eggs, we can't just throw people in jail on a whim," Amelia shot back with a calm that belied the tension in her posture. She glanced at Finn, the shared look between them one of weary understanding.
“I'm not technically police,” Finn said with a grin. “I'm a consultant detective.”
"Whatever," the broker scoffed, flicking a piece of shell from his shoulder. "Just do your job and find out who's behind this madness. And make sure they pay."
"Believe me," Finn said, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the broker—a man seemingly more concerned with retribution than safety—"nothing gets past us." His mind was already sifting through the incident, plucking at details that seemed incongruent, out of place.
"Good," the broker huffed, but his arrogance couldn't mask a flicker of anxiety. "Because none of this... none of this should be happening to me. And it certainly shouldn't have happened to the Richmonds."
Finn's gaze lingered on the broker, noting the shift. Fear often wore many masks, and beneath the arrogance, there might just be something worth uncovering.
Amelia leaned against the cold stone wall, arms folded as she fixed the real estate broker with a steely gaze. "We need to know who would take things to the extreme. Who hated the renovations enough to commit murder?"
The broker’s lips curled in a sneer. "I warned them," he said, his voice dripping with self-importance. "I told Thomas that not everyone was thrilled about their grand designs. But they were too wrapped up in their visions of grandeur. I told him there was a middle way, a way to update the castle without angering people. One piece at a time, so they could get used to it. But he didn't listen."
Finn stepped closer, the click of his shoes on the marble floor resonating through the cavernous space. He observed the broker’s face, watching for any crack in the facade. "People knew you immediately," he asked. “That means there's history. Did you receive threats?”
"Threats came from every corner—the protectors of history, conservationists, even people who just don't like change." The broker's eyes flitted away for a moment before locking back onto Finn's, a challenge laid bare.
"Exactly how severe were these threats?" Amelia pressed, moving forward until she was mere inches from the broker.
With an exaggerated shrug, the broker pulled out his smartphone, swiped with a thumb coated in arrogance, and presented the screen to them. A wry laugh escaped him as he did so. "Take a look at this," he said.
Amelia took the phone, and Finn peered over her shoulder. The inbox was a cesspool of vitriol—messages stacked upon messages, each laden with more malice than the last. It was a tapestry of threats woven with hatred, a digital monument to the darkest sides of humanity.
"Christ," muttered Finn under his breath. Every line was a potential lead, every curse a possible clue. "We're going to need to go through all of these."
"Be my guest." The broker's tone was flippant, but Finn detected a sliver of satisfaction—as if he enjoyed the idea of them wading through the mire on his behalf.
"Alright," Amelia said, her voice steady as she handed the phone back. "We'll need full access to your emails. All of it."
"Fine," the broker snapped, snatching the phone back. He pulled out a business card and a small pen from his inside pocket and scribbled down something, handing it back to Amelia. “That's my login details. Just find whoever's responsible. I've got other properties to deal with, and I'd quite like to do that without ending up dead!"
"He's right," Finn said, turning to Amelia. "We need to go through these messages, certainly before anyone throes more eggs at Harding here."
“Or bacon,” Amelia said. “Soon it'll be a full English breakfast.”
“This is hardly a time to joke,” the real estate agent said.
“Our constables will take you out of here, Mr Harding,” Amelia said. “Once the crowd dies down. It's nearly night, so I wouldn't think they'll be out there much longer.”
“Can I drive this time? It clears my head?” Finn asked.
“Sure,” Amelia said.
“I mean, if you'd rather rock, papers, scissor it for the privilege?” Finn grinned.
“You can drive,” Amelia laughed.
Then, they were off. Finn and Amelia stepped back towards the door and looked out. The constables were still struggling with the crowd, but there was a way through. Quickly, they rushed through it, ignoring the taunts from the crowd, rushing towards their car to see what hidden clues could be found in the Harding's emails.
