The dusty hallway of St. Dunstan's House felt unusually cold, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun creeping through the ivy-clad windows. Isabelle stood at the end of the narrow corridor, her fingers grazing the faded wallpaper, tracing the patterns that had once been vibrant but had since faded into oblivion. The air in the house was thick with history, and it seemed to pulse with a quiet, uneasy energy. This place had always felt like a relic of something lost—something important—but it was only now, in her search for answers, that Isabelle truly understood the weight of what she was up against.
She had come back here, to this house, the place that had once been her mother's refuge, seeking answers that she didn't even fully understand herself. Her mother, who had always been quiet about her past, had left behind fragments of a life Isabelle could hardly grasp. But those fragments had been enough to send Isabelle down a path—one that now seemed to lead straight into a mystery far deeper and darker than she had ever anticipated.
Today, the weight of the past was pressing down on her more than ever. She had been to the Canterbury Cathedral Archives earlier that morning, piecing together fragments of the Bellamy family history. But there was one thing she had yet to uncover, one thing that was haunting her thoughts—the inheritance. Evelyn Bellamy's inheritance, a mystery that had eluded Isabelle for so long.
It had started with a phone call she'd received from the London Probate Office, a call that seemed ordinary enough at first. Yet, when they mentioned the name Evelyn Bellamy, something stirred deep within her. The paperwork had been misfiled, they told her. And now, after all these years, it was her responsibility to collect the unclaimed inheritance.
Evelyn Bellamy. A name that had surfaced in Isabelle's research again and again, a name that had become synonymous with mystery and sorrow. Evelyn, the woman whose life had been torn apart by a scandal, whose love for Margaret Elwood had been at the heart of a tragedy that had shaken Oxford to its core. Now, her legacy was suddenly tied to Isabelle's own life, and the implications of that were beginning to feel overwhelming.
She hadn't told anyone—no one outside of the archives and her own musings—what she had uncovered about Evelyn Bellamy's past. Her mother had always spoken in hushed tones about the Bellamys, about how her life had intersected with theirs in ways that had never been fully explained. Isabelle had been too young to understand, too naive to ask the right questions. But now, everything was coming together.
The inheritance wasn't just about money or property—it was something more, something hidden beneath the surface. Isabelle could feel it, the pull of something greater than herself. And it was calling her.
Turning away from the hallway, Isabelle moved toward her mother's study. The room, lined with old bookshelves and cluttered with papers, was still as she had left it. The scent of leather and ink filled the air, a familiar scent that brought a lump to her throat. Her mother had passed away years ago, but in this room, she could almost feel her presence.
Her eyes scanned the room, lingering on the cluttered desk. There, hidden beneath a pile of letters, was the envelope that had started it all. The envelope that had been addressed to her mother, sealed with an elegant wax stamp. Isabelle had opened it weeks ago, discovering the details of Evelyn Bellamy's inheritance, but it was the letter inside—the one that was never meant to be read—that had captured her attention.
The letter had been written in Evelyn's delicate handwriting, dated just days before her arrest. It was a letter filled with cryptic words, hints of things left unsaid, and an urgency that Evelyn had likely never fully realized. Isabelle had read it over and over again, trying to decipher its meaning, trying to connect the dots that Evelyn had left behind.
She had found a key in the letter—a mention of a "vault" and a set of "instructions" that were meant to be followed after Evelyn's death. The letter had been addressed to a mysterious figure, someone Evelyn trusted enough to leave behind the final pieces of her story. Isabelle's heart pounded as she recalled the last sentence of the letter: "You are the keeper of what has been hidden, the one who must open the door."
What door? What had Evelyn meant?
Isabelle's thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. She turned, startled, and saw her neighbor standing in the doorway. It was Mrs. Hawthorne, a kind woman in her sixties who had lived on St. Dunstan's Street for as long as Isabelle could remember.
"Isabelle, my dear, I hope I'm not disturbing you," Mrs. Hawthorne said, her voice warm but edged with concern. "I just wanted to check in on you. You've been spending an awful lot of time in that old house of yours."
Isabelle smiled faintly. "No, not disturbing at all. Just… trying to figure out some things."
Mrs. Hawthorne nodded knowingly, stepping into the room. She had always been a comforting presence in Isabelle's life, someone who could be counted on for a kind word or a listening ear. Isabelle had always appreciated the older woman's wisdom, even if she rarely shared her own thoughts with anyone.
"You've been digging, haven't you?" Mrs. Hawthorne asked softly, glancing at the piles of papers on the desk.
Isabelle didn't answer immediately. She wasn't sure how much she could tell Mrs. Hawthorne, how much she wanted to reveal. There was so much at stake, and yet, she was no closer to understanding the full picture.
"I found something," Isabelle said, finally. "A letter, from Evelyn Bellamy."
Mrs. Hawthorne's eyes widened slightly, her expression shifting from curiosity to something more guarded. "Evelyn Bellamy?" she repeated, her voice dropping to a whisper. "That name… it's tied to more than you realize, Isabelle. You should be careful."
Isabelle met her gaze, her heart racing. "What do you mean? What do you know about Evelyn Bellamy?"
The older woman hesitated, as if weighing her words carefully. Then, with a sigh, she sat down at the desk, her eyes never leaving Isabelle's. "There are things about that family—about Evelyn's life—that are better left undisturbed. The Bellamys have always been… well, let's just say their legacy is tangled with a lot of secrets."
Isabelle felt a chill run down her spine. "What secrets?"
Mrs. Hawthorne's gaze softened, and she placed a hand gently on Isabelle's. "Sometimes, the past is better left buried, my dear. But I can see you won't let it rest. Just be careful. There are people who still have their eyes on that inheritance. People who would go to great lengths to keep it hidden."
Isabelle's pulse quickened. The mention of "people" made her stomach churn. Who were these people? And what did they want with the inheritance?
"I have to know the truth," Isabelle said, her voice firm, though it shook with uncertainty. "I have to understand what happened to Evelyn—and to my mother."
Mrs. Hawthorne's expression softened, and she gave Isabelle's hand a reassuring squeeze. "I understand, child. But be careful what you uncover. Some truths are better left forgotten."
Isabelle nodded, though her mind was already racing with questions. She had come too far to stop now. The inheritance, the letter, the vault—it was all part of a story that was waiting to be uncovered, no matter the cost.