Chapter Eighteen

The brisk London air did little to alleviate the tension knotting Finn"s muscles as he and Amelia crossed the threshold of the Albert Victoria Museum. The grandeur of the Victorian architecture loomed above them, one of many tributes to the city"s historical reverence, yet today it served as the backdrop for a grim task.

"Everywhere I look, I see Vilne's face," Finn murmured, scanning the ornate lobby for signs of unease or recognition among the staff and visitors. They all seemed blissfully ignorant of the tragedy that had unfolded mere hours ago.

"We'll get him," Amelia replied, her tone light but her gaze sharp as it darted through the crowd. The occasional banter between them was a thin veil over the seriousness of their work.

They found Clara Redwood in her office, a room cluttered with artifacts and the scent of aged paper. She had black hair, tied back firmly and dark brown eyes that seemed wiser than her years. She looked up from her desk, framed by bookshelves that groaned under the weight of leather-bound volumes, her eyes betraying nothing more than mild curiosity at their presence.

"Mrs. Redwood?" Finn began, his voice steady despite the leaden news he carried.

"Clara, please," she corrected, standing to greet them with a practiced smile that didn"t reach her eyes.

"Clara," Finn acquiesced. "I"m afraid we have some distressing news. Your husband, Henry Walsh, was found dead last night."

Her reaction was a fleeting dance of emotions across her face—surprise flickered into existence before being swiftly replaced by a cool detachment. She sank back into her chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"Dead?" Her voice was steady, too steady for someone just learning of their spouse"s demise. "That's awful."

Finn exchanged a glance with Amelia before pressing on, "You don"t seem overly upset."

Clara"s gaze met his, unwavering. "Should I put on a more convincing performance, Detective?"

"Most people would be distraught," Finn pointed out, noting the absence of tears or the expected tremble of shock in her words.

"Most people haven"t lived my life," Clara said, a note of finality in her voice as though she"d closed the book on the subject.

Finn"s instincts told him there was more beneath the surface, but the museum director"s facade was as meticulous as the exhibits surrounding them. His gaze followed the precise lines of the Victorian dress Clara Redwood was examining, no doubt another piece for the museum to display.

"Clara," he began, his voice cutting through the silence that had settled between them, "how would you describe your relationship with Henry in recent years?"

"Separated," she said succinctly, as if the word were a scalpel cleanly severing any lingering emotional ties. "For two years now."

"Separated?" Amelia echoed, the question hanging between them as Finn processed the information.

"Indeed." Clara"s eyes were steely, reflecting the museum's ambient lighting with a polished aloofness. "He wanted online adulation, I wanted a quiet life. Our marriage became... incompatible."

"You are still married. When did you change your name back?" Finn observed, the underlying inquiry evident in his tone.

"Redwood is my maiden name," Clara corrected, with a touch of pride. "I never needed Henry"s. I always kept my own, even when we were together."

"Interesting," Finn murmured. He exchanged a brief look with Amelia and they shared a silent conversation. Was this separation the reason for Clara"s lack of distress? Or was it simply a convenient truth?

"Clara," Finn continued, leaning forward slightly, "we"re looking into a series of murders tied to someone with an acute interest in the Victorian era. The killer seems to be fixated on ancient computers—Victorian relics. Henry is somehow caught up in it."

"Are you suggesting I have something to do with these crimes?" Clara"s lips parted in a sardonic smile that didn"t quite reach the cool detachment of her eyes. "Because I manage a museum?"

"We have to consider all angles," Amelia interjected smoothly, her tone professional yet probing.

"Detective, my passion lies in preserving history, not destroying lives," Clara retorted, her voice measured but edged with irritation. "I assure you, my involvement in the Victorian age ends at curation."

"Passion can be a powerful motive," Finn pointed out, watching her closely for any shift in demeanor, any crack in her composed exterior.

"Perhaps for some," Clara conceded, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. "But my interests are purely academic."

"Of course," Finn said, though the words were laced with skepticism. "Just doing our due diligence."

"Understood," Clara replied, rising from her seat with the fluid grace of another era. "Now, if there"s nothing else, I have an exhibit to attend to."

"Mrs. Redwood," Finn began, noting the way Clara"s hands stilled on the glass display case she was meticulously arranging, "where were you last night?"

"Here," she stated without hesitation, her eyes not meeting his. "Working on the new exhibit until the early hours. I often lose track of time among these antiquities."

"Can anyone corroborate that?" Amelia asked, skepticism thinly veiling her polite tone.

"I don't need anyone else for that," Clara replied curtly. She motioned for them to follow her through a winding corridor framed with Victorian portraits whose eyes seemed to follow them accusatorily.

They arrived at a nondescript door leading to the security room, where a bank of monitors glared in the dimness. A lone guard looked up, startled by their sudden entrance. Clara didn"t waste a moment, stepping forward to log into the system with an efficiency that spoke of repetition.

"Here," she said, pulling up timestamped footage. On the screen, Clara appeared, immersed in her work, the clock above her head marking the ungodly hours. She fast-forwarded through it.

"Looks like you"re telling the truth," Finn muttered, though his instincts told him something was still amiss. The footage was clear, showing her alone with the artifacts, but he couldn"t shake the unease that gnawed at him.

"Does that satisfy your curiosity, detective?" Clara asked. She seemed to be putting on a cool front, but Finn detected something else underneath; an apprehension.

"For now," Finn conceded, giving Amelia a brief side glance that conveyed a silent conversation they had perfected over countless cases—a shared agreement that there was more to unearth here.

"Let"s move on," Amelia said crisply, already heading towards the exit. Finn gave one last scrutinizing look at the monitor before following. They stepped back into the grand hall, where the morning light fought against the museum"s perpetual dusk, casting long shadows that seemed to whisper secrets just beyond his grasp.

Amelia spoke again, her tone even but probing. "Ms. Redwood, are you familiar with an Ezra Bellamy?"

"Of course," Clara responded without hesitation, her fingers tracing the spine of a book bound in faded leather. "A Victorian inventor, quite ahead of his time. He believed technology had the potential to extend beyond its physical constraints—to influence the world like a force, supernatural almost."

Finn leaned forward, interest piqued by this new information. "What can you tell us about Bellamy"s Tempus Machine? It's come up in our investigation."

"Ah," Clara said, a note of intrigue coloring her voice. But there was something else in her that Finn could sense, a fear mounting.

She glanced up from the book, her eyes flickering with the memory of countless texts she must have devoured. "The Tempus Machine was Bellamy"s obsession—his intended magnum opus, though likely a dead end fueled by delusion. He claimed it could rewrite history, not in the metaphorical sense, but literally. An unfinished symphony of cogs and gears, never realized."

"Rewrite history?" Finn echoed, skepticism warring with curiosity within him. "How so?"

"Bellamy believed in a world unmarred by the Industrial Revolution—a return to simplicity. But he died before he could complete his work, leaving behind only cryptic schematics and wild speculation."

"Speculation that seems to have inspired a murderer," Finn muttered under his breath. Amelia shot him a quick glance, her eyes sharp with shared urgency.

"Right," Amelia said, filing away the information. "We believe Henry's murder may be connected to someone trying to build this Tempus Machine. Like some sort of time machine, as crazy as that sounds."

"The Tempus Machine?" Clara repeated, a slight shake of her head betraying her disbelief. "That"s not a time machine, Inspector. It was Bellamy"s vision of erasing the Industrial Revolution—returning us to simpler times, free from the shackles of technology."

Amelia leaned forward, skepticism plain on her face. "But is such a thing even possible? An actual machine?"

"Hardly," Clara scoffed, waving off the idea. "Bellamy was brilliant but eccentric. His Tempus Machine was little more than superstitious nonsense—a fantasy for those afraid of progress."

"Still," Finn mused aloud, "someone believes in it enough to kill for it."

"Perhaps," Clara conceded, her lips pressing into a thin line. "But you won"t find your killer hiding among the relics in this museum."

"Maybe not," Amelia replied, her tone light but eyes sharp, "but we"ll start by eliminating every possibility."

Finn"s gaze lingered on the sprawling display of Victorian curiosities, his mind churning with the macabre dance of the past and present. The Albert Victoria Museum loomed as a testament to an era both grand and grotesque, its shadows deepening as dusk fell. Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, a thought struck him. Bellamy's machine, built to take down all technology… What if that were done today? How would it look?

"Think about this, Clara," Finn urged, his voice a low rumble. "If someone took Bellamy"s Victorian concept and twisted it with today"s technology... could they not create a virus to collapse the digital age?"

Clara, her face etched with lines of concentration beneath the austere lighting, paused and turned to him. "In theory," she admitted, her voice betraying a tremor of apprehension, "it"s possible. A digital plague to send us spiraling back to gaslight and steam. It would fit in with Ezra Bellamy's desires."

"Terrifying thought," Amelia chimed in, her eyes scanning the surroundings—a habit born from too many surprises in dimly lit corners. "I hope to God that's not what our killer is really dealing in."

"Clara," Finn continued as they stepped out into a larger hall, the clamor of the public entering for the evening exhibition echoing off the walls. "Why would our Victorian enthusiast target Henry? What"s the connection?"

Amelia"s eyes were sharp, analytical. "Could Henry have known the killer? Maybe got too close to something?"

A flutter—an almost imperceptible shift—crossed Clara"s features, like a ripple disturbing still water. Finn caught it, the faint glimmer of knowledge, or perhaps fear, that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Clara?" he pressed, locking eyes with her. He sensed the crack in her composed exterior, the hidden truths screaming to be set free.

"Clara," Finn said, his voice slicing through the murmured conversations and footsteps echoing off marble, "Henry"s gone. But if there"s anything left unsaid—any secret that might help us—you owe him that much."

Her eyes, pools reflecting the gaslight flicker of Victorian shadows, shimmered with unshed tears. "He...he wanted to make things right between us," Clara confessed, her voice a fragile whisper amidst the cacophony of the present. "He promised me a relic...something extraordinary for the museum. Said it would be the crowning glory of my collection."

"Who gave him that idea?" Finn probed, watching her face carefully.

"Someone he met," she breathed, her composure waning like twilight into dusk. "A man obsessed with the past..."

"Max Vilne?" Finn asked sharply.

Clara"s nod was subtle yet laden with dread. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment, their reality fractured.

A dart, silent and swift as a shadow crossing the moon, pierced the air. It struck Clara"s neck, and she crumpled like a marionette with severed strings. The poison acted fast—too fast.

"Clara!" Finn bellowed as he knelt beside her, his hands futilely searching for a pulse that was fading, then gone. His head whipped around, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the assailant—a glimpse of retreating malevolence—but the killer had vanished into the sea of oblivious spectators.

"Stay with her," he ordered Amelia, his voice a low growl of urgency.

Amelia nodded, her expression set in stone as she tended to Clara"s lifeless form. Finn stood, every muscle taut, ready to give chase to a phantom that danced mockingly just beyond his grasp.

Finn"s heart hammered against his ribs as he whipped around to seek out the assailant. Nothing but a blur of faces in the museum hall met his gaze. The crowd was a shifting tapestry, a mix of tourists and enthusiasts, none appearing more sinister than the next.

"I need backup at the Albert Victoria Museum, now!" His voice was terse as he keyed the radio clipped to his coat. "We've got an armed killer on the loose, possibly Max Vilne. And send an ambulance. We"ve got a poisoning."

"Roger that," crackled the response from dispatch.

Returning to where Clara lay, his steps slowed, the urgency giving way to an oppressive inevitability. Amelia crouched by Clara"s side, her hands no longer fluttering with purpose but resting gently on the still woman"s arm.

"She"s gone, Finn," Amelia uttered, her words devoid of the warmth that usually colored them. Her professional mask was firmly in place, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

"Damn it," Finn muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. He could feel the throb of the blow he"d taken earlier, a reminder of how close danger was. They were always one step behind, reacting instead of preventing.

"Did you see anyone?" Amelia asked, her gaze scanning the room as if she might find the answer etched into the ornate cornices.

"Nothing," he admitted with frustration, the word tasting bitter.

"Then we have to assume the killer is watching us." Amelia stood, her movements hinting at restrained anger. "They"re mocking us, Finn. Killing right under our noses."

Finn nodded, his jaw set. "Let"s secure the scene, get statements from everyone here. Someone must have seen something."

"Right." Amelia"s eyes narrowed as she began issuing orders to the responding officers who were now flooding the scene.

Finn"s heart clenched like a vise as he gazed down at Clara"s lifeless form, the weight of guilt settling heavy on his shoulders. He saw her peaceful face, robbed of life too soon by a cruel twist of fate. The image seared into his mind, a stark reminder of the dangers lurking in the shadows they chased.

Amelia, ever perceptive to his inner turmoil, placed a comforting hand on Finn"s shoulder. Her touch was a lifeline in the darkness that threatened to consume him. "It will be okay, Finn," she murmured softly, her voice a beacon of solace amidst the chaos.

Finn"s jaw tightened, his gaze steely as he met Amelia"s understanding eyes. "Nothing will be okay until Vilne is stopped once and for all," he declared with unwavering determination. The specter of Vilne loomed large in his mind, a malevolent force that needed to be eradicated to bring justice to those who had fallen.

Amelia squeezed his hand reassuringly before straightening up. "We need to search Clara Redwood"s home for any clues," she suggested, her mind already racing ahead to the next lead in their relentless pursuit of truth.

Finn nodded grimly, the resolve hardening in his expression. "That"s about all that"s left to us now," he agreed, steeling himself for what might lie ahead.