Chapter 4 - The Floorboard Beneath the Safe
Inspector Vance took the small key from the child’s trembling palm. His face softened for a fraction of a second before turning back into slate. He handed Arthur over to his partner. “Put him in car two. Read him his cautions again. Make sure he understands every single word.”
Arthur was dragged through the front door, his protests drowning in the cold mid-morning wind that rustled through the oak trees lining the drive.
Clara remained in the foyer, her hand resting on the banister just above where Lily sat. Julianna followed them slowly out of the living room, hovering in the archway like an uninvited spectator at an autopsy.
“I didn't know,” Julianna whispered, tears finally breaking past her mascara. “Clara, I swear on my mother’s grave, I knew nothing about any of this. He told me you were troubled… that you walked into the sea.”
Clara glanced at the younger woman. “I know you didn’t know, Julianna. Arthur only marries women who are wealthy enough to make him feel important, and naive enough not to audit the joint accounts.”
Julianna flinched as if slapped.
Vance walked down the corridor toward Arthur’s private study, boots heavy on the oak planks. Clara followed, holding Lily’s hand tightly in her own. The child didn’t resist; her small fingers clung to Clara’s leather glove as if it were the only anchor left in the house.
The study smelled of expensive tobacco and cedar. Behind the heavy mahogany desk, Vance knelt before the Persian runner, kicking it back with the toe of his boot. Beneath it lay the compact steel safe Arthur had installed three months after Clara’s supposed death. But it wasn't the safe Vance examined.
Lily pointed a small finger at the skirting board behind the safe. “There’s a loose tongue-and-groove joint,” she said, her voice barely louder than a breath. “I saw him hide the metal box when he thought I was asleep last winter.”
Vance slid his penknife into the narrow seam. With a sharp crack, a twelve-inch section of pine popped free, revealing a dark hollow beneath the subfloor.
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Inside lay a rusted tin cash box. Vance pulled on a pair of latex gloves and lifted it out. The lock had been pried open years ago; it opened with a dull rattle.
On top lay Clara’s old UK passport, stamped and valid. Beneath it sat three cashier's checks drawn from an offshore branch in Jersey—and an audio cassette labeled with masking tape in faded black marker: Dover Cliff - Dec 14.
