Her pencil paused above the last line.
C2 | — | — | 20-14 | Missing Volume
Missing volume was not a librarian’s complaint. It was a gap. A deliberate absence. And her father’s hand looked like his, yet smaller, more compressed than usual, as if he had written quickly, or under a watchful eye.
That, more than the code itself, made Eleanor fold the page once and slip it beneath a stack of correspondence as though doing so could quiet the unease it had roused.
She returned to sorting. She told herself she was being sensible. But her mind kept circling the neat little pairs of numbers and the cold finality of the notes column.
A light tap at the door startled her, and her fingers tightened around a bundle of letters.
“Miss?” called the housekeeper.
Eleanor composed her face before she answered. “Yes, Mrs. Finch?”
“Shall I bring the tea in, or are you coming out?”
“I will come,” Eleanor said, and rose too quickly. She gathered the stacks she meant to move to the drawing room, then at the last moment, she slid the catalogue sheet into a slim volume on the desk, and set it near the bottom of a pile. The paper rasped softly as it disappeared between pages, the sound absurdly loud in a room that had once belonged to certainty.
Her fingertips lingered on the book’s worn leather, as if she could feel her father’s presence through it. The act was instinct more than strategy. A lifelong reader’s reflex to hide what mattered inside what looked harmless.
She did not trust her pocket. She did not trust the room. And, uneasily, she did not trust how quickly her mind had begun to expect footsteps where none should be.
As she left, she glanced back at the window, and the hairs at the nape of her neck prickled.
She found no answers—only the lingering scent of tobacco and the uneasy knowledge that her father had left her something he had not dared name outright.
Her mind puzzled over the discovery as she took tea in the drawing room, and when mother excused herself, Eleanor returned to the library to prepare for her coming meeting. She did not wait long, Mr. Pritchard arrived with punctuality.
He paused at the threshold of the study as if paying respect, then entered with the careful confidence of a man who believed he had a right to any room that contained documents.
“Miss Hargrove,” he began, bowing his head. “Permit me to express my sincerest condolences.”
Eleanor inclined her head and gestured to the chair opposite.
The morning’s sorting still dominated the desk. A plate of shortbread sat beside the correspondence. Pritchard’s eyes flicked to it, and Eleanor noted the glance with mild disdain. He had the air of a man who measured households by what they could provide.
He produced a portfolio and spread it neatly on the desk. “Your mother is…?”
“In the conservatory,” Eleanor said. “The camellias required intervention.”
“Very good.” He opened his case. “I thought we might review the formalities before the reading.”
He reviewed the will. There were no surprises, save for the repeated insistence that the library remain intact to the last volume, and the household accounts, where he traced each entry as though searching for a threat.
Through it all, Eleanor watched his hands. Too smooth. Too pale. Nails too well kept for a man who claimed to spend his days wrestling estates into order.
Only when the papers were aligned into tidy certainty did he glance toward her piles. “Sorting, Miss Hargrove?”
“It has grown untidy in his absence,” she said lightly. “I should like my mother spared the sight of it.”
“A wise instinct,” Pritchard said. “Your mother cannot bear disorder or business.”
“It is a labor of love, Mr. Pritchard.”
His smile thinned. “I hate to trouble you,” he said, “but among the late Mr. Hargrove’s effects, were there any… unusual correspondences?”
“Unusual?” she prompted, keeping her tone mild.
