Minerva Biggs 04 - The Guest Is History by Cordelia Rook

Author:Cordelia Rook [Rook, Cordelia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-03-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Nothing about the family legend suggested that anybody had been anything short of thoroughly fooled by Tilly’s ruse. There was never so much as a whisper, as far as I could find, that she’d been an imposter. And if the other attendees of the midsummer party all thought she was Edith, their motives, means, and opportunities for her murder remained the same. A jealous wife whose husband she’d had a fling with. An angry husband whose advances she’d rejected. Somebody who just didn’t like her (which, by the sound of it, was pretty much everybody).

But the mysterious stranger was another matter. If Edith was actually Tilly, it seemed to me that he became a lot less mysterious. Not that I knew his name or anything—but I was fairly certain I could list his occupation as blackmailer.

Given the theft, it made sense. Roderick’s fortune had been modest in comparison to his Uncle Alistair’s. Tilly probably didn’t own anything as valuable as the jewelry she stole. So why settle for the smaller prize, when you might be able to force Tilly to access the larger one for you?

Maybe it was here in Bryd Hollow that the blackmailer had discovered Tilly, or maybe he’d followed her here. Either way, he was seen approaching her at night, making his demand. So Tilly brought him the jewelry, hoping it would be enough.

It wasn’t. She knew he would never let her go. The meeting got confrontational. There was a struggle. Maybe Tilly even tried a little witchcraft—she was wearing the focus, after all. Wasn’t that supposed to help her cast spells?

If so, it didn’t work. Tilly ended up dead.

Or better yet, considering the location of the head trauma, maybe there was no struggle at all. Maybe the blackmailer took his payment, thanked her very much, then as soon as she turned away, knocked her on the head and killed her. Maybe so he could never be identified. That seemed to have worked; he never had been. Edith—Tilly—was conveniently blamed for the theft, and off he went.

Or maybe he just killed her because he didn’t like her, and wanted her dead in addition to wanting to be paid. According to Autumn, Tilly was, as Percy was so fond of putting it, an evil wizard. That didn’t need to actually be true. The killer just needed to believe it was true.

And there was evidence, for the evil part anyway: she’d killed Edith. Maybe he found out, and killed her for revenge. Or simple justice.

Or maybe Edith wasn’t the only one she’d killed. Maybe the blackmailer was whomever she’d been running from when she shed her identity the first time. Maybe he caught up with her at last.

That was a whole lot of maybes. As ever, the frustrating truth was that I could tell myself any story that caught my fancy, and declare the case closed any time I wanted. But I’d probably never really know what happened to Tilly Mistmantle. Or to Edith Baird, for that matter. All I had was conjecture.

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