Symphony of Lilacs

22. Ragged Melody

"Why are you questioning me after agreeing to the deal earlier?" I raise a brow.

Edmund sighs,
"I still agree to it, but one must make precautions before jumping off a cliff."

"Do you expect me to be so callous even after all the cases we've solved?"
It takes me a few moments to answer the real question.
"Father denied ever hearing the surname Penrose when there have been money transactions.
As far as I know him, he never forgets such contacts, and Penrose is hardly a common surname."

Edmund shrugs at my answer, as if saying fair enough.
He asks another,
"And do you truly believe Crimley will tell you the truth, lad?"

My head shakes.
"I only expect Crimley to fill in the blanks, not create entire clauses.
You'll woo Father's secretary, while I look into the office's old documents.
If he can't be wooed, then that's more work for me, I suppose."

"The correct documents can lead to full clauses and Crimley can fill the gaps." The creases in Edmund's forehead relax.
"That's why you've started going to the office beforehand."

"You know me too well, Edmund."
I smile, but then consider something for a moment.
"Though, if the secretary is easily wooed, he needs to be dismissed. Weak will and business don't brew well  together."

"And if Crimley's lying?"

"Then he'll find out in sevenfold that Knightleys are not to be lied to."

"This vine looks like a beanstalk, but that could be my eyesight worsening."
The parlour room's window shows Grandmother Penelope waving her cane in the gardens.
She stayed there when Father, Henry and I came back from the office.
While suggesting to accompany them for a few hours, Henry smiled and Father only raised a brow, but said no more.

A few months' worth of Saturdays will have to be sacrificed, but it will be worth it.

Father listens to Belle playing the flute, both sitting by the fireplace.
Belle's fingers flicks on the wrong key, sending a shriek through the melody.

I hide my wince.

"I think a C key comes here, not a K, Belle," Father suggests.

"But won't it be too low then?" Isabelle lowers the flute from her mouth, hands still fidgeting on it.

Father smiles and leans back.
"At least try."

Henry sighs, flipping through the pages of his book.

Folding my arms across my chest, I turn to Mother standing near the walls.
She touches a golden framed portrait of a bouquet of bluebells and lilacs.
"I shall have to call Francatelli to paint another one of these.
This one looks too lonely."