Chapter Five: Beneath the Silent Bell

Saint Orison Monastery had been abandoned for almost fifty years.

It stood on the edge of the northern cliffs, overlooking a violent gray sea.

Wind tore through broken windows. Snow gathered inside the roofless chapel.

Eleanor and Thomas arrived at dawn on Christmas Eve.

They carried the cello between them.

The silent bell hung in a ruined tower above the chapel.

Its rope had rotted away decades earlier.

Beneath it, hidden behind loose stones, they found an iron door.

The brass key opened the lock.

A staircase descended into darkness.

At the bottom lay a narrow room warmed by a small stove.

A half-eaten piece of bread sat on a table.

Someone had been there recently.

Thomas saw the violin strings hanging from the wall.

Then he heard footsteps.

A thin man appeared in the doorway.

His hair was gray. A scar crossed one side of his face. He leaned heavily on a wooden cane.

Eleanor stared at him.

Time had changed almost everything.

But not his eyes.

“James?”

The man stopped breathing.

The cane slipped from his hand.

“Eleanor.”

She crossed the room and struck him across the face.

The sound echoed against the stone walls.

James did not defend himself.

“You let me bury you.”

“I know.”

“You let me mourn you for fifteen years.”

“I know.”

“You had a son.”

James looked at Thomas.

His entire body trembled.

“Clara told me he died.”

Thomas’s face hardened.

“My mother said you abandoned us.”

James closed his eyes.

“Then Vane made certain we would all hate the wrong people.”

Eleanor wanted to strike him again.

Instead, she stepped aside.

Thomas and James faced each other.

Neither knew how to cross the distance between them.

Finally, James noticed the cello.

“You kept it.”

“Mum did.”

“Where is she?”

Thomas looked toward the stone floor.

“They killed her.”

James’s knees buckled.

He sank into a chair.

For several seconds, only the sea could be heard crashing beyond the walls.

Then James removed a chain from beneath his shirt.

A second key hung from it.

“The evidence in the cello proves the conspiracy existed,” he said. “But it is not enough to destroy Vane. He owns judges, newspapers, and police officials.”

“What will destroy him?” Eleanor asked.

“His own voice.”

James opened a metal case.

Inside were dozens of wax recording cylinders.

“For years, I pretended captivity had broken me. Vane used this place to interrogate defectors and couriers. I repaired the old recording system beneath the walls.”

Thomas stared at the cylinders.

“You recorded him?”

“Every confession. Every order. Every murder.”

“Why didn’t you escape?”

James looked at his damaged leg.

“I tried. They broke it. After that, I stayed because leaving without the recordings would have meant Clara and Thomas died for nothing.”

Eleanor’s anger shifted into something more painful.

“You believed Clara and Thomas were already dead.”

“Yes.”

A voice came from the staircase.

“How touching.”

Sir Alistair Vane descended with four armed men.

Edmund followed behind him.

His face was bruised.

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Vane smiled at James.

“You always did have a weakness for dramatic reunions.”