Chapter 23 - A Whisper from Saint Jude’s
The archive of the Sisters of Mercy had long since been moved from Portland to an annex behind the municipal records office in Augusta. It was nearly eight o’clock that evening when Arthur’s contact—a retired parish clerk named Sister Margaret—met us in the drafty basement of the diocesan library.
The shelves smelled of vinegar and crumbling vellum. Sister Margaret, a woman whose skin looked like crumpled linen, brought down a gray archival box labeled *St. Agatha’s Home for Foundlings — 1975–1980.*
"Charles Sterling arrived at the convent gate at three in the morning on October 18th," Sister Margaret said without preamble, her spectacles resting low on the bridge of her nose. "He came in a black town car with the child in the back seat. She had a broken collarbone and severe contusions along her ribs. He paid the Mother Superior twenty thousand dollars in cash—not for her keep, but to ensure that her admission papers were entered under the registry of unbaptized strays."
"And her name?" I asked, my heart thumping against my ribs.
"Sarah Dunn," Sister Margaret read from the yellowed ledger page. "Entered as age six. Hair: dark brown. Eyes: hazel. Scar on the left temple consistent with blunt force impact. The record shows she remained under our care until she reached the age of eighteen."
"Where is she now?" Miles asked. "Did Richard ever come looking for her?"
"Richard Sterling visited the convent once, in 1985," Sister Margaret replied, looking over the rims of her glasses with a look of cold moral clarity. "He offered the Mother Superior a substantial donation to inspect the dormitory logs. Mother Superior had been warned by Charles. She showed Richard an empty room and told him Sarah had died of scarlet fever three winters prior. Richard gave five hundred dollars to the chapel fund and never returned. He wanted her dead. He was happy to accept the word of a nun that she was gone."
"Did she leave Maine?" Arthur asked.
"No," the old nun answered, turning the page. "Sarah Dunn never left Sussex County. That was Charles's final condition. He placed her trust fund under the stewardship of a local legal proxy. When she turned twenty-one, she bought a small holding on the eastern rim of the gorge—the very land that borders Blackwood Manor."
I caught my breath. "The orchard on the ridge? The woman who keeps the honeybees?"
"Her name is Sarah Clement now," Sister Margaret whispered, sliding a recent parish directory across the oak table. "She married a carpenter thirty years ago. Her husband died in the quarry accident twelve years back. She lives alone at the edge of the property line. She watches the chimney smoke from Blackwood Manor every single day of her life."
"She knows," I whispered, the revelation washing over me like ice water. "She has known all along who was living on the other side of the treeline."
"She knows Richard is a coward," Sister Margaret said softly. "Charles told her everything when she came of age. But he warned her that if she ever stepped foot onto the manor drive before Richard died, Richard would burn the estate to the ground and take the insurance overseas. She chose her silence in exchange for peace. But now Richard has no peace left."
I turned to Arthur. "We don't go to the police yet. We go to Sarah first."
"Elena," Miles warned softly. "Your father is cornered. The bank freeze went into full effect at four this afternoon. His phones are shut off. His assets are seized. If he realizes the grave was opened today—"
May you like
"He already knows," Arthur interrupted, glancing at his mobile phone as it vibrated against the desk. "My junior associate just texted me. The cemetery caretaker called the manor house when the sheriff's deputies escorted the coroners out. Richard knows the stones are out of the ground."
"Then he has nothing left to lose," I said. "Which means he is at his most dangerous."
