Harp's Manor

INSTALLMENT XXIV

August 18, 1928

Before I begin this installment, there is something I'd like everyone to know: on this day (the day that you are reading this), August 18, eight years ago, the Nineteenth Amendment was ratified and passed into law. It has been eight years that women have been allowed to vote, and we have never been stronger. On the other hand, only eight years! How deplorable is it that women have only been allowed to have their voices heard for eight years? It's simply ridiculous; this should have happened hundreds of years ago, if you ask me.

Now that I have that out of the way, I may begin this installment. First and foremost: the detective has gotten back to us with his findings, or rather lack of them. After analyzing the events, he apparently cannot even confirm that the assassin lives at Harp's Manor. His doubts stem from the attack in May, where everyone was accounted for. According to him, nobody seems particularly suspicious, and the lack of physical evidence, besides the bowling ball, leaves no traceable leads. He even went so far as to suggest that the events might be uncorrelated, and plotted by different people, or even- I shudder with rage at this last thought- that they were accidents! A pipe bomb in a glass vase, and accident! He is just lazy and doesn't want to do his job; or, he doesn't care for the safety of Audrey, which is also extremely plausible. Either way, calling in the police detective was a waste of time, and we turned to our next option: a private investigator.

We have not called in the man yet, as we are waiting for Audrey's return to do that, but he has agreed to help us. His name is Ignatius Cromwell, and he's supposed to be the best there is in the country. You may recognize his name from the case a few years back, when he identified and prevented the Axeman of New Orleans from claiming more victims. If he was able to solve that case, I hope that he will have no difficulty in unraveling ours.

This week was much brighter than the last, and Mr. Forrest and I were able to finish up our paintings near the palm tree. "Why did you bother waiting so long to finish this?" I asked as he pulled out his old painting. "You could have done so any time during the week without me. I wouldn't have minded."

"I had plenty of other work to tide me over until now. Besides, if I had gone ahead without you, what would I have painted while you finished up that brick wall of yours?"

"You could have painted the wall too, I suppose."

"I wouldn't dare. Your brick wall would be certain to outshine mine. Come to think of it, such a lovely piece deserves a name. What shall you call this one, Side of House?"

I did, as a matter of fact. It looks much nicer than Mossy Barn, if I do say so myself. I decided to prop it up in my window, as a sort of joke. Now if you stand out in the courtyard and stare at the second-floor window, it appears to have a brick wall behind it. The illusion is really only possible because of the distance; if the viewer was any closer, they would quickly realize the bricks to be a painting, and a juvenile painting at that. This way, Mr. Lambert won't be snapping any more ghostly pictures of me, at least.

I finally retrieved my painting from the billiards room. I know that there was barely any point to doing so now; but I thought it would be nice to have all my paintings together in one place. As I entered the room, I discovered Mr. Stenhouse, who was gazing at it silently and smoking a cigar. The air around him was thick with puffy trails of smoke, which were slowly snaking through the air and spreading throughout the room. I hesitated; he looked lost in thought. I didn't want to disturb him. There is something about Mr. Stenhouse that chills my bones. He is not commanding in the sense that Mr. Lambert is, nor is he imposing in the way that Miss Jacobs is; yet he still holds a certain aura about him that demands respect. The scar across his lip has not helped bring emotion to his face; rather, it seems to only confirm it is chiseled from stone.