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Clara walked into the bank where her husband had died just half a year ago. She carried with her the safe deposit box that she swore she would return. The building still seemed to have the same omnipotence, the same sense of foreboding, even more so than when she was last here.
The men in the bank were busy, counting upon their great adding machines. The receptionist was not at his desk, but she did not wait for him to return. Instead, she marched straight to the desk of George, the banker who had been so kind as to help her before. But the moment he saw her, his face turned white.
"Mrs... Mrs. O'Hare! I did not expect to see you here today!"
"And why is that?" she asked, struck by the fear upon his face.
"Well, of course, well, you know. The death of Lady Beltza. I know that you two were close. I just... I heard..." He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and the paused to wipe the lenses of his glasses. "I just did not expect to see you. In fact..." He took Clara's arm and steered her to a doorframe out of the line of sight from the main floor. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I don't know if anyone should see you here."
Clara handed him the box. "Please, George, I wish you no harm. I merely came to return the safe deposit box."
"Her son... he was here. He was looking for this box. Oh, I am in such trouble!"
"Did you say what became of it?"
"I had to! I had to tell him that you came with direct orders from Lady Beltza to retrieve the box. I showed him her signature and explicit instructions. Oh, Mrs. O'Hare, I was sure he was going to have my job..."
She gulped, suddenly strangely afraid that Trevor was still interested in the box and that he knew she had it in her possession.
"You did what you had to do, George. Don't ever forget that. I am here to return the box after such a horrific incident. I had hoped to deliver it to Lady Beltza, but alas..." She let her voice trail off, as if grieving for the fact she had failed such a woman. She even lifted her handkerchief to the corner of her eye to show her sorrow.
"There, there, Mrs. O'Hare. I am sure that you did everything in your power. Now, you must away. I was told not to speak with you if you returned..."
"Not to speak with me?" she asked sharply. "Why? My husband worked here to his dying breath!"
"And that is why I am speaking with you now, but please, if you can find it in your heart to take pity upon me, to think about my family and what will happen if I lose my position..."
"Of course," she said. "Of course, I am being quite selfish." She handed over the box to George as a gesture of goodwill.
George mopped his brow gratefully and took it, the relief clearly upon his face.
"Oh!" she said, as if just remembering. "I found this scrap of paper in Mr. O'Hare's things and I was wondering if this was the same stationary you use here at the bank? I thought it rather lovely and would like to acquire some more for myself." She held out Thomas's note, but made sure to fold it so that George only saw the blank side. "It has a rather fetching watermark."
George's face paled even more. "Oh no. No. That is none of ours. I recognize it though from the Nero family's law firm, though. All of their legal correspondence came from there."
"So very kind of you, George," Clara murmured, as if saddened by the reminder that the Nero family had passed, instead of the fact that she had reached a proverbial dead end. "I had no idea. Do you have any idea which stationer might sell it?"
He leaned forward, his voice in a low conspiring tone. "There is a stationer at the waterfront. McDillions and Fellstein. But please, be cautious if you go there. I only tell you because of your husband..." He swallowed. "Now, if you would please, Mrs. O'Hare. I must get back to my desk before anyone notices that I am gone."
"Of course," Clara said. "And thank you so much for your trouble, George."
"No trouble! No trouble at all," he lied, mopping his brow. "But if you would, please. I must be going. Please."
She gave him a smile and walked out. So the paper was linked to Peter Nero. What had he sent that her husband would choose to pick that scrap to write his final note? There was only one other place which had access to the paper—the law offices of Horace Oroberg's solicitor and the creator of the deed to her house.
Perhaps a visit to McDillions and Fellstein stationers would reveal other clients, she thought.