Chapter 5: What Cordelia Knew
The adjournment lasted four days.
Marlowe spent the first evening at her kitchen table with a cup of tea that went cold while Sable walked her through what came next.
The district attorney's referral meant the property transfer was now under criminal review.
The divorce proceedings were paused pending that review.
Garrick's team would almost certainly try to negotiate.
"He'll come back with an offer," Sable said.
"Something that looks generous on the surface."
"And underneath?"
"Conditions.
Silence clauses.
A requirement that you withdraw the supplementary filing."
Marlowe wrapped both hands around the cold cup.
"He said I'd regret it."
"He did."
"What does that mean, practically?"
Sable was quiet for a moment.
"It means watch your surroundings.
Don't meet with anyone connected to him without me present.
And if Cordelia contacts you—"
"She won't."
"She might.
She separated herself from the holding company very publicly in that courtroom.
That tells me she's already thinking about her own position."
Marlowe looked at the window.
Outside, the street was quiet and dark.
"She knew," Marlowe said.
"About Veltrane.
About Delphine.
About all of it."
"Can you prove that?"
"Not yet."
Sable closed her folder.
"Then that's what we work on next."
---
The call came on the third day.
Not from Cordelia.
From a woman named Frances Holt — Cordelia's personal assistant of twelve years.
Marlowe almost didn't answer.
She didn't recognize the number.
"Mrs.
Ashby," the woman said.
She used Marlowe's maiden name, which Marlowe had not yet legally restored.
"I'm sorry to call like this.
I got your number from the court filing.
I hope that's all right."
"Who is this?"
"My name is Frances.
I work for Cordelia Sterling." A pause.
"Worked.
Past tense, as of yesterday morning."
Marlowe sat down.
"She let you go?"
"She did.
After twenty-three years with the family." Frances's voice was even, but something underneath it was not.
"She said she was restructuring her household staff.
But I think we both know what that means."
"Why are you calling me, Frances?"
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"Because I've been in that house for a long time," Frances said.
"And I've seen things I should have said something about years ago.
I didn't, because I needed my position.
I'm not proud of that." Her voice steadied.
"But I don't have a position anymore.
So."
Marlowe's grip on the phone tightened.
"What did you see?"
"I need to meet in person," Frances said.
"Not over the phone."
They met the following morning at a small café two neighborhoods from Cordelia's house.
Frances arrived first.
She was a small woman in her sixties, with careful posture and the look of someone who had spent decades being invisible in a room so she could hear everything.
She had a folder with her.
She set it on the table between them without preamble.
"Cordelia knew about Veltrane before it was filed," Frances said.
"She was in the room when Garrick and Delphine discussed it.
I was serving tea.
They didn't ask me to leave." She looked at the folder.
"I kept notes.
I've kept notes for years.
I didn't know I'd ever use them."
Marlowe opened the folder.
The first page was a handwritten log.
Dates.
Times.
Locations.
Short, precise descriptions of conversations Frances had witnessed.
One entry — dated ten months ago — read: *G and D discussed Veltrane structure in the east sitting room.
C present.
C asked: "Is Marlowe's name anywhere on this?" G said no.
C said: "Good.
Keep it that way."*
Marlowe read it twice.
"She asked him specifically," Marlowe said.
"Whether my name was on it."
"Yes."
"That means she knew it was a transfer of marital property."
Frances nodded.
"She didn't just know.
She asked him to make sure you were excluded."
Marlowe closed the folder carefully.
She looked at Frances across the table.
"Why did she let you go?" Marlowe asked.
"The real reason."
Frances was quiet for a moment.
"Because she found my notes," she said.
"Not all of them.
But enough.
She saw her name in my handwriting next to a date she recognized." She looked down at her tea.
"She didn't ask what I'd written.
She just told me to pack my things."
"Which means she knows you have this."
"Yes."
"And she knows you might use it."
"I imagine so."
Marlowe looked at the folder again.
"Frances.
If this goes to court — if I submit this as evidence — you'll be called to testify.
Cordelia's attorneys will come after your credibility.
They'll say you fabricated these notes out of resentment."
Frances met her eyes.
"I know."
"Are you prepared for that?"
Frances picked up her tea.
"Mrs.
Ashby," she said.
"I gave that family twenty-three years.
I was quiet when I should have spoken.
I watched them treat you like a problem to be managed, from the day Garrick brought you home." She set the cup down.
"I'm seventy-one years old.
I'm not afraid of their attorneys."
May you like
Marlowe held her gaze for a long moment.
Then she picked up her phone and called Sable.
