Free Nobody's Secret by Michaela MacColl

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    A few minutes later, she was walking rapidly up the hill toward the Common, swinging a covered oil lamp. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she glanced over her shoulder. There was no one there. Not for the first time, Emily noticed that the knowledge that you were misbehaving played tricks on your mind.
    She was surprised to see the windows of the Amherst House Hotel were brightly lit, and the noise of men laughing and talking spilled out onto the Common. From the sound of it, the tavern was doing a fine business on a Tuesday night.
    Edward Dickinson’s law office was on the second floor of a brick building on the street adjacent to the hotel. Keeping to the shadows, she was grateful that the town had not yet lit the Common with gaslights. The darkness preserved her reputation. She cringed to think of her father’s reaction if he knew what she was doing. All the more reason to do it now before he came home.
    Looking around carefully, Emily dug in her skirt pocket for the heavy iron key and opened the door. One last glance around to be sure she wasn’t seen, and she was inside the vestibule and climbing the stairs.
    Emily unlocked the door and held the unshielded lantern high to take a good look at the main room. It was familiar to her, but in the dark it took on an eerie air.
    Her father had a private office, but Mr. Ripley’s desk was out here, as were the files. Last summer when Mr. Ripley had been ill, Emily had helped her father with the filing for a month. She knew her father’s byzantine system backward and forward. Armed with the name “Wentworth,” she was sure she could find what she needed.
    On the right were files related to litigation: cases that would go to court, both criminal and civil. Mr. Nobody had spoken of accounts that needed settling—perhaps he meant before a judge? She started there, with the W s. Nothing.
    On the far wall was a cabinet in which wills were kept. These, she thought, had possibilities. Her persistence was rewarded with a thin folder marked Wentworth.
    She brought it to Mr. Ripley’s desk and positioned the lamp so she could read. Her fingertips hovered above the folder—what would her father think of her looking at confidential files? She was invading Mr. Wentworth’s privacy in a way she herself would find intolerable. Then she recalled the dab of honey on her nose, and she opened the file.
    The will didn’t belong to the beekeeper, Samuel Wentworth, at all. It was the last will and testament of another man: Jeremiah Wentworth, Deceased. She checked his date of birth; he had been an old man when he died. She remembered Mr. Nobody’s handkerchief marked “JW”—was there a link between him and Jeremiah, Deceased.
    The will was dated seven years earlier and had been drafted by her father—she recognized his copperplate printing. The will was brief: If Jeremiah should die, he left small bequests to his brother, Sam, and to his sister, Violet Langston.
    Sam Wentworth was the beekeeper. “Violet Langston,” Emily murmured. “Who lives on College Street, here in town.” She smiled to herself; Violet’s name opened up a new avenue of investigation.
    The bulk of Jeremiah’s estate went to his son, James. There was a list of properties and investments that made Emily raise her eyebrows. Jeremiah had been a very rich man. According to his death certificate, he had died the previous Christmas.
    The next page in the file was a codicil. Emily smiled, remembering how she had once asked her father what a “codicil” was—she had loved the round sound of the word. He had explained it was a document added to a will after it was written. She frowned; she knew it should always be attached to the will, not lying loose in the file.
    This codicil was written in Mr. Ripley’s hand, which was not nearly as elegant as her father’s. It amended the will to eliminate James as the primary heir because he had died before his father. It was dated the previous November,