She Sold Paintings on the Street to Survive — Until the Wealthy Merchant’s Offer Shocked Everyone!
Chapter 7
The coastal village was almost deserted.
The harbor smelled of salt, fish, and smoke.
Clara and Nathaniel searched every inn.
On the third evening, an old fisherman approached them.
“You are looking for Blackwell.”
Nathaniel stiffened.
“How do you know?”
“Because men who search for Blackwell always look frightened.”
“We are not frightened.”
The fisherman smiled.
“You should be.”
He pointed toward a ruined warehouse.
“He sleeps there.”
Nathaniel drew his pistol.
Clara stopped him.
“We need him alive.”
They entered.
A single lantern burned near the back wall.
An elderly man sat beside it.
His hair was white.
His face was thin.
But Clara recognized him immediately.
The man in her father’s painting.
Edmund Blackwell.
He looked at her.
Then he whispered:
“Samuel’s daughter.”
Clara stepped forward.
“You knew my father.”
“Yes.”
“Did you kill him?”
Blackwell’s eyes filled with regret.
“No.”
“Did you help those who did?”
“No.”
“Then tell me who did.”
Blackwell looked toward Nathaniel.
“Your father.”
Nathaniel froze.
“What?”
“My partner.”
“Who?”
Blackwell hesitated.
“Thomas Ashford.”
Nathaniel’s father.
The room seemed to tilt.
Blackwell explained.
Thomas Ashford had discovered the theft.
Instead of exposing it, he joined the conspirators.
He planned to steal ships, manipulate grain prices, seize farms from struggling families, and blame the losses on Samuel.
Samuel discovered the scheme.
He threatened to expose them.
That was why he had been marked for death.
“But why did you disappear?” Nathaniel asked.
“Because I tried to stop them.”
Blackwell reached beneath the table.
He produced a ledger.
“This contains every payment.”
Clara opened it.
Names filled the pages.
Harold Bell.
Thomas Ashford.
Several magistrates.
Shipping agents.
Warehouse owners.
And one final name.
Nathaniel Ashford.
Clara stared.
Nathaniel went pale.
“I was seventeen.”
Blackwell nodded.
“They used your name without your knowledge.”
Clara looked at him.
“They wanted you blamed too.”
Nathaniel closed his eyes.
“My father?”
“Dead now.”
“And Bell?”
“Still working for the surviving members.”
Clara turned the pages.
One entry caught her eye.
Samuel Whitmore — silenced.
Her fingers stopped.
There was a date.
The date of her father’s death.
Then another entry beneath it.
Painting recovered.
Clara looked up.
“What painting?”
Blackwell stared at her.
“The one your father hid.”
“The unsigned painting?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
Blackwell smiled sadly.
“You have already seen it.”
Clara’s breath caught.
“The warehouse painting.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“The portrait beneath the church.”
Clara understood.
Edmund Blackwell had not been painted after his death.
The portrait had been painted because Samuel had discovered that Blackwell was alive.
And beneath the portrait was the evidence.
Blackwell leaned forward.
“Your father did not hide the truth in a book.”
“Then where?”
“In the paint.”
