Bertram loved a bargain, and he *loved* finding a place that other people had overlooked. He considered himself a connoisseur of the forgotten. The old Victorian had been a steal, practically abandoned. The peeling paint, the overgrown garden, the rumors of a troublesome past – perfect. He’d spent a year meticulously restoring it, unearthing the beauty beneath layers of neglect.
A local historian, a busybody with an inflated sense of importance, had approached him at the farmer’s market. “Did you know…” she’d begun, her voice dripping with implication, “that your house was the site of a notorious bank robbery gone wrong?” Bertram had feigned surprise, widening his eyes. He’d already discovered the secret compartment in the library wall, filled with dusty, empty jewel cases.
He took a long sip of his perfectly brewed tea, the afternoon sun warming his face. He’d known, of course. The historian, bless her heart, hadn't a clue about the hidden tunnels he'd discovered under the foundation. He'd even found some interesting bits and bobs in them. He'd also already contacted the historical society to donate the items.