The Founder’s Light secrets are finally revealed

Welcome back to “The Havenford Mysteries” series by local author R.A. Coscia. The final installment of “The Holiday Heirloom” is called “The Light Found."

“The Founder’s Light my family has been displaying for generations is a fake,” Aunt Mae repeats. “Harlan Pike is an expert in antiques, and I trust his word.”

Eleanor Whitcombe, Hannah McMahan and I all stare at Aunt Mae, our mouths agape. None of us can find the words to respond.

“Harlan wants me to come to his workshop so he can explain,” Aunt Mae says. “Do you all want to come with me and see for yourselves?” Her eyebrows lift nearly to her hairline, her annoyance at our silence obvious.

Ten minutes later we are piled into my car, to-go cups of espresso in each of our hands. “We’re going to need something strong for this trip,” Aunt Mae says as she starts brewing.

The restoration shop sits at the edge of town, too far to walk but only a short drive. Harlan Pike turned his old family bank barn into his workshop years ago. The basement is where he does his restoration work; and the upper level is a beautifully curated antique shop. In a small shed farther off sits a blacksmith forge, where he creates and restores metal objects.

We find Harlan downstairs in his office, the two broken pieces of the fake Founder’s Light resting on his desk.

“I wasn’t expecting such an audience,” Harlan says as he pulls two extra chairs into the room. “But I’m pleased to see some of my favorite people all together.” He smiles at Hannah and Eleanor.

“We were in the coffee shop when you called,” Eleanor explains. “How could we miss out on hearing this directly from the source?”

“And I never miss a chance to learn more about our town’s history,” Hannah says.

An uncomfortable stretch of silence follows. We all stare at Harlan, waiting. He remains focused on the broken pieces in front of him. I clear my throat gently.

“Right,” he says at last. “Ms. Mae, I understand you were in shock when you picked these up, but upon inspection it’s quite clear that this isn’t even metal.” He lifts the pieces and shows us the interior. The inside is hollow and terracotta colored.

 Eleanor and Hannah gasp. I’m still trying to understand.

“Harlan,” I say, “can you explain exactly what we’re looking at?”

“This candlestick is made from clay,” he replies. “Then it was painted with multiple layers of brass-colored paint. There’s no metal at all.” He sets the pieces down and folds his hands beneath his chin. “But that isn’t the most telling part.”

“It isn’t?” Aunt Mae asks.

“No. Look here.” He turns the base toward us. “What do you see?”

“Nothing,” I say. I glance at Eleanor and Hannah, both staring intently. “Am I missing something?”

“The Whitcombes had a calling card they impressed on their family objects,” Harlan explains.

Eleanor nods.

“A honeycomb,” I whisper, remembering the old photograph of the first joint candlelighting.

“Exactly. And the absence of it tells us everything. This never was the original Founder’s Light.” Harlan begins wrapping the pieces carefully. “Ms. Mae, this has no value and isn’t worth restoring. I am sorry, but this may be the end of the Founder’s Light legend.”

We drive back to the coffee shop in silence. Aunt Mae cradles the broken pieces in her lap. As we pull into a parking spot, Hannah finally speaks.

“There has to be a reason a fake was made,” she says. “If we work together, maybe we can uncover it. Let’s start at the museum.”

“Can we keep the shop closed a little longer?” I ask Aunt Mae.

She nods, a faint smile forming.

“Cora,” Hannah says before I can back out, “can you grab that torn note you found earlier?”

We head into the museum basement, bright and lined with metal tables covered in binders, letters and documents.

“I told you I’d been reading Margaret Whitcombe’s letters,” Hannah says. “I didn’t finish them all. Maybe something’s in here.” She looks so hopeful, eager to find something new. She hands out gloves. “Paper this old deserves care.”

An hour passes with no luck. Just as I’m about to suggest we give up, Eleanor jumps up.

“I found something!”

She holds an envelope labeled “Incomplete/Illegible Letters.” Hannah takes the envelope and gently spreads the contents on the table. I retrieve my partial note and compare the fragments, looking for a puzzle piece match.

In the center of the pile, I find the match. I lay them together and read aloud:

“My dearest Lydia. I am sure by now you have heard the news regarding the Great War. It breaks my heart to know that man must fight man in pursuit of a greater mission he scarcely understands. I fear for the state of our town and our country. This may seem trivial in comparison, but I believe we must hide our most precious items. When it comes to you and me, I know you understand which item I mean. I have asked my cousin to create a replacement to be used until a better time comes. The Light, it’s too precious. Keep it hidden until peace returns — M.”

Hannah exhales slowly. “So at the onset of World War I, Margaret wrote a letter asking Lydia to hide the Founder’s Light and informed her a replica would be created for display.”

“But the war ended,” Aunt Mae says quietly. “Why didn’t she bring it back?”

My heart sinks. “When did World War I end?” I ask.

“Nov. 11, 1918,” Hannah replies without hesitation.

“The Light was never taken out of hiding because Lydia Wren died in September 1918 during a Spanish flu outbreak. She never saw the end of the war.”

We all fall silent. If Margaret Whitcombe did not find the real Founder’s Light after Lydia’s death, neither would we.

“Let’s all go back to the shop for some tea,” Aunt Mae hangs her head, turning to exit the museum.

Back at the shop, the sign stays flipped to “Closed.” We sit by the fire nursing mugs of chamomile.

“I thought we were going to be like Nancy Drew and crack this case wide open,” Eleanor says.

We laugh softly.

Beans pads into the room, clearly eager to try every single lap she can.

As Beans steps near the hearth, I notice one of the floorboards beneath her paws is darker than the others. It gives slightly under her weight. My breath catches.

I crouch down and try to pry up the board, but it fits too perfectly, my fingers unable to find purchase.

“Aunt Mae, can you bring me a screwdriver?”

By now all the women are watching me. Beans is perched on Hannah’s lap, observing as if she knows exactly what is about to happen.

I reach behind for the screwdriver Aunt Mae hands me. It takes only a little pressure before the board releases.

Everyone moves closer.

We are awestruck as I pull out an aged wooden box, a honeycomb engraved into its lid.

“Open it,” Eleanor urges.

The top removes easily, and I am staring at the original Founder’s Light — tarnished with age, heavy and bearing a prominent honeycomb engraved into its surface. It appears to glow from within. I slowly remove the Light from the box. The metal is cool at first, then slowly warms beneath my palms. A note rests at the bottom of the box.

“Peace has arrived. Let the light shine.”

We all beam at each other as I place the Founder’s Light on the coffee table.

“It was under the shop for all these years!” Aunt Mae exclaims. “And to think, if Beans had not broken the fake, we would never have known the truth we were still hiding.”

We turn to admire the Light just as Beans jumps on the table and bumps into it.

“Beans no!” We all yell in unison.

Aunt Mae and Eleanor grab the Founder’s Light at the same time, their eyes meeting.

“I think it’s time for an official display case to keep this safe,” Aunt Mae laughs, and the sound settles the room. The Founder’s Light rests safely between her and Eleanor, no longer a secret, no longer hidden.

“It survived war, loss and time,” Hannah says quietly. “I think it found exactly where it was meant to be.”

I look around, at my aunt, our new friends, the shop, the cat grooming herself as if she hadn’t nearly caused another catastrophe, and I realize Havenford is a town built on small moments like this — not perfection, but care, not legends, but people willing to protect what matters.

Outside, snow begins to fall, soft and steady. Inside, the Light waits to shine again.

A note from the author: I hope you have all loved these first few mysteries from Havenford. I would love to hear your thoughts and feedback. Feel free to email me at r.a.coscia.fiction@gmail.com.