There was no police tape stretched across the entrance, nothing to prevent a person going in if they had a way to do so. Miles was as good as his word and said he’d wait for me downstairs. “Unless you need me?”
“No.” He looked very relieved. I was also relieved. I didn’t want him with me for this bit of snooping.
A quick glance up and down showed the corridor still empty.
I flexed my fingers like a thief or a piano player, even though I’d be using my magic and not my fingers. I wished for Margaret Twigg, my witch mentor, but we’d been practicing a lot of spells lately, and I’d managed to both lock and unlock my own flat, car and shop. This shouldn’t be too difficult.
What was hampering me was feeling that this was wrong. I had to get past it.
I breathed in slowly, then out. Felt the crackling negative energy begin to recede.
To open this lock let my wish be the key.
So I will, so mote it be.
I turned the door handle, and a bit to my surprise, it opened. I almost wondered if had been locked at all. Of course, brilliant detective that I was, I’d never even turned the knob before attempting to open the door by magic.
I slipped inside and shut the door behind me, locking it by mechanical means rather than magical. Then I stood inside her room, my back to the door. I was immediately struck by the wrongness of her death. She’d had no warning, no time to prepare, and the sense of a young life cut off was apparent from her to-do list hanging on a bulletin board above the desk in her room.
I could see where her laptop had been. There were cords leading nowhere and the rectangular spot where her laptop had obviously sat. No doubt the police had the computer. Likewise, her trash can was empty. The police had gone through it, perhaps even taken the contents away.
What was left was just sad. I studied the list of tasks she would never complete. I read them and then snapped a picture with my phone.
She’d planned to attend an art premiere in London next week. I wondered whether that was for her coursework or for personal enjoyment.
There was a paper on Renaissance Perspective she’d never hand in.
The most interesting thing on the corkboard, however, was an article about the three missing paintings stolen from the college. Could Rafe be right? Was it possible that she was somehow involved in art theft?
Having snuck into her dorm room without permission, I had no compunction in going through the drawers of her desk. The police had already been through them and, I suspected, had taken most of the contents.
I found a few catalogs of art shows. I flipped through them, finding inventories for art shows and auctions that had already taken place. Stuffed into the middle of them, something that had obviously been overlooked by the police, was an envelope she’d used as a bookmark. Inside the envelope was her investment account statement, and the amount invested was eye-popping. Confirming, once again, that Pamela had not needed money.
I went through the rest of the room swiftly. Her bathroom contained high-end cosmetics as I would’ve expected, and her wardrobe contained exactly the kind of casual clothes that cost an absolute fortune, similar to what she’d worn the first time she came into my shop.
I reached in and touched a silk blouse that was hanging. I said, “I’m sorry you met such a terrible end, Pamela. We had our differences, but if I can, I will find who ended your life. Travel safe. Blessed be.”
I stood there for a moment, breathing her scent. Her clothes were ruthlessly well organized, like the battle dress they were. I reached for a stack of scarves and chose a black cashmere that held her scent. It was too bulky to push into my pocket, so I counted on Miles being as unobservant as most guys about fashion and looped it around my neck.
Having spoken those thoughts aloud, I felt calmer, clearer, and when I was once again in the corridor, locking her door behind me, the energy didn’t feel quite so angry and jangled.
Chapter 13
Miles arrived just before ten the next morning for our trip to visit Alex. I wore jeans and a beautiful, periwinkle-blue sweater that Christopher Weaver had knit for me. I kept my hair simple, tied back and out of the way. We loaded up my little red car and headed to the manor house. Luckily, Miles had been there before and knew where it was, because I’d only been with William that one time and I didn’t think I could have found it again on my own. And I really doubted that Sir Hugo Percival Brown’s house was something you could look up on Google Maps.
As we drove out, Miles told me that he was having second thoughts about being part of the Gargoyles. “It sounded like good fun when I was first invited, but I don’t think my liver can take much more of this.” He sent me a sidelong glance. “Not to mention it’s a bit sordid, being involved with a murder.”
I completely understood how he felt. “These clubs seem so archaic and outdated to me. Do they really do you any good?”
“You wait and see, Lucy. The same drunken louts who were sitting around that dinner table the other night will run this country in a few years. According to my father, it’s well worth belonging.” Then he said in a posh, older man voice that was no doubt meant to imitate his father, “You cannot overestimate the importance of connections in business. Vital, son, vital.”
I was trying to keep my eyes on the road, but still I turned to look at
