“And what was that?” Rafe asked her silkily.
She twisted a gorgeous ruby ring on her finger, and I immediately knew, either through witch intuition or the good old women’s kind, that Vikram’s grandfather had given her that ring. “Vikram said he went to the bathroom on the night of the dinner. And he overheard an argument.”
Nobody was going to do her the favor of asking who was arguing. We all just looked at her. Still, she let the dramatic pause lengthen and finally said, “It was between Jeremy Pantages and Alexander Percival Brown.”
“About?” Okay, I could only be patient for so long.
“About Pamela. He says they had heated words.”
“Did he recall what those heated words were?” It was Gran this time, pushing her friend to be a bit quicker in relating these stirring events.
“He couldn’t be completely certain. And, although he didn’t want to admit it to me, I suspect he was inebriated. But he confirmed it was a heated exchange, and he believed they were arguing about who should have Pamela.”
Like she was a toy to be fought over. These guys were so entitled, I could hardly stand it. “Who won?”
“It seemed more like a heated exchange than any kind of a resolution was reached.”
“They really do seem immature for their ages. I was surprised Pamela would be interested in Alex. Sure, he’s gorgeous and loaded, but she didn’t need the money.” I thought again about the lengths she’d gone to for Alex. “She must have really wanted that title.”
Rafe put down his knitting so it draped adorably over Nyx, who was curled up in his lap. “What title?”
“The title Alex will inherit when his father dies. That must be what she was after.” That and a lot more millions.
He shook his head. “Hugo Percival Brown has a lifetime peerage. It will die with him.”
I was so shocked, I dropped a stitch. Maybe a couple. Knitting and sleuthing did not go together in my hands. “You mean even if she married Alex, she’d never have been Lady Percival Brown?”
“No. Not unless Alex did something remarkable in his own right, and from what I’ve seen of that young man, I shouldn’t think it’s likely.”
Theodore had brought along the Oxford newspaper. Naturally, Pamela’s murder was front-page news. He passed it around, but only Gran took the time to read the article. I imagined the rest of us had already read it and there was nothing in the report that we didn’t already know. There was a photograph though, and Gran sighed over it. “Such a pretty girl. What a sad end.”
She reached the end of the article on page one and, as I had done, turned the newspaper a couple of pages to continue reading. Sylvia glanced over at the paper spread on Gran’s lap and suddenly let out a strangled shriek.
We all looked at her. Even Gran looked up from what she was reading. “What is it? Did you see a clue that we all missed?”
But Sylvia wasn’t looking at the article about the murder. She was looking at a headline next to that article. And there was a photograph. I put down my knitting very happily and came over to have a look. Sylvia pointed her finger at the picture, stabbing it in the newspaper. “They can’t do this. You cannot improve on perfection.”
When she finally stopped stabbing at the picture, I could see that it was a movie still. The headline read, “The Professor’s Wife to be remade. Filming to begin in Oxford.”
I was slightly puzzled, but Gran obviously knew more than I did. “The Professor’s Wife. That was one of your more famous pictures, wasn’t it?”
“It was. And I was brilliant. That’s why the film is a classic.”
“Why do they always remake the good films?” Gran wanted to know. “There are so many bad films that could be improved upon.”
“My thoughts exactly. I must see what I can do about this outrage.”
I stared at her. “How do you think you could stop it?”
She struck a pose. “I hope I’m not nobody.”
Well, in vampire circles she might be a big somebody, but in the world of the living, she didn’t hold much sway.
We were all staring at her, and she must have realized the predicament she was in, for she slumped back in her chair. “All right, I can’t personally get involved, but what about my estate? There must be something we can do to stop that film.”
“Not unless you own the rights,” Rafe said. As an antiquarian book expert, he probably knew a lot about book copyright, and presumably film copyright wasn’t that different.
“I’ve got money. I’ll hire the best attorneys. I will put a stop to this.”
“No offense, my dear,” Gran said to Sylvia, “but your movie was silent. Perhaps if they remake it with sound, it will be a completely different experience.” She didn’t say what probably all of us were thinking. Who watched silent movies anymore? Maybe the odd cinephile, but going back to before the talkies was hard for anybody. I tended to agree with her. A version that included speaking parts was probably not a bad idea. Not that I’d ever heard of this famous movie anyway. I’d have to check it out.
Sylvia looked seriously annoyed, and she said, “One has standards. Who’s to say this won’t be some tawdry, cheap rendering of a story that was so beautiful in its time?”
I gave a gasp.
Sylvia turned to me, looking pleased. “You agree with me then.”
“No. I mean I do. I guess. But you made me think. Lowering the standards. We’ve spent all this time focusing on the eight young Gargoyles. But what about the older ones?”
Rafe looked at me as though he was having trouble hearing me. “What are you talking about? You thought Lochlan Balfour was the murderer. He’s by far the oldest Gargoyle who was at the dinner that night.”
“Okay. I did. But then we quickly moved on. And
