“Someone went into your room and took your notes?” he asked, his brows knitting in obvious anger.
“Yes. I left the notebook on the desk, next to my laptop.”
“Did you lock the door when you left?”
“I did.”
“Had the lock been forced?”
“No,” I replied, more upset by the moment.
“Then it could only have been one of the Prentisses. They have the keys to all the rooms.”
“But why would Lisa or Alastair take my notebook?” I asked, my mind returning to my conversation with Angela.
Paul had been the last to come down to lunch. Could it be possible that he’d gone into my room? I had no reason to think that, but if he’d stolen someone’s work once, he could conceivably do it again. He wrote a different genre, but authors jumped genres all the time, especially if they decided to write under a nom de plume, and Paul might just have to do that if his name became synonymous with plagiarism.
“Let’s take a walk,” Kyle suggested, taking my hand. It was an unexpectedly intimate gesture, but I didn’t pull my hand away. It felt too nice to feel connected to another human being, if only temporarily. “What was in your notebook?” he asked.
“I made notes about Alys Bailey’s case, and today, I researched the Lockwood family tree.”
“And what did you find?”
“It’s what I didn’t find,” I replied. “There’s no mention of Lisa anywhere. Of course, the information you find online is never complete, but I use several paid genealogical sites to do research for my books, and they tend to have more accurate data. I was able to trace the family from the thirteen hundreds all the way to the present.”
“And Lisa’s name never came up?”
“No one named Lisa came up. According to my research, there’s only one living relative, in New Zealand.”
“But Lisa inherited Jeffrey Lockwood’s estate,” Kyle said, his expression thoughtful.
“She did, didn’t she?”
“Are you suggesting there’s something untoward going on?”
The old-fashioned expression made me smile. “I don’t know, Hercule. You tell me.”
“Given our chosen profession, a need to question the facts is an occupational hazard,” Kyle pointed out. “However, given that someone stole your notebook, I’d say you’re probably onto something. Was everything you discovered in the book?”
I paused, unsure whether I should tell him, but then decided to come clean. “No. The other night, I searched the library for any personal accounts relating to seventeenth-century Lockwoods and found something.”
“Really? What?” Kyle asked, clearly intrigued.
“I found a journal. There was no date and no name, but the writer mentions an upcoming marriage to a nobleman in the very first entry. Marjorie Ashcombe wasn’t titled but became Lady Marjorie when she married Jeremy Lockwood, who was the son of a viscount.”
“What did you do with the journal?”
“I took photos of every page and replaced it on the shelf. It didn’t seem right to take it without permission.”
“We should check if it’s still there,” Kyle mused. “Have you read it through?”
“No, not yet. The writing is barely legible, so the plan was to upload the photos to my computer and enlarge them. I haven’t had a chance to do that yet, so there’s no mention of the journal in my notebook.”
“I wonder if Lisa and Alastair know about it,” Kyle said.
“I doubt it. Most of those books look like they haven’t been touched, or even dusted, in years. It would take someone months to organize that library and catalogue every book.” I paused, debating if I should tell Kyle the rest. “There’s something else,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I spoke to my agent earlier. She said that Paul Scanlon has been sued for plagiarism by the daughter of his uni roommate. It seems the man had been an aspiring writer and the daughter discovered his cache of manuscripts when he died. It would seem Paul’s work very closely resembles that of his friend.”
Kyle shook his head, clearly shocked. “I hope, for his sake, that he didn’t plagiarize the man’s work. That would destroy his career.” Kyle was silent for a few moments, considering this new angle. “Do you think it was Paul who took your notebook?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Did you see him at all before lunch?”
“No. I left the house around noon, and I’ve been walking since.”
I sighed deeply. I was no detective, but it seemed more reasonable that it would be Lisa or Alastair who’d take my notes. They had the keys to all the rooms and had been in and out of the dining room during lunch. Paul might need to reinvent himself if he lost the case, but I couldn’t see him going after my work.
“Do you think I should speak to Lisa and Alastair about my missing notebook?” I asked Kyle. “I have no basis to accuse anyone, but someone has clearly been in my room.”
“I don’t think so. Just make some comment about misplacing your notebook and see how they react.”
“It might have been Brittany,” I suggested.
“And why would Brittany take it?”
“She was the one who mentioned Alys in the first place. Perhaps she’s interested in my research,” I said.
“She could have just asked,” Kyle pointed out.
“She’s a teenage girl. It probably never occurred to her.”
“I was a teenager once,” Kyle said with a grin. “I don’t recall stealing anything. Do you?”
“I took a tenner from my mother’s purse once,” I confessed.
“I think we’ve all borrowed money from our parents, but you’re a guest at the retreat, and this is her parents’ place of business. I can’t see why she’d want to take your notebook anyway. Teenagers are
