The Becoming of Noah Shaw (The Shaw Confessions #1)(11)

“Maybe Sam cared,” I say, looking past Mara for a moment. I thought I spied a spot of red behind her. A red suit, perhaps?

“Or he knew something? I don’t know. Why was he here?” she asks herself.

“He had the key,” I say absently, trying to find the red-suited curator.

Her forehead scrunches. “What key?”

“To the bell tower he—the tower we found him in. That part of the ruins is only accessible by staff of the house and the Trust. He had the key, somehow, to unlock the gate.”

“It—you don’t think it’s the same key his family would’ve had, do you? I mean, it’s not like they had safety regulations in the . . .”

Great-great-grandfather. I do the maths. “Eighteen hundreds?”

A flicker of something passes over Mara’s face, quick enough that I’m not quite sure whether I’ve imagined it.

“The gates are old—don’t know when they were put up, but I couldn’t get past them as a child. And I did try. Some of my first lock-picking attempts, in fact.”

“Maybe we should go back and check?”

Maybe. Probably. But I need to check on something else, too. The professor’s letter is scratching at my mind—as Father surely intended, for some undoubtedly twisted reason. And I don’t want to bring it, or him, up with Mara. I’m entirely sure he’s full of shit, and she—well. She’s not. I can’t give her any reason to think about him. We’ve been there before, and I know where it’ll lead—with her wondering if she should leave me. For my sake—for my life, rather. But my life means nothing without her in it, so. Unmentioned the professor shall remain.

“Why don’t you go back to find out what’s happened with Sam?” I ask her.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “But don’t you think the English CSI equivalent is swarming the scene?”

Doubtful—my grandmother would pull whatever strings available to make sure they’re doing whatever it is they do without being spotted by the guests. “Why don’t you find out?”

Her head tilts. “Me? As in, just me?”

“I still haven’t found Katie. I want to talk to her before we go.”

Mara nods, but there’s a wariness to her. I’m an extraordinary liar, but she knows me too well.

“What, you don’t want to be alone?” That’ll get her blood up.

“I don’t care about that,” she says with a slight lift of her chin.

“It’s all right if you don’t. I wouldn’t.”

“I’m fine by myself,” she insists. “I just don’t really know where I’m going.”

“Right. I’ll go with you back to the tower, but see if you can’t find someone here who’ll tell you whether the police have got here yet. I’ll meet you back here as soon as I find Katie.”

She’s quiet. Not hurt—a bit annoyed, I think, but there’s more to it than that. What, I don’t know.

I fit my hand around her cheek, thumbing her bottom lip. “All right? I won’t be a minute.”

She nods, biting the tip of my thumb. Not softly, either.

I lean toward her, letting my lips graze her earlobe. “I’ll be back very, very soon.”

And then I leave her at the balcony, glancing back once and adding an arrogant grin for good measure before I take the stairs two at a time, past the great hall, past the thrumming masses of people and the silent statues, and head Below Stairs myself.





8


THE ENTERPRISES OF ANOTHER

I MEANT TO LOOK FOR Bernard, or failing that, the curator—one of them must be able to tell me more about Sam, which seems nearly as important as filling in the headspace the professor’s letter is currently occupying. I find Goose instead, languidly rolling a cigarette in the doorway of a small, spare servants’ bedroom.

I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this were a postcoital smoke, the object of his brief affection tucking himself back into his pants or her shirt in some corridor. His heartbeat is thunderous, and my mind tilts under the weight of the buzzing throng of mourners above us.

“Neirin and Patrick split off,” he says without looking up. “Off to study for something. Good little Westminster boys they are. They send their condolences.”

“Accepted,” I say, masking the strain in my voice. “And you?”

A lift of one shoulder. “Bored. You?”

“Same,” I lie.

“And how long are you planning to remain in your home country?”

“As briefly as I can arrange. We’ll leave as soon as Grandmother releases us from her clutches. Tomorrow, if I have the chance.”

“Not a prayer,” Goose says, grinning.

“Where are you off to after this?”

“Family’s in Cornwall whilst the weather holds.” He lights the cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame. “Or Father is, in any case. Mother’s claimed the London town house in what promises to be the beginning of a spectacular divorce.”

Goose, a year older than Patrick, Neirin, and I, was a fellow boarder despite the local family, same as I. Tumultuous childhood he never spoke of but others whispered about. Obviously, I sympathise. “Sorry, mate.”