She showered under the powerful jets and dressed, taking one of Hugo’s shirts to wear with her jeans. He was on the phone out on the back patio when she made her way downstairs, so she turned to the kitchen instead, searching out eggs in the refrigerator and flour and baking supplies in the cupboards that lined the galley.
“I didn’t know you cooked.” Hugo found her whisking batter in a bowl, a griddle pan already set on the range.
“Barely.” Cassie shrugged. The truth was, she’d never had access to a kitchen like this, with its expanse of marble countertops and space-age stove. She still felt on edge from the night and had reached for familiar tools, a comforting routine. “My mother taught me a couple of recipes. Pancakes,” she explained, ladling the thick batter onto the griddle. “American style.”
Hugo fetched down plates and cutlery, laying the dining table for two. Now that the exhaustion of the night had been washed away, Cassie looked carefully around the apartment, noticing the modern artwork and touches of life around the room: a bronze globe on the mantel, clothbound books on the shelves.
“How old did you say you were, when . . . ?” Hugo asked, then quickly corrected himself. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk about it.”
Cassie paused. “Fourteen,” she finally replied, focusing on the food preparation.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked up. Hugo was watching her, his dark eyes full of quiet sympathy. Cassie shook it off. “Have you lived here long?” she asked brightly. “Olivia said you’d been at Raleigh for years, right?”
“Seven years.” Hugo’s reply had a note of self-deprecation in the tone. “Three as an undergraduate, then another four churning through my master’s, and now a Ph.D. I got this place a while back; Livvy helped me find it. She helped decorate too,” he added. “As you can probably tell by all those baking implements I’ve never once used.”
Cassie noticed the casualness with which Hugo referred to his purchase of the property; it wasn’t a rental, and he didn’t mention his parents’ support. He probably had a trust fund depositing a monthly stipend in his account every month like clockwork. “Why do you stick around?” Cassie asked as she flipped the pancakes from the pan and brought them to the table. “It can’t be the academics. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you even mention your studies. What is your doctorate, anyway?”
“Oh, something about logic and pure mathematics, I won’t bore you with the details.”
“So why stay?” Cassie took a seat. The china was matching, heavy and white, with orange juice in cut-glass tumblers and silverware like the kind they used in the grand hall at college.
Hugo gave her the ghost of a smile. “You sound like my family. ‘Why won’t you grow up and take responsibility?’ ‘You’re destined for greater things than an adjunct professorship.’”
“Ah,” Cassie breathed, realizing the truth. “You’re hiding.”
“I’m pursuing higher learning,” Hugo argued.
“You’re hiding,” she corrected him. “Well, Oxford’s the best place for it. It’s this . . . bubble, away from everything. The normal rules don’t apply.”
“The world keeps spinning.” Hugo gave a slight smile. “But here everything stays exactly the same. Well, most things.” He dropped his voice at the end of his sentence, looking down.
Cassie paused, acknowledging Evie’s absence. “So what do they want you to do? Out there in the real world.”
Hugo shrugged, his hair falling forward over his eyes. “Join the family business.”
“Which is?”
“Power.” Hugo’s expression twisted. “The Mandevilles . . . we run things. Companies, newspapers, countries.”
“Olivia’s father.” Cassie remembered. “He’s in the British parliament.”
“Uncle Richard. My father passed when I was young, so he’s like a father to me too.”
“I’m sorry.” Cassie felt a pang of empathy. No wonder he seemed so understanding when she talked about her mother. He’d lost someone, too.
Hugo shook his head. “I was too young, I don’t even remember him. My mother didn’t cope too well, so I spent most of my childhood with that side of the family. Grandfather has a family estate in Sussex; we all just piled in there.”
Cassie could picture it, a clatter of children, all together. Would that have been her fate, had she known her real father? Instead of the progression of lonely house, stepfather, and then the angry isolation of one foster home after the next. “And now?” she pressed. “Are you still close?”
“What is close?” Hugo replied lightly. “We’re family. That’s all that matters. These are good.” He changed the subject deftly, taking another helping. “How do you get them so fluffy?”
“Secret ingredient.” Cassie smiled, remembering her mother, bright-eyed in the kitchen, humming along to country songs on the radio. For a moment she felt her mother’s presence, stronger than ever, not a shameful secret or burden to carry, but comfort.
They ate in peaceful silence for a while longer, until a sound came from the front foyer, the key turning in the door and the clatter of a new arrival. Cassie tensed. “Hugo? When are you going to have that front step fixed? I’ve told you a hundred times.” Olivia breezed into the living room with grocery bags and an armful of newspapers. “Hi, Cassie.” She smiled, seemingly unsurprised to find Cassie there. “Who wants fresh bagels? I went by the place on my way here.”
Hugo looked irritated. “Liv, I told you I was busy this morning.”
“I know, but when I heard about the break-in, I had to come right over.” Olivia turned to Cassie. “Are you okay? Did they take anything? I can’t believe someone walked right in like that.”
Cassie wondered how news had spread so fast. “I’m fine. They were long gone by the time we got there.”
“Thank god Hugo was with you,” Olivia said. “We should file a complaint against the porters. Security is a joke; they just sit around watching TV all night.”
“No, it’s fine,” Cassie protested. “Like I said, it didn’t look like anything was taken.”
“Good.” Olivia went to the kitchen and put on the radio, unloading her bags and getting extra plates, filling the space with a bustle of noise and activity. “I invited Paige and the rest over for brunch,” she called. “Miles is having a tantrum again, but he promised to bring some good champagne.”
Hugo turned to Cassie. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I told her not to come.”
“It’s fine.” Cassie got up. “I have to get back anyway. I’ll need to follow up on the report about the break-in, and classes . . .”
“Oh.” Hugo looked taken aback for a moment. “I understand.”
“But thank you for letting me stay.” Cassie felt a strange tug of regret. She would have happily lingered for the rest of the morning, leaving the outside world behind.
Hugo nodded. “Anytime.”
Back at Raleigh, Cassie went through the official report with a bored-looking police officer and the college porters. She’d wondered briefly if Charlie would be the one to speak with her, but they sent a different man; he barely looked around the trashed room before sighing. “And nothing was taken?”
“I don’t think so. There wasn’t anything valuable here.” Cassie righted an upside-down chair and took in the mess with a fresh stab of regret.
“If you don’t know whether you locked the door or not, there’s not much I can do.” He shrugged. “I’ll file the report, let you know if anyone turns up.”
The police officer went back downstairs, leaving Cassie alone with Rutledge. “Well, that was a big help,” she told him, rolling her eyes.
“You can always count on the local coppers to take the easy way out,” Rutledge agreed. He began helping her straighten up: righting a coffee table that had been knocked over and picking up books from the floor.
“You don’t have to do that,” Cassie objected.
“Don’t you worry about me.” Rutledge gave her a smile, hi
s weathered face lined deep with wrinkles. “Those kids can wait a while longer to have someone change a lightbulb.”
Cassie started in on the boxes of Evie’s things, now strewn around the room. “Will you be able to get these sent to her parents soon?” she asked, folding clothing back into the boxes. “I know there’s no rush, but . . . I hate having to look at it all.”
Rutledge nodded. “I’ll take care of it. Did they want anything kept here? Her academic work, maybe? Some folks like to donate it to the libraries.”
“I don’t know.” Cassie frowned, worried. “I didn’t ask. Maybe—” She was interrupted as a phone began to ring. She had to pause for a moment to realize it was the ancient landline that had sat dormant for months on the end table. Cassie picked it up. “Hello?”
“And another week passes without access to modern technology.” Elliot’s voice was impatient.
“How did you get this number?” Cassie smiled. Across the room, Rutledge gestured he had to leave. She mouthed her thanks as he closed the door behind him.
“A little something called the student directory. Believe me, I’m the first person to access the file in years. For once you should be grateful this place is stuck in the Dark Ages.”
“Thank you, Elliot,” Cassie said lightly. “Now, what did you need?”
“It’s what you need, actually,” Elliot replied. “I checked the borrower logs to find that title your Rose Smith authored.”
It took Cassie a moment to remember. So much had happened since leaving the library the day before, Rose’s suicide had been pushed to the edge of her mind. “Of course, thanks,” she said. “What was it?”
Elliot paused. “It was an essay on the origins of Raleigh and the School of Night.”
Cassie felt a chill. “The School of Night . . .” she repeated. “You mean she was studying it?”
“In a way. Like I said, it was an anniversary archive thing, not official academic work. She probably just threw together some old articles and polished it up for the big celebration.” Elliot sounded tense.
“This book, where is it? Can I read it?”
“Not right now.” Elliot’s voice was reluctant. “It’s on loan.”
“Who borrowed it?” Cassie demanded, gripping the phone tightly. “Maybe I can track them down. Is it due back soon?”
“No.” Elliot paused.
Cassie made a noise of frustration. “What aren’t you telling me?”
After another long moment, he replied in a rush. “It was Evie, your roommate. She was the last person to check it out. The only one,” he added. “That thing sat in storage for ten years before she requested to see it.”
Cassie caught her breath. “Wait right there,” she ordered, dropping the phone to the table. She hurried through the apartment to Evie’s room, the boxes into which she’d just meticulously repacked all Evie’s books and files. Cassie tore through the boxes, looking closely at the contents this time. She checked every title, but it wasn’t there. And neither were her notes. The fat notebooks of articles and papers, the binders Cassie remembered seeing around the flat. She’d been so busy thinking about valuables, but when she’d said nothing had been stolen in the break-in, she’d been wrong.
They’d taken Evie’s research. All her study into Raleigh and the founding of the college. Sir Walter Raleigh.
21
CASSIE WALKED SLOWLY ALONG THE RIVERSIDE PATH AND stretched her tired shoulders. It was early morning, and the winding route had plenty of joggers, but there was still no sign of the one she was looking for.
She turned over the fragments that haunted her, broken pieces that didn’t seem to fit.
Genevieve DuLongpre. Rose Smith. Two dead girls, over twenty years apart, with nothing to connect them, except the School of Night.
A rumor. A whisper. An ominous phrase scribbled on the back of a photograph that somebody had planted in Cassie’s mailbox. Evie’s stolen research.
Rose’s death, her mother’s disappearance, Evie’s suicide: they were all connected. And maybe they were only the beginning.
Cassie caught a flash of motion up ahead on the path. A morning jogger wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, covering the hard icy asphalt in long, steady strides. “Charlie.” Cassie stepped out onto the path, greeting him as he drew near.
Charlie slowed to a stop, running in place. “Miss Blackwell.” He smiled, mock formal, tipping his hood at her.
“I need your help.”
Charlie laughed. “No ‘how have you been?’” he teased her. “‘It’s a cold snap in the air.’ ‘How about that game on the weekend?’ Just straight to the favor, is that how we’re going to play it?”
Cassie felt a flash of guilt, but she pushed it aside. “You owe me,” she pointed out.
His smile dropped at the memory. Charlie pulled out his earbuds and stopped moving. “What can I help you with?”
They went to a café away from the usual student haunts. Even so, Cassie felt anxious, checking over her shoulder, wondering if she was being watched. Somebody had broken into the apartment to steal Evie’s notes; maybe they were keeping tabs on her too.
“I need access to police files,” Cassie told Charlie, when they were ensconced in a corner booth with two cups of coffee.
“Well, sure,” Charlie replied, kicking back in his seat. “Just come on down. We leave the keys out on the table, take a look at whatever you want.”
“I’m serious.” Cassie pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and slid it across to him. “These two girls, they were students at Raleigh. They both died. Suicide. I need to see the police reports.”
Charlie looked wary. “What’s this about?”
“I don’t know yet,” Cassie replied honestly. “But something . . . Something’s not right.”
He glanced at the slip where she’d scribbled their names and dates of death. “This one died just a few weeks ago?”
She nodded. “Evie. She was my roommate. One minute she was fine, and the next . . .”
“I’m sorry.” Charlie frowned. “But if you’re looking for answers, I’m not the guy for the job. Try talking to her friends, or parents—”
“It’s not like that,” Cassie interrupted him. “This isn’t just about her. Both those girls were looking into the same thing, a secret society at Raleigh. And I know how that sounds,” she added, seeing his expression. “But something’s wrong, I feel it in my gut. They both were digging around into this School of Night, and they both ended up dead.”
She stopped talking as the waitress slammed down their orders: dry toast for her and a full English breakfast for Charlie, the large plate packed with eggs, sausages, and baked beans. Cassie waited until the waitress was back in the kitchen before leaning over the table and continuing. “I know it might sound crazy to you—”
“Might?” Charlie raised his eyebrows as he dug into the food.
“But too many things don’t add up,” Cassie insisted. “Evie wasn’t suicidal, no matter what people say. And the other night someone broke into our apartment. They trashed the place and stole her research: research that might have pointed to this secret society.”
“Again, might,” Charlie emphasized.
“That’s not all. After Rose died, her best friend left the country: she changed her name, took on a whole new identity. You don’t do that unless you’re running from something, something bad.”
Charlie still didn’t appear swayed.
“Look, can you just find the files?” Cassie asked, feeling desperate. “If there’s nothing suspicious, then fine. But people are dead. And all of this . . . It feels wrong. I can’t just let it go.”
Charlie gave her a long look and sighed. “Fine, I’ll find the files,” he finally said. “But not because I think there’s anything crazy about it. Because I owe you. After that, we’re square, okay? No coming to me asking to be let off speeding tickets.”
“I don’t drive.”
“You know what I mean.” He set down his knif
e and fork, and Cassie realized he’d cleaned his plate in barely a few minutes. “Is that it?”
She paused. “Well, yes.”
“You haven’t made all this up as a pretext to see me again?” Charlie grinned. “Because you could have just asked me to go get a beer. You didn’t have to spin me a yarn about mysterious deaths and secret societies.”
Cassie couldn’t find it in herself to laugh along. “Evie’s dead,” she said quietly. “This isn’t a joke to me.”
Charlie stopped. “Right. Sorry.” He pulled a few notes from his pocket and threw them down on the table. “I’ll see what I can find for you. You got a number I can reach you at?”
“It’s on the paper.”
“So it is.” He gave her a nod. “You had any more problems with that Sebastian fellow?”
“No.” Cassie flinched at the reminder. “He took the rest of this semester off.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch.” Charlie sauntered out, pausing to exchange a few words with the waitress that made her laugh and swat him with her dish towel.
Cassie stayed a while longer in the corner booth, sipping her coffee and watching the city bustle to life outside the window. It was December now, the skies flint gray, and the streets full of shoppers and students yawning their way to morning lectures. She had one more paper to turn in before the end of the semester, and then there would be four full weeks of vacation break.
She slowly swirled her spoon in the coffee. She was chasing ghosts, in a strange town far from home. But Providence had never been home, not really. She was looking for something to hold on to, and ever since that package had arrived with her mother’s name on it, the glittering prospect of the truth had been that one thing, her beacon in the night. But like the horizon, that truth kept retreating, always just out of reach, morphing into a new challenge and more unanswered questions. First her father, then her mother’s true identity, then Rose’s death, and now Evie’s research too.
Now Cassie wondered, looking out at the city. Would she ever find what she was looking for?
The end of the semester came and went in a loud burst of revelry from students outside Cassie’s windows. There were final dinners, and cocktail mixers, and a raucous “bop” in the underground college bar, blasting cheesy pop music late into the night. Cassie ignored it all until finally, blissfully, the rest of college departed and she was alone on the empty quads, the bell tower ringing out the hour to a silent, deserted campus.
The Oxford Inheritance Page 19
