Toby could object, she grabbed his hand and dragged him out of Adrian Featherstone’s office.
‘Did you find it?’ asked the conservator.
‘Um,’ said Bee. ‘No.’
‘Perhaps we should call his mobile,’ said the conservator, reaching for a phone.
‘No, no, that’s fine,’ said Bee. ‘I don’t want to interrupt his meeting. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.’
Back in the Catacombs, Bee took the scrap of newspaper out of her pocket.
‘So what’s the big find?’ asked Toby, peering over her shoulder.
Bee smoothed the paper. It was a short article accompanied by a black-and-white photo, clipped neatly from a newspaper. The photo was of two men, standing side by side near a tree. The man on the right held a shotgun, and the other carried three dead rabbits tied together by the back legs. The man with the gun was grinning, and the other, taller man was looking away from the camera, down at the ground. Although the paper looked quite new, the photo had clearly been taken a long time ago – at least thirty years, judging by the clothes and haircuts.
‘Is that . . . ?’ Toby leaned forward.
Bee nodded and pointed to the caption.
Scientist and Museum Benefactor William Cranston with his assistant, Gregory Uriel Swindon.
The taller man was unmistakably a young Gus.
Toby whistled. ‘Gregory Uriel Swindon. Gus. But who’s the other guy?’
Bee’s hands were trembling. ‘William Cranston. I asked you about him on Friday. He sponsored the Red Rotunda. I saw him in there on the morning before Gus . . .’
William Cranston’s pale eyes sparkled in the photo. Even in black and white, she recognised those eyes. Although they hadn’t been sparkling when she’d seen him in the Red Rotunda.
‘You saw him in the Red Rotunda? In the same room where Gus died?’
Bee nodded.
‘What’s the article about?’
‘Cranston being in hospital,’ said Bee. ‘Some kind of pancreatic cancer, I think. It was the first time he’d been seen for years. It sounds pretty bad. This quote from his doctor makes it sound like he was definitely going to die.’
‘But he didn’t.’
Bee looked at the top corner of the article. ‘It’s from early last year,’ she said. ‘So no, I guess he didn’t.’
‘Did Cranston look sick when you saw him? Like a man who’s dying from cancer?’
Bee shook her head. ‘He looked fine. Sad, but healthy.’
‘And Gus was his assistant . Wow. So is this Cranston guy a suspect now?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bee. ‘But even if he is, it still doesn’t answer the most important question.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘What was this article doing pinned up in Adrian Featherstone’s office?’
That evening, Bee took the clipping home with her and laid it on the desk in her bedroom.
Why had Gus changed his name? His work with Cranston wasn’t on his CV, and he’d never mentioned it. It was almost as if he were trying to keep it a secret. As if he’d taken on a new identity.
Why? And what was Cranston doing in the Red Rotunda on the morning before Gus’s death? William Cranston, a known recluse. Why the sudden urge to visit the museum? Had he been to see Gus? Did he say something to cause Gus to kill himself? Or did he murder Gus?
Bee shook her head. The front door slammed. Angela burst into the room and flopped on Bee’s bed with a dramatic sigh.
‘Hi, Mum.’
Angela sighed again through a smile and gazed at the ceiling. Bee rolled her eyes.
‘So how was your date with Gavin?’
‘Oh, Bee!’ said Angela, her voice high and breathy. ‘It was wonderful. He’s just amazing. He’s kind and intelligent and funny. We have so much in common it’s uncanny. He even hates the new Star Wars films.’
‘Mum, everyone hates the new Star Wars films.’
‘Yes, darling. But he really hates them. He made a website about it. And we just talked and talked all through dinner and he was such a gentleman.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Matsuya. We got that big boat
‘Did you find it?’ asked the conservator.
‘Um,’ said Bee. ‘No.’
‘Perhaps we should call his mobile,’ said the conservator, reaching for a phone.
‘No, no, that’s fine,’ said Bee. ‘I don’t want to interrupt his meeting. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.’
Back in the Catacombs, Bee took the scrap of newspaper out of her pocket.
‘So what’s the big find?’ asked Toby, peering over her shoulder.
Bee smoothed the paper. It was a short article accompanied by a black-and-white photo, clipped neatly from a newspaper. The photo was of two men, standing side by side near a tree. The man on the right held a shotgun, and the other carried three dead rabbits tied together by the back legs. The man with the gun was grinning, and the other, taller man was looking away from the camera, down at the ground. Although the paper looked quite new, the photo had clearly been taken a long time ago – at least thirty years, judging by the clothes and haircuts.
‘Is that . . . ?’ Toby leaned forward.
Bee nodded and pointed to the caption.
Scientist and Museum Benefactor William Cranston with his assistant, Gregory Uriel Swindon.
The taller man was unmistakably a young Gus.
Toby whistled. ‘Gregory Uriel Swindon. Gus. But who’s the other guy?’
Bee’s hands were trembling. ‘William Cranston. I asked you about him on Friday. He sponsored the Red Rotunda. I saw him in there on the morning before Gus . . .’
William Cranston’s pale eyes sparkled in the photo. Even in black and white, she recognised those eyes. Although they hadn’t been sparkling when she’d seen him in the Red Rotunda.
‘You saw him in the Red Rotunda? In the same room where Gus died?’
Bee nodded.
‘What’s the article about?’
‘Cranston being in hospital,’ said Bee. ‘Some kind of pancreatic cancer, I think. It was the first time he’d been seen for years. It sounds pretty bad. This quote from his doctor makes it sound like he was definitely going to die.’
‘But he didn’t.’
Bee looked at the top corner of the article. ‘It’s from early last year,’ she said. ‘So no, I guess he didn’t.’
‘Did Cranston look sick when you saw him? Like a man who’s dying from cancer?’
Bee shook her head. ‘He looked fine. Sad, but healthy.’
‘And Gus was his assistant . Wow. So is this Cranston guy a suspect now?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bee. ‘But even if he is, it still doesn’t answer the most important question.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘What was this article doing pinned up in Adrian Featherstone’s office?’
That evening, Bee took the clipping home with her and laid it on the desk in her bedroom.
Why had Gus changed his name? His work with Cranston wasn’t on his CV, and he’d never mentioned it. It was almost as if he were trying to keep it a secret. As if he’d taken on a new identity.
Why? And what was Cranston doing in the Red Rotunda on the morning before Gus’s death? William Cranston, a known recluse. Why the sudden urge to visit the museum? Had he been to see Gus? Did he say something to cause Gus to kill himself? Or did he murder Gus?
Bee shook her head. The front door slammed. Angela burst into the room and flopped on Bee’s bed with a dramatic sigh.
‘Hi, Mum.’
Angela sighed again through a smile and gazed at the ceiling. Bee rolled her eyes.
‘So how was your date with Gavin?’
‘Oh, Bee!’ said Angela, her voice high and breathy. ‘It was wonderful. He’s just amazing. He’s kind and intelligent and funny. We have so much in common it’s uncanny. He even hates the new Star Wars films.’
‘Mum, everyone hates the new Star Wars films.’
‘Yes, darling. But he really hates them. He made a website about it. And we just talked and talked all through dinner and he was such a gentleman.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Matsuya. We got that big boat
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