Hadn’t stopped Allegra being a creepy little madam, though. Even if Argyll couldn’t see through her sheep’s clothing to the wolf beneath.
They walked back through the Moonfall Gate into the quadrangle.
‘This way.’ Leading her across to the same ancient tower as last time. ‘Ten past nine’s a bit early for lunch, but perhaps I could tempt you to a spot of brunch in the Teachers’ Lounge afterwards? Our head chef worked at the Peat Inn, Moor Hall, and Le Gavroche.’
‘I’m supposed to be working a murder inquiry.’
‘Ah...’ He wilted a little. ‘Yes, of course, I quite understand. Priorities and all that.’ Forcing a smile. ‘The Bloodsmith. It was on the news this morning.’
Urgh... Why did he have to have those big brown puppy-dog eyes?
And it wasn’t as if he’d been anything other than nice and kind and decent.
Lucy huffed out a long breath.
Come on, take a chance for once.
She glanced up at that disappointed face. ‘But maybe we could take a rain check for when this is all over and life can return to normal? Or, at least, as normal as Oldcastle ever gets.’
‘Yes, please!’ There was a pause, then pink rushed up his cheeks. ‘Actually, that might have come across as a little less cool and laid-back than I’d been hoping for.’ He opened the door to the admin tower for her. ‘Can we forget that bit and pretend that I was all suave instead?’
‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
There was no one on the reception desk to watch the pair of them climb the stairs past rank after rank of ex-pupil portraits, up to the second floor. Its small landing was festooned with yet more photos — arranged around a single door: ‘RECORDS R — Z ~ STAFF ONLY’.
Argyll unlocked it. ‘Now, you understand that I shouldn’t really be showing you any of this? I shouldn’t even be letting you in here. But I’m trusting you, OK?’
Two people in one day: first DI Tudor, now him. It was weirdly touching.
‘Thank you’ — giving Argyll’s arm a small squeeze — ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Just don’t tell anyone.’ He pushed the door open, revealing a wall of... well, they were like filing cabinets, but instead of being shoulder height, they stretched all the way up to the high ceiling, forming an impenetrable barrier a couple of paces in. They weren’t made out of beige-painted steel, either: they were crafted from wood and burnished to a red-brown sheen. There were more on the wall to either side of the door, creating a filing canyon with a marble-tiled floor.
Lucy followed him inside, craning her head back to take in the upper drawers. A black metal rail ran the length of the stack, just beneath the ceiling, with a steep ladder attached at the top by rollers. She let out a low whistle. ‘I thought it’d be all computers in here.’
‘St Nicholas College is very careful about its students’ personal data. Too careful to leave it plugged into something that can be hacked from the other side of the world, or stolen on a USB stick.’ There was another bank of ceiling-height cabinets against the end wall, and Argyll walked into the narrow valley between the two rows, running his finger along the panelled wood. It wasn’t quite wide enough for the pair of them to walk side by side, so Lucy had to tag along behind.
The whole place smelled of cedarwood, beeswax furniture polish, and the faint smoky-sweet tang of pipe tobacco.
At the end of the row there was a ninety-degree left turn as the stacks followed the inner walls of the tower.
‘Bit of a maze.’
He nodded. ‘Our founding fathers had some interesting ideas about how to keep information safe.’ Halfway down this side there was an opening through into another layer — more ceiling-high cabinets facing each other across a narrow strip of marble. ‘Technically, it doesn’t qualify as a maze, but it does take a while to get your head around how to find anything. And every one of the four record rooms is laid out differently, because the aforementioned founding fathers were sadists.’
They were going back the way they’d come, past more and more wooden drawers, each one bearing a small hand-written label. Argyll took a left, a right, another right, a left... until finally they arrived at a small seating area complete with antique desk and modern office chair. It even had a view: a thin slice of the playing fields visible through a narrow window set into the thick tower walls.
‘If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll fetch Benedict’s file for you.’ Argyll pulled the chair out for her, then disappeared off into the stacks again.
Lucy wandered over to the nearest filing drawer and read the label. Then the one next to it: nothing exciting, just names. Only they didn’t seem to be in any sensible order: ‘SINCLAIR, HELEN’ was wedged in between ‘TANAKA, ICHIKA’ and ‘VOLKOVA-KOVALEVSKAYA, MIROSLAVA’, with ‘TEMPLETON-BAIN, DAVID (III)’ next in line. You’d have to be psychic to find anything.
There didn’t seem to be any distinction between boys and girls, though — no pink drawers and blue drawers — so that was something. Even an establishment as fusty as St Nick’s had dragged itself into the twenty-first century.
Unfortunately, they were all locked. But that was OK. She was only here for Benedict Strachan’s file.
Mind you, it’d be interesting to see what hers contained. And even more interesting to see what the school had to say about everyone’s favourite Russian-embassy-staff-shagging idiot, Business Secretary Paul Rhynie. Bet the tabloids would love to get their hands on that.
And this floor was R to Z, so his file was bound to be in here... somewhere.
Lucy turned on the spot — the cabinets lining this small work area were only a fraction of the stacks that filled the place. Given the labyrinthine layout and completely random filing system, who knew how long it’d take to find Rhynie’s school records?
She went back to the desk and sat in the office chair, setting its wheels squealing as they rolled on the polished tiles. Frowned out the narrow window. Couldn’t quite see the rugby pitches from here, so no idea if creepy Allegra and her minion were still out there, watching the match. Or if she’d taken Hugo away to coach him in the grift and graft of British politics.
The Dunk would have a field day with that. Class warfare writ—
‘Here we go.’ Argyll reappeared, holding a manila folder in both hands. ‘Now, before I give you this, we need to go through the school rules.’
‘OK.’
‘One: no food or drink in the record rooms. Two: only St Nicholas College staff allowed in here. Three: no files are to be removed from this room by anyone other than the headmaster or his duly appointed representative. Four: no files are to be removed from school grounds under any circumstances, and that includes copies — electronic or otherwise.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not even with a warrant?’
‘Then we’re into a whole different set of rules, policies, and procedures.’
Of course they were.
‘So, if I find something that helps me catch Benedict Strachan before he kills again...?’