Clutching the key, Liza set off once more towards Belloc’s room, Hanna trailing behind her. “Look at it this way. We’re continuing his work.”

“You’re snooping. You’re snooping through a dead man’s things.”

Upstairs, they stopped outside Belloc’s door. As keen and as curious as Liza was to see what, if anything, the detective had left behind, Hanna did kind of have a point. “Should we just go back to our room?”

Leaning against the wall, Hanna massaged her temples. “I don’t know. Honestly, the thought of going back there tonight scares me, but even though Belloc was a detective and a weirdo, I do think he’s entitled to some privacy.”

“That’s fair. I guess …” Liza tried her best to separate what she thought was right from what she thought would satisfy her desire to poke at things that didn’t need poking, and partially succeeded. “I guess if it was me, I … I think I actually would want somebody to look at my notes. One of the things I’m most pissed about with my laptop going missing is that all my work on this case has been wiped out. I think if I—”

Hanna raised a warning digit. “Don’t say it.”

“Okay, but if anything happened and I was in the middle of something big, I’d want that something to be finished by somebody.”

“But by a total random?” asked Hanna. “A total random who you clearly didn’t respect.”

Liza cocked her head to one side. “I’m not sure, ‘He was disrespectful and low-key sexist’ is making me more inclined to care about his wishes, if I’m honest.”

“Ordinarily, I’d say fair enough. But the man is dead.”

“Tell you what,” Liza said. “We’re here now. Let’s go in anyway so we don’t get murdered, and I promise I won’t go looking around unless there’s something that has obvious clue written on it in huge red letters.”

Hanna moved close behind her and guided the key into the lock. “Deal.”

So they opened the door and went inside.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Belloc, in his Room, with Theories

Monday night / Tuesday morning

Belloc’s room was slightly less opulent, and a whole lot less Victorian, than the one the Blaines had left, having a beige carpet, austere walls with a notable lack of women in dresses, and a bed without a single post. There was a wingback chair in one corner, along with a low coffee table strewn with papers that, to Liza’s disappointment, turned out to be brochures depicting local attractions rather than detailed notes about the identity of a mysterious mass murderer.