Page 44 of Evil at the Essex House

“Bristol?”

His eyes sharpened, but the answer didn’t change. “I’m not at liberty to say, miss.”

I made a face. Christopher’s lips twitched. “Any idea when they’ll be back?”

The guard eyed him up and down. “No, sir.”

“We’ll leave a note for Tom at home.” Christopher turned me towards Chelsea. “Come on, Pippa.”

“Are you certain? If we leave the note here, he might get it sooner.”

He waited until we were safely away from the gatehouse before he answered. “If we’re trying to keep the Schlomskys’ confidence, I don’t think we ought leave a note detailing a kidnapping and ransom at the gate at Scotland Yard, do you? Even if it’s a private note. I wouldn’t put it past someone to read it.”

“Surely it’s illegal to read someone else’s post?”

“Perhaps not if you’re the police,” Christopher said, tugging on my arm. “Come along. It isn’t far.”

It was far enough that the distance required another train journey, this time on the Underground. By the time it was all said and done, with a note tucked safely into Tom’s postbox asking him to please stop by our flat at his earliest convenience, we had whiled away half the day in chasing after things that had ended in nothing useful, and it was well past time for luncheon and close to time for tea.

“Back to the Savoy?” Christopher suggested. “Perhaps there is news.”

I supposed it was possible. Flossie had escaped kidnappers once already; perhaps she had been able to do it again, and had turned up, healthy and hale, at her parents’ hotel.

So back we went, to Charing Cross via Tube this time, and along the Strand to the Savoy. But this time, when we asked at the front desk about Mr. and Mrs. Schlomsky, the concierge informed us that the American couple had gone out.

“Would you have any idea where?”

“Mr. Schlomsky inquired after a car to take him and the missus to Grosvenor Square,” the concierge said, “but that was hours ago.”

“What about theGrafvon Natterdorff? Is he in this afternoon?”

The look I got this time was blank. “Who?”

“TheGrafvon…”

Christopher’s hand on my sleeve made me stop talking. “Don’t get distracted, Pippa.”

“I’m not distracted,” I grumbled. “I’m simply inquiring.”

“Later. One thing at a time. So the Schlomskys left this morning and haven’t been back?”

The concierge nodded, looking from one to the other of us.

“We could leave another note,” I suggested, but Christopher shook his head.

“We don’t know any more now than we did when we left them earlier. We’ll just come back later. Or tomorrow morning.”

He nodded to the concierge and tugged me behind him across the lobby.

“I don’t see why I can’t ask a simple question about Wolfgang,” I grumbled, dragging my feet on purpose. “He still hasn’t contacted me after St George showed up the other evening, you know.”

Christopher flicked me a look as he chivvied me across the lobby. “There might be a note from him at home. Although we have more important things to worry about right now than your love life, Pippa. For instance, since we’re on the subject of Crispin, we still haven’t rung him up, remember?”

“Why are we on the subject of St George? If it was the mention of my love life, I’ll have you know?—”

“It wasn’t. You brought him up by name.” He huffed and pushed me through the revolving doors and back out onto the Strand.

“What do you suppose the Schlomskys are doing at Grosvenor Square?” I inquired as we made our way back up towards Charing Cross for the second time that day.