Page 100 of Murder in a Mayfair Flat

“Something came up last night,” Crispin said. “We wanted another chat.”

Ronnie glanced over his shoulder into the flat. “Come on in. Should I call Nigel?”

“That’s up to you,” Crispin said, as he crossed the threshold, “but not for our sake. You’re the one we wanted to talk to.”

Ronnie looked puzzled. “Why? Nigel’s the one who’s been handling everything.” He shut the door behind us when we were all inside the foyer.

“No Dobbins?” Crispin ignored the question to look around.

“It’s his day off. He left after dinner yesterday.”

No wonder Ronnie had slept late. No Dobbins to drag him out of bed.

“Perhaps we could sit down?” Crispin suggested.

“Of course.” Ronnie waved us into the same sitting room in which we had sat three nights earlier. He seemed oblivious to the connotations, but I glanced at the chair where Frederick Montrose had spent the last few minutes of his life and swallowed.

“Something to drink?” Ronnie asked, blithely.

“It’s a bit early, old bean,” Crispin told him kindly. “Besides, I’m still half-soused from last night.”

He wasn’t, really. Not that I had noticed. Like Ronnie, he was bright-eyed and looked fresh. But it made for a handy excuse, I suppose. And itwasa bit early to start imbibing.

Ronnie nodded. “What can I do for you, old chap?”

“We wanted to ask…” Crispin said, and stopped.

Ronnie blinked politely. “Ask what, St George?”

I looked from Crispin, who seemed as if he had lost his ability to form words, to Ronnie, who was waiting patiently for him to recover it, to Christopher, who eyed one and then the other of them with concern.

“About Saturday night,” I said, and my voice sounded too loud and too brash, even in my own ears. I winced and moderated it. “Or Sunday morning, I suppose. We wanted to ask you what you remember about Saturday night and Sunday morning.”

A cloud crossed Ronnie’s countenance. “Weren’t you here yesterday and asked me that?”

“It was Sunday, actually. But yes. We were here, and we asked you that.”

He nodded. “I don’t remember Saturday night. Or not much about it. We went to Rectors, because we heard it was going to be open for a special event, and Dom said he’d meet me there. And we brought Gladys, because she needed to see Dom, too. And then, when Dom showed up, we came back here. And Dom and I went into the kitchen…”

He trailed off, eyes fixed on something far away.

“We’re interested in what happened after that,” Christopher said gently. “Can you remember anything that happened after you went into the kitchen with Dominic Rivers?”

“Dom fixed me up.” Ronnie giggled. “That’s what he does, you know? Fixes you up so you can deal with your life.”

There really wasn’t anything any of us could say to that, so none of us tried.

“And then you came back to the sitting room,” Christopher said. “In here.” He looked around. “Do you remember that?”

His voice was soft and coaxing, and I guess the fact that he looked so much like Crispin probably worked in his favor. Ronnie seemed to respond well to him.

He didn’t remember coming back into the sitting room, however.

“Dom took Gladys off,” Crispin said, and Ronnie turned to him and blinked. “No?”

Ronnie shook his head. “I don’t remember that. I was probably pretty high by then, wasn’t I?”

“You were feeling no pain,” Crispin agreed. “And then Freddie Montrose asked for the lav. Do you remember Monty being here? And us? We brought him with us from Rectors?”