Page 40 of Murder in a Mayfair Flat

“That’s all right, Darling.” He tucked the bundle under his arm. “It won’t be the first time, or I imagine the last. Besides, I have other shirts. And plenty of maids.”

Of course he did. “Just bring Christopher’s clothes back the next time you’re in Town,” I said. “Next weekend, you thought?”

“Perhaps.” He turned to Gladys, who was tugging on his sleeve. “Yes, Gladys?”

“Hutchie dropped me off,” Gladys said. “Can I beg a lift home, St George?”

She fluttered her lashes at him. Flossie looked like a thundercloud, which sat strangely on her pink-cheeked countenance.

“Of course,” Crispin said, which in all honesty was the only thing he could say.

“Don’t dally,” I told him.

“No, Darling.” His lips twitched, and I realized, a second too late, that with my use of that particular word, not only had I told him not to waste time—which was what I had intended to convey—but also not to engage in any kind of time-consuming flirtation.

“You know what I meant,” I said severely. “Don’t dawdle, St George. Your father is expecting you, and it’s a long drive to Wiltshire.”

“Of course, Darling.” But his face was still amused when he turned to Christopher. “See you around, old chap. Thanks for the hospitality and the clothes.”

Christopher nodded, and Crispin turned to Flossie and snatched her hand. “Miss Schlomsky.”

He looked deeply into her eyes, and then lingered for a second with his lips against her knuckles. Flossie tittered and Gladys’s eyes narrowed.

“Enough, St George,” I said, and Crispin desisted.

“Of course, Darling. I assume you don’t want me to kiss your hand?”

“No.” I tucked it behind my back for good measure. “Keep your cooties to yourself.”

He nodded. “Come along then, Gladys. Let’s blouse.”

He swept her ahead of him out of the flat. Flossie followed them into the hallway, forlornly. I assumed she had planned to stand in front of the lift door with them, gazing hopelessly at St George, until the lift arrived and took them away, but I had no desire to see it. I shut the door after them and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God. We’re finally alone.”

“You did what?”Tom said.

He had finally turned up, still in the same tweed suit and Homburg as last night, looking like he hadn’t been to bed yet.

“Tom.” Christopher looked relieved to finally see him. I was, too, if it came to that.

“Do you have news for us?”

“Let’s sit down.” Tom gave a comprehensive glance around the sitting room. I had cleared away the used glasses and had fluffed the pillows and straightened everything up, so there was no sign that we’d had visitors just an hour ago. “Is Lord St George not here?”

“He headed back to Wiltshire,” Christopher said. “Uncle Harold showed up here this morning with blood in his eye, and basically ordered him home. He took Gladys with him.”

“Your uncle showed up? And took Gladys Long with him to Wiltshire?”

Christopher shook his head. “Uncle Harold showed up looking for Crispin, and so did Gladys. To talk about yesterday, she said.”

“At Nigel Hutchison’s request,” I added, “or so she told us.”

“And you didn’t think to hold on to her?” Tom looked from one to the other of us.

I hadn’t thought of it, to be honest. I had been more than pleased to see the backs of both Gladys and Florence Schlomsky, and for that matter of Crispin himself. Although now that he’d brought it up, I suppose I should have realized that Tom would want to speak to Gladys if the opportunity presented itself.

“We didn’t know when you were going to get here,” Christopher said. “We couldn’t keep her indefinitely, and she seemed eager to get back to her friends. She asked Crispin to take her, and?—”

He trailed off at the look on Tom’s face.