Page 8 of Murder in a Mayfair Flat

“Then let’s go.” He gave Giles a nod and offered me his arm.

“Shouldn’t I be doing that to you?” I wanted to know.

“You’re a bit short, Darling.” In Christopher’s pumps, he was close to six feet tall. I wasn’t wearing heels, so I was my usual five feet six. Looking up at him, I felt much smaller than I usually do. The high-heel difference works in my favor the other way.

“You look nothing like yourself,” I told him honestly. “I can’t believe the car park attendant recognized you.”

“Not so much me as the H6, I fancy. It’s rather well known around here.”

Of course it was. As was he. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip. “We’ll be all right, won’t we? Going there, like this?”

He glanced down at me. “Of course we will, Darling. Or if not, at least we’ll be together when we end up in jail.”

Ugh. “Just don’t do anything Christopher wouldn’t do,” I said.

He smirked. “Under normal circumstances, that warning would work. Tonight, I rather think it should be the other way around. I’m much more likely to behave myself here than Kit would be.”

“Just don’t get into any trouble,” I told him.

“Likewise, Darling. Now, are you ready?” He gestured along the pavement towards the arched doorway up ahead. “That’s it, right there. Through and down.”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, and took a deep breath.

CHAPTERTHREE

What laybehind the front door was a foyer with several other doors leading off of it, and a nun in a black and white habit.

I blinked, taken aback. Of all the things I had expected to see, a nun was not one of them. Crispin didn’t look surprised, however, although one corner of his mouth turned up in what was either amusement or satisfaction.

She—he—the nun looked at him, and then looked at me, before inclining her—his—head politely. “Good evening, my lady. Sir.”

The voice was most definitely male, a deep baritone. I opened my mouth and then closed it again, unsure whether I was supposed to respond, or Crispin was.

He did it. “Good evening, Sister.”

The nun smirked. “Going down?”

Crispin nodded. “If you don’t mind.” He slipped her—him—a coin, which disappeared into a pocket of the habit. The nun opened one of the doors. A wave of sound burst out of the opening.

Crispin nudged me towards it. “Go on, Darling. Thank you, Sister.”

“Always a pleasure,” the nun told him. Crispin shoved me through the opening and down the stairs towards the lower level. The door shut behind us with a thud.

The stairwell was only faintly lit, although the walls practically vibrated with the amount of sound that was coming up from below. Music—le jazz hot—and voices and the sound of feet.

“A nun?” I said over my shoulder.

“Password,” Crispin told me, following me down. “Some of these places operate in secret?—”

“I’m aware.”

“I’m sure you are, Darling. You need the right password to get in. When the commissionaire is dressed like a nun, the password is always ‘sister.’ When he’s dressed like Sherlock Holmes, the password is ‘Watson.’ There’s a place in Marylebone where you have to use the words ‘hair of the dog’ to be let in, and one in Spitalfields where you have to tell them that you’re there to get lucky.”

“Charming,” I said. “And you know all this because?—?”

He smirked. “I get around, Darling.”

Of course. “Well, it’s very clever of you.”