Page 13 of Peril in Piccadilly (Pippa Darling Mysteries #7)

Chapter Thirteen

I spent the next couple of hours—after I made it back to the flat—trying to get warm. The weather really had turned quite cold in the past few days, and the temperatures felt as if they had dropped another few degrees just in the time I had been inside Sweetings. I really hoped that Christopher was dressed warmly enough while he was trailing after Wolfgang all over City and Holborn and wherever else the Graf von Natterdorff decided to go.

He must have been busy, at any rate, because teatime came and went with no sign of Christopher. I had my cup of Darjeeling and a bun, and finally warm, settled in to reread The Secret of Chimneys by the wonderful Mrs. Agatha Christie. The book was more than a year old by now, and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd had been released since, but I had enjoyed The Secret of Chimneys better. It had romantic intrigue and missing diamonds and a dashing prince masquerading as an adventurer, and while The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was a masterpiece of literary homicide, The Secret of Chimneys was just good fun, and also bore some charming parallels to my own situation.

There were murders in the book, of course. A villainous waiter, as well as His Highness, Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia, ended up dead, whilst there were no corpses in my own life at this moment. But there were the missing Sutherland diamonds—not quite the Koh-i-Noor, but an acceptable substitute—and a dashing jewel thief, and an attempt on Laetitia’s life—unless it had been an attempt on Christopher’s or mine. There was even, if I stretched credulity, a foreign-born adventurer, even though Wolfgang was a mere Graf —the equivalent of a British count or earl—and no prince. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and we take our entertainment where we find it.

Suffice it to say that I devoured the book eagerly, and didn’t come up for air until the windows had turned dark and it was time to prepare supper. And it was at that point that I began to worry about Christopher and why he wasn’t home yet. It had been hours since Wolfgang and I parted ways. Surely whatever business Wolfgang had had in the vicinity of Sweetings was concluded by now, and he had headed back to wherever he laid his head these days?

And even if he hadn’t done, even if he were still out there walking around, surely Christopher wasn’t still tagging along behind him? There’s a limit to how long one can trail a suspect, even in a busy place like London. Sooner or later, the target is bound to notice that the same person has been behind them, or in front of them, or on the other side of the street, for five or six hours straight. Christopher isn’t stupid; he would have known that.

He hadn’t been arrested, had he?

For the first time I considered that perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea to let Christopher go out as Kitty in broad daylight in the middle of London. The buggery laws are in full effect, and that includes coppers going after pretty boys with powder compacts in their trouser pockets. Christopher didn’t just have a compact, he had a full chemist’s shop of makeup on his face, and he was wearing high heeled shoes and sheer stockings and women’s unmentionables under his—or my—skirt. If a powder compact was enough to get someone arrested, Christopher didn’t stand a chance.

And I had let him do it anyway—hadn’t even considered warning him against it, honestly—because I didn’t think there was much of a chance that anyone would look at the pretty girl with the big eyes and dainty features and see a man. He’s prettier than I am, especially with his face made up. Someone would have to look pretty closely to pick up on the fact that he’s a bloke and not a bird.

Although it wasn’t impossible that someone had done just that.

If that was the case, there were two options. Or perhaps three, depending on who had caught on. If Wolfgang had realized that the young lady who had been following him was none other than Christopher Astley in drag, he would certainly have had something to say about it. But Christopher could also, fairly legitimately, claim to want to know more about the man who was wooing his cousin, and there wouldn’t be much Wolfgang could say to that.

If a stranger had noticed… well, if the stranger had been wearing a uniform, Christopher might be sitting in a jail cell right now. But if so, wouldn’t he have phoned me to arrange for his bail? That was the agreement that we had.

And if the stranger hadn’t been a copper, but instead had been someone who had a problem with pretty boys in frocks, Christopher might be in hospital, or could even be lying in an alley somewhere.

I pushed away the mental pictures that that idea conjured, because they made it difficult to breathe, and instead focused on what my options were.

There weren’t many. I didn’t know where he had ended up, so I couldn’t go out to look for him. He had started on Queen Victoria Street, but he could be anywhere by now. That had been hours ago.

I could stay where I was and wait for him to come home. It was just possible that nothing had gone wrong, that Christopher was still on the trail, or that Wolfgang had noticed him and they were bonding over drinks in a pub somewhere.

Or Christopher might have contacted Tom at some point, or met another friend, one I didn’t know. The chap he had been dancing with at the Cave of the Golden Calf the other night, for instance. And now they were off somewhere doing something I ought perhaps not think too deeply about, and Christopher had forgotten to contact me, or simply hadn’t thought he needed to.

I could contact Tom myself, and ask him whether he’d seen or heard from Christopher. If he had done, then I could stop worrying. If he hadn’t, I’d have someone who would worry along with me—because Tom would definitely be worried. He was also someone who had access to resources I didn’t, such as information on whether Christopher really was sitting in a jail cell right now, or even if he—God forbid—was lying on a slab in the morgue.

The motorcar from the other night flashed quickly through my mind, and I realized that there might be another reason why Christopher hadn’t come home. It amounted to the same thing—he was lying in a hospital bed or an alley or the morgue—but not because of a random bloke who didn’t like boys in frocks, but rather because someone had deliberately tried to run him over just a few days ago and that someone had come back today to finish the job.

Or he might have been kidnapped. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Christopher was the nephew of the Duke of Sutherland, the son of Lord Herbert Astley. There would be money in holding him for ransom. His father would certainly pay any amount to get him back. Uncle Harold might not, but Uncle Herbert wouldn’t quibble over draining the coffers for his youngest son.

There was no reason to think anything like that had happened, though, I told myself. It was much more likely that Christopher had run into someone he knew, or had contacted someone he knew from a call box somewhere—perhaps he had found himself in need of a place to take refuge for a while, perhaps while Wolfgang was inside an establishment of some sort, and a call box is great for that sort of thing—and he had taken the time to ring up someone while he was in there. It would certainly add verisimilitude.

Tom’s flat wasn’t on the exchange, although of course Scotland Yard was. Beckwith Place was, too, in the event that Christopher had decided to phone home to say hello to his parents and his brother. We hadn’t been in Wiltshire in over a month, and then it had only been an overnight stay before driving to Marsden Manor with Francis and Constance the next morning. Christopher might have decided he would like to hear his mother’s voice.

Sutherland Hall was on the exchange, too, of course, if Christopher had wanted to update Crispin on whatever was going on. And that wasn’t an improbability at all: he might feel bad about having spilled the beans about Crispin’s supposed attachment to me, and had thought it only fair to let Crispin know that he, Christopher, had blabbed.

That meant ringing up both Sutherland Hall and Marsden Manor, most likely, in case Crispin was snugged up there with his fiancée.

There wasn’t much I could do about Tom, I decided. I didn’t want to leave the Essex House Mansions long enough to go to Chelsea and back. There was a chance that Christopher might come home while I was out, and I didn’t want to miss him. But I could run down the street to the call box on the corner, and ring up Scotland Yard to see whether Tom was still at work. And while I was at it, I could phone both Beckwith Place and Sutherland Hall, too. Maybe even Marsden Manor. And if none of that bore any fruit, then I would track Tom down. Tomorrow morning, latest.

But for now, the call box. I put my jacket and brogues on, hoping all the while that I would hear Christopher’s key in the door and see him come into the foyer. When neither of those things happened, I dragged a cloche over my bob and headed down to the lobby.

“You haven’t seen Mr. Astley, have you, Evans?”

Evans blinked up at me from behind the counter. He was reading Agatha Christie too, I saw. He tried to hide the book from my sight, but I caught a glimpse of the black and read cover with its big question-mark, and recognized it.

“Mr. Astley, Miss Darling?”

“Christopher,” I said. “My flat-mate.”

He shook his head. “No, Miss Darling. Not since the two of you left together before noon.”

“And no messages from anyone?”

“No, Miss Darling.”

“I’m going down to the call box on the corner,” I said. “If anyone comes for me, keep them here until I get back, will you, Evans?”

“Yes, Miss Darling.”

“Happy reading,” I told him, and headed out the door before he could get up to open it for me. “Good choice, Evans.”

“Thank you, Miss Darling,” floated after me as the door slowly shut. By then, I was several steps down the pavement towards the call box.

My first call was to Scotland Yard, where I was told that Tom had left for the evening and would be back tomorrow. When I asked if I could leave a message, the desk sergeant took down my name and said that he would pass it along, but of course the morning was a good twelve hours away, and I didn’t know whether I could wait that long. Nonetheless, I thanked him, and dialed Beckwith Place.

“Pippa!” Aunt Roz said delightedly when she recognized my voice. “We haven’t heard from you in forever.”

“We saw you just last month, Aunt Roz.”

“Not for long enough,” Aunt Roz said. “How are you, my dear?”

“I’m fine,” I said, not entirely honestly.

“And your young man?” There was a subtle change in her voice that I might not have noticed had I not been listening for it.

“Wolfgang? He’s fine, as well. Or was the last time I saw him.”

“And when was that?”

“Luncheon,” I said. “He took me to Sweetings. We had crab bisque and prawn cocktail and turbot.”

“Sounds lovely,” Aunt Roz said, and sounded somewhat envious.

“It was lovely. Listen, Aunt Roz…”

“Yes?” my aunt said brightly.

“Christopher—”

But I couldn’t bring myself to say that he was missing. It would only upset Aunt Roz, when there was nothing she could do about it, and besides, I didn’t actually know that he was missing. He might turn up on his own, full of apologies for having worried me. He might have sent a note that went astray before reaching me before he went off to spend the night with a friend. I might be overreacting.

“Christopher?” Aunt Roz prompted.

I waited for inspiration, but then, before I could actually, consciously come up with something to say, my brain took over, and I blurted, “Christopher told me that Crispin?—”

“Ah,” Aunt Roz said when I faltered. “I wondered how long he would be able to keep quiet about it.”

“Do you mean to say that it’s true?”

“Of course it’s true,” Aunt Roz said. “Dear me, Pippa, the boy could hardly be more obvious about it.”

“It wasn’t obvious to me,” I grumbled.

“Well, it ought to have been.” Aunt Roz’s voice was brisk. “He could barely look at you without getting starry-eyed at first.”

Starry-eyed, was it? “I don’t remember that.”

“Of course not. You were too busy sniping back at all the sarcasm he employed to cover it up. Really, he’s very good at misdirection, isn’t he?”

He certainly was. More than five years of it by now. “I have a hard time believing it,” I confessed.

“Do you really? I assure you, Pippa, we’ve all known for years. Why do you suppose my late sister-in-law lost her mind and tried to shoot you at Sutherland Hall in April?”

Um … “Because she knew that I was trying to figure out who had killed Duke Henry and his valet and she was afraid that I would succeed?”

“I’m sure that was part of it,” Aunt Roz admitted, “but he was also so delighted about you being there that weekend that he had a hard time containing himself, and I’m sure his mother noticed. I’m equally sure that Harold had quite a lot to say about it.”

Yes, indeed. I had heard some of what he’d had to say, and it had been blistering.

“But surely shooting me is a step too far?” I said.

“She had already shot Grimsby by then,” Aunt Roz answered blandly, “so I suppose it mightn’t have been that much of a stretch.”

Perhaps not. “Be that as it may, what I actually rang up to talk to you about, was Christopher.”

“Is that so?”

“He hasn’t come home,” I said. “I went to lunch with Wolfgang at one, and I haven’t seen Christopher since. There’s been no note and no message left with Evans. He wouldn’t happen to have phoned home, would he?”

“Phoned here, do you mean? I rather think your flat is his home now, Pippa.”

Yes, of course it was. “Phoned you,” I corrected. “Or Uncle Herbert or Francis.”

“I don’t believe so, my dear. But wait a moment while I ask.”

I heard the ear piece click against the surface when she put it down, and then her voice faded as she walked away. “Herbert? Francis? Has either of you heard from Kit today?”

There was an exchange of voices in the background, too far away for me to make out individual words, and then the click-clacking of my aunt’s heels as she came back to the telephone. “Pippa? No, he hasn’t rung up here today.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I assumed he hadn’t done, but I thought I would ask.”

“Should we be worried, dear?”

She sounded worried, and of course I was past concern into anxiety myself. Nonetheless I told her, as calmly as I could, that, “I’m sure he’s just fine. He probably went off with a friend and didn’t even consider that I might worry.”

“Would you like us to motor up?”

“No, don’t be silly,” I said. “By the time you made it here, he’d most likely be home. It’s much too soon to do anything like that.”

“Then will you phone us again in the morning and let us know whether he’s there or not?”

I promised her I would, and on that note we hung up. I deposited further coins into the device and asked the operator to put me through to Sutherland Hall in Wiltshire.

There was clicking and whirring on the line, and then ringing. After a few seconds, the phone was answered. “You have reached Sutherland Hall.”

“Tidwell,” I said. “This is?—”

“Miss Darling.”

“Precisely, Tidwell. Tell me, has Mr. Astley phoned this afternoon?”

“Mr. Astley?”

“Christopher,” I said. “Has Christopher rung up to talk to St George? Is St George even at Sutherland Hall, or is he in Dorset with Laetitia?”

“His lordship is presently at home,” Tidwell said smoothly, and I wondered whether I imagined the hint of intrigue in his voice, or whether it truly was there. Christopher had said that everyone knew about Crispin’s feelings for me, including the servants. Did that mean that Tidwell knew? Was he thinking about it right now?

Tidwell rather liked me, I thought. I liked him back. Certainly a lot better than I did Uncle Harold, or for that matter Crispin himself a lot of the time.

“Would you like for me to fetch his lordship?” Tidwell prodded, and I shook myself free of my musings.

“That won’t be necessary, Tidwell. I simply wanted to ask?—”

“It’s no problem, Miss Darling. His lordship is standing right here.”

I definitely didn’t imagine that undertone. Tidwell was, unless I missed my guess, gloating.

“Tidwell,” I cried, “I don’t want—” but of course by then it was too late.

“You don’t want me?” Crispin’s voice said. “Yes, Darling. I’m well aware of it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you,” I said crossly, because of course he would lead off with that, and while before my talk with Christopher I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, now I wondered how I could have been so stupid as to not recognize the many double entendres he often utilized. “I simply don’t have a need to talk to you. Tidwell could have told me what I wanted to know.”

And, in fact, already had done.

“I’ve always suspected that you like Tidwell better than you do me,” Crispin said.

“Of course I like Tidwell better,” I answered. “Tidwell’s the best thing about Sutherland Hall. I’ve often said so.”

“Of course you have, Darling.” He sounded indulgent, and I couldn’t believe I had never noticed that before, either. When I didn’t respond, he added, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to know if you had heard from Christopher,” I said, although I already knew the answer. Not only had Tidwell assured me that Christopher hadn’t rung up, but Crispin was talking to me the way he always did. If he knew that Christopher had spilled the beans on his feelings, that wasn’t likely to be the case. He’s plenty brazen, and could undoubtedly have carried it off in style had he been forced to, but he had picked up the receiver from Tidwell by choice, and I didn’t think he would have volunteered to speak to me had he known. He would undoubtedly be afraid of me taking the mickey.

That was clearly not a concern today, because he smirked. I could hear it all the way from Wiltshire. “Why? Is he missing?”

When I didn’t answer the question, he repeated it, but this time without the smirk and with a lot more consternation. “Wait, Kit’s missing?”

“I don’t know that he’s missing,” I said. “I’m sure he’s just fine somewhere. I just don’t know where he is. We parted ways in front of Sweetings at one—are you familiar with Sweetings, St George?”

“Everyone’s familiar with Sweetings,” Crispin said. “Where was he headed?”

“Nowhere. I was going inside?—”

“Let me guess. Luncheon with Wolfie?”

“What else? Don’t distract me, St George. I went in, Christopher stayed out, and when we came back outside after the meal, I didn’t see him anywhere.”

“No, why would you?” Crispin asked reasonably. “He wouldn’t stand outside Sweetings and wait for you to finish eating.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. Not under normal circumstances. Today, however, he was supposed to wait for Wolfgang, and then follow him home?—”

“Oho!” He sounded gleeful. “Trouble in paradise, is it?”

“There’s no need to sound so pleased,” I grumbled, although of course I knew—now—why such a thing might make him happy. “He moved out of the Savoy, all right? Several weeks ago, according to the doorman. But he still sends me notes on Savoy letterhead. Almost as if he wants me to believe?—”

“—that he’s still staying there. How very unusual, indeed. I would be intrigued, too.”

Yes, of course he would be. So would anyone with an ounce of curiosity in them. “He was dressed as Kitty,” I said. “Christopher, I mean. He didn’t think Wolfgang would be likely to recognize him. I didn’t, either. But he didn’t come home for tea, and then he didn’t come home for supper, and now it’s late, and…”

“And you’re alone and worried.”

“If you want to put it like that,” I said.

“How would you put it?”

“Fine. I’m alone, and yes, I’m worried. Not enough to do anything about it?—”

“What do you call ringing me up?”

“I call it making inquiries,” I said. “I suppose you haven’t heard from him at any point today?”

“Should I have done?”

A loaded question, that one. I decided it would be better if I refrained from answering it.

“I don’t know what happened,” I said instead. “Perhaps nothing. But I thought, if he followed Wolfgang around City, that there might have been a point where he would have wanted or needed to take shelter. Call boxes are handy for that. And if he was inside one, pretending to use the telephone, I thought it just possible that he might have actually rung someone up.”

“And you thought that would be me?”

“Well, he couldn’t phone me,” I pointed out. “The flat is not on the exchange. Tom isn’t either. I don’t think he’d ring up Scotland Yard to pass the time, not unless something was wrong. I already checked with Aunt Roz. So I thought he might have phoned you. You are his best friend, after all.”

“Aside from you,” Crispin muttered. “And Gardiner, I suppose.”

“Tom and Christopher are…” I hesitated. “I wouldn’t call them best friends. And if they’re together and he simply forgot to inform me of that fact, no one will be happier than me?—”

“Except Tom,” Crispin said, and this time I absolutely could not miss the innuendo.

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” I complained. “Besides, I don’t know whether they’re at that point yet. I don’t even know if Tom knows?—”

“—that Kit likes him? He’d have to be stupid not to, and he isn’t.”

“It isn’t always easy to tell,” I said sourly. “Some people are good at hiding their feelings.”

There was a beat. I wondered whether he had heard something in my voice, or whether the hint of accusation was only audible to me.

“Kit isn’t,” he said after a moment. “He makes no secret of the fact that he can’t keep his eyes off Gardiner. And the way he came rushing down to Dorset last month, after Kit rang him up, I don’t think it’s only him.”

No, I didn’t think so, either. “It’s a big step, though. Especially for a Scotland Yard detective. There are situations where he would be expected to arrest Christopher, not drag him off home to protect him.”

Crispin didn’t say anything to that. “What do you plan to do now?” he asked after a moment.

I took a breath while I thought about it. “I don’t know that there’s much I can do. I don’t know where Wolfgang lives, so I can’t go there and ask him whether he’s seen Christopher…”

“Do you think that he might have done something to Kit?”

“I don’t know what I think,” I said. “All I know is that Christopher was supposed to follow Wolfgang this afternoon. That’s what we planned. Although I didn’t see him after I stepped into Sweetings. Something might have happened while I was inside the restaurant, and he might have left by the time we came out again. Perhaps he met a friend and went with him instead of waiting around.”

Given our plans and his own curiosity about Wolfgang, it didn’t seem likely, but again, it wasn’t impossible.

Crispin hummed. “What else?”

“I left a message for Tom at Scotland Yard. He has access to resources I don’t. Like the morgue and today’s arrest records.”

“Do you think someone arrested Kit?”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said again, “but he was a young man dressed in women’s clothes walking through London in broad daylight. It’s possible.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

I couldn’t think of anything. “If you were in London I’d ask you to come by and distract me, but since you’re not…”

“I could be in London in a couple of hours.”

“Not on my account,” I said. “I’m going to bed and hopefully forgetting about all of this until tomorrow.”

The smirk returned to his voice. “I could go to bed, too.”

And there it was again. One of those innuendos that I had never taken seriously and that I now had to wonder how he meant.

“Not with me,” I said. “You’re engaged to Laetitia, remember? No fooling around for you.”

“What Laetitia doesn’t know?—”

“She’d know,” I said. “And then she’d kill you.” Or more likely me.

“Why, Darling, I didn’t know you cared!”

I sighed. “Go to bed, St George. I’ll have Christopher ring you up when he gets home. That way you won’t have to worry.”

“And if he’s not home by tomorrow morning?”

“Then I’ll ring you up again myself,” I said.

“Good enough. Sleep well, Darling.”

“You too,” I told him, and headed back up the pavement towards home.