Page 2 of Peril in Piccadilly (Pippa Darling Mysteries #7)

Chapter Two

“I’m fine,” I said crossly, not for the first time.

It was an hour or so later, and I was seated on the sofa at home with my pyjama trousers pulled up above my knees to accommodate the plasters decorating both my kneecaps, and I was clutching a cup of tea in bandaged hands while I winced at the feeling of heat against my scraped palms.

“You don’t look fine,” Christopher answered, also not for the first time. He was sitting on the other end of the Chesterfield with a cuppa of his own, over which he assessed me critically. “You look like someone who was pitched down a staircase and who is fortunate to be alive.”

Since that was the long and short of it, there wasn’t a whole lot I could say in my defense, although I tried. “I’m hardly fortunate to be alive, Christopher. People don’t die from falling down stairs.”

“Certainly they do,” Christopher said tartly. “You’re lucky you had a soft landing.”

I supposed that was true. My pretty ivory frock was dirty and torn along the hem, and I had scrapes and bruises on my palms and knees, but I had been lucky to get away with no further injuries. The fellow at the bottom of the pile—a young and skinny specimen in evening kit—had, as far as could be determined, not only ruined his trousers, but had also quite possibly broken his nose when he landed face-down on it. It had been bleeding copious amounts, and had looked a bit crooked when he stood up. He had been clutching his wrist, too, so there might have been something wrong with that, as well. And the bloke in the bowler hat had seemed to have trouble catching his breath, so either he might have broken a rib or his heart was acting up.

“How many people were involved?” Christopher wanted to know.

I thought about it. “There must have been ten or twelve of us. I didn’t count specifically, but at least that many. Piccadilly Circus is always busy.”

“Do you have any idea what started it?”

I didn’t, and told him so. “I don’t think we ever found out. All I know, is that someone hit me in the back. That’s what everyone said, that someone hit them in the back and they fell.”

“Someone must have started it,” Christopher insisted, and then cut himself off to stare into the foyer as the buzzer beside the front door rang. “Now who could that be, at this time of night?”

I groaned. “If it’s St George, please don’t let him up. I don’t want to have to deal with him on top of everything else. I’m in enough pain already.”

“Crispin?” Christopher scooted towards the front of the sofa. “Why would it be Crispin?”

I made a face. “We saw him at the Criterion Restaurant after the theatre. Him and Laetitia.”

“Did you really? You didn’t mention that.”

“We had other things to talk about,” I said, indicating my knees and hands. I hadn’t told him about the ring I had turned down either, and that was a much bigger deal than Crispin’s presence in the West End.

Christopher pushed to his feet as the bell from downstairs pealed again. “Sadly, I don’t think he’ll be put off, Pippa. But perhaps you’ll get lucky and it won’t be him.”

Perhaps. Although if it wasn’t Crispin, it was likely to be Wolfgang, and I wanted to see him even less. “I’ve changed my mind. If it’s St George, you can let him up.” Although it probably wasn’t. Laetitia was no doubt keeping him busy. “If it’s Wolfgang, lie and tell him I haven’t gotten home yet.”

“You’ll be explaining that to me later,” Christopher said, but he strode away from me as the buzzer sounded angrily for a third time. “Hold your horses, I’m coming. Hello?”

There was a faint quacking from the other end of the line, recognizable as the dulcet tones of Evans the doorman, ringing up from the lobby downstairs.

“Yes,” Christopher said, “of course, Evans. Send him up.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to me across the parquet floor of the foyer. “You were right. It’s Crispin.”

As if my evening hadn’t been traumatic enough. “Listen, Christopher. Before he gets up here, there are a few things you ought to know…”

Christopher sighed. “Tell me later. I doubt he’ll stay long.”

“I have no idea why he’d be here at all,” I said disagreeably. “We conversed at the restaurant. There is nothing left to say. He has been instructed to address me as Philippa, for your information. Just so you’re prepared.”

“He won’t be doing that here,” Christopher answered, and unlocked the door. “In front of Laetitia, I’m sure he’ll try. In front of you and me, there’s no point.”

He pulled the door open. From down the hall, I could hear the rattling of the lift, and then the sound of the door gliding open followed by the skitter of the grille being drawn back from the opening. Then Crispin’s footsteps. And his voice.

“Evening, Kit.”

“Crispin.”

Neither of them said anything more until Crispin had passed across the threshold into the flat and Christopher had divested him of his topper, gloves, and cane. “Tea?”

“If that’s what you’re having.”

We were having tea, as it happened, although there was also a little something else in it, to help with the pain. I was getting nicely woozy and ready to sleep.

“Hello again, Darling,” Crispin added as he walked into the sitting room, and then he stopped, dead in his tracks, when he got a look at me. “Dear me. Too much time on your knees worshipping Wolfie?”

“Don’t be crude, Crispin,” Christopher told him, with a shoulder check as he walked past on his way towards the kitchenette for another cup and saucer. “Pippa fell down the stairs to the tube.”

“You took the tube home?” He perched on the chair across the table from me, hands in his lap. “At this time of night?”

“I was in a hurry,” I said. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

He gave my knees and hands one more intent look before moving his attention up to my face. “Yes, I saw you tearing out of the restaurant leaving Wolfie with the bill. What happened?”

“Wolfie—” I grimaced and corrected myself, “Wolfgang was always going to end up with the bill. He invited me.”

“That’s not what I’m asking, Darling, and you know it.”

“Philippa,” I said. “Remember your fiancée.”

“I haven’t forgotten. She isn’t here, so I’ll call you what I want. Focus, Darling.” He snapped his fingers in my face. I scowled, and he added, “What happened with Wolfie?”

“Nothing happened. He offered me a ring, and I had to say no.”

He looked blank. “You did?”

“I don’t fancy moving to Germany with him.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course I don’t,” I said. “Whatever gave you the idea that I would want to leave England?”

“The fact that he proposed and you accepted,” Crispin answered. “The fact that you seem to like him rather a lot. The fact that you’re always?—”

“Shut it, Crispin” Christopher interrupted from the doorway to the kitchenette, where he was leaning waiting for the water to boil again. Crispin looked offended, but obeyed.

“Go back, Pippa,” Christopher added. “He offered you a ring?”

I nodded. “A very nice ring, too. A big emerald flanked by baguette-cut diamonds and small sapphires.”

“And you turned it down.” It wasn’t a question. There was clearly no question-mark at the end of the sentence.

I shrugged, and Christopher arched his brows. Before he could speak again, however, Crispin opened his mouth.

“You broke off the engagement.” There was an expression halfway between triumph and incredulity on his face.

“No,” I said. I’d never actually been engaged in the first place. Not officially. There had been no ring, not until this evening, and no notice in the London Times , unlike when Crispin’s engagement to Laetitia was announced. So it had never been official.

“But you don’t want to go to Germany with him.”

I shook my head. “I don’t. There’s still the possibility that he’ll stay in London, of course. And if so, I’ll reconsider the ring.”

“It’s none of your concern anyway, Crispin,” Christopher reminded him as he placed a cup and saucer on the table in front of Crispin and lifted the brandy bottle questioningly. “You’re engaged to the lovely Laetitia, remember? If you wanted a say in Pippa’s future, you should have done something about it before now. Would you like a splash of this?”

“Yes, please.” Crispin waited until the brandy was in the tea and the bottle back on the table, before he lifted the cup and saucer and took a sip. “Thank you, Kit.”

“Don’t mention it.” Christopher sank down on the Chesterfield again, and crossed one elegant leg over the other. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

Crispin leaned back and made himself comfortable, as well. “Well, I saw Philippa tear out of the Criterion like the hounds of hell were on her heels, and I thought I’d see what the problem was.”

“There’s no problem,” I said.

He twitched an eyebrow. “Just a broken engagement and a breach of promise suit.”

“I already told you,” I said severely, “there is no broken engagement and certainly no breach of promise. Not unless you’ve decided to call off your arrangement with Laetitia on the strength of it, and she decided to come after you.”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be so stupid.”

No, of course he wouldn’t.

“I wanted to go after you,” he added, “to make certain you were all right, just so you know.”

“Laetitia wouldn’t let you,” Christopher asked, “I suppose?”

Crispin made a face. “Of course not. By the time she had made that clear, Wolfie had settled the bill and left, too. And at that point, there was no sense in me going.”

“He left, as well, did he? Immediately after Pippa?”

Crispin nodded, and I said, “What are you on about now, Christopher?”

“Bear with me a moment, Pippa. Perhaps it was Wolfgang who followed you into the underground and shoved you down the stairs.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked, but it was overshadowed by Crispin’s louder outburst of, “Someone did that?”

“No,” I said. “No one did that.”

“Of course someone did do,” Christopher answered, indicating my knees. “Otherwise you wouldn’t look like you do.”

I shook my head. “You’re making it sound as if it were deliberate, and it wasn’t.”

“How do you know that it wasn’t?”

Well, I didn’t know that, of course. But at the same time, there was no reason to think it had been anything but an accident. There was certainly no reason to think it had been aimed at me in particular if it had been deliberate, and least of all any reason to suspect that Wolfgang had been behind it.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “First of all, he isn’t mad. He’d have to be mad to try to murder me simply because I turned down his proposal of marriage.”

Crispin made a sort of crowing sound, and I added, with a severe look at him, “Not that I did do. I left the door wide open for him to contact me again. He had no reason to want to get rid of me.”

Crispin looked truculent. “He certainly didn’t look pleased when he left.”

“Did he look displeased enough to commit murder?” Christopher wanted to know, and Crispin shrugged.

“How am I supposed to know the answer to that, old bean?”

“We’ve met our share of murderers,” Christopher pointed out, which was certainly true.

“And did you suspect any of them before the fact?”

I hadn’t. Or rather, I hadn’t suspected any of the guilty parties more than the non-guilty. I had suspected everyone equally, you might say, whether they’d turned out to be guilty or not. I had, in fact, been convinced of Crispin’s guilt in at least one case. But in none of them had I done a particularly good job of figuring out whodunit before the denouement at the end.

“Wolfgang had no reason to want to murder me,” I reiterated. “Normal people don’t go around killing other people over hurt feelings.”

His feelings were probably not even all that hurt. He liked me, yes. Admired me, according to what he had said during the original proposal. We got on well enough. I was young and respectable and reasonably attractive, and I could provide him with the heir and spare he no doubt required for the Schloss and the other entailments. But he had never professed love, or even deep devotion. His proposal of marriage had come across more as an offer for a friendly business partnership than anything else.

And that was perhaps the biggest reason why I couldn’t consider going to Germany with him. Leave out the fact that I wasn’t in love with him: had he at least been head over heels for me, I might have considered it. But I’m not upper-class enough to consider marriage solely in the light of a business transaction. My mother had left England and everything she knew to live with my commoner father in a flat on the Continent. How could I make that same trip for the promise of a Schloss and a comfortable lifestyle?

“You never know what might be going through someone else’s head,” Christopher admonished, and I turned to Crispin.

“Tell the truth, St George. Did he appear homicidal when he left?”

“I’m not certain that I would recognize homicidal if I saw it,” Crispin demurred, and Christopher chuckled.

“Certainly you would, old chap. You’ve seen it in Pippa’s eyes often enough.”

There was no denying that. I had often been possessed of an overriding desire to strangle St George. Although I had never acted on it, so how homicidal was I, really?

“In that case I wouldn’t say so, no,” Crispin said. “He seemed fairly composed. More so than Philippa. She tore out of there like the hounds of hell were on her heels.”

“Hyperbole,” I said sourly.

He lifted a shoulder. “He left money for the bill and then strode out. It couldn’t have been more than a minute later. Although he didn’t appear to be chasing after you, if that’s what you hoped for.”

“I didn’t hope for anything,” I said. “Christopher was the one who suggested that Wolfgang would pitch me down the stairs to the underground because I hurt his feelings. Which I didn’t do. If I had to pick a likely culprit?—”

He rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. You think I did it.”

“You did threaten to shove me down a staircase once.”

His upper lip curled. “Did not!”

“Did so. It was at Sutherland Hall in April. Don’t you remember? Aunt Roz asked you to escort me downstairs, and you said I’d better be polite to you, or your hand might slip.”

Crispin flushed. “Perhaps I did, now that you mention it.”

“Hah,” I said triumphantly.

“I’ll point out that I didn’t actually do it, however, even though you were extremely rude to me. And I didn’t lay a hand on you tonight, either. You can ask Laetitia.”

“No, thank you.” The less I had to interact with the happy fiancée, the better pleased I was. “Besides, it wasn’t you I was going to accuse. If I had to pick a likely culprit?—”

“It would be Laetitia.” He nodded. “And I don’t blame you. She would be delighted to pitch you headfirst down a flight of stairs. But she didn’t. She was sitting across from me when it happened.”

As expected. “You’d swear to that, I suppose?”

He sniffed. “On a stack of Bibles if I had to. Although unless you decide to make something of it, I expect you to simply take my word for it. Neither of us left the restaurant until supper was over. By then, you must have made it home. And I had to take Laetitia back to Marsden House before I could come over. She was displeased that I declined to spend the night, too.”

“Of course she was,” Christopher said and leaned back languidly. “Hoping to get a head start on that heir and spare, no doubt.”

Crispin shrugged, but his cheekbones darkened. “At any rate, she had no opportunity to attack you, Darling.”

“Nor did anyone else,” I said. “I’m sure it was simply an unfortunate accident. One person lost his or her footing and stumbled into another person, and so forth, until we were all in a heap.”

Crispin eyed my bandaged hands. “How bad is it?”

“Not too bad. I took off a layer of skin, and I have some bruises. But I’m sure I’ll be right as rain in a few days.”

“That’s my cue, then.” He placed his cup and saucer on the table and made to push to his feet.

“You’re not staying the night?” Christopher inquired, looking up at him.

“I don’t think I’d better, old bean. My fiancée wouldn’t approve.”

No, of course she wouldn’t. And that, more than anything, was why I told him, “Don’t be a goose, St George. It’s late, and it’s cold, and what Laetitia doesn’t know won’t hurt her. You can take my bed. I was going to spend the night on the sofa anyway. My knees hurt and I don’t feel like moving.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay,” Christopher agreed. “It makes more sense for you to remain here than make the trip to Mayfair at this time of night. We’ll get you up bright and early so you can make it over to Sutherland House before Laetitia comes looking for you.”

Crispin glanced from Christopher to me and back. “If you’re certain you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind in the least,” I said. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent the night in my bed—without me there, naturally—and at least this time we didn’t have to worry about Uncle Harold showing up in the morning to make sure nothing inappropriate was going on. “Run down the street to the call box and ring up Sutherland House, so Rogers knows where you are.”

He nodded. “Walk with me, Kit?”

They headed across the foyer and out the door together. I assumed they had something to discuss that they didn’t want me to overhear, which was their prerogative. Instead of worrying about it, I took the opportunity to move the teacups and saucers to the kitchenette, and then drag myself down the hallway and into the lavatory to affect my evening ablutions before the boys came back. Makeup removed and teeth brushed, I dug out a pillow and a blanket and wandered stiff-legged back to the Chesterfield by the time they made their way back inside the flat.

“Everything taken care of?”

They both nodded. “Crispin moved the motorcar out of the way of the door,” Christopher said, “and we rang up Rogers and let him know what was going on.”

“You swore him to secrecy, I suppose? Made certain he won’t ring up Sutherland Hall and inform Uncle Harold that St George is misbehaving?”

Crispin sniffed. “I’m not misbehaving. There’s no one here that I can misbehave with. If I wanted to misbehave, I would have stayed at Marsden House.”

“Of course you would have done.” I gave him a patronizing smile, the equivalent of a pat on the head. “My apologies.”

He growled. “I abhor you, Darling.”

“The feeling is mutual,” I told him. “And that’s no way to speak to the person whose bed you’ll be spending the night in. Now shoo. I want to sleep.”

He scowled, but allowed himself to be pulled across the sitting room and into the hallway by Christopher. They both visited the loo, and then shut the doors to their respective rooms—or mine, in Crispin’s case. I folded myself into the blanket and tried to ignore the stinging in my knees and hands.

It wasn’t easy. The whole experience, from the conversation in the restaurant to hobbling through my own doorway with blood trickling down my legs, had been painful as well as unsettling.

There wasn’t any reason to think that Christopher might be right about what had happened in the tube station, was there?

I couldn’t believe that there was. Why would Wolfgang want to push me down a flight of stairs? We had parted on somewhat strained terms, admittedly, but I certainly hadn’t said anything to upset him to enough of a degree that he would want to hurt me. And no one else wanted to hurt me, either, as far as I knew.

I wouldn’t put it past Laetitia, certainly, should the opportunity arise and as long as she could do it without getting herself in trouble. And the same went for Uncle Harold, really. Neither of them liked me, and both would be happy if I were out of the way. The same was probably true for Laetitia’s parents. Or her mother, at any rate. Maurice, Earl of Marsden, didn’t seem like he disliked anyone in particular, me included, and while I was certain he was pleased about his daughter snagging the future Duke of Sutherland, he didn’t seem as invested in it as the Countess Euphemia or Uncle Harold were. Not to the degree that he would hurt anyone over it.

Besides, I’m sure I would have recognized either one of them, had they come up behind me and given me a push down the stairs. As far as I could recall, the people behind me when I headed into the underground had been a middle-aged woman in a dark coat, and a young couple, a few years older than me, on their way home—or perhaps out—for the evening. None of them were people I had seen before, and they had all said the same thing after the accident: that someone had hit them in the back. No one in the pile had been anyone I had ever seen before, nor anyone I had any reason to think wished me harm.

No, it had to have been an unfortunate accident, or if it truly was deliberate, I wasn’t the intended target, just an innocent bystander who found myself caught up in someone else’s revenge. Perhaps the young lady in the cloche was the former flame of the gentleman behind me, with the other young lady in tow, and she had decided to bump into the older lady, so the older lady would bump into me, so I would bump into the girl with the cloche and bowl her over… all because the young gentleman had once admired the girl in the cloche.

It made as much sense, perhaps more, than that Wolfgang would follow me into the underground and try to shove me down the staircase.

I amused myself with coming up with similar scenarios for the other people I remembered until the pain in my knees faded to a slow thrum and I was able to fall asleep.

It felt like two minutes later when the buzzer rang from downstairs, although when I blinked my eyes open, I could see the thin light of dawn creep in along the edges of the curtains. Elsewhere in the flat, there was the flailing of either Christopher or Crispin coming back to life at the sound of the noise, as well.

I dragged myself into a sitting position, and from there, up to standing. My knees protested, and I bit back a shrill noise before I hobbled around the Chesterfield and into the foyer, towards the front door and buzzer. “Evans?”

“Yes, Miss Darling,” Evans’s tinny voice said from downstairs. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”

“Then why did you?” was at the tip of my tongue. Crispin would have said it. I bit the words back. “What’s wrong?” I asked instead, since the commissionaire wouldn’t drag us out of bed at the crack of dawn unless something had happened. “It isn’t Uncle Harold, is it? The Duke of Sutherland?”

The last time Crispin had ended up in my bed overnight, Evans had let His Grace up to the flat the next morning with no warning. I had had no idea the Duke was even in London until I opened my front door and saw him standing there, looking like a silent movie version of a heavy father, all beetling brows and tight lips. Afterwards, I had told Evans in no uncertain terms to never do it again. If Uncle Harold wanted to come up, he could wait to be announced like anyone else. Being the Duke of Sutherland did not give him automatic access to Christopher’s and my home.

“No, Miss Darling,” Evans said. And seemed to reconsider the statement. “I don’t believe so.”

“He’s not downstairs?”

“No, Miss Darling.”

“Is someone else downstairs?”

“No, Miss Darling. Not any longer. A messenger arrived from Sutherland House with a message for Lord St George, but he has left again.”

A messenger from Sutherland House? “Who? And what kind of message?”

“One of the footmen,” Evans said, “I suppose. As for the message, Lord St George is to come to Mayfair as quickly as he can make it.”

“At this time of the morning?” Under normal circumstances, this was closer to Crispin’s bedtime than when he usually gets up. He’s much more night owl than early bird, I’m afraid. What on earth was so important that Rogers wanted to drag him out of bed at— “What time is it, Evans?”

It was half four, which at least was morning rather than the middle of the night.

“Did the messenger happen to mention what was wrong?” I inquired. Perhaps Uncle Harold truly was on his way up to Town, and Rogers was trying to avoid the scene that would ensue if the Duke arrived at Sutherland House and Crispin wasn’t there.

“A robbery,” Evans said.

“A—” I didn’t manage to get the rest of it out. The next sentence, “Thank you, Evans,” came out garbled, as well.

“Thank you, Miss Darling.”

Evans disconnected. I stared at the inside of the door for a few seconds, blinking, before I gathered myself together and plunged down the hallway as quickly as my stiff knees would allow.