Chapter 14 #3
It doesn’t matter anymore, of course. Or rather, it only matters insofar as the general public is concerned.
Crispin knows, and doesn’t care. I don’t know whether Aunt Roz or Uncle Herbert know or not—Aunt Roz might; it wouldn’t surprise me—but I don’t think that either of them would care, either, beyond worrying about Christopher’s safety.
Although it’s probably still best to keep the two personae separate as much as possible.
Crispin snorted a laugh. “Hardly. He’d be even more unwelcome than you.”
I raised my brows in silent question, and he added, “This area is full of immigrants. Jews, Russians, Eastern Europeans. Some Germans, too, so maybe you’d actually fare better than Kit or me, at least if you leaned into that part of your heritage.
But I wouldn’t recommend it. The crowds can be rough, and I wouldn’t give much for your chances of survival.
Anarchists and revolutionaries and such. You know the type.”
I didn’t, as a matter of fact, but I’d take his word for it.
“I’m trying to place why Shoreditch sounds familiar,” I said, but by then we had reached Shoreditch High Street and Tom was telling Crispin to turn onto Calvert, so the topic was dropped.
Two blocks ahead, down a narrow lane boxed in by tall, red, brick buildings on both sides, I could see something green.
“There it is,” Christopher said, unnecessarily. “We didn’t dawdle.”
We hadn’t. In fact, I thought we had made rather good time getting here. That didn’t mean that the kidnappers would agree, of course.
Crispin pulled to the right of the staircase leading up to the top of the mound inside the roundabout, crowned by an ornate bandstand, and turned off the motor. When he pushed his door open and pulled his seat forward, I held onto the carpet bag.
“This time I’m coming with you.” The note hadn’t said anything about him going alone, and besides, I wanted to stretch my legs. The fact that I was curious clinched the deal.
“Fine by me.” He took my hand instead of the carpet bag, and hauled me out of the motorcar. I dragged the ransom with me.
“If Pippa’s going,” Christopher said, “then I’m going, too.” He pushed his door open and stepped out.
Tom sighed. “Go ahead, then. I’ll stay here and see what I can see.”
“Most likely nothing,” I told him. “Anyone could be sitting inside any one of these flats—” I gestured to the buildings surrounding the circus.
They were each five stories tall, with what looked like flats on four of them, along with storage and sometimes retail on the ground level, “—and be watching us, and we’d never know it. ”
Christopher and Crispin both looked up, taking in the tall, red-brick buildings with their white windows and Arts and Crafts detailing. They both looked concerned.
“You think she might be in one of these?” Christopher asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “do I? I wouldn’t be surprised. Whoever the kidnapper is, he—or she—has much more coverage here than in Battersea Park.”
“And much less supervision,” Tom added bitterly, “since he managed to scupper the surveillance operation back there.”
Yes, indeed.
“I don’t suppose we can go door to door and ask anyone if they’ve seen Laetitia?”
Crispin was still looking upwards, perhaps counting windows, as he revolved slowly on the spot to take in the entire roundabout, even the part beyond the bandstand.
“Not now,” Tom told him, “but if we don’t recover your fiancée tonight, it’s something we can look into tomorrow.”
After a second he added, gently, “You’re dawdling. The note said not to do that.”
It had indeed. “Go on,” I told Christopher with a nudge. “I’ll carry the money, and St George can bring up the rear.”
He nodded. “We’ll see you, Tom.”
“I’ll be watching you,” Tom told us. “It’s not as if you’re going far.”
No, it wasn’t. We turned to the stairs and started climbing.
There were twelve steps—I counted—up to the first level of the mound. We crossed the path there and started on the second staircase—another ten steps—and then we were standing in front of the bandstand.
“We’re standing on a pile of rubble from the Old Nichol slum,” Christopher informed us, slightly out of breath, as Crispin brought up the rear. “They dumped it in the middle of the circus during the construction of the council estate, and built a bandstand on top of it.”
“That’s fascinating, Kit,” Crispin said.
It was impossible to tell whether he intended the statement to be sarcastic or not, which was amazing in and of itself.
Knowing him, I would have put good money on it being sarcasm, but it didn’t actually sound like it.
“Some other time, though, if you don’t mind. I’d like to get this over with.”
“Be my guest.” Christopher gestured to the bandstand.
It was octagonal, with a large, conical, shingled roof topped by a weathervane, and with short, slatted walls enclosing it all around.
There were streetlamps at intervals around the circus, and lighted windows here and there up above, but the bandstand itself sat in stygian darkness.
None of the light penetrated the massive roof to the floor below.
“Give me that.”
Crispin didn’t wait for me to oblige, just took the carpet bag out of my hands. I deduced he must be nervous and wanted this over with, since he’s usually more courteous than that, even to me.
Because I realized it, I relinquished the bag without comment. “Go on, then. Into the pavilion with you.”
He shot me a look, but didn’t say anything, just headed for the opening into the darkness. Christopher and I stood where we were, watching. I fumbled for his hand—this entire night had been nerve-wracking—and he gave my fingers a squeeze.
Crispin reached the opening in the low wall, and stopped. It was late enough, and silent enough, that we could hear the whisper that dropped from his lips.
Christopher stiffened, and let go of my hand. “What is it, Crispin?”
Crispin shot a look our way, but didn’t answer, just dropped the carpet bag where he stood and moved forward.
At that point it wasn’t difficult to deduce what had happened. Someone was inside the bandstand, on the floor—perhaps collapsed, or perhaps simply bound and gagged.
Christopher was already on his way. I followed, on rapid feet. When he ran past the carpet bag and dropped to his knees next to Crispin, kneeling beside the dark bundle on the floor, I grabbed the bag and stayed where I was.
“Is it—” My voice was froggy and I had to clear my throat. “Is it she?”
Christopher shook his head. “It’s a bloke. Go fetch Tom, would you?”
“Is he…?” —dead, was what I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t quite get the word out.
Crispin shot me a look over his shoulder. “Just go fetch him, Darling. And hang onto the money.”
I nodded, and kept a tight grip on the bag as I clattered away down the stairs.