Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
“If the husband or wife is always a suspect—” Crispin began, and Tom turned to him.
“I’ve told you before, Your Grace. You’re a victim, too. And frankly, there’s no world in which you would work hand in hand with Natterdorff to accomplish anything.”
Crispin made a face, but he didn’t deny it.
“If Laetitia did an Agatha Christie,” I told him, “and that’s assuming I’m correct that she’s in hiding, and Tom’s wrong that she’s dead—”
Crispin nodded.
“—where would Laetitia go to ground?”
He blinked at me. “If she were a party to her own kidnapping, do you mean?”
“Precisely. I’m not implying that she was—although we still don’t have an explanation for why she motored up to London a day sooner than she had to.” It might have been to meet Wolfgang, far-fetched as that seemed. “But if she did plan it all herself, where would she go?”
“Well, there’s nothing in the papers about this disappearance,” Christopher said, and veered off into a question, “do you think we ought to change that, Tom?”
“That would be up to her parents,” Tom told him. “His Grace isn’t her husband yet. That decision wouldn’t be his.”
“And her parents haven’t wanted to make it public?”
Tom shook his head. “That might change now that the kidnapper is dead, however.”
“Have you informed them?”
“Not yet. But I have to. They have a right to know.”
“I’ll come with you if you’d like,” Crispin offered, and Tom nodded gratefully.
“That would be helpful. Thank you.”
We sat in silence for a moment after that. I cleared my throat, and Crispin glanced over at me. “To answer your question, Darling, she’d be somewhere comfortable. The Hotel Ritz in Paris, or at least a suite at the Savoy under an assumed name.”
“What are the chances of that?”
He shrugged, somewhat helplessly. “At this point, I’m really not certain of anything. I can’t think of any reason why she would cooperate with Natterdorff in her own kidnapping.”
“And she might not have done,” Tom said soothingly, at the same time as Christopher said, “I can.”
Crispin turned to look at him, and so did Tom and I. Christopher added, “You know as well as I do that she had every reason to want Pippa out of the way.”
This was as close as anyone had come to directly referencing Crispin’s feelings for me—always assuming that Christopher was right and he had them—and I turned to him to see how he’d react, and whether his reaction would tell me anything I didn’t already know.
It didn’t. In fact, as reactions go, it was almost imperceptible. His eyes widened slightly for a second, and that was all. His expression was perfectly bland when he said, “I can’t imagine what you’re on about, Kit.”
Christopher snorted. “No, I’m certain you can’t. Bear with me for a moment, though.”
Crispin flapped a hand. “Be my guest.”
Christopher took a breath. “Two months ago, or three or four, Wolfgang wanted Pippa either dead or married to him, so he could get his hands on her share of the Natterdorff fortune. I don’t think he cared overmuch whether it was one or the other.”
I shook my head. “He took several opportunities to try to kill me. It was always something circumspect, something that might look like a tragic accident if it came off. He definitely didn’t seem to want to do anything that might get him arrested for attempted murder, at least not until the end, when I suppose he got desperate. ”
“His grandfather—your grandfather—was dying,” Christopher nodded. “He couldn’t afford to wait for innocent-looking opportunities any longer, or it might be too late.”
And that was when he had doped me and abducted me and put me on the freighter, where he probably planned to marry me once we were in international waters. Or perhaps the plan was simpler, and he only planned to throw me overboard.
“This is all well and good,” Crispin said, “sorry, Darling—but what does it have to do with Laetitia?”
“Well,” Christopher said, “she had every reason to want Pippa married to someone else, didn’t she? At least that way she wouldn’t be able to marry you.”
That was blunt to the point of brutality, and Crispin looked like Christopher had slapped him. “Kit—” He slanted an agonized look my way.
I sniffed. “There was never any danger of that, Christopher. He’d have to propose, for one thing, which he’d never do, and then I’d have to survive laughing myself sick, for another, and it’s not as if I’d ever say yes, is it—”
It seemed to have been the right thing to say, because Crispin looked relieved. “Thanks ever so, Darling.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. “That’s not to say that I want you to marry Laetitia, you know. But with recent events, perhaps that won’t be a concern anymore.”
I smiled brightly. There was a brief pause before—
“Darling,” Crispin said, and his voice carried what I could only call a warning. “I’m certain you didn’t just admit—in front of a Scotland Yard detective, no less—that you’re pleased that my fiancée might not be coming back.”
Tom arched his brows at me.
“Of course not,” I said smoothly. “I have every confidence in Laetitia’s survival instincts. In fact, I’ll put money on her turning up by the end of the day. Not here, of course—” Not at our flat, “—but at either Marsden House or Sutherland House.”
Most likely the latter, since—if I were right—this had all been a ploy to test Crispin’s devotion, and she’d want to see first-hand his reaction to her reappearance.
“I’d like to take you up on that offer,” Crispin told me, “but I’m afraid the long arm of the law would take it amiss if we gambled on it.”
He flicked a look at Tom, who slanted one back. Jaundiced, that one. “I’m afraid you’re right, Your Grace. Wagering on your fiancée’s survival in front of the police isn’t a good look.”
“As I suspected,” Crispin nodded. “Sorry, Darling.”
“That’s all right. I’ll still win when she turns up and flings herself around your neck sobbing.”
There was another pause. This one was interrupted by the buzzer beside the front door. Christopher looked in the direction of the foyer with a frown. “What can Evans want? As you said, Pippa, it isn’t likely that Laetitia would turn up here.”
“Someone else might have turned up,” I suggested.
“Such as?” He pushed to his feet. “The Marsdens don’t know where we live, and Wolfgang is dead. Who else is there?”
“It might be Finch,” Tom said as Christopher made his way through the door and into the foyer. “He knows where you live, and how to ring up the commissionaire.”
“A break in the case?” I suggested.
“Anything’s possible,” Tom said, and put down his cup. We all turned toward the foyer for Christopher’s part of the conversation.
“Good morning, Evans. How may I—? Yes, he’s still here.”
Tom or Crispin, then. As expected. The only people who were likely to want to talk to me or Christopher were either in this room, in Wiltshire, or in the morgue.
“From whom?” Christopher asked. And added, when Evans had responded, “Yes, of course. And the message?”
Evans spoke for a few seconds before Christopher nodded. “Yes, Evans, I’ll pass it along. Was that all? Yes, thank you.”
He turned back to us after disconnecting from Evans. “You were right, Tom. Detective-Sergeant Finchley rang up.”
Tom straightened. “What news?”
“It seems Wolfgang’s face made it into the morning paper.” Christopher made his way back into the sitting room as he spoke. His tone of voice created invisible quotes around the presumed headline. “German criminal mastermind dies in the underground.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “I’d hardly call him a criminal mastermind, but I suppose I’m not surprised that someone decided to print a news item. It’s not every day that the tube is shut down for hours because someone dies in the tunnels.”
“It was the middle of the night,” I pointed out. “It would have been shut down anyway.”
Christopher shushed me. “Not now, Pippa. I know you’re right, but it doesn’t matter at the moment.”
“So Wolfie’s picture was in the paper.” Crispin picked up the narrative, with a quick glance at me. “What about it?”
Christopher turned to him. “The manager of Tower House in Whitechapel recognized him. Apparently he’s been a guest there for a few weeks.”
Tom’s eyebrows arched. “Tower House? The Rowton House on Fieldgate Street, do you mean?”
“If you say so. Evans just called it Tower House in Whitechapel. I suppose that’s what Finch must have called it, too.”
“Fieldgate is a block off Whitechapel Road,” Tom said.
Christopher nodded. “Well, Evans said that Finch said he’d meet you there.”
“I suppose I had better go, then.” Tom pushed to his feet. When none of the rest of us moved, he arched his brows. “You’re not going to ask me if you can come along?”
“There’s no point,” Crispin asked, “is there?”
“Rowton Houses are men’s hostels,” I continued. “Laetitia wouldn’t be allowed to cross the threshold even if she’d wanted to, and I’m certain she wouldn’t have wanted to. Is that correct, St George?”
“Absolutely,” Crispin nodded. “Besides, I don’t think Wolfie would have wanted to risk losing his room by trying to smuggle her in, would he?”
“I can’t imagine that he would have done, no. If he had found a place where he could lie low, I imagine he would have wanted to keep it.”
Tom stared from me to Crispin and back with his brows elevated. It was as if he’d never seen us agree on anything before.
“We’ll wait for word,” I assured him. “You’ll let us know what you find out, won’t you?”
“Not before this afternoon, though,” Christopher added. He was still waiting inside the door, presumably to escort Tom out, and the latter eyed him.
“Going somewhere, are you?”
“We’ll be visiting the Marsdens,” Christopher said with a glance at Crispin, “or so I assume. You won’t have time to notify them of Wolfgang’s death now.
We can do that. And tell them that you have a new lead that you’re following.
It will make them feel better. A bit of good news to go with the bad. ”