Chapter 19 #2
Crispin nodded. So did I. Tom eyed us both narrowly, and Christopher, as well. It was obvious that he found our easy acquiescence suspicious, but he also couldn’t really complain that we were refraining from getting in his way. “Thank you,” he said eventually. “That would be helpful.”
“Don’t mention it,” Christopher told him, and turned toward the door. “Let me see you to the lift.”
The walked out of the flat together. Crispin and I sat in silence until their footsteps had faded down the hall. Then he turned to me. “Any idea what that was about?”
“None,” I said. “Evans must have told Christopher something he chose not to pass on to Tom—I have no idea why he’d do something like that—but beyond that, no. We’ll find out when he comes back, I assume.”
He nodded. “That’s what I thought. Glad to know I haven’t lost my touch completely.”
“No, why would you think that? You know Christopher better than anyone. He was clearly trying to get rid of Tom.”
“Except for you and Gardiner,” Crispin said. And added, “Although after this, I’m not so sure about him.”
Nor was I. The signs of Christopher’s duplicity had been crystal clear to anyone who knew him well. I had thought Tom did, so it was surprising that he hadn’t caught on. Christopher is adept at looking innocent, but in this case, the deception had rung through his voice.
“I suppose he’ll tell us what’s going on once he comes back inside. And we should probably prepare to leave, just in case. It sounded as if whatever it is involves us going somewhere.”
Somewhere that wasn’t Whitechapel, nor Marsden House.
Crispin nodded and pushed to his feet. “I’ll get ready.”
Christopher burst through the door a minute later. “We have to go. Right now.”
“Just let me get my handbag,” I told him, “and give me a moment to freshen up my lipstick—”
“There’s no time for that.” He snagged my arm with one hand, and Crispin’s sleeve with the other. “If the news is in the papers, there’s no time to lose. You can freshen up your lipstick on the way.”
“It might be a good idea to give Gardiner time to leave,” Crispin pointed out, but he allowed himself to be chivvied toward the door, as well. “Where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re in the motorcar,” Christopher said, tugging us both into the hallway and toward the lift. “Luckily it’s not far. We might get there in time—”
He dropped my arm to jab his finger on the lift button. When it arrived on our level, Crispin shoved the grille aside and held it, so Christopher could maneuver himself and me inside.
“Can we assume that the story about the Rowton House was a ruse?” Crispin wanted to know as he came inside after us and pulled the grille back across the opening.
He leaned against the wall in the corner of the lift with his arms crossed over his chest, seemingly unconcerned about Christopher’s sudden descent into madness.
The latter shook his head. “Not at all. That was true.”
“So you didn’t send Tom on a fool’s errand to Whitechapel to get rid of him?”
“Not at all. Would I do that, Pippa? He’d only yell at me later.”
He certainly would, if he got to Whitechapel and no one was there. “Finch really did ring up, then, and someone really did report that Wolfgang has been living in the Rowton House in the East End?”
Christopher nodded. “I wouldn’t lie about that. It explains the poste restante at the main post office as well as Arnold Circus, doesn’t it?”
It did. Both sites were within a kilometer or two of Whitechapel, in the same general area of east London.
“Then, if that wasn’t a lie, what—”
But by now the lift had touched down on the ground floor, and Christopher was busy pulling the grille back from the opening. “When we get in the motorcar, Pippa. Not in front of Evans. Are you ready, Crispin?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Crispin nodded and stepped into the foyer. He took a quick look around, as did we all, but there was no sign of Tom. Crispin smiled graciously. “Good morning, Evans.”
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Evans inclined his head. “Going out, Mr. Astley? Miss Darling?”
As if there was any question about it, with the way Christopher was dragging me along behind him, while he chivvied Crispin ahead.
“Yes, Evans. We’ll be back later. If there are any messages, just hold them.”
Evans nodded, and held the door for good measure. “Thank you, Your Grace.” His hand closed around the coin Crispin had passed over.
“Thank you, Evans.” Christopher opened the passenger door of the Hispano-Suiza and more or less shoved me into the rear compartment. “Hurry.”
“What’s gotten into you?” I grumbled, although I curled my legs up so he could slam the seat back and situate himself in front of me.
“I would like to know that, as well,” Crispin told him gently as he made himself comfortable behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. “I don’t even know where I’m going. Not to Marsden House, I presume?”
Christopher shook his head. “Are you familiar with Brown’s Hotel?”
“On Albemarle and Dover? Of course.” His tone added the question, ‘who isn’t?’ “Is that where we’re going?”
“That’s the other thing that Finch’s message said,” Christopher confirmed as the Hispano-Suiza made its way onto Essex Street in the direction of Mayfair.
“The manager at the Rowton House rang up to say that Wolfgang had been renting a room from him. But Mr. Ford at Brown’s recognized his picture, as well. ”
“Brown’s Hotel?” I repeated. It sounded familiar, but not in the same way that the Ritz and the Savoy were. “Did you say Albemarle and Dover?”
Both men nodded. “It’s the oldest hotel in London,” Christopher said. “Located just up from the tube stop.”
“Popular with the rich and famous,” Crispin added. “Rudyard Kipling spent his wedding night there, as did one of the American presidents.”
“And did you and Laetitia plan to do the same?”
He made a face. “Good Lord, no. What sort of man takes his wife to a hotel on their wedding night? I have my own roof to shelter under, thank you very much.”
“Sorry to give offense,” I told him. “I assumed, if it was good enough for Rudyard Kipling and for an American president, it would be good enough for you.”
He didn’t answer, and I turned my attention back to my cousin. “If Wolfgang paid for a room at Rowton House, he wouldn’t also have one at Brown’s.”
If he could have afforded Brown’s, he would have been there. He was at Rowton House because he couldn’t.
“Apparently he was visiting a guest,” Christopher said, as Crispin turned the Hispano-Suiza onto New Oxford Street.
“Laetitia? It surely wasn’t Leonid Novikov.” The Russian refugee wouldn’t have been able to afford the same lodgings as bestselling authors and American presidents, either.
For a moment, the mad thought crossed my mind that Agatha Christie might be hiding out at Brown’s—she could well afford it—but then I pushed the idea aside as too far-fetched, and concentrated back on the conversation at hand.
“We can only assume,” Christopher answered, “but in either case, I thought it would be worthwhile to try to get there before she sees the paper and leaves the premises. If it’s her, of course.”
“But Ian Finchley really did go to Whitechapel and ask Tom to meet him there?”
Christopher shook his head. “He went to Whitechapel and asked Tom to go to Brown’s.”
“And was there a reason you didn’t want Tom to go to Brown’s with us? There’s a good chance they won’t talk to us, you know. We have no professional standing. A Scotland Yard detective might have come in handy.”
“I thought,” Christopher said in a very precise sort of tone, “that if it is Laetitia, Crispin deserves a chance to confront her without the police present.”
I was struck speechless for a moment. Crispin was not. He snorted. “Surely you’re not insinuating that I would do something the police would frown upon, Kit? Let alone something Gardiner would have to arrest me for?”
“Of course not,” Christopher said. “I simply thought you might appreciate the chance to talk to her in private. Pippa and I would step aside and let you do that. I’m not certain about Tom.”
“Speak for yourself,” I muttered, since I would have a very hard time stepping aside so Crispin could speak to his fiancée privately after she had done something like this.
The Duke of Sutherland grinned. “I think you’re expecting a bit much from Philippa, Kit, if you think she wouldn’t insist on getting her own two shillings worth in.”
I nodded. “You’re right about Tom, though. He’d want to be there. But so would I.”
“It might not matter,” Christopher said. “It might be someone else entirely.”
It might. Although with the way we were racing through the streets to get to Brown’s Hotel as soon as possible, I don’t think any of us thought it would be.
The entrance to Brown’s was on Albemarle Street, two double doors in a row of Georgian townhouses. Crispin pulled the Hispano-Suiza to a stop outside, and was bowed inside by a doorman. “Your Grace.”
He kept the door open for Christopher and myself, so we trundled in behind. Only to come to a stop in the middle of the foyer when we came face to face with—
“Tom?”
Tom smiled, but I didn’t particularly like the look in his eyes. “Kit. Pippa. Your Grace.”
Christopher opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
“You took your time,” Tom added blandly. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
Crispin snorted. “You cannot possibly have. I’m fairly certain I broke one or two speeding records to get here.”
Tom eyed him. “And I suppose you expect me not to arrest you for those?”
“You can’t arrest me because I told you I drove too fast,” Crispin said. “You can’t arrest people for telling you things. You have no proof other than my word.”
“Am I to assume you are a liar, then, Your Grace?”
Crispin didn’t say anything to that, and Tom turned to Christopher. “And what do you have to say for yourself, Kit?”
Christopher cleared his throat. “I’m sorry?”
It sounded more like a question than an apology, and I snorted.