Page 38 of Evil at the Essex House
Then again, two kidnapping attempts almost two years apart, on two different continents… perhaps there wasn’t a connection after all.
“At any rate,” I said, “I don’t see how anyone is going to know that you’ve contacted Scotland Yard. If someone is keeping an eye on the hotel, and suddenly constables start swarming, then of course they’ll know that something is going on. But Christopher and I can go and talk to Tom, and no one will be the wiser. It’s not as if anyone’s keeping an eye onus.”
Hiram and Sarah exchanged a glance. It was a long one, communicating thoughts back and forth along an invisible line.
“No police,” Hiram said eventually, turning back to us. “I won’t risk anything happening to my little girl.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Christopher elbowed me in the ribs. “That’s your prerogative,” he told Hiram, smoothly. “What can we do to help?”
Sarah shook her head. “Nothing.” Her voice was firm. “We’ll spend the day today and tomorrow arranging for the money. Then we’ll take it to the church tomorrow night, and by Sunday morning, Florence will be restored to us.”
I opened my mouth again, but closed it on my own this time. The Schlomskys had made up their minds, and there was nothing I could say that would change them. Nor was it my place to try. It was their money and their daughter—and for that matter their ransom note—and the whole thing was out of my hands. If they didn’t want my help, I couldn’t force it on them.
Although it did beg the question of why they had involved me, or us, in the first place.
I thought about asking, and then I thought better of it. I glanced at Christopher. “We’ll just be on our way, then.”
He nodded, and so did the Schlomskys. “Thank you for stopping by,” Sarah said politely, as if we hadn’t shown up here by direct request.
“Nice to meet you, young man,” Hiram added. “Nephew of the Duke of Sutherland, was it?”
Christopher nodded. “Nice to make your acquaintance as well, Mr. Schlomsky. Please let us know how it goes.”
“If there’s anything we can do to help…” I added, leaving it open-ended.
The Schlomskys smiled pleasantly, but didn’t come out with anything they wanted us to do, and on that note, we left.
The hallwayoutside the suite was empty, and so was the lift once it arrived, but even so, Christopher shook his head when I opened my mouth. “It’s a nice day,” he said instead, blandly. “Do you fancy a walk before luncheon?”
I didn’t, particularly, as it was in fact somewhat warm, and we would likely work up a sweat making our way to Southwark. (That we were going there was unspoken but obvious to both of us.) I did fancy a look at Tooley Street and St Olave’s Church, which I assumed was the point of what he was suggesting, so I nodded anyway. “Certainly.”
Perhaps the wind blowing across London Bridge would be nice once we made it that far.
“This way, then.” As the lift doors opened into the lobby, he put a hand against my lower back and nudged me forward, towards the doors into the Strand.
I slowed my pace, just enough that I could take a surreptitious look around the lobby. Not blatantly enough that it would be noticeable, but just in case I happened to see anything interesting.
I didn’t. There was no Wolfgang von Natterdorff, for one thing. There were also no other familiar faces. Not that I had expected there to be. The only person I had ever seen in connection with Flossie Schlomsky was a young woman with a somewhat plain face, wearing blue chiffon with polka dots, and although she hadn’t been terribly memorable—I remembered the frock and hat better than I did the face—I saw her nowhere in the lobby. Nor did I see anyone else who looked particularly nefarious, although admittedly it can be hard to tell.
Then we were outside on Savoy Court, and a few seconds later, took a left onto the Strand.
“This isn’t—” I began, since—if we were walking to Southwark, London Bridge was in the opposite direction—and Christopher shook his head.
“Let’s just get on the train, and then we can talk.”
The train. Of course. He was headed for Charing Cross, and the train to London Bridge.
“I assumed you meant to walk,” I said, trotting to keep up along the pavement.
He slanted me a look. “In this weather?”
“It is a lovely day.”
“Hot, though. And it’s at least a forty-five minute walk, perhaps more.”
“It’s not as if we don’t have the time to spare,” I pointed out, and Christopher shook his head.
“I’m not walking to Southwark. Not when there’s a train every half hour.”
