Page 40 of Evil at the Essex House
Christopher nodded. “So if the Schlomskys didn’t write the note, perhaps the kidnappers are American.”
“Or perhaps the Schlomskys wrote the note.”
“Or,” Christopher said, “if they didn’t and the kidnappers are English, perhaps they thought it would be better to ask for a ransom amount the Schlomskys would immediately understand.”
Yes. This didn’t really prove anything one way or the other. Although for what it was worth, if it had been me writing the note, I would have asked for the currency I was familiar with, which would have been British pounds. I wasn’t even sure exactly how much fifty thousand American dollars was.
“If the Schlomskys wrote the note themselves, do you suppose they would have involved us?”
“I’m not sure why they involved us either way,” Christopher said, as the bridge gave way to the docklands on the South Bank. “They didn’t actually ask us to do anything. We weren’t able to contribute anything useful.”
No, we hadn’t been. “Do you think they may have done it to establish some sort of an alibi? Or an impression of goodwill or innocence or something, when inevitably Florence turns up dead?”
That was if they had killed her, of course. But if they hadn’t, why would they bother with the kidnapping ruse in the first place?
“I’m not certain what kind of goodwill or innocence you and I would be able to provide,” Christopher said, “when they won’t let us contact the police. Innocence and goodwill to whom, exactly?”
I shook my head. “I wonder if we shouldn’t ring up Tom anyway. Unofficially, you know. You see him regularly; what do you think?”
Christopher flushed, a dusting of pink on his cheekbones. “I haven’t seen him since he stopped by the other night.”
“Two days ago? That’s regularly, isn’t it?”
“He was only there to tell us about Hughes,” Christopher muttered.
“And that’s another thing. Strangely coincidental, isn’t it, how people we know—or somewhat know—turn up dead?” Or in Flossie’s case, missing.
Christopher nodded. He looked relieved to be able to stop talking about Tom Gardiner, and I let him get away with it without comment. Instead, I added, “Although I don’t see what that could have had to do with this. Hughes died in Bristol, not Southampton, and there’s simply no way that she could have been the maid the Schlomskys sent from America last year. Not when Hughes had been with Aunt Charlotte since Crispin was a baby.”
“Not to mention that she’s one hundred percent English,” Christopher agreed. He shook his head. “Sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence, Pippa. I don’t see how Hughes being mugged in a dark alley in Bristol can have anything to do with Florence Schlomsky going missing in London, or her parents landing in Southampton. Those things didn’t even happen at the same time.”
No, they hadn’t. The Schlomskys had been at sea when Hughes had been killed, and Hughes had been dead when Flossie had disappeared. Any connection was in my own mind, and only there.
“At any rate,” I said, as the train continued on, “you haven’t seen Tom in a few days. Perhaps you’d like to change that once we’re done here.”
Christopher muttered something, his blush intensifying.
“And while you’re doing it,” I continued, “you could casually drop into conversation the fact that our neighbor seems to have been kidnapped.”
“Are you certain that’s wise, Pippa? The Schlomskys were adamant that they didn’t want to involve the police.”
“But that’s just it,” I said. “We wouldn’t have to involve them, per se.”
He tilted his head to look at me. “How do you reckon that?”
“Well, Tom didn’t insist on involving the full force of Scotland Yard when he found us driving around London with Freddie Montrose’s dead body in the back of Crispin’s motorcar two months ago. I think he’d be willing to keep this on the down-low too, if you asked. Don’t you?”
In fact, if the Schlomskys went to Scotland Yard themselves, the powers that be would surely keep things very quiet in an effort to smoke out the kidnappers and rescue Florence.
In my opinion, the Schlomskys could do worse than letting us contact Tom. But if they weren’t going to, at least they couldn’t stop us from doing it on our own. Flossie may have been their daughter, but she was my friend—or at least she was an acquaintance, and a neighbor, and someone I wasn’t willing to give up on without making an effort to rescue her. Let the Schlomskys play along with the kidnappers, and gather the ransom. Christopher and I could handle the investigative part, even if Mr. and Mrs. Schlomsky didn’t know we were doing it.
ChapterTen
Ten minutes later,we were standing in the shadow of London Bridge looking at St Olave’s Church across the street. Or rather, we were looking at what was left of St Olave’s Church, which wasn’t much. Just the transept and a rather squat and square bell tower. Everything else was a mound of dirt with the occasional block of dressed stone that whoever had demolished the thing had left behind.
I opened my mouth and closed it again.
“Well, that’s rather a shame,” Christopher said distantly, “isn’t it?” After a second or two he added, “John Deval built this church, you know.”
