Page 68 of Evil at the Essex House
I shrugged. “Kidnappers? Hiram Schlomsky? Scotland Yard?”
“Scotland Yard?”
“Didn’t I mention that?” I blinked innocently. “Christopher and I got the distinct impression that the Schlomskys suspected us of something earlier this evening. Probably of being complicit somehow in Flossie’s kidnapping.”
“And you think they sent Scotland Yard after you?”
“Not really likely,” I admitted, “when they were adamantly opposed to involving the police in the first place. But if they happened to notice us standing up here when they came by to drop off the ransom, and they recognized me and thought you were Christopher, I wouldn’t put it past them.”
He stubbed out his fag against the balustrade. His movements were languid, in contrast to the snappy irritation in his tone. “You didn’t think it might have been courteous of you to tell me this sooner?”
“Would it have made you stay away if I had?” I followed suit, scraped the lit end of my cigarette against the stone and flipped what was left out the opening. He hadn’t said anything by the time all that was done, so I twitched a brow at him. “Shall we?”
“I suppose we’d better. Do you need a hand on the stairs?”
“I’ll hug the wall,” I told him. “Just don’t run into me from behind.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Darling.” Something about the remark must have amused him, because I could hear the smirk in his voice. “At least not without getting your permission first.”
“Well, you don’t have it. So stay back a step or two, if you would.”
I headed into the gaping maw of the staircase, trailing one hand along the stone wall on my left. The ambient light from above made it possible to see the first couple of steps, but after that it was basically the equivalent of descending into the pits of hell, except without any flames to light the way. Behind me, I could hear Crispin enter the staircase and start down, the smooth soles of his polished shoes whispering across the stone. “Twenty-six steps,” he told me. “I counted, going up.”
That had been smart of him. I hadn’t. It galled me to have to do it, but— “Thank you. That’s helpful.”
“I aim to please,” Crispin said blandly. I would have snorted, but all my attention was fixed on the impenetrable darkness in front of me, and it was hard to catch my breath enough to snort. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark, exactly. But all the same, it was quite unnerving to head down into the stygian blackness of it with my eyes wide open and yet seeing nothing of what was in front of me.
And then the door opened and a lighter square of dark widened into a view of Tooley Street. A dark figure stood in the aperture, and I would have worried had I not recognized the voice that told us, “Get a move on, will you? I’ve been waiting forever.”
Crispin snorted behind me. “We heard you drive up, Kit. It’s been two minutes, no more.”
“Well, that’s in addition to the ten minutes it took me to get here,” Christopher said. “Anything at all might have happened while I’ve been gone.”
“They arrived somewhere?” I moved past him into the street, and started to breathe easier as soon as I could see the familiar sights of ground and sky and air around me.
“Of course they arrived somewhere,” Christopher said, turning to watch me. “Are you all right, Pippa?”
“Just glad to be somewhere where I can see my surroundings again.” I took another deep breath while Crispin came out of the tower behind me and shut the door on his way out. “We thought there was a chance that they might just keep going, and so you’d be going, too.”
“We thought you might end up in Kent,” Crispin added. “We were making plans for the night in case you didn’t come back.”
Christopher snorted. “I bet you did.” He headed for the passenger side of the Hispano-Suiza. “I assume you’d like to do the motoring, now that I’m back?”
“It’s my motorcar,” Crispin confirmed and headed for the driver’s side. “Darling?”
He opened the door and gestured for me to crawl into the back.
“Why is it that no one asks me ifIwant to do the motoring?” I grumbled, but I went. Crispin slid behind the wheel and Christopher made himself comfortable in the front passenger seat.
“We know what you’re like on the road,” he told me over his shoulder.
I sniffed, offended. “I’m no worse than St George.”
“Not much better, either,” Christopher said.
“I resent that,” Crispin told him, as the motor roared to life underneath us. “I’m a very capable driver, I’ll have you know.”
“So am I,” I said.
