Page 73 of Evil at the Essex House
I didn’t either, now that he mentioned it. Just the lingering smell of it. “It’s probably safe to proceed, then.”
“After you, Darling.” He nodded to the door.
“You’re the one with the weapon,” I pointed out.
“Kit’s the one with the torch.”
Yes, he was, and now he used it to nudge the door to the flat open and walk in. Crispin and I followed, him with the tire iron held aloft as we peered around the room. The torch lit up bare walls and a shuttered window and dusty floors. No furniture, but a lot of?—
“Footprints,” I said, pointing to them. Coming and going, from the entrance to the door of the other room and back. “Men’s heavy boots. Textured soles.”
“And two pairs of women’s shoes,” Christopher added. “One bigger than the other. Both with Cuban heels.”
“Flossie and someone else?” Ruth, perchance.
“Might be,” Christopher nodded, turning the torch from the impressions in the dust to the door. “Better give the pathway a wide berth. Detectives are very much into footprints, aren’t they, Pippa?”
“I’d expect you to know more about that than me,” I said. “I’m not the one seeing a Scotland Yard detective on the sly.”
He probably flushed, although I couldn’t see it in the darkness. “I’m not seeing Tom. I just… see him occasionally.”
Crispin sniggered.
“Meanwhile, you’re the one cutting your teeth on Agatha Christie and Dorothy L Sayers. You can’t tell me footprints don’t feature prominently in those stories.”
No, I couldn’t. Footsteps are always important clues. I gave in, and told him, “You’re right. We should walk around them, so that, if Tom wants to, he can take photographs and perhaps match the footprints to the suspects’ shoes if he finds them.”
“May we just get this over with?” Crispin interrupted irritably. “The longer we stand here, the longer my motorcar is sitting unprotected on the street outside. There won’t be anything left by the time we get out of here.”
“We’ll just poke into this last room,” Christopher said, “to make sure Florence isn’t there. Although with the way we’ve been carrying on, I’m sure she would have said something by now.”
“Or kicked the wall or something if she’s bound and gagged and can’t speak,” I added. “But St George is right. This is eerie. Let’s just get this done so we can go home. It’s been a long day and I’m tired.”
I headed for the door to the other room, circumventing the footprints in the dust as I moved.
“I’m sure you simply cannot wait to get home to your bed so you can dream about His Highness and the way he wields a steak knife,” Crispin said disagreeably as I reached for the knob.
I smiled sweetly. “Quite right. Come here, if you will, and protect me with the tire iron. Just in the event someone dangerous is behind the door.”
“You want me to go first?”
“You’re the one with the weapon,” I repeated, “although if you would like to hand it to me, I’d be happy to precede you into the room. I had no idea you were such a coward, St George.”
“Not a coward,” Crispin protested. “Just cautious. I don’t see any reason to let anyone destroy my face unless I have to.”
“That’s probably for the best. You have so few qualities to recommend you, and your face definitely helps. Wouldn’t want to harm it. Half of London, the female half?—”
“And a fair few of the lads,” Christopher said, getting into position with the torch while I prepared to open the door.
I eyed him. “Really?”
“He’s quite pretty, isn’t he? Even without the makeup and wig.”
I snorted. Christopher smirked. Crispin rolled his eyes. “Can we get on with it?”
“Ready to break a few kneecaps?”
“No,” Crispin said, hefting the tire iron, “but I’m ready for you to open the door. Stop dilly-dallying. We’ve been in here long enough.”
