Page 13 of Peril in Piccadilly
Laetitia had spent the night, what there was of it, in an intricately carved four-poster with gauzy hangings and a pale pink counterpane over what was undoubtedly a goose-feather mattress. There were Persian rugs on the floors, and landscapes in gold frames on the walls, and a matching toilet table—matching the bed, I mean—that also matched a marble-topped tallboy and armoire in the corner. Last night’s black evening gown was thrown negligently over the back of the toilet table chair, while a pair of lovely T-strap shoes lay on their sides below. The matching silk stockings lay in wadded-up balls beside them.
Two men were inside the room: one compact and muscular, with brown, wavy hair and a handsome face, the other taller and thinner, with fair hair and a rabbity chin.
“Tom,” Christopher breathed, while I said, a bit more politely, “Detective Sergeant Finchley. How nice to see you again.”
Finchley—the blond—nodded. “Morning, Miss Darling. Mr. Astley.”
“Kit,” Tom said. “Pippa. What are you two doing here?”
“We came with Crispin and Laetitia,” Christopher said, looking around the room.
“The butler said that Lady Laetitia decamped for Sutherland House.”
I nodded. “But St George spent the night with us. When Rogers sent one of the footmen to the Essex House Mansions, he didn’t make it clear that the burglary had taken place here and not at home. We assumed it had been at Sutherland House, so we thought that St George might need the moral support.”
The look that Tom gave me was jaundiced. He knew as well as I did that I rarely go out of my way to provide Crispin with support in any way, shape, or form. In this case, it had been curiosity as much as anything else that had caused me to accompany him, and Tom knew it.
Christopher, of course, loves his cousin. And I love Christopher, so I had gone along for that reason, as well.
“Laetitia said there had been a burglar,” I added brightly, as I eyed the toiletries table.
Tom nodded. “That’s what the butler said. Lady Laetitia is downstairs?”
“We brought her back with us,” I confirmed. “I have no idea why she thought it made sense to leave the house before you got here. It’s not as if Crispin could do anything about the situation whatsoever, even if he had been at Sutherland House.”
“Shock?” Detective Sergeant Finchley suggested, and I snorted.
“An excuse to check up on him and make certain that he was snug in his bed and not out gallivanting, more like.”
“She must have been disappointed, then,” Tom said dryly. “I’ll go talk to her, Finch.”
Finchley nodded. “Better you than me. You’re familiar with this group. I’ll finish up here.”
“Is it just the two of you?” I asked, as Tom made his way towards the door. Christopher followed him, naturally, and I was alone with Finchley.
He nodded. “No fatality this time, so no need for Doctor Curtis. And we thought we’d let the Chief Inspector sleep for a few more hours.”
He might as well do. There was nothing he could do here that Tom and Ian Finchley couldn’t do without his presence. They were both, if not seasoned veterans, at least experienced hands at this, and if Laetitia was right and the Cummingses had been burgled too, this was at least the third scene of its kind in a few months.
“Any fingerprints?” I inquired. That’s Ian Finchley’s specialty on CID Arthur Pendennis’s team. Tom is the crime scene photographer.
Finchley shrugged. “Plenty of them. Miss Marsden’s, I assume. The maid’s. Nothing that looks like a man’s hand.”
After a moment he added, “Every criminal these days has the good sense to wear gloves.”
“Laetitia told us that there had been another jewelry theft a couple of weeks ago. At the Cummingses. And Tom told us that there had been one in August, as well. While Flossie Schlomsky was missing, do you recall?”
“There have been more than those two,” Finchley said. “Or three, now. There’s been a burglary in Mayfair or Kensington almost every weekend for the past month. If not on Friday night, then Saturday.”
“Interesting,” I said. “How many altogether? Burglaries, that is?”
Finchley didn’t have to think about it. “This is number five. I can’t tell you their names—these are people whose names you would recognize if I did do—but unfortunately, that information is confidential.”
Of course it was. “That’s all right,” I said. “If I wanted to find out, I’m sure I could.”
Aunt Roz used to sell gossip to the tabloids, so I’m sure she has a solid pipeline—not that I’ve ever tapped it—and of course there’s Crispin, who knows everyone who’s anyone in London society.
Ian Finchley made a face. “Don’t get involved in this, Miss Darling. Just because this character hasn’t hurt anyone yet, doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t take that step if he felt it necessary.”
