Page 35 of Peril in Piccadilly
Tom smirked. “No, Pippa, I don’t imagine so. There’s quite a bit of risk involved in this, as I’m sure you’ve realized. He’ll go to prison for a long time when he’s caught. The people he has stolen from are well-connected and powerful, and they will want to see justice served. I don’t think it’s something someone would do without a hefty payday.”
“He must be selling the jewelry to benefit from stealing it, then.”
“Maybe so,” Tom said. “But there are other ways to benefit. Selling the jewelry as is could be difficult. There are some well-known pieces in the spoils, things that someone might recognize?—”
Like the Sutherland parure, or the parts of it that had gotten away.
“I wouldn’t put it past Uncle Harold,” I said. “I’m frankly surprised that he agreed to part with the earrings before the wedding ceremony. Everything except the ring is usually kept as a carrot to make certain the bride makes it to the altar for the nuptials.”
Tom lifted a shoulder and reached for his hat. “I should go. Before it gets too late.”
“I don’t mind the company,” I told him. “Although…” I tilted my head to contemplate him, “perhaps you plan to go in search of Christopher?”
“I plan to find out whether any raids are scheduled for tonight that may affect Kit,” Tom said, which sounded like the same thing.
“And if you find out that a raid is scheduled?”
“Then I’ll go there and find Kit and bring him to you before anything can happen to him.”
His jaw looked quite heroic.
“That’s lovely,” I said. “Would you mind if I accompanied you?”
He squinted at me, and I added, “You’re off the clock, aren’t you? Doing this on your own time? Just two friends looking for a mutual friend who went out to a party? And I would be with you, so it’s not likely that I would run into any trouble.”
He sighed. “I suppose I can’t stop you. Although if Kit has a hissy fit when he sees you, don’t blame it on me.”
As if I would. “Five minutes,” I told him, as I pushed to my feet and headed for the hallway and the door to my room.
ChapterEight
The last timeI had crashed one of Christopher’s drag balls, I had been wearing black tie evening kit complete with topper, and I had been accompanied by Crispin, in one of Christopher’s gowns and makeup. This time, I didn’t bother with any of that, just pulled on a skirt and blouse, jacket and brogues—for easy movement in the event that we’d end up having to evade pursuit—and yanked a cloche hat over my brown bob. I hoped that we wouldn’t have to do any running—my scabbed knees were still stiff—but if the worst came to the worst, at least I would be prepared for it.
“Ready.” I walked out into the foyer. Part of me had been concerned that perhaps Tom would take the opportunity to make himself scarce while I was in the other room—Christopher would have thought nothing of sneaking off by himself, had he decided I was better off staying home alone—so I was pleased to see Tom still waiting.
He gave me a quick up-and-down. “You don’t want to wear something more appropriate to the occasion?”
“I’d rather wear something that will allow me to run, should the need arise,” I told him, and headed for the door. “Where shall we go first?”
The answer was Scotland Yard, where Tom disappeared inside the building whilst I made myself comfortable in the passenger seat of the Crossley Tender, watching as police constables and blokes in mufti came and went—there was even one fellow being taken inside in handcuffs—and then Tom came back out and I straightened. “Well?”
It was impossible to tell from his face or body language whether we were going to have to save Christopher from a raid, or whether he’d be taking me home to the flat for the rest of the evening.
He twisted the key in the ignition and the Tender rolled across the cobbles. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the twin sounds of the motor and the tires on the uneven surface. “They’re in the cellar on Heddon Street.”
“You mean Christopher and company? In a cellar on Heddon Street?”
Heddon was a small street, practically an alley, that ran parallel to Regent Street and Savile Row just on the edge of the Mayfair neighborhood. It missed being in Soho only by virtue of being on the west side of Regent Street instead of on the east side. I was familiar with it, although if you didn’t know that it was there, you could be excused for not noticing it.
“Thecellar,” Tom said, with emphasis. “The old Cave of the Golden Calf.”
It took me a moment to place the reference, and then a few more to dredge up what I knew about the old nightclub that had gone by that name. By then, we were circling Trafalgar Square.
“I didn’t realize that it was still open,” I said. “Or that it was open again.”
“As far as I know,” Tom answered, “it’s not.”
“Another case like Rectors, then? A private arrangement?”
