Page 36 of Peril in Piccadilly
“Most likely.” The yellow street lamps of Cockspur Street illuminated his face in flickers as we made our way up towards Haymarket. “Just like Rectors, the Cave went bankrupt, although a decade sooner. It only lasted two years, from 1912 to 1914. The war killed it.”
“And it’s been sitting empty since then?”
Tom shrugged. “It hasn’t come to my attention in the time I’ve worked for the Yard. That doesn’t mean something hasn’t been going on there, but whatever it is, it hasn’t drawn the attention of the police.”
“Until now.”
“Yes,” Tom agreed. “Until now.”
“If we’re on our way there, can I assume that a raid is scheduled?”
“I didn’t want to be too obvious,” Tom said, maneuvering the Tender onto Haymarket Street from Cockspur. “I can only ask about this so many times before someone starts to suspect that I have a personal reason for inquiring.”
Yes, of course. “In other words, you aren’t certain?”
“I know where tonight’s event is taking place,” Tom said. “Someone took the trouble to dig that information up. From that, I can assume that there’s at least a fifty percent chance that there’s another raid scheduled.”
That made sense. “So we’re going to rescue Christopher?”
“We’re going to take a look at the situation,” Tom said. He glanced at me, up and down for a second. “Neither of us is exactly dressed for crashing a drag ball.”
No. He was dressed in tweed and a Homburg, and so was I, more or less. There wasn’t a stitch of evening wear between us.
“We’ll just have to do the best we can,” I said. “Besides, the first time you rescued Christopher—or the first time I knew about it; when I heard the two of you arguing in the foyer of the flat, the day before the old Duke of Sutherland died—you were wearing the same thing you are now. A lack of evening attire didn’t stop you then.”
“And it won’t stop me now,” Tom said, and turned the Tender into Piccadilly Circus, where I had scurried across the street just last night, “but it won’t make it any easier.”
No, I didn’t expect it would.
The Tender passed the entrance to the underground, where I had tumbled down the infamous staircase, and turned onto Regent Street. I peered out the window. “It’s right up here, isn’t it?”
“On the left,” Tom nodded. “The entrance to what looks like an alley.”
He indicated. I nodded. It did look very much like the entrance to an alley, or at least it looked more like one of the narrow, medieval London streets than the wide boulevards that werede rigeurin this part of town. Regent Street was at least twice, if not three times wider, than Heddon Street.
Tom pulled the Crossley Tender to a stop by the pavement, and cut the motor. Silence descended, or as silent as it ever is in London at any time of day or night. There were people walking, many of them in evening wear, most of them headed in the direction of Piccadilly and the nightlife. And there were plenty of motorcars, Hackney cabs as well as private conveyances. I could see no police vehicles other than the one we were in, so forces had not started amassing for the raid yet, if there was to be one.
“It’s still early,” Tom said when I commented on it, and opened his door. “Ready to go?”
“Please.” I opened my own door and hopped onto the pavement, forgetting for a moment that I had hurt myself yesterday. My knees twinged, and I grimaced.
“All right?” Tom came around the motorcar and gave me a look.
I nodded. “Forgot for a moment that I’m wounded. It’s fine.”
His lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything else, just presented his elbow. “Shall we, then?”
I put my fingers on it. “By all means.”
We crossed the pavement and ducked onto Heddon Street.
It’s a small stub of a street, narrow and enclosed by tall buildings in red and pale brick. The building to our right was broken up by several arched openings on the ground floor, outlined in white cement, or perhaps limestone. One opening was a door, the other windows. The windows were dark, and so was everything else. The cobbles under our feet were uneven, and I clung to Tom’s arm as my ankle twisted.
“Do you hear that?” he asked.
I had been too busy trying to keep my balance to do anything that required effort beyond staying on my feet. But as the traffic noise from Regent Street faded, I picked up what his sharper ears had already noticed: the dull thump of music from somewhere down the narrow street.
“I can feel it,” I said, through the soles of my brogues and up my spine, “but I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”
