Page 55 of Peril in Piccadilly
“I have some business to take care of in the area,” he told me, neatly sidestepping both the bait and the opportunity to tell me something more. Not a direct admittance that he was no longer at the Savoy, but also nothing that directly said that he was.
I filed the omission away in the back of my head and smiled. “Would you like some company?”
The alcove where Christopher had taken refuge earlier was empty. I flicked a glance into it, and then around to see whether I could spot him anywhere else. When I couldn’t, I turned my attention back to Wolfgang, who seemed to be contemplating my offer with all the seriousness it deserved.
I admit it, I was interested to hear what he decided. If he was telling the truth about having business in the area, it might be interesting to see where he was going. And if he had lied… well, it would be good to know that, as well.
Eventually, he shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure you have better things to do with your afternoon.”
I didn’t, actually. I was just going to go home and wait there for Christopher to turn up. But I didn’t want to push too hard and give Wolfgang the idea that I suspected something. So I smiled graciously and let it go. “Nothing much. Although I’m certain Christopher and I can find something to occupy our time.”
“Give your cousin my best,” Wolfgang said and steered me towards the stairs to the underground. The tunnel gaped like an open maw, and I fought back a shiver. Between the memory of tumbling headfirst down the stairs the other night, and Wolfgang’s hand on the small of my back, all it would take was one push and I’d pitch forward…
“Cold?” He rubbed gently, circularly, and I pulled in a breath.
“A little. It got cold quickly. The weather was so nice just a few days ago…”
“Time to dig the winter wardrobe out of mothballs,” Wolfgang said cheerfully and dropped his hand. “Be careful going home, Philippa. Perhaps we can see one another again tomorrow?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “Just send me a note, unless you want to arrange something now?”
“I shall send you a note with particulars for supper. Would seven o’clock suit?”
I told him it would suit admirably, and he told me to expect a missive with the name of a restaurant and that he’d look forward to seeing me. And then I watched him walk away—at least for a few feet—before I turned and descended the stairs into the underground.
ChapterThirteen
I spentthe next couple of hours—after I made it back to the flat—trying to get warm. The weather really had turned quite cold in the past few days, and the temperatures felt as if they had dropped another few degrees just in the time I had been inside Sweetings. I really hoped that Christopher was dressed warmly enough while he was trailing after Wolfgang all over City and Holborn and wherever else theGrafvon Natterdorff decided to go.
He must have been busy, at any rate, because teatime came and went with no sign of Christopher. I had my cup of Darjeeling and a bun, and finally warm, settled in to rereadThe Secret of Chimneysby the wonderful Mrs. Agatha Christie. The book was more than a year old by now, andThe Murder of Roger Ackroydhad been released since, but I had enjoyedThe Secret of Chimneysbetter. It had romantic intrigue and missing diamonds and a dashing prince masquerading as an adventurer, and whileThe Murder of Roger Ackroydwas a masterpiece of literary homicide,The Secret of Chimneyswas just good fun, and also bore some charming parallels to my own situation.
There were murders in the book, of course. A villainous waiter, as well as His Highness, Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia, ended up dead, whilst there were no corpses in my own life at this moment. But there were the missing Sutherland diamonds—not quite the Koh-i-Noor, but an acceptable substitute—and a dashing jewel thief, and an attempt on Laetitia’s life—unless it had been an attempt on Christopher’s or mine. There was even, if I stretched credulity, a foreign-born adventurer, even though Wolfgang was a mereGraf—the equivalent of a British count or earl—and no prince. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and we take our entertainment where we find it.
Suffice it to say that I devoured the book eagerly, and didn’t come up for air until the windows had turned dark and it was time to prepare supper. And it was at that point that I began to worry about Christopher and why he wasn’t home yet. It had been hours since Wolfgang and I parted ways. Surely whatever business Wolfgang had had in the vicinity of Sweetings was concluded by now, and he had headed back to wherever he laid his head these days?
And even if he hadn’t done, even if he were still out there walking around, surely Christopher wasn’t still tagging along behind him? There’s a limit to how long one can trail a suspect, even in a busy place like London. Sooner or later, the target is bound to notice that the same person has been behind them, or in front of them, or on the other side of the street, for five or six hours straight. Christopher isn’t stupid; he would have known that.
He hadn’t been arrested, had he?
For the first time I considered that perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea to let Christopher go out as Kitty in broad daylight in the middle of London. The buggery laws are in full effect, and that includes coppers going after pretty boys with powder compacts in their trouser pockets. Christopher didn’t just have a compact, he had a full chemist’s shop of makeup on his face, and he was wearing high heeled shoes and sheer stockings and women’s unmentionables under his—or my—skirt. If a powder compact was enough to get someone arrested, Christopher didn’t stand a chance.
And I had let him do it anyway—hadn’t even considered warning him against it, honestly—because I didn’t think there was much of a chance that anyone would look at the pretty girl with the big eyes and dainty features and see a man. He’s prettier than I am, especially with his face made up. Someone would have to look pretty closely to pick up on the fact that he’s a bloke and not a bird.
Although it wasn’t impossible that someone had done just that.
If that was the case, there were two options. Or perhaps three, depending on who had caught on. If Wolfgang had realized that the young lady who had been following him was none other than Christopher Astley in drag, he would certainly have had something to say about it. But Christopher could also, fairly legitimately, claim to want to know more about the man who was wooing his cousin, and there wouldn’t be much Wolfgang could say to that.
If a stranger had noticed… well, if the stranger had been wearing a uniform, Christopher might be sitting in a jail cell right now. But if so, wouldn’t he have phoned me to arrange for his bail? That was the agreement that we had.
And if the stranger hadn’t been a copper, but instead had been someone who had a problem with pretty boys in frocks, Christopher might be in hospital, or could even be lying in an alley somewhere.
I pushed away the mental pictures that that idea conjured, because they made it difficult to breathe, and instead focused on what my options were.
There weren’t many. I didn’t know where he had ended up, so I couldn’t go out to look for him. He had started on Queen Victoria Street, but he could be anywhere by now. That had been hours ago.
I could stay where I was and wait for him to come home. It was just possible that nothing had gone wrong, that Christopher was still on the trail, or that Wolfgang had noticed him and they were bonding over drinks in a pub somewhere.
Or Christopher might have contacted Tom at some point, or met another friend, one I didn’t know. The chap he had been dancing with at the Cave of the Golden Calf the other night, for instance. And now they were off somewhere doing something I ought perhaps not think too deeply about, and Christopher had forgotten to contact me, or simply hadn’t thought he needed to.
