Page 56 of Peril in Piccadilly
I could contact Tom myself, and ask him whether he’d seen or heard from Christopher. If he had done, then I could stop worrying. If he hadn’t, I’d have someone who would worry along with me—because Tom would definitely be worried. He was also someone who had access to resources I didn’t, such as information on whether Christopher really was sitting in a jail cell right now, or even if he—God forbid—was lying on a slab in the morgue.
The motorcar from the other night flashed quickly through my mind, and I realized that there might be another reason why Christopher hadn’t come home. It amounted to the same thing—he was lying in a hospital bed or an alley or the morgue—but not because of a random bloke who didn’t like boys in frocks, but rather because someone had deliberately tried to run him over just a few days ago and that someone had come back today to finish the job.
Or he might have been kidnapped. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Christopher was the nephew of the Duke of Sutherland, the son of Lord Herbert Astley. There would be money in holding him for ransom. His father would certainly pay any amount to get him back. Uncle Harold might not, but Uncle Herbert wouldn’t quibble over draining the coffers for his youngest son.
There was no reason to think anything like that had happened, though, I told myself. It was much more likely that Christopher had run into someone he knew, or had contacted someone he knew from a call box somewhere—perhaps he had found himself in need of a place to take refuge for a while, perhaps while Wolfgang was inside an establishment of some sort, and a call box is great for that sort of thing—and he had taken the time to ring up someone while he was in there. It would certainly add verisimilitude.
Tom’s flat wasn’t on the exchange, although of course Scotland Yard was. Beckwith Place was, too, in the event that Christopher had decided to phone home to say hello to his parents and his brother. We hadn’t been in Wiltshire in over a month, and then it had only been an overnight stay before driving to Marsden Manor with Francis and Constance the next morning. Christopher might have decided he would like to hear his mother’s voice.
Sutherland Hall was on the exchange, too, of course, if Christopher had wanted to update Crispin on whatever was going on. And that wasn’t an improbability at all: he might feel bad about having spilled the beans about Crispin’s supposed attachment to me, and had thought it only fair to let Crispin know that he, Christopher, had blabbed.
That meant ringing up both Sutherland Hall and Marsden Manor, most likely, in case Crispin was snugged up there with his fiancée.
There wasn’t much I could do about Tom, I decided. I didn’t want to leave the Essex House Mansions long enough to go to Chelsea and back. There was a chance that Christopher might come home while I was out, and I didn’t want to miss him. But I could run down the street to the call box on the corner, and ring up Scotland Yard to see whether Tom was still at work. And while I was at it, I could phone both Beckwith Place and Sutherland Hall, too. Maybe even Marsden Manor. And if none of that bore any fruit, then I would track Tom down. Tomorrow morning, latest.
But for now, the call box. I put my jacket and brogues on, hoping all the while that I would hear Christopher’s key in the door and see him come into the foyer. When neither of those things happened, I dragged a cloche over my bob and headed down to the lobby.
“You haven’t seen Mr. Astley, have you, Evans?”
Evans blinked up at me from behind the counter. He was reading Agatha Christie too, I saw. He tried to hide the book from my sight, but I caught a glimpse of the black and read cover with its big question-mark, and recognized it.
“Mr. Astley, Miss Darling?”
“Christopher,” I said. “My flat-mate.”
He shook his head. “No, Miss Darling. Not since the two of you left together before noon.”
“And no messages from anyone?”
“No, Miss Darling.”
“I’m going down to the call box on the corner,” I said. “If anyone comes for me, keep them here until I get back, will you, Evans?”
“Yes, Miss Darling.”
“Happy reading,” I told him, and headed out the door before he could get up to open it for me. “Good choice, Evans.”
“Thank you, Miss Darling,” floated after me as the door slowly shut. By then, I was several steps down the pavement towards the call box.
My first call was to Scotland Yard, where I was told that Tom had left for the evening and would be back tomorrow. When I asked if I could leave a message, the desk sergeant took down my name and said that he would pass it along, but of course the morning was a good twelve hours away, and I didn’t know whether I could wait that long. Nonetheless, I thanked him, and dialed Beckwith Place.
“Pippa!” Aunt Roz said delightedly when she recognized my voice. “We haven’t heard from you in forever.”
“We saw you just last month, Aunt Roz.”
“Not for long enough,” Aunt Roz said. “How are you, my dear?”
“I’m fine,” I said, not entirely honestly.
“And your young man?” There was a subtle change in her voice that I might not have noticed had I not been listening for it.
“Wolfgang? He’s fine, as well. Or was the last time I saw him.”
“And when was that?”
“Luncheon,” I said. “He took me to Sweetings. We had crab bisque and prawn cocktail and turbot.”
“Sounds lovely,” Aunt Roz said, and sounded somewhat envious.
