Page 68 of Peril in Piccadilly
Tom waved the budding disagreement aside. “Bicker on your own time. We have more important things to worry about.”
Since he was right about that, I dropped my hands off my hips and turned my attention away from Crispin as Tom continued, “The local bobby didn’t know what Natterdorff might be doing in London, or so he said. The Natterdorffs are still wealthy, it seems, albeit not as wealthy as they were before the war?—”
“Nobody’s as wealthy as they were before the war,” Crispin muttered.
I shot him a look before asking Tom, “Then it’s possible that Wolfgang wouldn’t be able to afford the Savoy long term?”
And perhaps even possible that he might have taken up jewelry theft as a sideline?
“Anything’s possible,” Tom said. “The chap I talked to had no idea how to get in touch with him. He said he would inquire of the staff at the castle—apparently the oldGrafis infirm and can’t be bothered with questions—but there’s no reason to think he’ll go out of his way to fetch that information for me.”
“Why would he?” Crispin agreed. “You’re a Brit. You won the war. He didn’t. And not only that, but you’re asking questions about one of his own. He has no reason to do anything for you.”
“Precisely. But at least we know that the chap we know is who he says he is, more or less, and that he’s not some charlatan trying to get close to the Sutherland family through Pippa.”
I sniffed, offended. “He has shown no interest in the Sutherlands, I’ll have you know. I don’t think he’s ever exchanged a single word with Uncle Harold, and as for Crispin, they despise one another about equally, I would say.”
“I’m quite certain I despise him more,” Crispin said. And added, “He doesn’t have to be a charlatan to want to get close to us, you know. If the family is in reduced circumstances, he could be the heir to the Natterdorffs and still want to augment the coffers with Sutherland money.”
I snorted. “If so, he really doesn’t understand the family dynamic. There’s no way marriage to me would get him close to any of the Sutherland money. Your father hates me. He wouldn’t gift me so much as a fish spade for my nuptials, let alone a shilling of real cash.”
“He might pay Wolfie to take you off his hands,” Crispin said, which was so blatantly offensive that I quite lost my breath. “Don’t look at me like that, Darling. You know very well that my father would do whatever he had to, to see the back of you.”
Yes, of course he would do. Crispin’s mother had tried to shoot me. His father would certainly not be above bribery—or above paying someone to get me away from his son. I should be glad it would only be to Germany and not out of existence altogether.
“He really hasn’t asked any questions about St George or his father?” Tom wanted to know.
I shook my head. “Not beyond the things everyone asks.”
The silence was expectant, and I added, reluctantly, “Like everyone else, he has suggested that I might fancy St George. Or that St George might fancy me. Or that we fancy one another and are simply trying to hide it. The usual claptrap, in other words. I can’t imagine why everyone thinks the animosity is a cover for liking one another, or why we would bother to hide it if we did.”
There was a pause. A very short one, barely a breath. Under other circumstances—pre two days ago—I probably wouldn’t have noticed it. Now I did, but I’ll hand it to Crispin, he recovered quickly, and sounded perfectly like himself when he told me, “Youmay not have any reason to pretend, Darling. After all, I’m a catch, aren’t I? Anyone would be lucky to have me.”
I rolled my eyes. “If you say so. And I suppose I’m not?”
He smirked. “I didn’t say that. But Father would certainly have something to say about it if I expressed any kind of fondness for you.”
Well, yes. Bad enough that he felt the feelings. Acting on them in any way, even just verbally, would no doubt be anathema to His Grace.
“I imagine he would do,” I said. “Something like ‘common as dirt and a foreigner to boot,’ no doubt.”
Crispin’s brows drew down as if the words were familiar, and of course they would be; I had lifted them more or less directly from Uncle Harold’s diatribe back in April.
“Never mind,” I added, before he could place the quote. “It’s not important. What do we do now?”
We had no way to contact Wolfgang. And if he was who he said he was, and if he was still wealthy, there was no reason to think that he would have done any harm to Christopher even if he had discovered him tagging along behind him yesterday. If Wolfgang had nothing to hide, it would simply be humorous to him, I thought.
“I hope you’re right,” Tom said when I expressed as much. “I imagine our next step is to go back to Sweetings, to visit the other establishments in the area, and ask whether anyone noticed Kit yesterday. Someone might have seen what happened.”
Someone might have done, and perhaps I should have thought to do that yesterday afternoon, when it was still light out and when someone might have remembered something. But at that point I hadn’t known that Christopher was missing—I had thought he was just tucked away in another doorway or storefront, waiting for Wolfgang to leave so he could follow—and by now, it was all water under the bridge. Second-guessing something I hadn’t even known at the time was futile, albeit tempting. I pushed it aside and followed the two men out of the lobby into the courtyard.
“Is it all right if we take your motorcar?” Tom inquired of Crispin. “That way, the Tender will be available to the rest of the team, should they need it.”
“Of course.” Crispin opened the door and shooed me into the backseat again.
“Is it acceptable for you to simply go off on your own today,” I asked Tom, as I smoothed my skirt over my knees, “on something that isn’t even officially a case yet?”
“It’s a case,” Tom answered, as he made himself comfortable in the passenger seat while Crispin fired up the motor. “I know Kit, and he wouldn’t stay out all night without letting you know where he was. Especially not with what has been going on lately.”
