Page 88 of Peril in Piccadilly
No, whatever this was, the reasons for it were a lot colder and more calculating than love.
“I ought to let Tom tell you,” Crispin said when I expressed as much, “but I’m not certain I quite understand it either.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what Wolfgang told me, and perhaps we can figure it out from there.”
“Certainly,” Crispin said. “The chap from the Natterdorff constabulary—the one Tom spoke to yesterday morning—rang back during the time you and I were at the flat. Tom told me about it while you were inside the Savoy with Wolfie.”
“And what did the constable know?” Whatever it was, it must be good, because Crispin hadSchadenfreudewritten all over his face.
He smirked. “Quite a lot, as it happens. Wolfie left the castle three months ago, after a heated argument with the old man. No one’s seen him since. Six weeks ago, the old man changed his will?—”
Oh, dear. “Did he cut Wolfgang out?”
Crispin nodded. “And it seems he also cut off the money at the same time. That would explain the Savoy Hotel situation, wouldn’t it?”
It certainly would. The cash flow had stopped abruptly, and Wolfgang had had to move elsewhere, to conserve what money he had left.
“He told me that he’s been living in rooms in Shoreditch,” I said. “I don’t know whether it’s true or not.”
“I don’t know that I care,” Crispin answered, “other than that of course it’s wonderful, imagining him living in squalor in rented rooms in Shoreditch. But he couldn’t keep Kit there, so I don’t know if it matters.”
No, of course he couldn’t keep Christopher there. Too many people around for that. That was why the Schlomsky parents had been made to pay for the flat in the Essex House Mansions as well as for the ‘country cottage’ in Thornton Heath. A nice flat for ‘Flossie’ to occupy, and a secure place to keep the real Flossie while her kidnappers bled her parents dry.
That same thought as last time buzzed through my head again, and this time I took it out and looked at it. But before I could say anything, Crispin had continued. “Apparently, the old man is on his deathbed. Any chance to get him to change that will back is dwindling by the minute. I suppose that’s why Wolfie decided to head home.”
I made a noncommittal little noise, and he added, “I can’t imagine why he’d want to take you with him, though.”
His tone indicated that nobody with any sense would want me around given the choice.
“It’s one thing if he needed a wife to get back into his grandfather’s good graces,” Crispin continued peevishly. “Perhaps the old man likes women, or he thinks Wolfie ought to give up philandering and start producing heirs. Perhaps he has a habit of tomcatting around?—”
“You would know all about that,” I said sweetly, and he shot me a look.
“I’m engaged, remember? If anyone’s settling down and producing heirs, I am.”
I made a face, and he added, “But why on earth would he wantyoubadly enough to dope you and carry you onto a boat to smuggle you out of the country and back into Germany with no one the wiser? No offense, Darling, but you’re not exactly the type to drive men mad.”
“And here I always thought I drove you mad,” I said. “I can explain that, actually?—”
Or at least I thought I could, if my suppositions were correct. He didn’t let me do so, however.
“It’d be one thing a hundred years ago. A forced marriage might stick then. But you’d either marry him willingly or not at all, and if he forced you, you’d leave him and then divorce him. Thank God that’s an option now.”
I nodded. Yes, indeed. If the worst had come to the worst, and the captain of the freighter had agreed to facilitate a ceremony once we were in international water, at least I wouldn’t have had to stay married afterwards.
“So” Crispin said, “I don’t see the sense in forcing you. Unless he thought you’d be so enamored with his castle that you’d accept him after all? Although if he thinks a castle will sway you, he doesn’t know you very well.”
No, he didn’t.
“I’m fairly certain I know why he did it, St George.”
He gave me a dubious look. “You do?”
“I might. The old man changed his will, did you say? Who is the new heir?”
“A cousin,” Crispin said. “Born on the wrong side of the blanket, or some such thing.” He wrinkled his nose. “Common as dirt, most likely. The child of some disgraced younger son from a generation or two ago, who?—”
“Yes,” I interrupted, “thank you.”
