He offered me his arm. I stuck my hand through, and together we headed up the stairs to the first floor, to pack our bags and get as far as we could from Sutherland Hall before anyone tried to stop us.
EPILOGUE
“It’s good to be home,”Christopher said several hours later, as we exited the cab outside our mansion block of flats and paid the cabbie. “Good evening, Evans.”
“Evening, Mr. Astley.” Evans tipped his hat and held the door as we brushed past and into the lobby. “Evening, Miss Darling.”
“Good to see you, Evans. Has anything happened while we were gone?”
“Not that I know of, Miss Darling.” Evans pocketed the coin Christopher had given him. “A quick trip to the country, wasn’t it?”
Well, when we left Saturday morning, we had certainly intended it to be a quick trip to the country. And I supposed to Evans, who didn’t know what we’d been dealing with, it might still seem like it had been a quick trip to the country. A few days longer than expected, certainly, but what are two days when you’re not dealing with murder and mayhem?
I’m sure, to Christopher as well as to myself, it had felt more like a month’s holiday in purgatory.
“Yes,” I told Evans, with a grin at Christopher, “a quick trip to the country. Any mail?”
He fished a couple of envelopes—bills, of course—out of the cubby and handed them to me. “Anything else I can do for you, Miss Darling?”
He started edging towards the front door, where I assumed he could see someone else approaching for entry.
“Nothing at all,” I told him, and gave Christopher a nudge with my shoulder. “Let’s go, Christopher.”
Christopher headed for the lift with me right behind. We were just pulling back the grille when a voice rang out. “Hold the elevator!”
I looked over my shoulder and, in a moment of inverted déjà vu, saw Florence Schlomsky steaming towards me, scarves fluttering and heels clicking. “Hullo, Pippa.”
“Florence,” I said primly, while Flossie bared every one of her teeth in Christopher’s direction.
“Hullo, Mr. Astley.”
“Miss Schlomsky.” Christopher managed a truncated bow, even as he gave the impression of trying to squeeze himself into the corner of the lift to avoid her. He kept his weekender bag in front of him as a barrier.
“Oh, don’t be such a stickler, Mr. Astley. You know I’ve told you over and over again to call me Flossie.”
She sidled closer while I occupied myself with getting the lift going. Christopher appeared to have abandoned the ship to save himself. “Say, it seems I ran into your cousin last Friday, Mr. Astley, and made the mistake of thinking he was you.”
She giggled at the silliness of it.
“St George,” I said darkly, while Christopher nodded.
“My cousin Crispin. Yes. He mentioned it.”
The lift started moving with a jolt. We all staggered before we found our balance again.
“You don’t know where I could find him again,” Flossie asked, “do you?”
I rolled my eyes. St George, or more likely his money and title, had made their usual impression, it seemed.
“At the moment he’s in Wiltshire,” I said, “and not likely to make it up to London again for a fortnight, at least. His mother and grandfather both died this weekend.”
“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” Flossie looked from me to Christopher. “Is it like the Wild West out there in Wiltshire?”
I managed an almost passable smile. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, I should write him a note, then,” Flossie said, eyes and teeth shining, “and express my condolences.”
“Capital idea,” Christopher agreed. “If you give it to me, I’ll be happy to ensure he gets it.”
