“Do you know where to find him?”
Christopher nodded. “He has a flat in Chelsea.”
That was certainly more information than he’d had last time we’d spoken of it. Back then, he hadn’t even had a telephone number with which to contact Tom. And now he knew where the man lived?
I looked at him, but he avoided my eyes. His cheeks were a delicate shade of pink.
“Do you have his direction?” I asked. “Can we phone him at home? Knock him up and get him to meet us there?”
But Christopher shook his head. “No telephone in his flat.”
He must have actually been to the flat in order to know that, it seemed. I arched my brows at him, but he didn’t say anything.
“Shall we go and take delivery of the parcel, then?” Crispin asked, as the Hispano-Suiza made its slow way towards us, with the attendant behind the wheel. The headlamps were lit, and for a moment, our shadows were grotesque against the brick wall of the next building. Then the H6 came to a stop next to us and the attendant held the door for Crispin. Christopher handed me into the backseat while Crispin slid behind the wheel. “Ready to blouse?”
“Please,” I said, “and for God’s sake, St George, can’t you just say ‘go,’ like a normal person? A blouse is something you wear. Or at least I do; you shouldn’t.”
Christopher sniggered. “She’s got you there, old chap.”
“Still younger than you,” Crispin said. “But fine, Darling. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s get this over with as soon as possible. I’m feeling quite nauseated by the whole thing.” And quite worried about getting away with it, what’s more. “What are we going to do if we’re stopped along the way?”
“Pray,” Crispin said, and took his foot off the clutch. The Hispano-Suiza rolled off down the street towards Ronald Blanton’s lodgings.
The others were waitingby the service entrance when we arrived, skulking in the shadows and propping up Montrose’s body. He was still in his frock and lady’s shoes, of course, but one of Blanton’s fluffy towels was wrapped around his head so I couldn’t see his face.
“Put him in the back with Philippa,” Crispin ordered, without ever getting out from behind the wheel.
I opened my mouth to object, and then thought better of it. He—what was left of Frederick Montrose—had to go into the backseat with me. He couldn’t sit next to Crispin in the front seat. Not only was Christopher there, but Montrose would not be able to keep himself upright, and would sway from side to side and probably end up with his head either out the window or on Crispin’s shoulder. Which he might deserve—St George, I mean; not Montrose—for getting us into this predicament, but it would be an unpleasant experience for him, and also might put the rest of us in danger of discovery.
And then there was the fluffy white towel, which was like a beacon of light that would catch everyone’s attention. And I certainly didn’t want to contemplate what Montrose would look like without it. So I swallowed back my revulsion and prepared myself to accept delivery of the body.
Rivers, Hutchison, and Ogilvie spent the next minute wrestling it into the back of the motorcar, where they draped Montrose across the seat with his head—and the towel—in my lap. I choked back the need to gag. Gladys, who was watching from the shadows along with Blanton, stared at me with huge eyes in a white face, and I’m certain I looked very much the same as she did. We shared an uncomfortable moment of kinship as our eyes locked, before Hutchison shut the door behind Montrose and took a step back.
“There we are.” His voice was falsely bright, and brittle underneath the brightness. So far, he had kept a stiff upper lip throughout this whole ordeal, but perhaps the task of moving the body had been too much for him. He cleared his throat. “Take him to Rectors and find somewhere to place him, where it’ll look like he was killed by someone there. And whatever you do, don’t get caught!”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” Crispin said irritably. “You know, the next time I’m invited for an after-party at one of your flats, I’m declining.”
“Should have said no this time,” I muttered, and he nodded.
“I can’t believe you got me into this, Darling. All I wanted to do was celebrate my birthday with you and Kit, and instead I’m wearing a frock and transporting a dead body across London in the early hours of the morning…”
“It’s hardly my fault that you have the sort of friends who kill each other,” I retorted. “If I had known this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have agreed to it, either. Now stop complaining and drive. The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll be done.”
Christopher nodded. “Yes, please, Crispin. Stop talking and go.”
“Very well.” Crispin put the Hispano-Suiza in gear. “But this isn’t the last you’ll hear of it.”
He took his foot off the brake and we rolled off down the street in the direction of Rectors.
It wasn’t a long drive, and traffic was practically non-existent. It was a good thing, because if the trip had been longer and had taken more time, I might have lost my mind. I already couldn’t believe we were doing this. How had this evening gone so wrong that simply wanting to have some fun for Crispin’s birthday had landed us all in this mess, where we were transporting a dead body across London, with both boys in makeup and frocks and me in Christopher’s dinner suit?
And there hadn’t been any way around it, either, that I could see. Yes, of course, if we could go back a few hours, to the beginning of the evening, and take a different path, things might have turned out rather differently. Montrose might still be alive, since without Crispin at the table at Rectors, the others might not have noticed him there, and everything might have had a different outcome.
Then again, if I had turned Crispin away when he showed up at the flat, he might have got back into the Hispano-Suiza and wrapped it around another light pole, and he might not have walked away from that. We could be dealing with Crispin’s dead body now, and not Montrose’s, and despite my own usual feelings of irritation—particularly now, when I blamed him for having got us into this situation—I didn’t wish him dead. Christopher would be devastated, and for another thing, I might miss him, too. At least a bit. So while I still felt terrible about Montrose, I probably wouldn’t sacrifice Crispin for him.
Probably.
