“He’ll have to go to the morgue,” Tom said, “and without going in the water first. We don’t want to destroy any more evidence than you have already.”
No, we didn’t. And while he probably didn’t mean to sound like he was criticizing us, I felt rather bad about it, even so.
“We’ll have to invent some sort of story,” Tom continued. “One that absolves you from failing to carry out the task they gave you, if St George’s friends should ask, and I’m sure they will.”
I was sure they would, too. “We obviously couldn’t carry out the task the way they wanted. Tottenham Court Road was crawling with constables by the time we got there. And that’ll be in the papers tomorrow, no doubt.”
Tom nodded. “If you hadn’t met me, what would you have done with him?”
“We were going to leave him there and then come find you,” Christopher said, “but you found us first.”
Tom gave him a look, but didn’t say anything.
“Let’s just leave him on the grass,” I said, with a glance outside the motorcar. “Hyde Park is as good a place as any to get rid of a body. We’ve been sitting here for ten or fifteen minutes without seeing a soul. We’ll just put him under this tree and drive away. Then you, Tom, can pretend to find him and flag down a patrolman. And tomorrow we’ll tell Hutchison and his friends that we left Montrose in Hyde Park because Rectors was under attack by bobbies.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“That seems to cover all the contingencies,” Tom allowed grudgingly, “but don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re proposing to leave me holding the body, so to speak.”
“Well, it can’t very well be one of us,” I pointed out, “with the way we’re dressed. Although if you want company, I suppose Christopher and I could trade clothes—it’s his suit I’m wearing—and then one of us could stay with you. Who would you rather have with you at three AM in Hyde Park, Detective Sergeant Gardiner? Me or Christopher? Both? Or perhaps St George? Christopher’s dinner suit would fit him, too.”
Crispin held up both hands. “Keep me out of it, Darling, if you please.”
“You’re just afraid to let me drive your precious car,” I told him.
“Yes, Darling, that’s what I’m afraid of. Having to strip down to my skivvies in Hyde Park in the middle of the night so I can put on Christopher’s dinner suit, that you first have to strip out of… that has nothing whatsoever to do with it. Are you really that sanguine about taking your clothes off in public? Because if so?—”
“I’m not,” I said. “Hush, St George. What’ll it be, Tom? Me, Christopher, or Crispin?”
“Neither of you,” Tom said. “Take the car and go home. And stay there until I come and find you.”
“When you say home…”
“Your flat. Go to your flat.” He pointed a finger at Crispin. “You go with them.”
Crispin opened his mouth and then, obviously thinking better of his retort, closed it again.
“Stay with Pippa and Kit until tomorrow. Somewhere where your friends aren’t likely to find you. I don’t want Rivers and Hutchison and their friends to corner you until we’ve had a chance to examine the body and decide how to proceed.”
I couldn’t imagine what Scotland Yard’s plans for Montrose’s body would have to do with Crispin, Christopher, and me, but it was three o’clock in the morning, and it had been a long night, and it wasn’t over yet, so I decided not to argue or inquire. “Let’s get this over with, if you please. I suppose I’m going to have to help, so if Hutchison asks, I’ll be able to say with honesty that I helped dispose of the body.”
“I think it’ll be sufficient if you stand and watch, Pippa,” Christopher said. “Crispin and I will take care of it.”
Crispin grimaced, but didn’t object. “Come on then, Kit. Let’s get it done.”
He opened the rear door of the H6 and began pulling Montrose out of the motorcar.
“Careful!” I told him, as Montrose’s head dropped from my lap and landed on the seat next to me.
“He can’t feel it, Darling.”
“I know that,” I said, irritated. “But the towel is slipping, and—euurgh!”
“Don’t look,” Christopher advised, as he came around the motorcar to help Crispin balance the burden that was Montrose. “We’d have to take the towel off anyway. It doesn’t make any sense to leave it.”
“It might give Tom something to investigate if we do,” I suggested, with a glance at Tom. He was watching the boys’ progress from the other side of the Hispano-Suiza. He had his arms folded across his chest, and occasionally he would wince.
I turned back to look at them, and had to admit that they made quite the comical picture—or would have, if the situation had been less dire. All three of them were wearing evening gowns and high heels. Christopher and Crispin were like two bookends holding the shorter, squatter form of Montrose upright. If you didn’t look too closely at his head, they may look like two women, or at least two men dressed like women, helping their none-too-sober counterpart home after a night on the town. But the pointed toes of Montrose’s strap shoes were digging a furrow in the dirt as they dragged him towards the trunk of the tree, and the back of his head was a bloody mess—I mean that in its most literal sense—and the towel in my hands was soaked with blood, and so, I noticed, were Christopher’s trousers…
