Crispin’s voice was cool. There was a pause, a slight one, before he added, “You remember my cousin? Christopher Astley.”
“Pleasure,” Christopher murmured, and I imagined them shaking hands. Or perhaps not. I was standing behind the door into the sitting room, and while there was a gap where the hinges were fastened, I didn’t dare put my eye to it, just in case Rivers noticed the movement.
He was clearly looking around, because after a moment he said, “Nice little place you’ve got here.”
There was mockery in his voice, but it covered something deeper. Anger, at a guess. Perhaps envy. And it was honestly difficult to blame him for that. Crispin was definitely one of the haves—title, money, good looks, mansion in Town, country seat in Wiltshire…
Rivers, meanwhile, was probably not of the same exalted stratum, or he wouldn’t be dealing dope for a living.
Or perhaps he was, and was simply being rebellious.
“It’s certainly better than Southwark,” Crispin said, which might have been an insult, or merely a supercilious comment of the type at which he excelled. I wouldn’t put the insult past him, although I doubted that Rivers lived in Southwark. Or if he did, it was by choice. His motorcar—if it was his—was an almost new Morris Oxford in gleaming red, and if he could afford that, he could afford better than Southwark.
Rivers snorted, but didn’t respond. I dared to do a quick turn of my head into the gap between the door and the jamb and saw that he had his back to me. So I turned the rest of my body, too, and put my eye to the gap.
And thus I got to watch as he put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a small paper bag, which he extended towards Crispin without a word.
The latter arched both brows. “What’s this?”
“What you asked for,” Rivers said.
“Is that so?” Crispin reached out a hand, and Rivers dropped the bag into it.
“I assume you won’t need my help in making use of it?”
“No,” Crispin said, although he frowned slightly as he gauged the weight and size of the bag in his hand. “This isn’t my first time, after all.”
Rivers nodded. “Then maybe you won’t mind checking that everything is all right?”
“Of course.” Crispin opened the twist and peered into it. After a moment, he dipped two fingers in. When they came out, they were holding a square of something small and white, almost like a sugar cube, but a bit bigger and, perhaps, slightly squishy.
Did cocaine come in chunks? I had always thought it was a powder, not that I have any personal knowledge, but that’s what I’ve been led to believe.
Was this cube, whatever it was, perhaps covered in the stuff?
Crispin eyed the cube for a second, brows raised, before he lifted it to his mouth. And popped it inside.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
My eyes buggedout and my mouth opened on what I can best describe as a silent scream. Through the gap in the door, I saw Christopher’s jaw drop, too. His hand twitched towards his cousin, but it was far too late for either of us to do anything to stop him. All we could do was watch, wide-eyed, for what felt like an eternity—my heart hammered against my ribs as I waited for him to fall to the floor and go into convulsions—while Crispin chewed. Finally, he swallowed and extended the bag to Christopher. “Delicious. Turkish Delight, Kit?”
Christopher peered into the bag and then up at Rivers. “Is this some sort of joke?”
“Your cousin asked me to bring him sweets,” Rivers said coolly.
“You knew what I wanted, though. And it wasn’t Turkish Delight.”
He closed up the bag and put it on a nearby table before he folded his arms across his chest. “Would you care to explain what’s going on?”
“Shouldn’t that be my question?” Rivers wanted to know.
“Should it?”
Rivers’s handsome face hardened, and his posh accent dropped off for something rather less polished. “Think I’m stupid, do you? I haven’t heard from you in ages, and suddenly you ring me up out of nowhere, not two days after Freddie Montrose dropped dead, wanting me to believe you’re looking for candy?”
“First of all,” Crispin said, his face dark, “Monty did not merelydrop dead. If anything, he was dropped. And furthermore?—”
Rivers held up a hand. “Be that as it may, it’s been months since you rang me up wanting anything, St George. So yes, I’d say something’s going on. You’re trying to trap me into something. And it’s not going to work. I’ll take payment for a hundred grams of Turkish Delight, if you please, and then I’ll get out of your house before you spring something else on me.”
