Page 29 of The Locked Room

Thankfully, the queue moved fast. As before, John Quaglino himself was at the door, greeting his customers with enthusiastic cheer. His eyes narrowed slightly when they fell upon Harry and Oliver, and she supposed they did not present themselves as typical guests of the establishment. Plastering on a wide smile, she thrust out a hand. ‘Quaglino, my good man, how the devil are you? Capital to see you again.’

John Quaglino’s gaze flickered over the guest list and back to Harry, clearly trying to place her. ‘All the better for seeing you, my friend,’ he said, warily shaking her hand. ‘But I was not expecting you this evening. Remind me, under whose name is your reservation?’

‘Sebastian White, of course,’ Harry said, crossing her fingers that the gamble would pay off. Surely her brother would not be sitting at home on a Friday evening. It was a reasonable bet that he was here. Quite what he would make of her clothing was another matter entirely but that would only become a problem if he was as predictable as she hoped.

Once again, the man consulted his list. Harry held her breath and sensed Oliver’s raised eyebrows, although he had followed her instructions not to say a word. It would not be the end of the world if they were turned away, but it would be mildly embarrassing and likely to excite a comment or two from at least some of those behind them. ‘Ah, yes,’ Quaglino said, and cocked his head. ‘Is he expecting you to join his party?’

Harry hesitated. The difficulty was that Seb hadn’t the faintest idea she and Oliver planned to join him, and he most certainly was not expecting two heavily bearded gentlemen in distinctly drab suits. She suspected John Quaglino was far too wise to allow them inside without verifying with Seb first, and he would not recognise the names of Mr Thompson and Mr Gill. It was time to shed those identities, if not their camouflage. ‘It’s a spur-of-the-moment visit,’ she confessed. ‘But if you advise him that Harry White and friend have arrived, then I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed to see us.’

The man surveyed them both again, and Harry tried not to squirm as his attention rested on the awful wig sprouting out from beneath her hat. ‘One moment, please,’ he said, and murmured to one of the burly men stood discreetly at his shoulder. The man disappeared inside and Mr Quaglino turned back to fire a charming smile at Harry and Oliver. ‘If you wouldn’t mind stepping aside.’

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Oliver whispered as they waited. ‘I’m not sure what will happen if I try to remove this hat.’

‘We’ll keep them on,’ she replied. ‘People will stare but we’ll look so out of place that they’re going to do that anyway.’

He regarded her levelly. ‘Then why are we doing this?’

She sighed. ‘Because I think someone might be following us. No, don’t look.’

Oliver had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Sorry. But won’t they just hang around until we come out?’

‘I had a thought about that,’ she replied. ‘But let’s see if we get in first.’

A few minutes later, the doorman returned and spoke to John Quaglino. He turned to Harry and Oliver, beaming widely. ‘Mr White is delighted you’re here. Please, come in.’

The cloakroom attendant could not hide her consternation when both guests declined to remove their hat and coat. ‘But you’ll be dreadfully warm,’ she said, her expression suggesting they had taken full leave of their senses.

‘Don’t trouble yourself, my dear,’ Harry rumbled, sliding a shilling towards her. ‘We’re not staying long.’

The bar was busier and the band much louder than on Harry’s previous visit. She wished she had a camera to capture her brother’s expression when she and Oliver were escorted to his table by a blank-faced waiter. Seb rose, gaping in bewilderment as he stared from one unknown face to the other. ‘Good to see you again, White,’ Harry boomed, clapping him on one shoulder. Leaning closer, she reverted to her natural voice. ‘Sit down, you fool. It’s me.’

His eyes widened in almost comical astonishment, but to his credit, he recovered fast. ‘Wonderful of you to join me,’ he managed, and sank into his chair. He waved at two of the empty seats clustered around the table. ‘Won’t you sit? What will you have to drink?’

‘A Manhattan,’ Harry said firmly. ‘Make it a strong one.’

‘Whisky,’ Oliver said, and puffed out his cheeks. ‘Make it quick.’

Seb peered at him, his incredulity growing. ‘Fortescue? Is that you?’

With obvious reluctance, Oliver nodded. ‘Hello, Seb.’

Laughter exploded across the table, causing several heads to turn in their direction. ‘Good lord. For once, I think I might be lost for words.’

Harry leaned back in her chair, wishing she had followed the suggestion of the cloakroom attendant and left her coat upstairs, if not her hat. She was far too hot and those around them were making no attempt to hide their curiosity. She fanned herself with the cocktail menu. ‘It’s a long and complicated story but don’t worry, we can’t stay long.’

Her brother nodded. ‘I’m very glad to hear it. Lord and Lady Pritchard are joining me soon and I cannot begin to fathom how I would explain the two of you.’ He studied Harry with interest. ‘Is that a dead ferret on your face?’

‘Behave yourself,’ she hissed. ‘I borrowed it from Drury Lane, if you must know.’

Seb’s expression lifted. ‘You’re involved in a drama? That makes sense, although I can’t imagine how you’ve managed to persuade Fortescue to get involved.’ He turned an amused look towards Oliver. ‘Who are you meant to be? Old Father Time?’

‘Mr Gill, actually,’ Oliver said, a little stiffly. ‘Sidekick of the great detective, Mr Emmanuel Thompson.’

‘Excellent,’ Seb said, and raised his glass of champagne. ‘I never had you down as the dramatic type, but you must let me know when your opening night is coming up. I’d be delighted to come and support you.’

‘I will,’ Harry said, battling to keep her own expression neutral. ‘But for now, I need your support with something else. Tell me, is there a back door here?’

‘But of course,’ Seb replied. ‘How else would they remove those guests who have partaken in too much merriment at the end of the night? It’s through the cellars.’