I was woken by Ryan shaking me.
“Wha? Wha?”
“Your phone’s ringing, Gemma.”
That got my attention. I keep my phone on do not disturb overnight. Only Uncle Arthur, Jayne, Pippa, Ryan, and my parents can override that.
The phone was on the nightstand, the screen illuminated, the sound indicating it was an actual phone call. I grabbed it. “What? What?”
“So sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Of course, you woke me. What time is this to be calling?” I looked at the screen. Ten past two. Outside all was dark, the streets quiet.
Ryan sat up and switched on the light at his side of the bed.
“The time is pertinent,” Pippa said. “Rain over Halifax delayed my departure, thus the lateness of the call. I’m at Garfield Hall and will be returning to London shortly. Alistair and I had a pleasant chat. He confessed to paying the teacher to keep Lawrence from being expelled, but he says he’s heard nothing more of that matter since then.”
I struggled to sit up. Ryan placed a pillow behind my head, and I threw him a smile. “Do you believe him?”
“I do. As this has the potential to be a security matter, he can be trusted to be forthcoming.”
“Okay. So?”
“So, would you agree that the death of Paul Erikson did not have the hallmarks of professionals?”
Ryan pointed to the phone and then to him.
“Okay if I put this on speaker so Ryan can listen?”
“You may,” Pippa said.
I did so. “I don’t know what makes a murder professional or not.”
Ryan’s eyes opened wide. I shrugged.
“Can you take a guess?” Pippa asked.
“I can. The bookshop was not searched thoroughly. Not even Paul’s office. Unless the killers went to the time and trouble to put everything back, which I find difficult to believe. Those sort of people aren’t likely to, far as I am aware, accidentally kill their suspect before they get around to asking what they want to know. Paul would have given up the letter instantly to anyone who waved a gun in his face, as would any sensible person. By which I conclude the killer or killers were not after the letter. Thus, it was more likely to be a personal reason or a random theft that went wrong.”
“Or …?”
“There’s an ‘or’ in this?”
“Or,” Ryan said, “the killer was after the letter, but they hadn’t the slightest idea of how to go about asking for it. Because they’re not a professional and they haven’t done this sort of thing before. They intended to act threatening, and when that didn’t work, because they aren’t tough, they didn’t know what to do and killed Paul. And then, rather than taking the time to search for the letter, they fled in panic.”
“You think this person might have been Lawrence?” I said into the phone.
“The possibility is there,” Pippa said. “The first line of inquiry, as to if third parties wanted to get hold of the incriminating letter to disturb Alistair’s work, will continue to be investigated at my end. But I have no interest in why Lawrence might, or might not, have killed your Paul. And so, because I know you like to solve these little puzzles to your own satisfaction, I can tell you where Lawrence is at the moment. You can have a little chat. In a public place, naturally, to keep everything on the up and up.”
“Where?”
“He has a favorite nightclub. Expensive, exclusive. Far beyond anything he should be able to afford. To his parents’ despair. He should be arriving right about now.”
“How do you know this?”
“No spy craft involved. Genevieve called him earlier to remind him they’re scheduled to meet with the estate manager first thing in the morning to go over the finances for the quarter, and Lawrence said he wouldn’t be back from London in time. Genevieve is attempting to get Lawrence to show some interest in the family business. Waste of time, but that’s up to her. He told her he wouldn’t make it because he was going out with his friends later tonight, and they had an intense argument. She relayed that conversation to Alistair, in my presence. The nightclub Lawrence prefers doesn’t truly get going until the early hours.” Pippa rattled off an address.
“If this place is so exclusive,” Ryan said, “they’re not going to let a wandering American cop in. Probably not Gemma either.”
“They’ll let you in. Tell the doorman your names are Jayne and Donald. One more small matter, before I go. Alistair confessed to me that he arranged for you to be followed when you left Garfield Hall, to and on the train and once you arrived in London. As he wasn’t entirely sure he believed what you said about why you were involving yourself in this matter, he wanted to ensure you weren’t intending to make contact with possibly unfriendly, or even criminal, forces. His people reported that you were acting shifty, you might like to know. But you did return to Stanhope Gardens without any obvious detours. Other than to treat yourselves to a gelato. Good night.” Pippa hung up.
I looked at Ryan. Ryan looked at me. “You were followed?” he said.
“So it would appear. They must be better than I’d thought. I didn’t spot a tail on the train itself.”
He shook his head. “Pippa could have called earlier than this.”
“Pippa likes to play games with me. On the other hand, when Pippa’s working, time has little or no meaning for her.”
“Are we going?”
“Up to you,” I said.
“Why not? All part of the genuine London experience. An exclusive club frequented by royalty and maybe gangsters too. We’re going so you can talk to this Lawrence guy in a public place. That’s all, right? You’re not going to follow him to the top of a cliff or chase him out to sea in a stolen boat?”
“I suspect that if this place is as exclusive as Pippa suggests, frequented by the sons and daughters of the most privileged in Europe and beyond, there will be adequate security.”
“To protect you or Lawrence?” he asked.
We dressed quickly and tiptoed down the stairs, not wanting to wake the rest of the house.
We found Jayne and Donald waiting by the front door.
“What are you two doing?” I asked.
“I might ask the same of you,” Jayne said. “Except it’s obvious you’re sneaking out to work on the case without us.”
“Did Pippa call you?”
“No. Donald did.”
“What?”
“My room’s adjacent to yours,” Donald said. “I was unable to sleep and was reading when I heard your phone ring. Naturally a call at two AM attracted my interest. I …” he coughed in embarrassment, “listened in the event assistance would prove to be necessary. As proved to be the case.” He wore his Ulster cape and carried his ever-present black umbrella. Ryan and I had put on the clothes we’d worn to Pippa’s wedding, in some attempt to look as though we belonged at an exclusive London nightclub, although I hadn’t wanted to take the time to do much with my hair and makeup. Jayne was in jeans, T-shirt, and a cardigan, trainers on her feet, and her long blonde hair tied back in a high, tight ponytail. That shouldn’t matter. She was pretty enough that in those circles she’d be allowed to dress however she liked. Donald just looked eccentric. The English like eccentric.
“Andy not coming?” Ryan asked.
“Andy is not a light sleeper,” Jayne said with a wink as she pulled her large leather bag over her shoulder.
“Let’s go, then,” I said. “I called an Uber and it’s arriving now.”
Ryan gave the Uber driver the address of our destination. Traffic was light at this time of night, and we soon arrived in Soho, the center of London’s nightlife.
It was approaching three AM, and there was no line outside the club. The sign over the door was discreet, and sounds of revelry did not leak from inside. A man stood next to the door. Good suit, white shirt, thin black tie, polished shoes. About two hundred pounds of solid muscle. The strong light from the bulb over the door shone on his bald head. Small black eyes sized us up as we approached. He said nothing, but the look of barely disguised contempt gave me the feeling he was fully intent on turning us away.
“I’m Donald.” Ryan pointed to me. “This is Jayne. The others are with us.”
“Very good, sir, madam,” the man said. “Enjoy your evening.” He opened the door with a small bow.
“I intend to,” I said.
We stepped onto a dark, narrow landing. A brightly lit staircase led down, and the sounds of music and laughter drifted up.
“ ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends,’ ” Donald said.
“Shakespeare?” I asked. “Not a Holmes quote?”
“A suitable one didn’t come instantly to mind.”
We descended the stairs. Jayne sucked in a breath, and Donald said, “Goodness. I was expecting something reminiscent of the opium den in ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip.’ ”
A vast room opened below us, packed with revelers. Walls of mirrors ran along three sides, reflecting laughing, dancing, gyrating bodies. Glass balls hung from the high ceiling, throwing flashing rainbows of green and blue onto the floor and the dancers. Bartenders, clad in white shirts and black bow ties, flipped bottles and shook cocktail shakers. The glass shelves behind them contained possibly hundreds of bottles of colored liquid. Wait staff, also in white shirts, black trousers or skirts, black bow ties, ferried trays piled high with drinks to patrons seated on the low platforms along the walls, outlined in hundreds of small flashing white lights. Plush banquettes in red and purple and deep wingback chairs surrounded tables, each of which contained a single flickering electric candle.
The sound of music and people talking and laughing was deafening.
“I feel … old,” Donald said.
“So do I,” Jayne said.
Almost everyone in the place, customers as well as staff, were in their twenties. Attire ranged from crop tops under big jackets over leggings or fashionably shredded jeans to three-piece suits and cocktail dresses and jewels.
No one paid us the slightest bit of attention, not even the wait staff.
The place smelled of too many people packed too closely together, overlaid with tobacco, liquor, and excessively applied perfume or aftershave. Most of all, it smelled like money. The jewels looked real; the clothes, designer. Even the ripped jeans would have cost a bundle at the best clothing shops in London.
More than a few people, men as well as women, looked completely out of place and were not attempting to hide it. Dark clothes, short haircuts, earpieces in ears. Bodyguards and drivers. I recognized at least one movie star, sitting at a table surrounded by sycophants and shot glasses. A not-minor royal and his entourage were at another table. The royal was the same age as most of the other people in the place, but the movie star was considerably older than even us. She didn’t look as though she was having a great deal of fun. It’s hard work, desperately trying to pretend one is keeping age at bay.
“How on earth are we going to find Lawrence in this madhouse?” Donald bellowed into my ear.
“We look,” I said.
“What?” Jayne and Ryan yelled.
“Look for Lawrence!”
“If he confesses to murder, we’re not going to be able to hear a word,” Ryan said.
“We’ll have to suggest we step outside. There must be private rooms in here someplace.” A wide sweeping staircase led up to the next level. Next to it was a closed door.
The constantly flashing lights and the booming noise were starting to give me a headache. A man leered in my face and said something unintelligible. Ryan growled at him, and he wisely moved off.
“Hey, darlin’, love love love that coat.” A young woman, all bleary eyes and streaked makeup, smiled at Donald. “It’s so retro, it’s absolutely adorbs. Can I have it?” She hiccupped and exhaled a wave of liquor-saturated breath.
“What?” Donald said.
“You can buy me a drink.” She dragged Donald away. “And then we’ll negotiate terms for the coat.”
This might not have been the most optimal place to find and question Lawrence. Oh, well, we were here now. If we lost Donald, he should be able to find his way back to Stanhope Gardens. With or without his cherished Ulster cape.
“Wanna dance?” A handsome young man approached Jayne. Thick stubble on his chin, a lock of bright yellow hair falling over one eyebrow, a small hoop in his right ear, leather jacket, tight black jeans, black and white boots with two-inch heels. Blindingly white teeth and a silver ring on every digit on both hands. I struggled to remember where I’d seen him before, then I had it. Smiling down from a huge poster advertising a reality TV program in the tube station.
Jayne threw me a panicked look. Ryan took her arm. “She’s with us,” he said.
The TV presenter shrugged and walked away. For a brief moment, I was insulted that he hadn’t asked me to dance.
I just wanted to find Lawrence and get out of here. I went first, shoving and pushing and excusing my way through the crowd. Ryan kept hold of Jayne’s arm and they followed me. I decided to do one sweep of the main room looking for Lawrence, and if I didn’t see him, I’d have to ask. If this was, according to Pippa, his favorite hangout, the staff should know him.
The wait staff crossed the room with laden trays, deftly maneuvering between dancing and/or drunken bodies and people who didn’t bother to look where they were going. I did my best to imitate them and managed to avoid most, although not all, collisions.
It wasn’t long before I spotted my quarry. A group of dancers, gasping and laughing, broke apart and a view to the far side of the room temporarily opened up. Laurence sat at a banquette table on a low platform overlooking the dance floor. He was with four other people, two men, two women, all about his age, all clearly well into their cups. Once again, I noticed something familiar about one of the women. She was barely old enough to be allowed into the club, with long hair she was constantly tossing around her head and an excessive amount of makeup, even for this place. Lawrence said something, and she threw back her head and screeched with laughter. The people at the table next to them watched us approach. Suits, short hair, earpieces. Absolutely not smiling.
American secret service. You can spot them a mile away. I looked at her again, and then I remembered where I’d seen the young woman. On the news, getting into a helicopter next to her smiling and waving parents.
“Isn’t that—” Jayne said to Ryan.
“Looks like it,” he replied.
I stopped at the table. “Hi,” I said to Lawrence. “Remember me?”
“Ryan Ashburton,” Ryan said to the secret service agent who’d risen to his feet. “West London, Massachusetts. My friend is a relative of Viscount Ballenhelm.”
The agent nodded, but he didn’t take his eyes off me.
Lawrence peered up at me and blinked. His eyes were very red. If he’d only just arrived here, it hadn’t been his first stop of the night. “Gemma. Hey, what’s up? Everyone, this is Gemma, my cousin. Sorta. And … her friend. Hi, Jayne.”
“Hi,” Jayne said.
“Can I have a minute, Lawrence?” I said. “I need to speak to you and it’s somewhat noisy in here.”
He looked at his friends. They shrugged, not much caring. The younger woman waved her hand in the air to summon a passing waiter. Her protection detail didn’t look too pleased at her asking for another drink.
Lawrence picked up his glass and wiggled out of his seat. “Be right back.”
The American woman was not, I guessed by the uninterested look on her face, Lawrence’s date. Perhaps his much older minor royal didn’t care for the atmosphere in this place. More likely, she didn’t care for the publicity her appearance might generate.
I led the way to a comparatively quiet corner and arranged us so Lawrence’s back was to the wall. Ryan stood next to me, Jayne slightly behind, hemming Lawrence in.
“Wha’s up?” Lawrence asked.
“I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Talk about what?”
“The death of Paul Erikson.”
The drunken blur began to disappear from his eyes. “Who?”
“Don’t give me that, Lawrence. I know you knew Paul, and I know you spoke to him on Saturday night, not more than a few hours before he died. I also know the police have questioned you in that matter.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I represent parties other than the Metropolitan Police.” That wasn’t a lie. I represented myself. Ryan and Jayne too. Even Donald, whom I hadn’t seen since he’d been dragged away by the young woman who liked his coat.
Lawrence’s eyes darted around. All around us, the party continued. No one was paying any attention to us, not even the secret service detail. “I told the cops what happened,” he said finally. “Paul asked me for money. I barely know the guy. I told him to get lost. I wouldn’t give him money even if I had it. Which, as you know from my dear parents, I do not.”
“What about the letter?”
His attention snapped back to me. “What letter?”
“You know full well what letter. The blackmail letter. Paul didn’t give it to you that night, likely because you didn’t, or couldn’t, pay. Did you go around to his shop later and demand he hand it over? Did you kill him when he refused? Or did you not even bother to wait for him to refuse, but decided to get rid of him then and there, when you found him passed out at his desk?”
Lawrence started to sweat. It was extremely hot in this room, but he hadn’t been sweating a few minutes ago. “You’re talking rubbish.”
“I’m not and you know it. I also know you went back to his shop the following afternoon. I saw you there myself. Did you hope to get your hands on the letter, but Paul had been found by then and the police called so you walked away?”
“I was at Trafalgar Square Sunday afternoon, yeah. I had … I was meeting a friend for lunch near there.”
“What happened to Paul, Lawrence?”
“Nothing happened! Yeah, okay, he came up to me at your sister’s wedding dinner. I’d never even seen the guy before, but he told me he had this letter my dad wrote years ago. He wanted me to pay him to give me that dratted letter. I told him I couldn’t, and he said he’d phone me in the morning to ask again. If I wouldn’t pay, he’d release the letter to the gutter press. I went to his shop the next day, hoping to talk some sense into him. By the time I got there, the cops were all over the place. So I left. The police saw the CCTV footage of us meeting at the hotel and they called me. I told them all of this.”
“You told them you spoke to Paul Saturday night, but you didn’t say anything about a blackmail attempt. You didn’t think they might consider that to be important?” Ryan said.
“Everything okay here?” One of the men who’d been sitting at Lawrence’s table pushed his way between Ryan and Lawrence. He was a big guy, nose broken more than once, scar over his right eyebrow, scraggy goatee, rapidly receding hairline. He was at that stage of early drunkenness to be both aggressive and dangerous. He spoke to Lawrence but looked at Ryan.
I felt, as much as saw, Ryan brace himself as he gently moved Jayne to one side.
“Yes. I mean no,” Lawrence said. “These people are bothering me, Reggie. They got in under false pretenses. They don’t belong here.”
“Is that so?” Reggie put a meaty hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “In that case, you’d better be on your way, mate.”
Ryan plucked the hand off his shoulder as though he were removing an ant that had lost its way. He spoke calmly and clearly. “We’re not causing trouble. My friend’s having a nice chat with her cousin.”
“The way I see it, her cousin doesn’t want to chat with her.”
Ryan’s eyes flicked toward me.
As soon as Ryan’s attention wavered slightly, Reggie shoved him, hard. “So get lost, mate.” Ryan dropped back and bumped into Jayne, knocking her against a passing waiter bearing a tray heavy with fresh drinks.
“Watch it!” the waiter yelled. Jayne made a wild grab for the tray, her hand collided with his, and he lost his grip. The tray tipped; glasses and liquid went flying. Someone laughed, some people cheered and clapped. A man yelled in anger.
And then, before I knew what was happening, everyone was wading in. Security guards surged forward to prevent the melee from spreading.
Too little, too late.
Reggie threw a punch at Ryan, but Ryan saw it coming, stayed on his feet, and managed to dodge the blow. He ducked and came up ready to strike back. Reggie swung again, and Ryan retaliated. Reggie was big and he looked as though he was no stranger to bar fights, but Ryan was a cop. And, most importantly, Reggie had spent his evening drinking and Ryan had not.
Figuring Ryan could take care of himself, I looked around for Jayne. Before I could move toward her, Lawrence grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me until my teeth rattled. “You stay out of what doesn’t concern you.”
Rather than me rescuing Jayne, my friend charged toward us, let out a mighty yell, swung her hefty bag, and hit him solidly on the side of the head. “Let go of her!”
Blind rage filled Lawrence’s eyes, and he started to turn on Jayne. She danced nimbly to one side, still gripping her bag. Ryan saw what was happening and moved to intercept, but Reggie took advantage of his change of attention. He punched Ryan hard enough in the jaw, I heard the snap as it connected, and Ryan’s head went flying back. But he didn’t go down, and he shifted smoothly into a defensive position. “You don’t want to do this, pal.”
Fearing Lawrence would go to the aid of his friend, I grabbed his arm and pulled him away, yanking him off balance.
All around us, women were screaming and trying to get out of the way, while some men, and a few other women, ran forward to join the fight. Chairs overturned; glasses smashed on the floor. The music cut out in midnote.
“You leave him alone!” The daughter of the American political figure charged me, all streaming hair and wild eyes. She kicked me, hard, in the shins, and I lost my balance. I grabbed a chair in panic; if I fell, I could be trampled in this melee. I managed to hold on. One of the secret service people grabbed the daughter and hauled her away, shouting into the mic tucked into his lapel. She screamed in protest and kicked wildly. Her stiletto heels went flying, and one of them connected with the cheek of a man calmly standing on the side, beer in hand, simply observing the action. He let out a roar of pain and shock. Recognizing that he’d be in serious trouble if he tried to punch the owner of the shoe, he took his anger out on the man standing next to him. The political daughter was carried from the field of battle like a rag doll, still kicking and screaming. The other agent threw me a very nasty look indeed, as though this was my fault, and followed them.
A woman grabbed Jayne’s hair and pulled hard. I went in low from her side, and kicked high, getting the assailant in the right knee. She screamed and released Jayne, but rather than retire from the fight, she charged at me, long red nails extended. I grabbed her right hand and twisted. She yelped in pain but didn’t back off; instead she reached toward my face with her free hand. Those nails were like eagle’s talons. I held on as best I could, wondering how long I could keep her away. Then she dropped like a stone and hit the floor. Jayne stood over her, legs apart, breathing deeply. Another combatant felled by Jayne’s trusty handbag.
Jayne and I exchanged a brief glance. I’d swear my friend, hair tumbling around her face and shoulders, blue eyes gleaming, breathing heavily, was grinning.
I searched the crowd for Ryan. About ten people were between us, grabbing and swinging at each other. He was fighting someone different now, the two of them grasping at each other, pulling at jackets, trying to land a blow, but neither was able to get a good swing in the crowd surrounding them. Before I could move toward Ryan, another man came up behind him. He was so lanky he didn’t look as though he’d be able to stand straight in the face of a strong breeze, but that didn’t matter now. He held a bottle by the neck end, lifted it high, and swung it directly at the back of Ryan’s head. I screamed a warning, knowing he wouldn’t hear it over the racket in this place.
And then the man with the bottle was on the ground, floored by a rolled-up black umbrella. Donald Morris waded into the fray, his Ulster cape streaming behind him, wielding his brolly like a sword.
I checked for Jayne. The woman who attacked her lay face down on the floor, arms and legs spread. Jayne sat on top of her while combatants swirled around them. “I’m good here,” she called to me. She poked the back of her adversary’s head with her index finger. “We’re good here, right?”
The woman moaned.
I headed toward Ryan and Donald. The bottle holder had dropped his weapon and was making a rapid escape on his hands and knees. Donald was swinging his umbrella in an arc around himself and Ryan shouting, “Back off. Everyone, back off! I am qualified in baritsu. Challenge me if you dare.” Baritsu is the form of hand-to-hand combat Sherlock Holmes excelled in. I doubt very much anyone in this room other than Donald and I knew that. But the expression on his face was fierce, his stance determined, and no one was truly invested in the fight at any rate. Besides, the big American next to him looked like someone who could do some damage if he was so inclined. Several men slipped away.
Lawrence, however, was also under attack. Neither he nor his opponent were much good at this fighting stuff, and they stumbled across the room, gasping and grunting and gripping each other’s shirt. I hesitated, wanting to intervene, but unsure how to accomplish that without getting a punch in the face. Before I could decide, another man arrived. Heavily built, face marked with memories of bar brawls in far less refined places than this, and definitely meaning business, he grabbed Lawrence around the waist and lifted him off the ground, much like the secret service agent had earlier done to his charge. Lawrence’s opponent straightened, a mean gleam came into his eyes as he realized now was the time to take advantage of his adversary being incapacitated, but one growl and an intense stare from the new arrival had him reconsidering his options and slinking away.
Sir John Saint-Jean gave Lawrence a good shake and said, “You going to behave yourself now, sunshine?”
Lawrence nodded rapidly.
With the help of Donald and his trusty brolly, Ryan had cleared most of this section of the floor of fighters. Bouncers and security guards were grabbing shirt collars and hauling miscreants to their feet or shoving them toward the door. A scattering of secondary fights, threatening to lead to tertiary eruptions, had broken out, but they were soon quelled.
I held out a hand and helped Jayne get off the woman she had pinned under her. The woman didn’t move, and I peered closer at her, wondering if she needed assistance. Another woman arrived. Stark black hair shaved to the scalp on one side, rivers of black eyeliner running down her cheeks, red lipstick staining her teeth. Ignoring Jayne, she screamed at the woman on the floor, “What on earth do you think you’re playing at, Maise? Get up. I’m leaving, and I’m not going to wait for you. If the cops find me here again, I’m done for. I’ll be cut off.”
Maise groaned, shook her head. Cautiously, watching for signs she was going to renew the attack, Jayne stepped back. Maise staggered to her feet with the help of her friend. She didn’t spare Jayne and me another look as she limped away. She and her friend pushed their way through the crowd of onlookers and disappeared from sight.
“You lot, out of here now.” A middle-aged man, short and weedy, greasy hair, watery pale blue eyes, pencil-thin mustache, dressed in a dark suit, stood in front of us. His face was red with indignation. “Before I call the cops.”
“We didn’t—” I started to say.
“I don’t care who started it. Out. And you,” he swung toward Lawrence, who’d taken a seat at the single chair still upright at a small round table, “are banned. Permanently. I’ve had enough of you.”
“You can’t—” Lawrence said.
“He can do whatever he wants in his own place.” Sir John grabbed Lawrence and hauled him to his feet. “We’ll go. Quietly and peacefully, right?”
Jayne, Donald, Ryan, and I chorused, “Right.”
“You, laddie?” Sir John shook Lawrence as a terrier might a rat.
“Okay,” Lawrence said.
“Call me,” Sir John called over his shoulder as he shoved Lawrence across the floor, “and we’ll discuss settling up. After I’ve done with this waste of space here.”
“I’ll do that,” the thin man said.
The pounding music started up again, the lights began to swirl and flash. Bartenders resumed their places, wait staff lifted their trays, and the remaining patrons surged toward the bar or the dance floor.
The thin man, who I assumed was the owner or manager of this establishment, scurried around us and led the way to the door beneath the staircase I’d noticed earlier. He opened it, we passed through, and he slammed it shut behind us. We were in a brightly lit corridor. Closed doors I took to be offices and storage rooms led off it. Without a word, we walked down the corridor, climbed the stairs at the end of the building, and pushed open the fire door to emerge into an ill-lit alley.
“I’m guessing,” I said, “your timely arrival wasn’t a coincidence.”
“No,” Sir John said. “And you can be glad of it. I managed to convince Albert there not to call the coppers to have the place cleared out.”
“Albert?” Ryan said.
“Old SAS buddy. He’s a lot tougher than he looks.”
“He’d have to be,” Ryan muttered. He touched his jaw and winced.
“Pippa gave me a call. Said you lot were headed down here and might need a hand,” Sir John explained.
“Thanks,” Ryan said. “Nice work with the umbrella, Donald.”
“Thank you.” Donald preened and twirled his umbrella. Jayne leapt out of the way to avoid having an eye taken out. “I’ve been practicing. After the incident the previous time we were in this city, I thought I might have need to improve my skills. I don’t actually know baritsu, although the art seems to be regaining some popularity these days, but throwing it out there added a touch of authenticity to my combative persona.”
Somehow Jayne had lost one shoe. She carried the remaining one in her right hand and bounced on her toes, punching the air with her fists. “That was exciting. I’ve never been in a bar brawl before.”
“You have no idea,” Ryan said. “Please do not make this a habit.”
“You people are nuts, all of you,” Lawrence said. “You’ve managed to get me banned from my best place. What’s Marie going to say when I tell her we can’t come here again?”
“I don’t much care what Marie, or anyone else, has to say,” I said. “You and I have a conversation to finish.”
“Don’t think so,” he said. “I’m outa here.”
Before he could move, a strong light appeared at the end of the alley, and a woman called, “Gemma Doyle?”
“Here.”
The jerking light moved closer. DI Patel held a flashlight. A uniformed officer came behind her, carrying his own light.
“You’re late for the party,” I said.
“So it would appear.” She studied us. Most of Jayne’s hair had escaped its ponytail, and she was missing one shoe. Ryan’s right sleeve hung by a couple of ragged threads. His shirt was half untucked, and a bruise was rapidly forming under his right eye. I took steps to straighten my own clothes. I doubted this nice dress would be suitable to be worn again.
Lawrence, nose bloody, shirt not only torn but spotted with blood, didn’t look any better.
Donald, still immaculate in Ulster cape, black trousers, Harris tweed jacket, and white shirt, beamed at the detective and proudly showed her his weapon of choice.
“What brings you here in such a timely fashion?” I asked.
“Your father called me,” Patel explained. “Unfortunately, I was indisposed and didn’t get the call until a half hour ago. Whereupon I came down.”
“Does no one trust me to act on my own?” I said to Ryan.
“No,” he replied.
“All this has nothing to do with me,” Lawrence said, his voice muffled as he attempted to staunch the flow of blood with another of Jayne’s tissues. “If you’re not going to arrest this lot for drunk and disorderly, I’ll be on my way.”
“DI Patel, you might want to ask Mr. Denhaugh here to clarify precisely what he and Paul Erikson talked about the night Paul Erikson died,” I said. “He might not have been entirely truthful when you interviewed him earlier.”
She looked at Lawrence. He threw me a thoroughly nasty glare. Not, I thought, of fear but more of annoyance. Interesting. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. I wasn’t exactly going to come out and tell you Erikson was threatening to blackmail my father, was I?”
“You didn’t think that might be pertinent to my investigation into his death?” the detective asked.
“My father’s a very influential man, highly connected. He doesn’t need past indiscretions tarnishing his reputation.”
Patel reached into her own cavernous cross-body bag and pulled out a notebook. She gave it a good shake, the book flipped open, and she found the page she was looking for.
I sucked in a breath. Ryan and Jayne threw me questioning looks.
Patel consulted her notebook. “When advised of the CCTV footage from the hotel where you were attending a wedding, you admitted Mr. Erikson spoke you to that evening. At that time, you told me, he asked you for money, you refused, and he left. You claim you did not see him again. Is that still correct?”
“Yes.”
“You said he asked you for money. You neglected to mention any blackmail attempt.”
“It wasn’t any of your business.”
“It is my business now, and I don’t conduct interviews in dark alleys behind nightclubs. Let’s go to the station and have a proper chat.”
“Are you arresting me?” Lawrence asked.
“Not at this time. A chat, like I said.” She nodded to the uniformed constable, who stepped forward and put his hand on Lawrence’s arm.
Lawrence looked at me. “I didn’t kill him.”
“I know you didn’t,” I said.