Page 96 of Evil at the Essex House
“There’s blood on your face,” Christopher said worriedly, peering at me.
I tilted my head back to peer back up at him. “I don’t think it’s mine.”
He shook his head, but his eyes were still worried.
“Someone brought a sword to a fist fight?”
“Natterdorff,” Christopher said, at the same time as Wolfgang cleared his throat.
“My apologies, Philippa. I didn’t think I was close enough to harm you. It was not my intention to put you in danger.”
Of course not. “I’m sure I wasn’t in any danger,” I said. And changed it to, “Or not from you. She was the one who tried to strangle me.”
I straightened and took a step back so I could survey the damage we had done to the dining room and the aftermath of the brawl.
Christopher let go reluctantly, but he allowed me to step away, even as his eyes stayed on me.
Wolfgang was standing a few feet away, still clutching… yes, that was a sword in his hand. The handle was the same as that of the cane, so the blade must have been hidden inside it. A sword stick. How quaint and last century.
It must have been effective, though, because I was alive and well, while fake Flossie was sitting with her back against the wall clutching her upper arm, where blood had soaked through the pink sleeve of her frock. Her eyes were teary—I’m sure it must hurt—but they were also hot and angry. She sat quietly, however, with her mouth compressed into a thin line.
Next to her sat Ruth, with her blond hair in disarray and bruises coming up on her face and arms. Unlike the fake Florence, Ruth was crying softly: eyes red and tears running down her cheeks. Her skin was blotchy and her mouth slack, and she had her cuffed wrists resting in her lap.
Her boyfriend sat next to her on the floor, and that was where Tom and Ian Finchley, Tom’s fellow detective sergeant, kept most of their attention.
Sid had also been cuffed, but behind his back. I suppose Tom and Finch thought there would be less of a chance that he’d try anything that way. And like fake Flossie, he looked angry, eyes burning and narrow jaw clenched. If looks could kill, we’d all be dead as doornails, including Ruth and fake Flossie.
Sarah and Hiram were huddled on the other side of the room. Sarah looked none the worse for wear, except for the fact that her hat had been ripped from her head and her hair was in disarray, but Sid must have gotten in a few shots on Hiram, who had bruises coming up on his face, and whose lip was split and swollen, and whose left sleeve had almost been separated from the shoulder of his jacket. Sarah was dabbing at the blood on his lip with a handkerchief and speaking to him softly.
Wolfgang, of course, looked like every woman’s dream. The exertion had left him with a fine flush and slightly disarranged clothing and hair, and it was all to the good. He looked heroic, with his shoulders straight and his feet planted and the sword in his hand.
I turned back to Christopher. “Where did you come from?”
He pursed his lips. “Scotland Yard, where did you think? We drove in perhaps ten minutes after you’d been there, and got your message. And followed on as quickly as we could.”
And had gotten here in record time and burst in immediately, since they hadn’t had to wait to reconnoiter the garage and pick the lock on the back door before throwing themselves into the fray.
“Thank you for coming to the rescue,” I said humbly.
Christopher snorted. “You seemed like you had it well in hand, actually, the four of you.”
Perhaps. Then again, until Wolfgang started swinging about himself with the sword, we had seemed fairly evenly matched to me. Sid had youth and agility on his side, not to mention the motivation to avoid being arrested for kidnapping and murder, but Hiram had his cane and a lot of righteous anger. Sarah and her fake daughter were fairly evenly matched in height and weight, although fake Flossie was at least thirty years younger, and I could have taken Ruth had fake Flossie not gotten in my way. At least I thought I could have. She was small and slippery, and I’m not heavy, but I thought I was probably just a bit heavier than her.
But then Wolfgang had brought the sword stick out, and Christopher and the others had burst in, and here we were.
“St George will be sad he missed it,” I said.
Christopher nodded. “I’m sure he would have enjoyed the chance to play hero.”
“Well, then,” Tom said, straightening after making sure that fake Flossie wasn’t about to bleed to death. “Here we are. Would anyone like to tell me what’s going on?”
He looked at Hiram and Sarah, and at the three captives, and at Wolfgang, and then at Wolfgang’s sword. “I haven’t seen one of those in a while.”
Wolfgang flushed. It left the Mensur scar on his cheek quite visible, since it didn’t flush with the rest of his face. “My apologies. I was afraid forFreuleinSchatz’s safety.”
He looked about him for the wooden shaft of the cane.
“Freulein…?” Tom repeated, as Wolfgang spotted what he was looking for, hidden among the debris under what had been the dining table, and went to fetch it.
