Page 52 of Murder on Harley Street
“I say,” her husband protested.
His wife ignored him and continued to address me. “Perhaps the killer wanted to cause my husband’s practice some difficulty. Who would do that? Not merely someone who feels wronged by him, but someone who was wrongedmedically. A former patient he couldn’t cure, or the loved ones of a patient who died while under his care.”
“I assure you, we have considered those theories,” Harry told her.
“Good. That is why he hired you.”
Dr. Iverson straightened. “Pierce! That fellow blames me for his wife’s death, even though it was nothing to do with me. Her excessive anxiety caused her to waste away. I can’t perform miracles, but he seemed to think I should have cured her.”
“We spoke to him,” Harry said. “He blames both you and the tonic you prescribed for his wife’s nerves."
“The Nerve Elixir.” The doctor sniffed. “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s strong, yes, but it does wonders to revive a weak constitution. You should see my patients after a dose of it. It’s like witnessing a wilting flower enjoy a fresh bloom. Isn’t it, my dear? You’ve used it. I wouldn’t prescribe it to my own wife if I didn’t believe in it, and trust it was safe.” In my opinion, his effusive protest was proof that he knew it caused addiction but refused to acknowledge it.
Mrs. Iverson leveled her gaze with mine. “I stopped using it when I no longer needed it. We don’t have bottles in the house anymore.”
I couldn’t tell if she knew or suspected it had addictive qualities, but her direct gaze was unnerving. I’d planned to say a number of things to Dr. Iverson about the tonic, but the words withered on my tongue.
Harry, however, had no such qualms. “I think everyone in this room knows the reviving effects of the tonic are temporary. The Nerve Elixir contains cocaine, which scientists now believe is highly addictive. Something you would be well aware of, Doctor, since I’m sure you keep up with the latest medical journals.”
Dr. Iverson cleared his throat. “Back to Pierce. He must be your strongest suspect, considering he barged into my clinic and caused a scene.”
“We have doubts that he has the knowledge required to tamper with an electric device.”
“Isn’t he the caretaker for St. James’s Hall? I recall his wife saying he managed it, but when I pressed her she admitted he was merely the caretaker. Most of my patients are married to nobility or wealthy businessmen, so the conversation stayed with me. I’m sure a caretaker of a music hall would have an understanding of electricity.”
We’d dismissed Mr. Pierce because of the faulty light in his hallway that he seemed unable to fix, but perhaps he’d simply not got around to it in his grief-stricken state.
Or perhaps he’d deliberately steered us away from the truth because he knew it made him a suspect.
In light of the new information, we decided to call on him again.
As with the last time,Mr. Pierce looked and smelled worse than Floyd after a night carousing with his chums and other disreputable persons. He squinted reddened eyes at us, even though the sun was covered by a gray London miasma. I couldn’t tell whether the redness was from excessive drink or grief, but it didn’t matter. The excessive drink was a product of his grief.
Mr. Pierce took a moment to recognize us, but when he did, he stepped aside to let us in. He scrubbed at his stubbled jaw, as if embarrassed that he hadn’t shaved. Ash fell from a cigarette clutched between the finger and thumb of his other hand onto the floor tiles. Even in the poor light I could tell they needed a good clean.
Harry flipped the switch to turn on the hall light. It still didn’t work. “You haven’t fixed it.”
Mr. Pierce blinked up at the ceiling. “So?”
“You work as a caretaker at St. James’s Hall.”
Mr. Pierce rubbed the back of his head so vigorously I worried he’d make his hair fall out. “I’ve taken some time off. What of it?”
“I’m just wondering why you haven’t fixed the light.”
Mr. Pierce’s shrug seemed to take considerable effort, as if his shoulders weighed heavily on him.
All of a sudden, a well of sympathy rose within me. Although I was very aware that this man planned to sabotage an event at the hotel in two days, I felt sorry for him.
“I’m going to make you a cup of tea,” I said. “You’re going to find a ladder to fix that light and have a chat with Mr. Armitage.” I gave Harry a speaking look. Hopefully he understood I wanted him to talk Mr. Pierce out of his plan, as well as discover how much he knew about electricity.
I entered the kitchen at the end of the short hall with a hand over my nose to block the smell of rotting food. It quickly became clear there was no point making tea when there were dirty dishes piled up. Much like Duncan Hamlin, Mr. Pierce’s grief had stripped him of his will to maintain hygienic standards.
I warmed up a pot of water on the range then poured it into the trough. With a bar of carbolic soap and a brush, I set to work scrubbing at the dishes, leaving them to dry on the bench on a clean cloth I found in a drawer.
I’d barely begun when Mr. Pierce entered the kitchen and sat down on a chair at the table with a heavy sigh. He drew on his cigarette and stared directly ahead. Harry was nowhere in sight.
“Mr. Pierce?” I asked. “Have you fixed the light?”
