Page 72 of Murder on Harley Street
Some of the attendees were heading into the ballroom for Mr. Lombardi’s first session. As I passed, I overheard them gossiping about Dr. Iverson’s predicament. None seemed particularly worried for their colleague, although one did voice his concern that electric revitalizers could be so easily turned into killing machines.
I headed down the service stairs to the basement area. From the main corridor, staff could head to the larders, scullery and kitchen, the laundry and steam room, and beyond to the maintenance room, coal cellar and boiler room. The latter two I’d visited on my very first tour of the hotel but never been back. I was more familiar with the kitchen. The hum of voices was much calmer under Mrs. Poole’s captaincy compared to when the previouschef de cuisineoversaw the domain, but the clang of lids and pots was the same.
I glanced into the kitchen and spotted Victor standing over a large pot, inspecting its contents. He looked up as I passed and nodded a greeting. I nodded back.
The two footmen lounging against the wall at the base of the short flight of steps that led up to another corridor straightened upon seeing me.
“You two are supposed to be out there.” I pointed at the door at the top of the stairs that led to the laneway.
They exchanged glances then mumbled apologies. They climbed the stairs ahead of me then entered the lane. Usually employed to attend to the needs of guests, including acting as valet to the male guests who hadn’t brought their own, they cut fine figures in their suits. They weren’t used to watching for undesirable arrivals and I didn’t blame them for worrying about a confrontation.
I engaged them in idle chatter while I kept my gaze focused on the lane entrance where it joined Piccadilly. The cobblestones were damp from recent rain and the air felt cool from lack of sunlight. I wished I’d worn a coat. I folded my arms, but it did little to ward off the chill.
An hour later, two new footmen took over guard duty. I decided to fetch a warmer coat for myself and re-entered the hotel. I took the stairs to my suite, collected a thick woolen coat, and returned to the basement.
As I got there, the door to the laneway opened, and a deliveryman carrying a large pot entered. I didn’t like the way he kept his face averted as he walked toward me. His cap was pulled low so I couldn’t get a good look at him, but he was the right height and build to be Mr. Pierce.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Morning,” he mumbled under his breath. “Crayfish delivery.”
I blocked his path. “May I see?”
“Got to get ‘em to the kitchen.” He tried to push past me, but I continued to block him. As I drew closer, the smell got stronger. Not of crayfish but of unwashed man.
I knocked off his hat.
Mr. Pierce glared back at me. “You! What are you doing here? Never mind. Just get out of the way!”
“He’s here!” I shouted to the footmen.
No one came.
“This isn’t for you, Miss! Move aside!”
I shouted again, louder.
Mr. Pierce swore, then removed the pot lid. He tossed it aside and swung the pot to throw its contents over me. I covered my head with the coat to protect it from whatever was in that pot. The sound of a thick liquid sloshing was followed by splashing as it fell on the floor.
Then came a loud grunt. The pot crashed, followed by thuds and more grunts.
I lowered my sodden coat and saw Victor wrestling with Mr. Pierce on the floor. Victor had the upper hand, but Mr. Pierce put up a good fight. One or both of them were badly injured—there was blood everywhere.
No. Not blood. There was far too much, and the smell of paint fumes replaced the odor of my attacker. He’d thrown red paint on me. My coat had borne the brunt of the attack, as had the wall and floor, but some had also splashed on my skirt.
Victor managed to subdue Mr. Pierce before the two footmen reached them. His chef’s uniform was smeared with red paint too. He got to his feet, shoving Pierce into the arms of one of the footmen, and looked down at his uniform.
He seemed more concerned about me, however. “You all right, Miss Fox?”
“I am, but my coat is ruined, as is your uniform.” My skirt wasn’t quite as bad, so hopefully it could be salvaged. “Thank you, Victor. You were marvelous.”
“What do you want to do with him?”
“We’ll take him to one of the storerooms and keep watch until the police arrive. Can one of you footmen let Mr. Hobart or Peter know that we caught our saboteur. I’m in no fit state to be seen in the foyer.”
One of them hurried away while the other helped Victor wrestle a struggling Mr. Pierce into a nearby storeroom. I followed a few paces behind, holding my coat away from me in such a way so as not to damage the clothes I wore. Mr. Pierce refused to go quietly and protested loudly the entire way. Staff going about their duties gave us a wide berth. I handed the laundresses my coat in the laundry room and asked them to try to remove the paint if they could, and throw it away if they couldn’t, then rejoined the men.
Victor pushed Mr. Pierce onto a stool in the storeroom where every shelf was crammed with labeled jars of varying sizes. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to keep Pierce in a room full of potential projectiles, but when Victor directed one of the footmen to fetch him a length of rope, my mind eased a little.
