Chapter Thirty-One
The duchess, preceded by her footman, was making an uncommon (in both senses of the word) foray out of her room, to complain to the manager in person about the indecent scribblings left on little notes around her suite, as well as posted to the outside of her door, when she was accosted in the lobby by Mister Sanns, who took this opportunity to stoop down and light the hem of her dress with a candle. She screamed, out of all proportion to the actual degree of danger, eliciting the servile assistance of several members of staff, as well as guests, who grabbed any container of liquid at hand to douse it. The duchess’s loyal footman gave chase, pursuing Sanns up the stairs and through winding halls, unoccupied rooms, seldom-trafficked passageways and servants’ quarters, all the while enduring a ceaseless, unintelligible hailstorm of invective hurled over the shoulder of the villain ahead of him.
“Leave me alone! Just leave me alone!” Sanns, tiring, panted, as he stumbled down a staircase into the intestines of the hotel.
“I shall avenge her highness’s honour!” the footman vowed, more, it has to be said, out of duty than legitimate enthusiasm.
“I didn’t do anything!” Sanns, barrelling through dunes of soiled sheets, lied. “Her dress caught fire by itself! You were there—you must have seen it!”
“That’s not true, sir. You are a cad!”
“Who’re you calling a cad?!” Sanns, having reached, finally, a wall with no outlet, slumped exhausted to the floor. The footman, just as burnt out, dropped down beside him. The two comrades—so alike in so many ways—wheezed side by side.
“Oh, what’s the point?” the footman wondered. “What’s the point of any of it?”
Sanns turned to his new friend, and asked, with real curiosity: “Would you have cared, if she was burnt alive? Really?”
“’Course not. I would have yelped like a spoilt dog and pranced around her charred corpse.”
Sanns nodded, laughing. “I thought as much.” He reached out his hand. “My name’s Alan.”
The footman took his hand, and—wait for it—shook it. “Everybody calls me ‘Sniggly’,” he said. “At least, the duchess does.”
“She doesn’t treat you decently, then?”
“She’s ruined me,” the footman sighed. “Do you really want to hear about it?”
“Go on,” said Sanns, brightening. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”