Wouldn't It Be Deadly

by D. E. Ireland

  “They sound a lovely pair,” Higgins murmured. “And people wonder why I never married.”

  “I also met a young man at the garden party who didn’t seem fond of the Maestro, either. We should pay a call on his students this week. Even if none of them did it, we may uncover information leading to the person who did. In fact, tomorrow morning we’ll go to Nepommuck’s apartment and—” Eliza tugged his sleeve. “Professor, are you listening to me?”

  Higgins leaned as far as he dared over the gray granite wall of Waterloo Bridge. “Blast this traffic. It’s drowning out that man on a coal barge beneath the bridge. If I’m not mistaken, he’s singing a sea shanty in Old English.”

  In an instant, he had his notebook out once more.

  “You’re off your trolley! You’ve no more sense than one of the ravens on Tower Hill. I’ve crippled myself walking about London on your behalf, and all you can think about is listening to passing boatmen.”

  “Shhh.” Higgins scribbled in his notebook. “I must remember the verse he sang.”

  “You can find me on the other side of the Thames when you’re done. And I intend to hail the first cab I see. If you’re not there when I do, you can find your own way home.”

  Higgins chuckled as Eliza stomped off. Silly girl. Did she forget that she had given all her money to those flower sellers in Covent Garden? And by the time she limped to the other side, he would be ten steps ahead of her. But first he had to listen to the boatman. Dodging traffic, he ran to the bridge’s other side to catch further snatches of the song. It was worth a dozen cabs just to listen to this fellow warble in the night like a figure out of Chaucer.

  Suddenly he heard Eliza cry out. “Ah-ah-oh-ow-ow-oh-ow!”

  Cramming his notebook back in his pocket, Higgins sprinted between traffic to the other side once more. “Eliza, are you all right?”

  “Help, Professor! He’s getting away!”

  Racing down the walkway, he pushed past a delivery boy hauling an empty wagon. “Where are you? Eliza!”

  How foolish he’d been to leave her alone on Waterloo Bridge at twilight. Although most of the thieves skulked along the river’s edge below, a young girl dressed as expensively as Eliza was certain to attract unwanted attention.

  “Give that back, you bloody thief!”

  At the sound of Eliza’s voice, he ran so fast he almost tripped over her fallen figure. Higgins knelt beside her. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

  With a grunt, she pulled herself up. “The blooming dodger’s gotten away!”

  She pointed to a figure darting off into the shadows. Even in the dark, he could see pursuit was futile. In a few more steps, the thief would come to the end of the bridge and then fling himself into the Victoria Embankment traffic.

  Higgins turned to Eliza, who was brushing herself off. “Are you injured?”

  “Just my pride. I haven’t had something nicked off me since I was five years old when Billy Rathbone stole my cornhusk doll. It’s bloody embarrassing to have my purse snatched. I should have seen that lowlife from fifty yards away.”

  “He attacked you?”

  “I was walking along the bridge. Even said a ‘how d’ye do’ to that delivery boy what passed. Then someone pushed me to the pavement from behind and yanked my purse.” She held up her hand. “I had the drawstring wrapped around my wrist. I gave him a bit of a struggle, but he got it off fast enough. Heard him rip that lovely pink silk, I did. If I could find him, I’d box his ears with these heels I’m wearing.”

  “At least you’re not hurt.” Higgins brushed the dirt off the back of her skirt. “Let’s get you into a cab. The sooner you’re home, the safer you’ll be.”

  “But we have to go to Scotland Yard to give Jack the button.” Eliza stopped. “Oh blimey! The button was in my purse.”

  “That’s one thief who won’t be happy when he realizes all he’s made off with is a torn bag and a button.”

  “Thank goodness I gave all the money in my purse to Nan and Old Lucy. I’d rather they have it than some pox-faced pickpocket. But I’ve lost the button! It was a clue, too. Now we have nothing to show the police.”

  “Eliza, we don’t know if it was a clue or not. Dozens of students went to see Nepommuck every week. That button might have belonged to any of them.”

  “No, it was a clue. And I’ll wager that it belonged to whoever was hiding in the dark that day.” She straightened her straw hat. “I know it.”

  “All right, Sherlock. I will concede that we lost a clue today.”

  She stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. “I’ll tell you something else. Whoever stole my purse has been following us all day.”

  “Come now, Eliza. I doubt that very much.”

  “I’ve had a funny feeling ever since we left the Yard. First I thought Jack sent a detective to keep me safe. But he’d have caught the thief, you see. That dodger who stole my purse had to be tracking us all along.”

  Higgins moved to touch her cheek and then stopped himself. “Are you certain you didn’t hit your head?”

  “Oh bugger that.” She spun on her heel and began to limp away. “What a wasted day. Bad enough I lost the button. But we spent hours walking around the city, and couldn’t find one person who saw you yesterday. Not one!”

  Nor would they be likely to, Higgins thought as he followed close behind her. He didn’t expect anyone to remember seeing him the day of the murder. And he had no intention of telling Eliza his alibi was a sham. In truth, he had an airtight alibi. However, he could never reveal where he had been. Not to Eliza, and not to Scotland Yard.

  No one would ever know. It was a secret he would take to the grave. Or prison.

  NINE

  Stifling a yawn, Eliza slowly descended the stairs. Her feet throbbed from yesterday’s search, and she winced with each step. But the delicious aroma of bacon, scones, pan-fried eggs, and freshly brewed coffee drew her downstairs.

  How she loved to greet Mrs. Pearce in the morning, along with the other maids at the Professor’s house. Not that his mother’s residence wasn’t as lovely or the staff as nice. But Mrs. Higgins’s palatial apartment on the Chelsea Embankment was a tad too serene and quiet. Even more important, 27A Wimpole Street felt like home.

  After the attack on Waterloo Bridge last night, Higgins brought her straight back here. While it was unlikely that the attacker had targeted her personally, Higgins and Pickering were uneasy about the situation. If someone had followed Eliza, leaving her alone with Higgins’s mother would only serve to place both ladies in jeopardy. They decided Eliza should move her belongings back to Wimpole Street, where she would stay until this whole murder business was resolved.

  Eliza didn’t protest. She looked forward to sleeping once again in her old room with its blue canopy bed and cushioned window seat. How loverly to draw aside the blue silk curtains each morning and gaze out on the flower boxes, wrought-iron railings, and stone entrances that lined the street below. The neighborhood was elegant without being stuffy. Nannies wheeled prams to and from Regent’s Park all day, while motorcars discharged well-dressed men and women calling on the many medical practices that dotted the street all the way to Cavendish Square. Eliza had even heard that a famous poetess once lived nearby. And the air of activity always present within the Professor’s home—the staff setting out breakfast, the rooms being readied for the day—matched the congenial hustle and bustle outside the front door.

  As she walked down the stairs, Eliza heard the maids hard at work cleaning Higgins’s makeshift laboratory. She had spent so many hours in there practicing her vowels, consonants, and diphthongs, she nearly went mad. Eliza shook her head at the memory of trying to speak with a mouth full of marbles. Not to mention listening again and again to his bloody wax recordings.

  It felt good to be back.

  Eliza entered the dining room and smiled when both Colonel Pickering and Major Redstone jumped to their feet. Both in suits and ties, freshly shaved and their hair pomaded, they
looked quite formal compared with the Professor. Like most mornings, Higgins was clad in a stained dressing gown with his hair uncombed. He lowered his newspaper to eye level and then raised it again without saying a word.

  “How are you feeling, my dear?” Pickering asked.

  “I hope you slept well.” Redstone pulled out the cushioned chair beside him.

  “I am well, thank you. Just a bit sore,” she said, and sat down in relief.

  “Good to see you back, Miss Eliza.” Mrs. Pearce poured coffee into a china cup and placed it before her. “The cream is fresh. I’ll bring you some deviled kidneys on toast if you like. There’s bacon on the sideboard along with currant scones and chilled strawberries. And a platter of scrambled eggs.”

  “No deviled kidneys this morning, thank you.”

  Eliza rose again and walked to the sideboard laid out with platters of fruit, eggs, bacon, and pastry. Still ravenous from yesterday’s nonstop activity, she heaped food onto her plate. Perhaps she ought to ask Mrs. Pearce to bring her a few of those deviled kidneys after all. Eliza returned to the table not only with a full plate, but carrying the tiered dish of scones.

  After the first few delicious mouthfuls, Eliza shot a look at Higgins still hidden behind his paper. “In case you’re curious, Professor, I had quite a restful sleep despite the incident on the bridge.”

  He lowered the paper a few inches. “Am I supposed to inquire about your welfare on an hourly basis? You must be mistaking me for Freddy.”

  “As if I could ever mistake that sweet fellow for you.” She sprinkled sugar on her strawberries. “Anyway, you’d best hurry with your own breakfast and see about getting dressed. We have work to do.”

  “Work? I don’t know of any work.”

  “Proving your innocence.”

  “Isn’t that Scotland Yard’s job? Murder is their business, not ours.”

  “Unpleasant business, too.” Redstone poured himself another cup of coffee from the silver pot that sat before him. “You might have been seriously injured last night. I’m surprised a policeman wasn’t on Waterloo Bridge when you were attacked. Busy thoroughfare, that.”

  Pickering set down his cup hard on the saucer. “Dash it all, Henry! You ought to have kept a better eye on our Eliza. Especially in that neighborhood, and with a killer running around London.”

  Higgins grunted. “There are always a few killers running about London. I doubt they’re all after Eliza.”

  “I’m fine, Colonel,” Eliza said, sipping coffee. “I’m upset that my purse was stolen because I wanted to give my cousin the button. Besides, I’m not certain the attack was related to the Maestro’s murder. It may have been a common thief.”

  “Exactly. It could have happened anywhere in the city, which we explored quite thoroughly yesterday. I believe we looked everywhere but the King’s bedchamber at Buckingham Palace.” Higgins turned the page of his paper and continued reading.

  “Well, you’re safe here with us, Eliza,” Pickering said. “We’ll keep an eye on you. Won’t we, Reddy?”

  “Absolutely,” the Major chimed in. “No one remotely suspicious will have a chance to get anywhere near you, Miss Doolittle. You have our word.”

  Eliza was touched by their concern. “Thank you so much.”

  Pickering turned to Redstone. “What say we head to the club then, my good man?”

  She hid her smile by biting into a scone. No doubt they hadn’t given much thought as to how safe she would be once they had gone off to the club. Men were an odd lot, indeed.

  “Although we’ll need to reserve a private room to discuss our translations.” Redstone leaned closer to Eliza. “Whispers bother the older members. They’re asleep most of the time, you know. I suspect a few of them have passed on and no one has noticed yet.”

  She returned his sly smile with one of her own.

  Mrs. Pearce entered the room with another pot of coffee. “Your things will be packed and sent over shortly from Mrs. Higgins’s home,” the housekeeper said.

  Higgins raised an eyebrow at the loud banging on the front door. “Damn tradesmen. Why can’t they use the back door? Next thing you know, they’ll be sitting down at table with us.”

  Still hungry after finishing her eggs, Eliza snitched a currant scone from the cake dish.

  “I say, Reddy, what did you make of that passage we tried last night?” Pickering asked. “I wish this translation was a bit clearer.”

  “I believe it refers to—”

  Redstone stopped as Freddy burst into the dining room. “Eliza! Mrs. Higgins told me what happened last night. Are you hurt?”

  “No, not in the least,” she said, intent on enjoying her currant scone.

  “Why were you alone on Waterloo Bridge, my darling?”

  “I wasn’t alone. The Professor was with me.” With his cheeks flushed redder than usual, Eliza thought Freddy looked adorable.

  “I called this morning at the flat, thinking you were still there. I was dreadfully worried. Ever since Clara and I were questioned in Scotland Yard by that brute of an inspector—”

  “Remember that brute is my cousin.” Eliza threw him a warning look.

  “Oh, I don’t care about him. Mrs. Higgins told me you’d been attacked, and your purse cut from your wrist.” He grabbed her hand and examined it, ignoring her wince of pain. “Look, there! A thin pink mark.”

  “From my purse’s silk drawstring. It’s nothing. Have a seat.” She pushed him into the empty chair on her other side. “I’m fine, Freddy. I wasn’t hurt.”

  “But darling, you might have been killed.”

  “I’m sitting here beside you, alive and well.” Eliza rubbed her chafed wrist. “Have some breakfast. You’ll feel better.”

  Mrs. Pearce topped off Higgins’s cup and poured coffee for their new guest. Still upset about Eliza’s attack, Freddy’s hand noticeably shook as he added cream to his cup. He glanced at the others around the table. Higgins remained hidden behind his paper.

  Pickering nodded at Freddy. “So good to see you survived Scotland Yard, young man.”

  “Yes, sir. But poor Eliza was kept there for hours.” He grabbed her hand again. “I thought this whole matter was behind us, and then last night you were attacked. It’s all too much, darling. I fear for your safety.”

  Embarrassed, she took another scone from the tray and put it on Freddy’s plate. “He wanted my purse, that’s all. Besides, the thief didn’t make off with any money.”

  “Right, then,” Pickering said. “Now, Reddy, about that verse we were looking at last night. I don’t believe it has anything to do with romantic love. A Buddhist scholar wrote it seven hundred years ago.”

  “A Buddhist scholar is a man like any other. Desire is timeless.”

  Redstone caught Eliza’s eye and nodded toward Freddy with a smile. She realized he had forgotten his concern over her as he wolfed down the scone, then reached for another.

  Pickering waved his knife. “I’ll prove it once we get to the club. Some of the text is so indecipherable, I can barely read it at all.”

  “How marvelous to imagine the two of you translating a poem that is seven hundred years old.” Eliza moved the bowl of clotted cream closer to Freddy.

  “And in a Sanskrit dialect long forgotten.” Pickering sighed. “Unfortunately my book is useless as a reference.”

  “Not completely useless. We did decipher a few puzzling words with your Spoken Sanskrit.”

  “I’d love to read the poems when the translations are complete,” Eliza said.

  Redstone looked at her with even more interest than usual. “Do you like poetry, Miss Doolittle?”

  She nodded. “Very much. Before I came to Wimpole Street, I only knew a few rhymes, usually ones the street sellers sang in the market. But the Professor and Colonel Pickering used a number of texts to teach me how to speak properly. Several were books of poetry.”

  Pickering smiled. “Keats, if I remember right.”

  “And Emily Bront�
�, Kipling, Tennyson. Although I didn’t care much for Tennyson.” Eliza eyed the plate of scones, wondering if she dared have another. “Poems are perfect for teaching someone the rhythms of speech. Even Nepommuck told me to use books of poetry for my lessons.”

  The Professor muttered behind his newspaper again.

  Pickering raised an eyebrow in distaste. “I can only imagine the sort of poetry that fellow had a taste for.”

  “Limericks,” Higgins said.

  “Not at all.” Eliza dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “He recommended Kipling. He also gave me poetry by writers he said were now forgotten: Temperance Burns, Hiram Daniels, Jasper Willoughby. My favorite was this little book of love poems called The White Rose.”

  Redstone seemed puzzled. “I’ve never heard of any of these poets. Who wrote The White Rose?”

  She shrugged. “Anonymous, which seems a funny sort of name. Anyway, the poems were written for a young woman. The book is dedicated inside to the White Rose of Rossendale, wherever that is.”

  “Lancashire,” Higgins said from behind the newspaper.

  “Well, whoever this Anonymous fellow was, he wrote some lovely poems. I imagine him as a handsome young soldier in the cavalry, pining away for his lady.”

  Higgins peeked around the side of his paper. “He probably was a fat old man from the suburbs of Manchester, with a nagging wife and an even worse mother-in-law.”

  “Henry, really,” Pickering said. “If ever there was a man resistant to poetry, it would be you.”

  “Not at all, old chap. I have committed every line of Milton to memory. Now there’s a poet, all thunder and gloom the way it ought to be.”

  Redstone winked at Eliza. “Pay him no mind. A great love poem is like a song from God.”

  She smiled at him. “You don’t have to convince me. I quite enjoyed using the poetry books in my lessons. And Nepommuck was generous enough to make a gift of them to me.”