Wouldn't It Be Deadly

by D. E. Ireland

  Alfie shook his head. “If I can rent a hansom carriage every week, Higgins can rent a motorcar to drive to Surrey.”

  “I simply don’t believe it.” Indeed, the longer she thought about it, the less likely it seemed. Goodness knows, she had a far higher opinion of Professor Higgins’s character than she did of either her father or Rose.

  “I knew you wouldn’t listen to reason. Stubborn as your mum, and that’s the sad truth. Leastways I did what I could to save you from being knocked off by that fellow.”

  Eliza allowed herself a smile. “I’ll be all right. We’ll solve this murder. Jack’s sure of it.”

  “The offer’s still open if you be wanting a room upstairs,” he said, wiping his nose on his handkerchief. “And you don’t even have to give us lessons. Fact is, I’ll kick out her worthless brother-in-law for you, I will.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Take care of yourself.” She pecked his cheek, more out of sympathy than affection.

  Once outside, she almost broke into a run. Cor, it felt good to be out of that house. It was nearly noon, and her stomach growled. Not surprising since she hadn’t felt well enough to eat breakfast. Eliza couldn’t wait to sit down to Mrs. Pearce’s lunch, while exchanging pleasantries with the Colonel and Redstone. And she was eager to set off for the Drury Lane Theatre with Higgins later today. Hang Rose Cleary Doolittle and her silly accusations.

  Humming a favorite music hall song, Eliza headed back to Wimpole Street, where she belonged.

  FIFTEEN

  Higgins shook the raindrops from his lapels with a muttered curse. “I grew too accustomed to the sun and heat in Spain. Every rainy day since I returned sets my teeth on edge.”

  “I don’t mind the rain so much as the fog.” Eliza ducked under the portico. “Never liked trying to find my way in that pea soup. And if you can’t see where you’re going in Whitechapel, you might end up with a cut purse or a cut throat.”

  “Yes, I can see how that could be bothersome.” Higgins walked behind stacks of newspapers while a boy yelled out the headlines in a singsong patter.

  A moment later Higgins strode into the theater, but Eliza didn’t follow. Instead she gazed in awe at the fancy colonnade and imposing front of the Theatre Royal, also called Drury Lane, on Catherine Street. On performance nights, she’d seen gorgeously gowned ladies swathed in velvet, satin, and fur walk right up these steps escorted by gentlemen in black tie and tails. Eliza tried to be on her best behavior when approaching them to make a sale. The violets they bought paid her weekly rent at Angel Court.

  Eliza looked over her shoulder. Her shabby “piggery” was but a few blocks away. It now seemed as distant from her present life as the moon. After all her bowing and scraping on these very steps, she would attend the theater on Thursday evening with the rest of the swells. What a blooming miracle.

  She was almost as excited about today. What a thrill to see Drury Lane from the inside instead of standing out in the street. Eliza hoped for a tour of the backstage area, too, especially since they had come here to speak with Miss Page.

  Higgins stood waiting in the theater lobby, and Eliza hurried to catch up to him. She let out a cry of delight at the gilt trim, marble columns, and red carpet. Higgins explained that the columns were called “Doric.” Next he drew her attention to the grand staircase leading to the boxes and the vast rotunda with its three statues of Shakespeare, Edmund Kean, and David Garrick. A peek into the Grand Saloon revealed more marble columns and statues, along with a magnificent glittering chandelier.

  “It’s near as beautiful as Westminster Abbey,” she finally said.

  “To an actor, the Drury Lane is more holy,” Higgins replied with mock seriousness.

  As they headed into the actual theater, Eliza cast one last look behind her. “I had no idea it was like this inside.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not a devoted theatergoer, but the Drury Lane is impressive. And it’s the oldest theater in London. Not a bad place for you to see your first Hamlet.”

  “I’m glad Aubrey gave me the play. I’ve read it five times. I bet I know the lines better than most of the actors. But I don’t care much for that Hamlet fellow. He seems like he can’t make up his mind.”

  “I believe his Uncle Claudius is none too fond of him, either.”

  “Do you know they kill each other in the end?” Eliza bit her lip. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe you haven’t seen the play yet, and now I’ve ruined it for you.”

  Higgins smiled. “I heard the play doesn’t end well. But for future reference, please remember any play calling itself a tragedy means that the main characters die in the last act. Macbeth dies in Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet die in Romeo and Juliet and Othello dies in Othello—”

  “Stop!” Eliza covered her ears. “You’re spoiling it for me. Now I’ll know how they end when I finally see these plays.”

  “Tragedy may not be your cup of tea. It might be better if we attend an Oscar Wilde production next. I think we’d both prefer it.”

  After speaking with the box office manager, Higgins led the way into the theater hall. The theater was bigger than Eliza expected. Its horseshoe shape was ringed with ornate balconies and dizzying tiers of private boxes trimmed with red velvet drapery and gilt. Her attention fastened on the actors rehearsing on the large open stage. Unfortunately, the sound of hammers drowned out what they were saying. Not until they walked down the aisle could Eliza finally hear them speak.

  “‘Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes again,’” an older man said in a monotone. He squinted at a dog-eared book he held and then flipped a page.

  Another man answered from the stage’s far side. “‘In the same figure, like the king that’s dead.’”

  “‘Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.’”

  “‘Most like: it harrows me with fear—’”

  “No, no, no! You skipped Bernardo’s line again,” a deep voice roared from afar. “You ought to know that line, it’s your cue.”

  The actor who missed his line stalked in a circle onstage. He was dressed in a velvet doublet and tights. His deep bass voice sounded like thunder.

  “‘Looks it not like the kind? Mark it, Horatio. Most like: it harrows me with fear.’” He flashed a black scowl at Eliza when she knocked over a small ladder in the aisle.

  “Sorry,” she said, looking around for Higgins. She caught sight of him walking up the side stairs by the stage. An instant later, he disappeared behind the red curtain.

  Eliza ran after him. She dared not look at the actors as she clambered onstage. Why couldn’t the Professor wait up for her? He had such blooming long legs.

  Once backstage, she stepped with caution. Props, wiring, and half-finished sets covered the entire area. The hammering got louder, as did the shouts of the workers. An older woman rushed past, holding a jeweled purple cloak. An actor in costume went in the other direction, muttering lines to himself; Eliza was pleased that she recognized the lines as coming from Act 3. She saw Higgins with a wizened old man in overalls.

  “Easy, easy, steady on,” someone called out overhead. She looked up to see two men balancing a heavy lamp along the catwalk.

  “Watch out, Eliza!” Higgins pulled her aside as two more workmen headed straight for them. “They’re coming this way with what looks to be a castle rampart.”

  Curious, she touched the wall when they walked by and was amazed that the stone brickwork they carried was only painted plaster.

  “So, would ye like a tour of the backstage then?” the wizened fellow asked.

  “Yes, please,” Eliza said. “It’s my first visit.”

  The man pointed out many oddities of the backstage area that Eliza would have passed by, such as the fireproof curtain and alcoves crammed with set furnishings stacked in haphazard fashion. Rickety shelves and hidden dark rooms held belts, shoes, boots, a painted crown, swords, a bouquet of silk flowers, and even a gruesome skull. The shelves bore odd markings, such as “II/2” and “IV/3.”


  A worker’s armful of rolled muslin knocked her into the brick wall. “Sorry, miss! You all right?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. As Eliza righted her wide hat, he hefted the bolts over his shoulder and staggered toward the direction of the stage.

  “Which way are the dressing rooms?” Higgins asked the elderly man at last. “We’ve come to see Miss Rosalind Page, if she has any time to spare.”

  “Mayhap a few minutes, guv, but that be all. Follow me then, watch your step.”

  The old man threaded his way through the maze of posts, up a slanting ramp, down a slope, and along a narrow corridor between closed doors on either side.

  Eliza peeked around an open doorway. The strong scent of linseed oil and paint fumes tickled her nose, as did tiny bits of sawdust speckling the air. Inside the huge room, workers stood on a rickety scaffold facing a canvas backdrop that hung from the ceiling. Brushes protruded behind their ears or from the pockets of their spattered overalls as they painted details of castle turrets and trees.

  “Eliza, we don’t have time for all the gaping.”

  “But there’s so much left to see.”

  Higgins took her arm. “The tour is finished. We’re here to speak with Miss Page.”

  “What can she tell us that we don’t already know?” Eliza frowned. “I doubt Miss Page broke into my classroom and nicked The White Rose. And I bet whoever did that was the killer. Tell me what Miss Page has to do with my book.”

  “Please stop going on about that insufferable book. We’ve come to learn if Nepommuck blackmailed Miss Page, or any other student we don’t know about.” He led her along another hall. “Your cousin is no doubt right, however. Only a man would have the strength to stab the Hungarian in such a fashion. Therefore Miss Page seems an unlikely suspect.”

  “Which is why you’re still a suspect.” She paused. “Unless you tell Jack where you really were the morning of the murder.”

  Eliza saw that her comment startled him.

  “I told both of you where I was. Walking about London and listening to whatever interesting dialects I could hear.”

  She shook her head. “You never showed me your notebook from that morning. And I know your methods. You always log the date and place you find your subjects.”

  “I have about three hundred notebooks back at the house.” Higgins helped her walk around coils of wiring on the floor. “You may look through each of them if you like.”

  Eliza hesitated before continuing. “I also visited my dad and stepmother this morning.”

  He laughed. “Good grief, if ever there was a time for you to get drunk, that was it.”

  “My stepmother swears on the day the Maestro was killed, she saw you sitting in a motorcar in the village of Tilford.”

  Higgins stopped in his tracks. “One of us must be drunk right now because I don’t believe what I’ve just heard.”

  His disbelief seemed genuine, and akin to what she felt when Rose told her. “I don’t believe her, of course. And she had been drinking that day, too. Only I thought you should know. Dad and Rose aren’t the type to go to the police, but my stepmother hates me. Which means she also hates my friends. If she wanted to be malicious, there would be no better way than to spread rumors about you.”

  “Just when I thought this charade couldn’t get any worse,” he said under his breath.

  “Professor, I know you’re innocent. But the police—and the public—require proof.”

  “Eliza, I spent the entire day on the streets of London, listening to strangers talk to one another. The key word here is ‘strangers.’ They didn’t know me, and I didn’t know them. Makes it hard to find them now. Or do you actually believe that I am the killer? Perhaps we should leave the theater right now so I can surrender to Scotland Yard. You’d like that, no doubt. There may be a reward.”

  “Don’t be blooming dramatic. I know you didn’t kill anybody. But it doesn’t make sense that not a single soul remembers you from that day.”

  He sighed when they finally reached Rosalind Page’s dressing room. “Few things have made sense since the day I met you.”

  “Very funny,” Eliza said.

  “I’m quite serious.” Higgins knocked on the door.

  A handsome young man yanked it open. He was dressed in a white loose-flowing shirt tucked into rumpled trousers. His dark eyes swept over Eliza with interest.

  “We’re here to see Miss Page,” Eliza said.

  The actor looked over his shoulder. “You have two more visitors, Roz. That makes five in the last hour alone. I swear I can’t get a moment’s worth of attention.”

  “Aren’t you John Barrymore?” Higgins asked. “I saw you in Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. Marvelous performance, but I’m surprised that you’re in Hamlet. I thought comedy was your forte.”

  The actor grinned. “Time to try my hand at a bit of Shakespearean drama. My brother, Lionel, claims it will season me as an actor. He’s also putting me in a few films this summer.”

  “You’ll be acting in the cinema?” Eliza asked. “How wonderful.”

  “Aye, my lady,” Barrymore said with a bow. “Just a few small parts for now. Still learning the trade. As my character the good Guildenstern says, ‘There is much brains thrown about.’”

  “Don’t you mean ‘there has been much throwing about of brains’?” Rosalind appeared in the doorway. Her dazzling smile lit up the hall. “You’d better get your lines right, John. Miss Terry will have your head if you do anything to spoil the performance.”

  John Barrymore bent over the actress’s hand for a lingering kiss. “Until later, my sweet.” After bowing once again to Eliza, he headed toward the stage.

  Rosalind waved them inside the small dressing room. “Please come in.”

  She sat down before her mirrored dressing table and picked up an ivory-handled brush. “Excuse me while I finish getting ready. I’ll be called back onstage soon.”

  What a looker, thought Eliza as she watched Rosalind brush one of the auburn curls cascading over her shoulder. And her lashes were so long. Blimey, how could a person even see through them? As it had at the garden party, a velvet ribbon circled her neck. It made her throat even more swanlike. How futile to be jealous of someone so beautiful. One might as well be envious of a rainbow or a field of spring flowers.

  Rosalind smiled at her in the mirror. “How nice to see you again, Miss Doolittle, even if the setting isn’t as grand as the gardens of the Marchioness. And who is this gentleman?”

  “Professor Henry Higgins. He’s the fellow who taught me to speak like a lady.”

  “I am most happy to make your acquaintance, Professor. You did an excellent job with Miss Doolittle. She sounds as if she were born and raised in Mayfair.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  Eliza realized the Professor was dumbstruck by Miss Page’s beauty. She fought back a grin.

  “Will you both be at the opening night performance?” Rosalind asked.

  Eliza nodded. “I can’t wait.”

  They looked over at Higgins, who roused himself to say, “I’ll be there, too.”

  The two women exchanged amused looks. “Are you a fan of Shakespeare, Professor?”

  “I prefer Wilde,” he said after another long pause. “But I am looking forward to your performance as Ophelia. And I didn’t realize Miss Ellen Terry was taking on Queen Gertrude’s role in the production.”

  “Yes. We’re lucky to have her.”

  “I saw her golden jubilee benefit, seven years ago this June. She was extraordinary, I must say.”

  Rosalind straightened her silk Chinese dressing gown embellished with teal, pink, and canary yellow flowers. “I’m afraid I’ll never live up to Miss Terry’s past performances as Ophelia.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Higgins said.

  “Is this one of your costumes?” Eliza eyed the embroidered blue velvet gown draped over a mannequin. “It’s beautiful. In fact, everything is beaut
iful here at Drury Lane.”

  “It is a glorious theater, isn’t it?” Rosalind stroked the costume’s rich fabric. “Then again, the theater world itself is glorious. I cannot imagine a more satisfying profession. Acting means more to me than life itself. Being able to become another person onstage is a sort of magic, you know. And how thrilling to fool the audience by changing one’s identity, voice, and appearance.”

  “But is the audience really fooled?” Higgins asked.

  “They are if the actors do their job correctly. I daresay most people would like to transform themselves like we do. As I quoted at the garden party, ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’”

  “‘They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts,’” Higgins said with a slight bow.

  “I thought you weren’t a fan of Shakespeare.”

  He smiled. “I’ve a fondness for the comedies, especially As You Like It. And you would make as impressive a Rosalind onstage as you do off. I’d be first in line to buy a ticket.”

  Eliza cleared her throat. At this rate, the Professor would be openly flirting with the actress soon. “You were right about Nepommuck, Miss Page. At the garden party you wondered if he was playing at something. We’ve learned since then he had far too many secrets.”

  “The papers have speculated that you killed him, Professor.” Rosalind frowned. “Surely you had nothing to do with his death?”

  His expression turned grim. “Of course not.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “The Maestro must have been pleased when you became his student, Miss Page,” Eliza said. “I know he had an eye for pretty women, and you’re more beautiful than most. You’ve probably received plenty of attention all your life because of it.”

  “Too much attention sometimes, but I’m not as beautiful as you imagine. It’s the makeup, you see.” She picked up a smaller brush and swept powder across her high cheekbones. “Without it, you wouldn’t recognize me at all.”

  Eliza didn’t believe that for a minute. “I recognized my favorite film actor on the Strand one day. But I was too afraid to ask for an autograph. That reminds me. I brought my copy of Hamlet. Would you sign my book, Miss Page?”