Wouldn't It Be Deadly

by D. E. Ireland

  “I never meant to frighten you, my dear. But I didn’t want to spoil the performance. If we make too loud a racket, the actors onstage might hear us.”

  Thank heaven for that, Eliza thought. If he didn’t let her go in another minute, she planned to yell as loud as a Covent Garden fishmonger. “I can’t breathe among all this fabric. Why don’t we talk in the hallway? No one will hear us there.”

  He gave her a knowing look. “But we wouldn’t be alone, not with that butler hanging about Miss Page’s door.”

  “What do you want to say to me?” she asked.

  Redstone stared at her for a long moment. “The book of poems missing from my luggage at the club. Did you think I wouldn’t find out you had stolen back The White Rose, Eliza?”

  Hang the performance. With a murderer clinging to her arm, Eliza didn’t give a fig about Hamlet. She started to yell, but Redstone clapped his hand over her mouth. He pulled her tight against his chest. Eliza was certain he could hear her heart pounding with fear. How stupid not to scream as soon as she saw him. That was the problem with trying to be a well-mannered young lady. Being polite was a bloody nuisance.

  She should have kicked the blighter in his orchestra stalls the moment he pulled her in among the cloaks and armor. It was not too late. Squirming to get free, Eliza landed several hard kicks to his shins. That made him only tighten his grip.

  “Stop, Eliza. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Not bloody likely,” she tried to say, but his hand still covered her mouth.

  “Are you mad? I never harmed a lady in my life. And I certainly would not lay a hand on you.”

  At that obvious lie, Eliza stared hard at him.

  A sheepish expression crossed his face. “My apologies for the manhandling, but you leave me little choice. You have only yourself to blame for taking the book.”

  She jerked her face free long enough to yell, “It’s my book!”

  He clapped his hand once again over her mouth. “You have no right to that book, nor did Nepommuck. I’ve only taken back what rightfully belongs to me. Or did you never wonder who that anonymous poet might be?”

  Eliza stopped struggling.

  “Yes, that’s right. I was the poet. I wrote those poems fifteen years ago for the only woman I have ever loved. And I had just two copies printed and bound: one for me, one for her. The fact that it came into the possession of that vile Hungarian is intolerable.”

  As Eliza twisted about, Horatio’s doublet from Act 2 fell over their heads. They both jumped. “Damn, this won’t do,” Redstone muttered.

  Holding her close, he peeked out from the hanging costumes, then dragged her around the corner to the prop room. Once he shut the door behind them, it was dark as night. Eliza panicked. The cramped room, fear, and the lack of air made her dizzy. When Redstone turned on the electric light overhead, her knees buckled. She must have blacked out for a second. There was no other explanation for how she found herself perched on the velvet stool Ophelia used in Act 1.

  Redstone crouched before her. Perspiration beaded his high forehead, and he looked as unhappy and frightened as she did.

  “Please don’t yell or scream, Eliza. And don’t make me gag you. I don’t enjoy holding you prisoner.”

  “Then let me go.”

  He shook his head. “I never meant for you to be involved in this. But you are.”

  Eliza wiped her damp brow. “Nepommuck simply gave me the book to use for my lessons. I never asked for it. And I was going to give you the blooming book. Don’t know why you up and stole it.”

  “The longer it remained in your possession, the more likely the police would discover it. Even a cursory investigation would reveal where the book was written and by whom.”

  “Were you afraid they’d find out you came from Lancashire and not Northumberland?”

  Redstone looked startled. “How do you know that?”

  “Professor Higgins told me. You were lucky he wasn’t there that night when you lied about being from Northumberland.”

  “No doubt he also figured out exactly where in Lancashire.”

  She nodded. “Rossendale. Just like the White Rose.”

  He frowned. “My ill luck to share the hospitality of a man renowned for his knowledge of English dialects.”

  “What does it matter if you came from Rossendale? Unless you committed some horrible crime there.” She grew more nervous. “Did you?”

  “My only crime was being born into a family that boasted an ancestry as ancient as the Earl of Thornton, but not as wealthy. If I had been richer, Arabelle Brandt’s parents would have allowed us to wed. But the Redstone properties weren’t enough. The Brandts were distantly related to the House of Saxony, although they’d grown impoverished in their native Germany. They sold their angelic girl to that English pig of an earl.”

  His face contorted with rage. Eliza shrank back. She didn’t understand what he was talking about. Who were the Brandts?

  “My poor Arabelle was barely seventeen and innocent,” he continued. “Far too innocent to be handed over to a man who had already brutalized three wives. How do you think I felt to see her married off to that monster? That’s why I left England when I was twenty-two and never returned until now. I couldn’t bear being on the same continent as the Earl of Thornton, let alone the same country.”

  Eliza glanced at the closed door. Didn’t they need any of these props for the final act? At some point, she hoped even Freddy woke up from his nap and came looking for her. She’d also like to know what in blazes Jack and his detectives were doing out front. Wasn’t the plan to keep an eye on Redstone as soon as he arrived? She didn’t blame Higgins. Sometimes Scotland Yard seemed as useless as a suffragette in a sporting house.

  Best stall for time. Eventually the play must end, and someone out there might notice she was missing. “You wrote the poems for this Arabelle lady?”

  He nodded. “I called her my white rose because her golden hair turned white in the sunlight. We fell in love soon after we met. I wrote The White Rose when I thought her family would agree to our marriage. The book of love poems was meant to be a wedding gift to my bride. Then the Brandts refused my suit. I begged her to run away with me, but she lived in terror of the Earl. She feared what he would do to her family—and her—if she was caught trying to leave him. So she became the fourth wife of the Earl of Thornton. And I joined the army and went to India.”

  “But I don’t see why the police would care that you wrote love poems.”

  Redstone gave her a sardonic look. “Because the book links me to Nepommuck.”

  “How did Nepommuck get his hands on it?”

  “Although I left England, I never forgot about Arabelle. We corresponded secretly for years with the help of a trustworthy maid. That was how I learned of Thornton’s increasing hatred of her German accent. He brought in one private tutor after the other to make her speak like an Englishwoman. But none were successful until last year when he hired a Hungarian aristocrat to journey to Lancashire and rid his wife of her coarse German speech.”

  “Nepommuck.” Eliza was beginning to understand. “Knowing him, he probably used poetry to teach her, especially local poets.”

  “Exactly. Arabelle wrote that he found her reading The White Rose one day and insisted they use it during her lessons. That was no hardship for her; she treasured my poems and welcomed the chance to read them aloud.”

  Eliza cast a furtive look around her. The nearest shelf held goblets, a garland of artificial flowers, and a silver cross on a pedestal she recognized from the scene where Hamlet came upon Claudius praying. Her hopes rose when she also spied wooden lances used by the guards manning the ramparts in the first scene.

  “Is all this fuss because Nepommuck nicked the book from your sweetheart?” If this was why Redstone was upset, he was more of a sentimental ninny than Freddy.

  “Of course not. Or did you forget where the man’s real talents lie?”

  Eliza turned her attention f
rom the lances back on Redstone, who was still crouched before her. “He blackmailed her? But how?”

  “He surprised Arabelle when she was writing to me and snatched the letter away. We wisely never used our Christian names, but the letter’s contents were incriminating. He threatened to take the letter to the Earl if she didn’t give in to his demands, which included sexual favors along with money.” Redstone’s face grew cold and hard. “He didn’t know my Arabelle. Of course she refused and the bastard made good on his threat.”

  Eliza inched to the left to get closer to the nearest lance.

  “Get away from those lances, Eliza,” Redstone said.

  Anger overwhelmed her fear. “What do you want me to do? Sit here like a rag doll while you decide when you’re going to kill me?”

  “I am not going to kill you!”

  Eliza bit back a nervous grin. If she got him riled up, he might start yelling his fool head off. That would call attention to the noises in the prop room. But how far did she dare push him?

  “Don’t know why you wouldn’t. Or are you going to tell me that you didn’t want Nepommuck dead?”

  “Of course I wanted him dead.” Realizing his mistake, Redstone lowered his voice, which made his words seem more sinister. “Because Arabelle thwarted him, Nepommuck exposed her to the Earl. And Thornton was notoriously jealous. He almost beat her to death.”

  Fearful of the answer, Eliza paused before asking her next question. “Did you kill the Earl as well?”

  Redstone laughed, a hollow sound. “I didn’t have to. Thornton was certain that once Arabelle healed from the beating, she would run off to join her lover. He decided to take her to America. The pig booked passage for both of them.” He paused. “On the Titanic.”

  Eliza didn’t say a word. His malevolent expression scared the life out of her.

  “I only learned about their deaths when Arabelle’s maidservant wrote me the news. Yes, I wanted Nepommuck dead. Arabelle would still be alive if he hadn’t gone to Thornton with the letter. I spent months plotting my revenge. When Pickering wrote to say he was remaining in England, I saw my chance.”

  “Then you came here to kill Nepommuck, not work on the translations.” The walls of the prop room seemed to close in on her. There was nowhere to run and hide, and Redstone blocked the only escape.

  He nodded. “Imagine my surprise when I learned the Colonel’s young friend actually worked for Nepommuck.”

  “I introduced you to him at the garden party,” she said in a whisper.

  “Yes. Through you, I gained access to him. But I had no idea Nepommuck had taken Arabelle’s book. It was an even greater shock when I realized you now owned The White Rose. Don’t you see I had to get the book back before the police got their hands on it?”

  “But I was going to give it to you.”

  He shook his head. “The police would have gotten to it first. I had to retrieve it as soon as I could. But you went off to Pickering’s club to play detective. You must give it back to me.”

  “I don’t have it.” Her heart began to race once more.

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who does?”

  She swallowed hard. “The police.”

  Redstone stood. “The police! Why would you give it to the police? Do you know what you’ve done, you foolish girl? They’ll clap me in prison before the week is out.”

  Eliza leaped for the nearest lance. Startled, Redstone took several steps back, giving her enough room to point the lance at him. “Back up, mate, or I’ll run you through.”

  “Eliza, put that down. You don’t want to hurt me.”

  “Yes I do. Now let me by.”

  Aiming the lance at his chest, Eliza inched her way along the wall until she was at the door. She took one hand off the weapon to turn the knob. When she did, Redstone grabbed the lance. For a moment they both struggled. A loud crack sounded. Eliza looked in dismay as the lance broke in two.

  “Blooming prop!” She flung herself out the door and into the hallway.

  Dashing through the wardrobe racks, Eliza wasn’t certain which way to turn. Then she remembered Harrison. She hurried along the corridor. Behind her she heard a clatter. Redstone had probably collided with the suit of armor belonging to the ghost of Hamlet’s father. When she reached the dressing room area, she almost burst into tears. Harrison was gone. The bouquet of flowers lay like a floral tribute before Rosalind’s door.

  Should she hide in Rosalind’s dressing room? But if Redstone found her there, she’d be trapped all over again. When she turned to leave, she saw Harrison turning the corner.

  Eliza couldn’t have been happier if Bransley Ames had just strolled in. With a cry of relief, she rushed over to Harrison and threw herself in his arms.

  “Miss Doolittle, what do you think you’re doing?” He smelled of men’s cologne and cigarettes. The butler must have stepped out for a quick smoke.

  “Thank heavens you’re here.” Her voice was muffled against his jacket. “We must call the police! Major Redstone is after me.”

  She felt him nervously pat her on the back. “Why is he after you?”

  “He killed Maestro Nepommuck, and I’m the only one who can prove it.”

  Eliza felt better now that the strapping Harrison was there to protect her. She had to stop acting like a silly goose. Besides, her face was pressed far too tight against the buttons on his jacket. One nearly poked her in the eye.

  She lifted her head, only to stare in disbelief. Harrison’s buttons were made of gleaming gold—and embellished with the head of a lion surrounded by stars.

  TWENTY

  “I see you recognize the buttons, Miss Doolittle.” Harrison tightened his arms around her.

  Eliza stared in shock at the gold-engraved lions’ heads and stars, which gleamed in the light above the door. Impossible. Every button on his dress coat matched the one she’d found outside Nepommuck’s apartment. The same button that was stolen from her on Waterloo Bridge.

  “I knew someone was following me that day,” she said in a hoarse voice. “It was you.”

  Harrison shook his head. “Not me, you little fool. I’m a handsome fellow, and that attracts attention. I had an old friend follow you about. You led him a merry chase, too: Covent Garden, Bloomsbury, Southwark. When you wandered onto the bridge after dark, you finally made it easy for him to snatch back the button. A pity he also didn’t throw you in the river.”

  “How did you know I had the button?” As soon as she said this, Eliza remembered that he had accompanied the Marchioness to Scotland Yard the day they released Higgins. Good grief. He stood right beside her as she told Jack about finding the button on the hallway carpet.

  She tried to push him away, but his grip was like iron. What she wouldn’t give right now to have only Redstone to deal with. “Let go of me! Let go!”

  Harrison dragged her into Rosalind Page’s empty dressing room and slammed the door shut. Eliza kicked his shins. When he let out a howl, she sprang for the door. But he blocked her. He raised his arm to hit her, and she threw herself backward. Eliza banged her head so hard on the wall she literally saw stars—and not just the ones on his buttons.

  He put up his fists as if she were a boxer he faced in the ring. Cor, what a night. First Redstone chases her, and now this ape of a butler. Had the whole of London gone mad?

  “Keep quiet, girl. You’ve caused enough problems. Poking your nose into what doesn’t concern you, running around asking questions. Why in bleeding hell do you care who killed that damn Hungarian anyway?”

  “Because everyone thinks the Professor killed him. And I know he didn’t.” Eliza rubbed the back of her head. “I also know who the killer is now. You.”

  “Brilliant deduction. What was the first clue? Oh, let me guess. It’s these buttons.” He looked down at them with pride. “They’re worth over twenty quid each. For blooming buttons, can you believe it? A gift from Verena. I was angry as hell when I realized one of them came off my coat that day in the ha
llway.” Harrison glared at her. “The day you interfered again. You and those stupid tuning forks.”

  Eliza wished she had the tuning forks now. She’d throw them at his head. “Oh, did I stop you from killing the Maestro that day? My apologies. But if the likes of me scared you off, maybe you weren’t ready to stick a knife in him.”

  Harrison pinned her against the wall, and she let out a strangled cry. When would she learn to keep her mouth shut when crazy men held her prisoner?

  “You’re the one I should have killed that morning. Funny thing is, I went there only to scare Nepommuck. I didn’t have a reason to kill him until the garden party.”

  With his angry face only inches from her own, Eliza marveled she had ever thought him handsome. He was a devil, he was.

  “You’re hurting me,” she gasped.

  “Good.”

  Voices sounded out in the hallway. He released her, but only to clap his hand over her mouth. She prayed it was Rosalind Page or one of her many admirers. Eliza wanted to weep when the voices died away.

  He waited another excruciating moment before releasing her. “You open your mouth again, and I’ll snap your neck. Not that I wouldn’t love to do it, but this isn’t the most convenient place for a murder.”

  “We’re in the middle of a crowded theater,” Eliza said. “The actors will be coming back to the dressing rooms soon. If you kill me, they’ll find you.”

  “Idiot. Why would they even think to look for me? It never occurred to anyone to suspect me as Nepommuck’s killer. Scotland Yard spent all its time questioning those students of his, and your Professor.” He smiled. “That’s why I left the tuning fork on the body. The one I stole from you that day in the hallway. I only grabbed it because it felt like a weapon. Didn’t even know what it was until I got outside. I figured it was something you language teachers used. Came in handy, though. Sticking the tuning fork in that scoundrel’s mouth made it seem like an angry student finished him off.”

  Eliza rubbed her sore shoulders. “Quite the theatrical touch.”

  “Yes, it was. My actor brother isn’t the only one with a flair for the dramatic.”