With a Little Bit of Blood

by D. E. Ireland

  “It’s a dirt cheap price,” Rose broke in. “Only I’m so determined to take the car away from him that I’m almost ready to give it away for free.” She paused. “Almost.”

  “Breaks my heart it does, selling my beautiful blue darling,” Alfred lamented. “Been drowning my sorrows since the accident just thinking about it. But Rose won’t give me a moment’s peace till I hand it over to someone else. May as well be a bloke I know.” His face creased into a wide smile. “This way the Governor here can take me for a spin once in awhile.”

  “If I ever hear you let Alfie get behind the wheel, Professor, you’ll be as dead as the grocer’s cat,” Rose warned him.

  “This is absurd.” Eliza finally found her voice. “You can’t buy the roadster.”

  “I transferred the funds to his bank this morning,” Higgins said. “That’s where I was.”

  Eliza narrowed her eyes at him. “Does Colonel Pickering know about this?”

  “Not yet.” Higgins busied himself with the lamp chimney on a nearby table.

  She knew Higgins cared about few people’s opinions other than his own, except for Colonel Pickering. “This explains why Dad delivered your car while the Colonel is at a doctor’s appointment. You know what he’ll think of your decision.”

  “All I’ve done is buy a roadster. You’re behaving as if I did something ridiculous, like adopt a giraffe.” He chuckled. “Or a peacock.”

  “Don’t bring Percy into this.” She wouldn’t hear a word against her gloriously feathered pet. A thank you gift from Lord Ashmore, the peacock had been part of the household for nearly two weeks. Although thrilled with her bird, Eliza knew no one else at Wimpole Street shared her affection for him.

  Rose glanced over her shoulder. “Hope that fancy bird ain’t gonna to sneak up on me like he did last time I was here. Scared ten years off me, he did.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re opposed to my ownership of a motorcar.” Higgins grew serious. “Not so long ago, you wanted to buy one. What changed your mind?”

  “You know perfectly well what changed my mind. It was that terrible accident at your niece’s wedding. I may never feel safe riding in a car again.” She glanced at her injured father. “What’s done is done. But I have an awful feeling Dad’s car is bad luck.”

  “Nonsense,” Higgins said. “Your father is simply a dreadful motorist. Sorry, Alfred.”

  Her father’s expression turned rueful. “Where’s that tea we was promised? A cuppa will make all of us feel better.”

  But it would take more than a pot of Earl Grey to make Eliza feel better about Higgins’s purchase of the blue roadster. The car might not be bad luck, but she knew trouble when it appeared. And trouble now sat parked outside their house.

  2

  The last time Higgins felt this thrilled, he’d just met an ancient fellow from Wexford who spoke Yola, a nearly extinct Anglo-Saxon dialect. But as one of the most celebrated phoneticians in Europe, Higgins had grown accustomed to discovering linguistic marvels. Driving his very own Hudson ‘Mile-a-Minute’ roadster at sixty miles an hour was a brand new experience. And a damned exciting one, too.

  However, his passenger seemed to disagree. Jack Shaw clutched his hat so tightly in his lap, the brim was crushed.

  “Relax, Jack. You’re a Scotland Yard detective inspector,” Higgins said. “You’ve chased down killers in the worst parts of London. No reason to be unnerved by a simple Sunday drive.”

  “I feel as if we’re chasing criminals right now. Or being chased by them.” Jack Shaw looked behind him. His eyes seemed especially large behind the driving goggles Higgins had lent him. Because the car had neither windows nor a roof, both men wore goggles, as well as linen topcoats to keep their suits dust-free. “But all I see are terrified pedestrians. By the way, you scared the life out of that hansom carriage horse.”

  “I saw the people in that carriage, dressed in their Sunday finest. Off to church, no doubt. They’d get there a lot faster in a motorcar.”

  “We should go to church at the end of this drive to give thanks for having survived it. Assuming we do.” Jack raised his voice to be heard over the wind whipping past them.

  “I thought you’d enjoy seeing London from a high speed roadster.”

  “I might if we went a bit slower. Are we in Putney yet?”

  “Almost.” Higgins squeezed the car horn, causing a passing cyclist to topple off his bike in fright. “We’re about to cross the river. Hold on.”

  Jack covered his eyes as Higgins barreled onto the granite and stone bridge. Luckily, Sunday morning traffic was light. Still, enough vehicles made their way across Putney Bridge that he had to swerve among them as if he were maneuvering through an obstacle course.

  Honking his horn again, Higgins prepared to pick up speed once they’d crossed the Thames. Because he’d driven this route for the past eight days, he knew exactly where to go in Putney to enjoy the least amount of traffic.

  “Marvelous motoring weather, isn’t it? Always had a fondness for September.” Higgins sped past a truck filled with crates, barely avoiding the vehicle’s rear fender.

  “You drive like a maniac. I don’t blame my cousin for refusing to get in the car.”

  “Perverse female. She won’t walk within ten feet of it.”

  “Smart girl. See here, Professor. I’m grateful you offered to take me for a little drive, but whenever you want to head for home will be fine with me.”

  Higgins frowned. He wasn’t trying to frighten Jack. He enjoyed the fellow’s company, along with Sybil, his charming suffragette wife. Since the Nepommuck murder case this past spring, the two men had often been thrown together. At first their association was purely professional, but Higgins soon took a strong liking to the shrewd and personable detective. And it pleased Eliza that he got along so well with her cousin. Higgins hoped Jack would have fun on their motoring excursion. If not, he feared all his drives in the roadster would be solitary.

  Like Eliza, Colonel Pickering also refused to drive with him. A traditional fellow, Pickering mourned the disappearance of horse-drawn rigs and hackneys from London’s streets. And he’d been quite vocal against motorcars after learning of Alfred Doolittle’s mishaps.

  Higgins had finally persuaded Mrs. Pearce to let him drive her to the Covent Garden flower market to purchase blooms for the weekly household arrangements. But she became upset when he scraped the side of an excursion steam bus. With a shriek heard all the way to Dover, she jumped out at the next cross street and walked all the way back to Wimpole Street, leaving Higgins to transport the chrysanthemums and asters.

  He’d assumed the Scotland Yard detective was made of sterner stuff, only Jack didn’t appear to be enjoying the experience. “Stop looking so troubled,” Higgins said. “I’m taking us to a residential area in Putney. Sleepy little neighborhood surrounded by a park. Barely any traffic, even on a weekday. And I should know. I’ve been driving this route every morning since I bought the car. The other motorists out here seem far too cautious, however. Don’t know why they bother to purchase a motorcar if they only want to plod along like a dray horse.”

  “A wish to say alive, perhaps?”

  “At least one fellow enjoys speed. This past week, a motorist in a black car tried to outrace me once I reached Putney. But he couldn’t even get close. Hah! What fun.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t show up this morning,” Jack said. “I’d hate for our Sunday drive to turn into the Tourist Trophy race.”

  “You’re as bad as Eliza. Motoring is marvelous. I don’t have to grumble at the inattention of a cab driver, or get my feet stepped on at Piccadilly tube station.”

  “But how will you eavesdrop on a stranger’s speech patterns if you’re in this roadster?”

  “I can go anywhere I like for my research now. Why buy a train ticket when I can drive myself to Northumberland or Cornwall? All I need is petrol. The tank holds thirty gallons.”

  “It is a fine looking machine, I�
�ll grant you that.” Jack ran his hand over the dashboard.

  “The car’s American. Manufactured in Detroit, Michigan. This is the Hudson 1912 model, designed for racing. Four-cylinder engine, Prest-O-Lite tank, luggage carrier, demountable rims, lamps, and an extra tank in the back for ten gallons of oil. Also the fenders can be removed to attain optimal speed.”

  “This speed seems optimal enough. How much did you pay Alfred for the car?”

  “A fair price, considering it wasn’t new when he bought it. Alfred got it at an auction. Someone neglected to claim their motorcar after the ship carrying it docked in Southampton.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Jack said after a long pause. “Most suspicious.”

  “You work for Scotland Yard. Everything seems suspicious to you.”

  “But why wouldn’t the owner claim his car? Unless he met with foul play during the ocean crossing. Did the same number of passengers depart the ship as embarked on the voyage?”

  “I have no idea. It went unclaimed for the requisite amount of time, was put up for auction at a dockside warehouse, and legally purchased by Alfred Doolittle. Who sold it to me.”

  “Perhaps the motorcar was stolen and the thief feared being caught,” Jack said.

  “Perhaps you worry too much.”

  “These steamship auctions sound like an easy way to smuggle things into the country.”

  “Stop being a policeman for a moment.” Higgins cast an admiring gaze over the blue leather seats. “Did I tell you the car is capable of speeds up to a hundred miles an hour?”

  “We’re going fast enough. Remember what happened to Alfred.”

  “Alfred never paid attention to the road. But I do. I know every crack in the pavement and every bush concealing the next turn.” Higgins honked once more. “After my first night of ownership, I rented a garage in a former mews close to Wimpole Street. They keep it locked, too. I can’t have anyone stealing my motorcar.”

  “You’ll be hiring bodyguards to watch over it next.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Higgins had now arrived at a sedate area of Putney with no vehicles in sight. Up ahead, he caught his first sight of a row of plane trees leading to Wandsworth Park. The morning sun broke through the clouds, turning the trees aflame in their autumnal colors of gold and amber. “Right after this turn is a lovely view of—”

  But the only thing that came into view was an unhitched wagon in the middle of the road. Jack yelled as Higgins tried to swerve out of the way. But he was going too fast. There was no time to brake. The awful sound of metal smashing against the wagon filled the air, along with the shouts of Higgins and Jack. Suddenly, everything turned upside-down and Higgins’s arm burned like it was on fire.

  After the car came to a standstill, Higgins found himself on top of Jack, who moaned. It took him a stunned moment to realize the car was on its side, one of the tires still spinning.

  “Are you hurt, Jack?” Higgins tried to move, but the pain in his arm almost made him black out.

  “It’s my leg.” Jack said with a gasp. “I think it’s broken.”

  Higgins looked for any signs of blood. “Don’t worry. Someone is sure to come along and rescue us. And if I had the use of my arm, I’d thrash the fool who left that wagon in the road.” He bit back a cry of pain. “Of course, Eliza won’t blame the wagon for this mess. The silly girl will say it was the car bringing bad luck again.”

  “Bad luck, my arse,” Jack grunted. “We crashed because of your bloody bad driving.”

  3

  The front bell jangled again. Eliza prayed one of the overworked maids answered it this time. She was busy taking a tray with fresh tea into the laboratory, the latest in a long line of demands made by the injured Professor Higgins. Twenty minutes ago, he’d insisted she open the mail for him, then sent her off to find his pouch of tobacco. And this was the fourth cup of Earl Grey she’d brought him this morning.

  Eliza tried to mask her irritation when she entered the room.

  “It’s about time you showed up with my tea,” Higgins snapped at her. Ensconced in his favorite armchair, he struggled to hold the newspaper.

  She muttered under her breath.

  “Who the devil is ringing the bell? If it’s another visitor come to gawk at me in my dressing gown, send them away.” He cursed when the newspaper slid to the carpet. “How can I read if I’m unable to hold the pages with both hands? Blast this sling.”

  “I say, old chap, it’s not that difficult.” Colonel Pickering rose from his chair by the writing desk. He fetched the pages and propped them against a pillow on Higgins’s lap.

  Higgins grumbled his thanks.

  Eliza was grateful for Colonel Pickering’s calming presence. Even though he wouldn’t admit it, so was Higgins. How fortunate that Pickering left India last year for the express purpose of meeting Higgins; ironically the Professor had wanted to make the acquaintance of Colonel Pickering as well. Both men met each other the same night she first encountered Higgins while selling violets at Covent Garden. A momentous evening for all three of them. Higgins had invited Pickering to live at Wimpole Street, and both men agreed to teach Eliza how to speak and act like a lady. All for the purpose of a scholarly wager, however. But it paid off handsomely, especially when the Colonel took her under his wing during Higgins’s mind-grueling speech lessons. The older gentleman was now more like a father to her than Alfred Doolittle.

  “The gardener promised to nail together a stand to make it easier to hold the newspaper for you. Just be patient.” Eliza set down the tray on the table beside him.

  “Well, how long does it take to hammer a few pieces of wood together?”

  “I’ve asked him twice, but he tends the gardens of three houses on Wimpole Street. He has other responsibilities.”

  “He’s a lazy wretch.” Higgins reached for the teacup with his right hand.

  “If I was handy with a hammer and nails, I’d do it,” Pickering said. “But I’m only a scholar of Sanskrit, not a carpenter. No use to anyone except other language scholars.”

  Eliza gazed with fondness at the older gentleman. “You’re of far more use than that. What if you helped Professor Higgins add a few pages to his Universal Alphabet? An updated edition perhaps.”

  “Silly tomfoolery,” Higgins cut her off. “My book’s perfect as is.”

  “A lot more perfect than your behavior,” she shot back. Eliza counted to ten. “Professor, we’ve all tried suggesting things to take your mind off that broken arm.”

  “I don’t need suggestions which waste my time. I’ve already wasted plenty!”

  “So have we all, you old billy goat. For nearly a fortnight, everyone in the household has been run ragged trying to keep up with your requests. Cook threatens to quit if you ask her to make porridge again at three o’clock in the morning.”

  “By George, I cannot ask for a simple bowl of porridge? I am paying the bloody woman to cook!” Higgins flung the pillow and newspaper to the floor. “Mrs. Lowell is not here as my damned barber.” He launched into a full-blown tantrum.

  Eliza stopped her ears. Even Colonel Pickering looked annoyed; he rarely reacted to Higgins, given his easy-going nature and their friendship.

  When she judged they’d heard enough, she grabbed the newspaper from the floor, rolled it up, and smacked Higgins in the back of the head with it.

  “Ow!” Higgins sent her a shocked look. “What the devil are you doing?”

  “Putting an end to your caterwauling. I’ve never heard anyone complain so much in my life. You have a broken arm, not cholera.”

  “Eliza’s right,” Pickering added. “I’ve been in hospital with grievously wounded soldiers who bore up better than you. It is rather alarming.”

  “The least you could have is have a little sympathy,” Higgins whined. “I’ve never had a broken limb before. And don’t forget about the bruises on my body.”

  Eliza and Pickering exchanged remorseful looks. They both had seen the large pur
ple bruises on his back and arms when trying to help Mrs. Pearce change his shirt. No doubt he felt discomfort each time he changed position, and Eliza did sympathize. But two weeks of walking on eggshells around Higgins had taken its toll. No one in Britain could be a worse patient – except for her cousin Jack.

  “He does need a distraction,” Pickering said to her. “Perhaps it’s time for him to resume his lessons.”

  She bit her lip. Even in the best of times, Higgins had little patience with his phonetics pupils. If one of them displeased him now, she feared for their safety. “I don’t know. Can we trust you not to throttle a student if they get a vowel sound wrong?”

  “I’ll throttle you if I have to sit here another day with nothing to do but wrestle the newspaper.” Higgins nodded at the telephone. “Ring up whoever we cancelled for Monday. I want to expend my energy on a barbarous accent. Bring me a student!”

  “Like the Christians into the lion den.” Pickering retreated to his writing desk.

  “Let me think on this. I need to pick a student with the easiest temper.” Eliza sighed. “And the ability to run fast.”

  “Speaking of speed, have you spoken to the Scotland Yard garage about my roadster? Ring up Detective Ramsey. The repairs should be completed soon.”

  “What does it matter when they’re done? You’re just going to sell it.” Eliza narrowed her eyes at him. “Unless you’re balmy enough to want to drive it again.”

  “Of course I plan to drive it. Granted, I was a bit reckless that morning—”

  “A bit? A bit! More like bloody mad, racing about at top speed,” Eliza retorted. “You’re lucky you didn’t kill my cousin Jack outright.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Here you go, sir,” Mrs. Pearce said, bustling past her. “This should ease you a bit.” She set a tray on his lap with his favorite treat, a quivering blancmange. “I’ve taken a treacle pudding to Detective Shaw. The poor dear, with his leg plastered to the hip. He’s so uncomfortable.”