With a Little Bit of Blood

by D. E. Ireland

  “Oh yes, I’ve attended quite a few rallies with my friend Sybil.”

  “I don’t see how you can join those awful women,” Clara said with a shudder. “They’ve thrown bricks through windows at Westminster, and burned post boxes.”

  “Indeed,” the countess said. “What if you are arrested, Miss Doolittle?”

  “They’ll have to catch me first,” Eliza replied. “And I run nearly as fast as the racehorse I own. Especially if the police are after me.”

  “Guter Gott,” Count Rudolf muttered.

  “But if they did catch you,” his wife insisted, “they’d jail you. Of course, the primitive conditions in prison might not be so different from life in Whitechapel. Is that not where you are from, Miss Doolittle?”

  Lady Annabel jumped to her defense before Eliza could react to such a rude comment. “I find it admirable that she supports such a noble cause,” Annabel said. “As do I. Life as a woman in the literary arts also has its challenges.”

  “Noble cause?” The countess sniffed. “It’s hardly noble to be trampled to death at the Derby. Or to be force fed in prison, like geese tortured to make liver paté.”

  Eliza raised an eyebrow at her. “Is it more noble to let men have the final say in everything, as if women are as stupid as geese?”

  “Some women are as stupid as geese,” Count Rudolf said. “And as silly.”

  “And some men are thoughtless, selfish brutes,” Eliza shot back.

  “I’d advise everyone not to debate Miss Doolittle,” Higgins said with a wry grin. “She’ll win.”

  “Can we please not talk about the suffragists?” Clara asked.

  Richard looked over at Philippe. “Some of our guests may not be aware Mr. Corbet broke the world speed record.”

  “C’est vrai, but it is Louis Bíerot who crosses the Channel first. I did hope to attempt such a feat, but it is difficile to obtain funds.”

  “Your speed record is more impressive, Monsieur,” Madame Evangeline said.

  “I saw your flight at Juvisy-sur-Orge, south of Paris, where you broke the speed record,” Lady Annabel added. “Most exciting.”

  The Frenchman gave another slight shrug. “Such records will be broken by other aviators, and soon.”

  “Let us not forget that people may prefer to travel by zeppelins, which are faster than the fastest train,” Count Rudolf said. “Germany has proven their reliability.”

  “Is that so?” Higgins asked. “I believe inclement weather caused the deaths of several zeppelin crew members of the Imperial Navy. Their airship was blown down into the North Sea during a storm, or did you not see that report in the newspapers?”

  “A chance accident, Herr Higgins. Something no one could predict.”

  “But any windstorm or lightning strike could cripple a zeppelin far easier than it could a train. To say nothing of passengers in the zeppelin gondolas, who must bundle themselves in fur coats and blankets to keep warm.”

  Count Rudolf glowered at him. “All travelers suffer inconveniences. After crossing the Channel on the way here, my wife and I were treated to a wretched dinner in Dover. Dry Cornish hen, stale bread, a port wine as flat as the Rhine. And the car we hired broke down thirty miles into the journey. A British car, I might add. You’d never see that happening with a German motor wagon manufactured by Mr. Benz.”

  “Now, now, gentlemen,” Lady Annabel interrupted. “It appears zeppelins are as perilous a topic as women’s suffrage.” For the first time at dinner, she addressed Clara. “Did you enjoy Paris, Lady Ashmore?”

  “Oh yes!” Clara visibly perked up at being called by her title. “So romantic.”

  With childlike enthusiasm, she described how she climbed the steps of Montmartre to see the city spread below. Eliza had already heard the details of the Paris trip after lunch. She and Clara had stolen some time away together, although much of their conversation focused on Clara’s fear of her formidable sister-in-law.

  Eliza didn’t dare tell Clara that she and Higgins had wanted to return to London. Nor did she reveal the warning Madame Evangeline had given them. A warning Higgins dismissed, but Eliza took to heart. How could she leave poor Clara to deal with whatever disaster might be threatening everyone? So Eliza persuaded Higgins into remaining at Banfield Manor, too. With luck, he would forgive her one day. Although Clara’s endless description of her Paris visit now made Eliza regret staying.

  Lady Annabel must have shared her opinion because she changed the topic. “Is it true that you and Miss Doolittle have solved several juicy murders?” she asked Higgins. “Do tell us all about them.”

  “That is not a suitable dinner table subject,” Count Rudolf remarked.

  “I agree,” said Higgins. He bent forward in order to catch the eye of Madame Evangeline “Madame, I am curious as to your origins. I can usually pinpoint a speech pattern within a few minutes, but yours intrigues me. Where are you from?”

  “I am a citizen of the world. I have lived in many places.”

  “We met Madame in Paris at a soiree,” Richard said, “She gave a most convincing demonstration of table tipping.”

  “Oh yes, we were all thrilled,” Clara added. “And a little bit frightened. One of the guests refused to believe Madame had tipped the table without tricks. He tried to lift it himself, but failed. Not even Madame’s manservant could lift it, and he is quite strong.”

  “That manservant of yours seems an interesting fellow, too,” Higgins said. “His name, Zoltan Batur, is a common one in the Ottoman Empire. However, I heard him speak with the butler this afternoon. His accent does not sound especially Turkish. Has he lived in Egypt?”

  “I believe he spent his boyhood in Cairo and Alexandria,” she replied.

  “Why do you employ such an odd-looking fellow?” the countess inquired. “Most ladies are accompanied by a maid.”

  “I am a widow who travels widely. Some of the places I visit require protection, especially as a woman. Zoltan Batur is my bodyguard.”

  “I have never heard of such a thing,” the count said. “And certainly not on the Continent. Although if you travel to the Middle East, you might well need protection.”

  “I knew an archaeologist who was killed in Mesopotamia,” Sir Anthony said with grim satisfaction. “And all because someone didn’t like the way he drank his coffee.”

  “That doesn’t make sense at all,” Eliza said.

  “It does if you have been to Mesopotamia,” he snapped. “Which is why I understand Madame Evangeline employing a manservant to protect her. He seems a fellow well able to defend himself, too.”

  Madame Evangeline nodded. “He has many skills, from fencing and stick fighting to wrestling. Zoltan has helped me avert disaster several times.”

  “You mentioned disaster when you arrived this afternoon,” Higgins said. “I’ve been curious about that. Why did you warn Eliza and me not to leave?”

  She looked surprised. “Excuse me? I did what?”

  “You said that if we left the house party, it would lead to disaster,” Higgins said.

  “And that death and darkness surrounded this house,” Eliza added.

  A gasp went up from the other guests.

  Madame Evangeline grew paler than usual. “But I have no memory of saying any such thing. I must have fallen into a trance.”

  “A trance?” Eliza asked.

  “Yes. It comes upon me at unexpected times.”

  “You fall in and out of trances?” Higgins looked amused. “Seems most inconvenient.”

  “Seems like bloody nonsense,” Sir Anthony grumbled.

  “My gifts are a mystery even to me.” Madame Evangeline said, unmoved by their reactions.

  “Oh, what does it matter?” the countess said. “You are a guest at Banfield Manor, madam. And my husband and I are honored to have you here.”

  “Richard and I are, too,” Clara said in a small voice.

  “If trouble does befall us,” the countess continued, ignoring that remark, �
��it can be laid at the feet of my sister-in-law.”

  “I don’t understand what you are talking about.” Eliza was at the end of her patience.

  “She invited Madame Evangeline without my approval, Miss Doolittle, and I was not informed until this morning. Such rudeness is unforgivable. It has put me in a difficult position as hostess. After all, if our remaining guest, Mr. Pentwater, had arrived on time, think of the social disaster that would have taken place tonight.”

  “What the devil do you mean, Louise?” Richard demanded. Calling his sister by her first name revealed how irritated he was. Eliza hoped this didn’t descend into a family argument. She had enough of that whenever she visited her father and Rose.

  “I can explain.” Madame Evangeline’s distinctive voice held everyone’s attention. “When Mr. Pentwater arrives, our number will be thirteen.”

  “Thirteen at the dinner table is an unlucky number,” Clara said with obvious dismay. “How awful. What if it leads to the death and darkness you spoke of?”

  “Superstitious claptrap,” Higgins reassured her. “Besides, this Pentwater fellow may never turn up.”

  The butler appeared behind the countess’s chair. “I beg your pardon, but an American gentleman has arrived. A Mr. Dwight Pentwater.”

  “Oh no!” Clara glanced at her husband. “What shall we do?”

  “Set another place,” Higgins said with a grin. “Our thirteenth guest has arrived.”

  8

  Dwight Pentwater surveyed the room and its occupants with the typical brash regard of an American. Higgins judged him an American with means, however. His three piece lounge suit of dark gray wool looked bespoke, and his silk necktie boasted a jeweled stud. But despite his elegant suit, Pentwater seemed careless of his appearance.

  His wavy, light brown hair reached past his collar and looked as if he hadn’t bothered to comb it all day. Pentwater’s goatee and mustache were also untrimmed, giving the impression of a shaggy animal. A lean and hungry animal, too, to paraphrase Shakespeare. It made Higgins curious. And wary.

  Count von Weisinger rose to his feet in welcome, followed by the other gentleman. Except for Higgins. He’d been adjusting his sling and didn’t get the chance to stand before everyone sat down again.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Pentwater, you’d first like to change upstairs?” the countess asked.

  “Thank you, no.” He nodded at Higgins. “Glad to see one of the gentlemen here isn’t in evening clothes either. So I won’t be the only guest who’s not dressed for dinner.”

  “I confess I’m not normally one to dress for dinner. Seems a waste of time.” Higgins pointed at his sling. “But I have a legitimate excuse. There’s a plaster cast on my broken arm. Can’t fit my best tailcoats over the damned thing, which means I don’t have to get decked out like a penguin.”

  The American laughed. “I have an excuse as well. I’m starving. Haven’t had a bite since lunch. English pork pie, as cold and tough as Lizzie Borden’s heart.”

  The countess looked mortified by both Higgins and Pentwater.

  Pentwater nodded his thanks when the butler directed a footman to set another place next to Lily Marlowe. Oddly enough, the actress didn’t look pleased; she avoided the man’s easy smile, keeping her eyes fixed on Freddy. Then again, Pentwater’s smile appeared rather lupine, like a hungry wolf sizing up a tasty lamb.

  The next course was brought in, ironically a lamb cutlet, as the countess introduced each guest sitting around the table to Pentwater.

  “How rude,” Lady Annabel murmured to Higgins. “He ought to have forgone dinner, arriving so late. But we shouldn’t expect much from an American. I spent several years in the States. Most of them possess the manners of Irish urchins.”

  “I’ve enjoyed pleasant encounters with Americans, even if they do mangle the English language. And they make delightful dinner companions. Far more enjoyable than a doddering duke, or a marchioness with too many jewels and not enough brains.”

  “You’re being perverse, Henry.” Lady Annabel turned her attention to the cutlet with mint sauce on her plate.

  “How did you injure your arm?” Pentwater said. “Sorry, sir. I’ve forgotten your name.”

  Higgins looked up. “Henry Higgins. Professor of phonetics. And I broke my arm in a motoring accident in Putney.” He nodded at Eliza. “Despite what Miss Doolittle may tell you, it was not my fault. I turned the corner and was met with an unhitched wagon in the middle of the road. Impossible to avoid crashing into it with my roadster.”

  “What a rum piece of luck,” Pentwater said.

  “He was also driving at about a hundred miles an hour,” Eliza put in.

  “Don’t listen to her. I pushed my Hudson Mile-A-Minute to sixty that day.”

  Pentwater whistled. “You have an American roadster. Good choice. And a Hudson, too. What year?”

  “The 1912 model manufactured in Detroit.” Higgins lifted a forkful of tender lamb. “Bright blue color, too. Can’t miss it on the road.”

  “A pity it was destroyed in the crash,” Lady Annabel said with a sigh.

  “The devil it was. Even as we speak, my roadster’s undergoing repairs at Scotland Yard. Eliza’s cousin works for the Metropolitan Police and he suggested their mechanics work on it. A detective plans to bring it here once it’s finished, hopefully before the end of the week.” He frowned. “I do miss my Hudson.”

  “He’s mad for motorcars,” Eliza said. “Sometimes, I think he’s just plain mad.”

  “Insolent cabbage leaf,” Higgins said under his breath.

  “I do hope I’m at Banfield Manor when your car is delivered,” Pentwater said. “That model Hudson is my favorite. The three-speed manual gearbox is a wonder.”

  “Have little interest in motorcars myself. I let my chauffeur deal with the Rolls.” Sir Anthony sat back. “Now what brings you to England, Mr. Pentwater?”

  “Business with the count. And others. I run a financial consulting firm, but also invest in companies that need an infusion of cash. Many I buy outright in order to improve their management and production. I’ve got my eye on a shipping firm in Leeds.”

  “It is my wish that you stay away from aviation,” Philippe Corbet said.

  The American seemed confused by his statement. “Why should I? Anyone who doesn’t try to make a buck in aviation is a fool. Tons of money to be made.”

  “Money is not everything,” Philippe replied. “Or perhaps a businessman such as yourself does not understand that.”

  Pentwater gave him a suspicious look. “Are you being rude? Or simply French?”

  “Monsieur Corbet holds the world speed record in aviation,” Richard explained.

  “Well done,” Pentwater said. “I may invest my money in building an aeroplane faster than anyone has ever seen. You might fly one of my aeroplanes someday.”

  “That is a thing I will never do.” Philippe turned to Madame Evangeline.

  Pentwater’s expression wavered between confusion and anger. Higgins didn’t blame him. Why did Philippe seem so hostile to the American?

  “I wish you had called ahead, Mr. Pentwater,” Clara said. “We could have waited dinner.” She gave him a proud smile. “We have a telephone in its own little closet, and anyone can call us. Isn’t it the most modern thing?”

  “Don’t know how I’d do business without a telephone,” Pentwater agreed.

  Polite conversation continued while the footmen brought in the next course, a joint of roast venison, accompanied by caramelized onions and diced butternut squash. Higgins realized he’d have a difficult time cutting up the tougher meat, given his injury. And he’d rather cut off his arm than ask for help. He didn’t have to. Lady Annabel reached over and swiftly sliced his venison.

  Embarrassed, he muttered, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Henry,” she said in a low, seductive voice. “After all, someone must look after your needs.”

  Higgins wanted to sink through the floor. He also wanted to pou
r his flute of champagne over Eliza’s head for forcing him to stay at Banfield Manor.

  “I hear you have an interest in moving pictures as well, Mr. Pentwater,” Countess von Weisinger said. “Have you invested in any?”

  “Yes. Eight. Or is it nine? They’ve all paid off more than expected, especially the ones I had a hand in at Vitograph Studios. But Miss Marlowe can tell you more about that. She starred in several.” Pentwater glanced over at Lily.

  The actress ignored him and continued her whispered conversation with Freddy. But Higgins knew she’d heard Pentwater by the way she held herself. Stiff, defensive. Possibly even fearful. What was going on? Why would both Lily Marlowe and Philippe Corbet act so antagonistic towards the American?

  “Then you and Miss Marlowe know each other?” Lady Annabel asked.

  “I visited the studio whenever I could. Sometimes I was there at the same time she was performing.” He shot Lily another amused look. “We were together this past April when the Woolworth Building opened in Manhattan. To help celebrate the completion of the tallest building in the world, several famous people were invited to appear. Miss Marlowe was one of them.”

  “Is that true?” Eliza asked. “What fun. I read about the Woolworth and it sounds amazing. A building sixty stories high.”

  “With over five thousand windows,” Pentwater added. “I took the elevator all the way to the top. And yes, before you ask, the Woolworth does seem to scrape the sky.”

  This caught Freddy’s attention. “Did you go to the top of the Woolworth Building, too, Lily?”

  She sat silent, a stubborn set to her jaw. “Yes,” Lily finally said.

  “What did you think?” he asked.

  “Some buildings rise too high.” She picked up her goblet. “Some men do as well.”

  Pentwater grinned. “On that cryptic note. . .”

  “Is it true you helped finance one of Will Barker’s Bulldog Films, Mr. Pentwater?” Richard asked. “The one called Sixty Years A Queen. I hear they’re filming it at Ealing Studios in west London.”

  “I only dabble in film. George Samuelson financed that, not me. A pity American audiences won’t be able to see it when it opens next month.” Pentwater ate the last of his cutlet. “Blame Thomas Edison, who’s muddied things up with his patent lawsuits. It’s a long and complicated story. Doesn’t concern me any longer.”