Wouldn't It Be Deadly (2 page)

“But I never touched them!”

He slammed the door behind him.

Eliza glanced up and down the empty corridor. “Someone switched them off on purpose,” she mused aloud. “Someone who wanted to hide in the dark.”

And since the stranger had lurked in the hallway between Nepommuck's apartment and her classroom, he must have wanted to harm the Hungarian.

Or her.

*   *   *

Henry Higgins was in a murderous mood. After a long scholarly tour of Spain, he was impatient to once more listen to the fractured English of his own countrymen. For the past eight weeks, he'd heard nothing but Basque consonants and lisping Catalonians. Enlightening as the Spaniards had been, all he wanted now was to listen to the glottal stop of a dockworker from Newcastle-upon-Tyne. And he itched to correct a tradesman from Birmingham when he stressed the wrong syllable. He had half a mind to grab a hansom cab and head for the East End just to enjoy the riotous street cries of a Cockney newsboy.

He stormed over to the bell rope and gave it a yank. Then again, the last thing to raise his spirits would be the sound of a Cockney voice. It would remind him of Eliza Doolittle. In a mere six months, he had taught that ungrateful little cabbage leaf how to speak like the Duchess of Manchester. Yet after all he'd done for her, there'd been no word from the girl since her father's wedding two months ago. Even more irritating was the fact that Eliza was still the houseguest of his own mother on the Chelsea Embankment.

“Blast,” he muttered as he pulled the bell rope again.

Not that he expected anyone to answer his summons. The household didn't run properly with Eliza gone. The parlor maids seemed indolent, and even Mrs. Pearce acted inattentive. Worst of all, he still hadn't found his damned slippers.

After several fruitless minutes of waiting, Higgins walked into the empty foyer. “Mrs. Pearce, I need you!”

His bellow echoed off the walls. Colonel Pickering, who opened the front door at that exact moment, jumped in surprise.

“Higgins, my good man. You gave me quite a fright.” The Colonel shook out his umbrella, spraying drops on the polished floor. “I hope nothing has gone awry with your latest pupil.” He gestured toward the laboratory.

“What's gone awry is that two pupils have canceled on me this morning. I've never had anyone cancel before. Now I have two cancellations in one day, and on my first day back from an extended leave. The boorish audacity.” Higgins glanced toward the kitchen again. “Mrs. Pearce!”

“If you shout any louder, you'll burst a blood vessel.”

“What in heaven's name is that woman doing? I haven't caught a glimpse of her since she brought my tea at eleven o'clock. The household has fallen into complete anarchy. We may as well be living in Italy.”

Pickering checked the watch on his chain. “I hardly think you've been neglected. It's only half past eleven.”

“Exactly. I've not yet had the morning paper brought to me. I am accustomed to having the paper and my slippers in my possession by ten o'clock. Eliza always made certain—” He stopped himself.

Pickering clapped him on the shoulder. “I miss her, too. What say we pay a visit to your mother later today? We've been away for weeks. Perfectly proper for a chap to call on his mother, wouldn't you say? And it's an ideal opportunity to see how our Miss Doolittle is faring.”

“She is not
my
Miss Doolittle, and I am not playing the pathetic suitor. I'll leave that to the sorry likes of Freddy Eynsford Hill.” Higgins frowned at the older woman coming down the hall. “The phantom housekeeper approaches. My dear Mrs. Pearce, it would be refreshing if you made an appearance once in a while.”

Mrs. Pearce wore her usual long-suffering look. “Sir, if you want me to keep the household accounts, see that the bed linens are changed, and arrange the delivery of a beef joint for dinner, then you will have to let me out of your sight now and again.” She took Pickering's hat, coat, and umbrella. “I didn't realize you'd returned from your appointment, Colonel. I'll bring some hot tea. The weather is foul. Seems as if April means to drown us all.”

“What about me?” Higgins crossed his arms.

She glanced up at him. “What about you, Mr. Higgins?”

“I want more tea, I want to know why my pupils have canceled, I want my morning paper, and I want my bloody slippers!”

Mrs. Pearce nodded toward the newspaper folded neatly on a table by the stairs. “It was damp from the rain, so I had one of the girls iron it for you. I'm sure it's dry enough now.” She grunted as she readjusted Pickering's wet coat and hat heaped in her arms. “Now if you gentlemen will go into the drawing room, I'll have tea sent right in. As for your pupils, a Mr. Giraldi sent round a boy not five minutes ago. He cannot come for his lesson this afternoon.”

“What the devil is going on?” Higgins ran a hand through his hair.

“And I hope I do not have to hear another word about your slippers. We've turned the house upside down a dozen times looking for them. You'd best purchase a new pair.” Mrs. Pearce paused. “Or ask Miss Doolittle what has become of them.”

“If you think I am going to beg a single thing from that insolent female—”

But Mrs. Pearce had already disappeared beyond the kitchen's swinging door.

“I say, do you mind if I have a quick look at the paper?” Pickering asked. “Major Redstone will be arriving any day. He's an old friend from Bombay, and I'd like to check the ship manifests. Since the
Titanic
went down last year, I find myself worrying over every ocean voyage.”

Higgins handed the newspaper to him before they retreated to what would have been a drawing room in any other Wimpole Street home. Here it served as a phonetics laboratory. Although the leather chairs, piano, and writing table were common sights in any proper drawing room, the filing cabinets, lamp chimneys, laryngoscope, and tuning forks were not. Pickering settled in the easy chair by the fireplace while Higgins began to pace about the room.

Three pupils canceling in one day was unheard of. He felt like the victim of some perverse practical joke. Without a student to terrorize, half the fun had just gone out of the day. If it weren't raining buckets, he'd grab his notebook and head outdoors. It was always great sport listening to his countrymen murder their native tongue.

Now he faced a long idle day inside. While Colonel Pickering was good company, they had just spent the better part of two months together touring Spain. Higgins suspected they had run out of conversation somewhere in Granada. Plus Higgins was in a combative mood and he didn't want to take it out on a fellow as congenial as the Colonel.

Indeed, he found it most fortuitous to have met Pickering last summer near Covent Garden's vegetable market. Higgins had been so impressed by the scholarly tome
Spoken Sanskrit
that he was determined to meet its author, Colonel Pickering, even if it meant traveling halfway across the world to India. Fortunately he was saved the tedium of a long ocean trip when the Colonel arrived in England for the sole purpose of meeting Henry Higgins, the author of
Higgins's Universal Alphabet
. That both of them happened to be standing outside Inigo Jones's St. Paul's Church that rainy evening was nothing short of remarkable. A certain young Cockney flower girl was also there that night, but Higgins wasn't certain if he would term that encounter remarkable or ominous.

As two confirmed bachelor scholars, it seemed only fitting they continue their research together at Higgins's home at 27A Wimpole Street. Soon after, Eliza Doolittle joined the household as their prize student, and the past year had been spent turning her from a caterwauling street urchin into something resembling a lady. If nothing else, Wimpole Street was never dull once that upstart had moved in.

Higgins plucked a tuning fork, threw it down, wiped nonexistent dust from the phonograph, and ran his hand over the life-size model of a human head. After straightening the Piranesi drawings on the wall, Higgins ate a chocolate cream from the dessert bowl on the piano. Just the sight of the candy reminded him of Eliza, who gobbled up his chocolates like a greedy child. Maybe Pickering was right. Maybe they should pay a call on his mother. And if the “Cockney duchess” happened to be in attendance, he would treat her with the profound indifference she deserved.

“Jolly good.” Pickering nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Major Redstone arrived in Southampton yesterday. I wouldn't be surprised to receive a call from him later today as soon as he settles in at his club. Quite looking forward to seeing him again.”

“Is this the chap who's an expert on Sanskrit poetry?”

Pickering nodded. “Redstone's not yet forty, but he's one of the best in his field. In fact, he's coming to London to present a paper next month at the Asiatic and Sanskrit Revival Society.”

“Sounds like a fellow who enjoys a decent conversation. Have him stay with us. We've more than enough room here, especially since that ungrateful flower peddler left.”

“Ripping good idea. I'll ask him as soon as he contacts me.” Pickering gave the paper a shake, then turned the page. “Oh, my word.”

Higgins glanced his way. “Did the suffragettes burn down another cricket pavilion?”

“Henry, I think I may know why you are losing pupils. Our Hungarian colleague has taken to advertising in the paper during your absence.”

“Nepommuck? That peacock has been riding my coattails ever since I corrected his abysmal English. I find it absurd I would lose pupils due to an advertisement in the
Daily Mail
.”

“It appears he has an assistant now.” Pickering cleared his throat and began to read. “‘Learn the King's English from the flower girl who successfully passed for a duchess at the Embassy Ball two months ago. Taught by the renowned Emil Nepommuck himself, Miss Doolittle will have you speaking like the gentry in less than eight weeks. Visit Maestro Nepommuck today at Belgrave Square and arrange a lesson with his star pupil.' I say, the man has more brass than the horn section at the symphony.”

“The bloody liar!” Higgins grabbed the paper. “Let me see that.”

“Try not to get too upset with Eliza. I'm sure there's a good explanation.”

“That treacherous harridan!” He kicked the nearest table, sending a box of wax cylinders crashing to the floor. “How dare they collaborate.”

“No need to tear down the laboratory, old man.”

Higgins flung open the door. “Mrs. Pearce! Bring my coat and hat, I'm going out.”

“What are you going to do?” Pickering looked pale.

“I am going to see our Miss Doolittle, as you suggested. And when I do, I intend to strangle her with my own hands. And that thieving Hungarian, for good measure!”

 

TWO

Every time Eliza lit a coal fire, she thought of her dead canary. Poor little Petey. Eliza sent a brief prayer his way as she added another lump of coal to the grate. While she blamed the blustery spring day for feeling so cold, this morning's strange encounter in the dark hallway had added to the chill. She smiled as the flames leaped higher. It had been almost a year since she left her shabby room in Angel Court, but Eliza still marveled whenever she sat before the loverly warmth of her own coal fireplace.

A pity she didn't have this coal the winter before last. She'd bought a little canary from a street seller in Brick Lane. The purchase of the bird and cage set Eliza back a week's wages, but the cost was well worth it. What a treat to return home to her lonely room and be greeted by the lilting song of her own bird. That is, until the harsh cold of winter set in. Without a coal grate or enough wood for the fireplace, Eliza could barely keep herself from freezing. Petey was dead by Boxing Day.

“How did that sound, Miss Doolittle?”

Feeling guilty that she hadn't heard a word of the vocal exercises, Eliza turned her attention back to her pupil. In two months, she'd taken on ten students. It wasn't difficult work, nor as unpleasant as selling flowers in a chilly downpour. But listening to people misspeak their native tongue reminded her of how recently she had been among them.

“Much better, Mrs. Finch, but you must avoid slurring your ‘r's. Especially when your voice dips into a lower register.” Eliza picked up a tuning fork and struck it. “Try to pitch your voice to this. The conscious effort to do so will cause you to slow your speech and better enunciate the ‘r' sound.”

After a deep breath, the woman began reciting the day's diction lesson in a higher key.

Mary Finch had newly come to London with her husband, Cornelius, who owned several woolen factories in Leeds. Prosperous and young, the pair decided to use their growing wealth to climb the social ladder. However, they quickly learned that wealth without the right accent and diction proved meaningless in the circles they aspired to. The sooner they learned to speak like the upper crust, the faster their ascent. Or so they hoped.

Eliza found Mrs. Finch an agreeable young woman, although with her sleek head of blond hair and propensity to wear bright colors, “Goldfinch” would have been a more apt name. And while Mary was a diligent student, she seemed more interested in fashion than in vowels.

This morning, it took twenty minutes to distract Mary from asking endless questions about Eliza's outfit. Where had she purchased her satin, faille, and leather boots? Was the color of her shadow lace blouse the celebrated peony hue all the fashion magazines were writing about this season? Did she find it troublesome to keep wrinkles from spoiling the silhouette of her gray linen skirt? She even asked to examine Eliza's kid gloves.

One more question and she'd hand the woman Colonel Pickering's card. After all, he had bought every stitch of clothing she possessed. Thinking of the dear Colonel sent a wave of sadness through her. Eliza missed the sweet man, and wondered if he'd returned from his research trip to Spain and Portugal. Henry Higgins had gone with him, at least according to his mother, with whom she was staying. And that insufferable man was the last person she wished to see again. Particularly since she was now working with the Professor's main competitor. She felt a bit guilty about that. Still, a girl had to make an honest living. And she had warned Higgins that she might become a phonetics teacher.