Wouldn't It Be Deadly (14 page)

A double-decker bus rumbled past them. When the exhaust cleared, Eliza spied the cupola of Covent Garden's redbrick market building. Dozens of barrows and stalls crowded the open-air square in front if it. She hadn't been back here since that fateful night when she first met Higgins and the Colonel. An odd feeling washed over her, as if she were returning home after an exciting but uncertain adventure.

Eliza tugged at her silk gloves, fighting back a sudden attack of nerves. Although the theater crowd wouldn't arrive for hours, she saw several flower girls setting off for their accustomed places at nearby St. Paul's Church and the playhouses of the West End. To think that only last summer, she had done the same thing. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Higgins followed her gaze. “So we are returning to the scene of our mutual crime.”

“That's one way to describe it.”

She told herself she was being a ninny. A stroll among the stalls of Covent Garden Market would not transform her back into a poor Cockney flower seller. But the voices she heard around her did bring back memories, both good and bad. Last year, she had fantasized about returning to Covent Garden dressed in her fanciest clothes. Many of the flower sellers had made fun of her when she worked here, she being one of the youngest of the group. What better way to get back at them than parading about in her linen gown and French heels while a hired taxi waited for her at the curb. But Eliza could never quite work up the nerve to come back here.

“Why did you bring us to Covent Garden? I was nowhere near the place yesterday,” Higgins said.

“I have my reasons.”

“None of which you seem willing to tell me. Eliza, we've already wasted enough time. Stopping at my mother's apartment for the button you squirreled away took the better part of an hour.”

Eliza marched forward. “Funny how you didn't complain while eating that plate of bangers and mash Daisy served you.”

“I was being polite.”

“That would have been a first.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just follow me, Professor.”

The familiar aroma of oranges and onions assaulted her senses the moment they entered the market. Eliza threaded her way expertly through browsing shoppers and crates filled with fruit and vegetables. Despite the late afternoon hour—a typically slow time—most stalls still had produce on display. With the market half empty, few vendors shouted out their wares, but Eliza grinned to hear a distant fishmonger sing out, “Eels! Eels fresh from the river! All large and alive-o!”

One coster looked up from his barrow. “Parsley, miss? Penny a bunch. None greener in London.”

She shook her head. The picked-over specimens weren't the best that arrived at dawn each morning from the countryside and coast, but they were still decent enough to attract buyers. Those vendors without any customers clustered in small groups near their stalls, chatting and smoking. Eliza recognized many of them. But each time she spoke a greeting to a woman in her market apron or a fellow unloading a crate of potatoes, they responded with a puzzled stare.

Why should they recognize her? Gone were her muddy boots, faded skirt, and moth-eaten coat. Now she wore a pink gown made of a soft material the dressmaker called batiste; its nautical style was said to be all the latest rage. And instead of a soot-covered straw hat she'd fished out of a dustbin, Eliza wore a new boater on her perfectly coiffed hair. The pink silk ribbon decorating her hat cost more than a week's wage of any flower seller here.

Small wonder no one realized that she was Eliza Doolittle. She was glad now that she had never come here last year to swan about. It didn't seem right. Or kind.

A wave of new scents washed over her: roses, sweet freesia, primrose, lavender, phlox, and dozens more. Eliza didn't have to look up to know they'd reached the arcade of the flower market. Baskets and pails filled with exotic lilies and orchids from as far away as Africa and Turkey sat on lavish display beneath the overhead skylight. She stopped a moment to take it all in. The Covent Garden flower market was as glorious as ever, and Eliza's heart soared to see its fragrant beauty once more spilling about her.

“Here's where I came every day to buy my flowers.” Eliza bent down to sniff a basket heaped with sweet-smelling primroses. “If I had a bit more stock money than usual, I could sometimes buy two dozen bunches. Of course, I also had to buy paper and twine to tie them up with. By then, there was no money left at all until the ladies and gents in the West End bought the flowers from me.” She sighed. “And heaven help a flower girl on the nights that it rained.”

Higgins was silent, which so startled Eliza that she turned to him. He was looking at her with a thoughtful expression. “Eliza, we don't have to be here,” he said at last. “I told you that I didn't visit Covent Garden yesterday, and this place probably brings up memories that are far from pleasant for you.”

“On the contrary, I couldn't wait to come here when I was a flower girl. Take a deep breath. It smells more delightful than a hundred French perfumes. A far cry indeed from what my lodging house smelled like.” She smiled. “And the flowers are so beautiful. I used to pretend it was my own private garden.”

As she moved among the tulip bouquets and pails of jonquils, she smiled each time her skirt brushed a flower and sent up a wave of delicious scent. Taking another deep breath, she suddenly smelled tea roses from Spain. A moment later, she spotted the apricot yellow blooms arranged in metal buckets at Old Lucy's stall.

Eliza hurried over to the woman, who looked up from the biscuit she gnawed. “Lucy, I see you're still selling Valencia tea roses. Isn't it a few weeks past their best bloom time?”

The old woman squinted. “And who might you be, miss?”

“Lizzie Doolittle.”

“Garn, you ain't Lizzie.” She spat off to the side. “Don't know what you're about, miss. Did someone tell you to play a joke on Old Lucy? 'Cause I ain't never 'eard of a fancy lady trying to pass 'erself off as a poor girl what just up and disappeared.”

“I didn't disappear,” Eliza said, smiling. “I moved to another part of London is all. Got some new clothes and learned to speak proper, but I'm still Lizzie. I sold violets next to Carrie Vetch, the woman who makes bracelets of dried lavender.”

“Now don't you be talking about Carrie. That ain't no subject for tricks or jokes. The poor woman's not cold in her grave yet.”

“Oh no. Carrie's dead?”

“This past spring, of croup.” Lucy now regarded her with not only suspicion but anger. “So don't be coming 'ere pretending you is one of us. Either buy one of me flowers or take yerself off. 'Cause I don't need no cheeky young miss in pretty little shoes and Mayfair clothes making fun of us 'ardworking folk.”

Higgins took her arm. “Let's go, Eliza.”

“I didn't mean to upset you, Lucy. Truly I didn't.” Eliza fished a wad of bills from her purse. Before the old woman could reply, she pressed the money into her gnarled hand. “And I'm sorry to hear about Carrie.”

Eliza hurried off. Even with his long stride, Higgins had to walk briskly to catch up with her.

“Have we come here to give out alms,” he said, “or are you looking for old drinking companions to reminisce with?”

“I came here to help you,” Eliza said. “Not that you deserve it, you insensitive brute.”

She stopped in her tracks. Her friend Nan Barton sat wrapping bunches of violets at the exact spot that Eliza had used each day before taking up her nightly post at St. Paul's. In fact, the three baskets brimming with violets and daffodils that lay at her feet were Eliza's own. She'd given all three to Nan when she made her decision to move to Wimpole Street and begin her lessons.

“Nan,” she said softly.

The young woman looked up, puzzled. “Yes, miss?”

When Nan didn't recognize her, Eliza stamped her foot. “It's me, you silly nanny goat! Lizzie Doolittle. All cleaned up and looking like a toff's fancy woman.”

Nan's brown eyes widened and she dropped the bunch of violets she was tying together with twine. “Lizzie, is that really you? I 'eard you learned to talk proper and all, but kick my arse if you ain't the spitting image of a well-off snob. Blimey, you even look pretty, you skinny old natters.”

Eliza knelt down beside her. The two women embraced for much longer than either intended. Behind them, Eliza heard Higgins clear his throat. She finally pushed herself away.

“How are you, old girl?”

“Not doing as blooming good as you.” Nan grinned, displaying a mouth missing some teeth. Even though she was but five and twenty, poverty—and a drunken common-law husband—had taken a toll on Nan's looks and teeth.

“Is Silas treating you right?” Eliza asked. She hoped Nan would admit the lout had either died or been hauled off to jail.

She gingerly touched Eliza's sleeve, as if amazed by its color and silkiness. “Silas is a bleeding bastard, same as ever. But if he ain't in his cups, he's no worse than any other man. 'Course, he ain't giving me lovely pink dresses like your gent 'ere.” Nan nodded toward Higgins, who towered over them both.

Eliza laughed. “Professor Higgins is not my gent. But he is the man who taught me to speak proper.”

“Properly,” he corrected.

“Properly,” Eliza repeated, but only after sticking her tongue out at him. “See here, Nan. The Professor is in a spot of trouble. I wonder if you may be able to help us out.”

Her expression turned wary. “Don't see 'ow the likes of me can help a gent like 'im.”

“Neither do I,” Higgins said.

Ignoring them both, Eliza once more opened her purse. This time she pulled out the button she'd found on the carpet that day outside Nepommuck's apartment. She was thankful she'd kept it, suspecting even then it was a clue as to the intruder's identity. Luckily it had been easy to find back in her room at Mrs. Higgins's apartment; aside from the extensive wardrobe that the Colonel had bought her, Eliza had few personal possessions.

The late afternoon sun shone through the skylight overhead as Eliza held out the button for Nan to examine. The sunlight set the golden button aglow.

“Cor, ain't that a pretty piece.” Nan squinted. “I take it you want my opinion?”

Higgins gave a snort, but Eliza hushed him. “Don't be rude, Professor. Nan knows a sight more than you do about fancy buttons and jewels.”

“It's true, sir,” she said, displaying those missing front teeth. “Me dad fenced most of the gold and jewels boosted in south London. And 'alf of what was stolen in England. At least till the coppers run 'im into jail. 'E taught me 'ow to recognize what's quality and what ain't.”

“Is this quality?”

Nan held it up to the light and then bit on the button's edge. “Ain't copper or brass. 'Tis real gold, and engraved.”

“I could have told you that,” Higgins muttered.

“Is the design on it a family crest?” Eliza asked.

Nan shook her head. “Don't have the look or feel of an antique button from a noble family. A fine piece, though. No more than five, ten years old. Lots of gold in this button, too. A dozen of these on a coat or jacket would cost two hundred quid at least. Maybe more.”

“So a person of quality owned it?”

“A person of means anyway.” Nan laughed. “The two ain't always the same.”

“How about the design carved on it?” Eliza asked. “The head of a lion surrounded by stars. Have you seen that before?”

Nan examined it for a long moment. “I seen lions on a button, stars, too. Just ain't seen 'em on the same button. Seems like a fancy crest dreamed up by someone looking to move up in the world. Lots of folks what come into money feel bad they ain't got no proper family crest, so they make up one of their own. Real quality wouldn't wear something like this. A bit gaudy, y'see. But it cost plenty just the same.” She handed the button back to Eliza, who returned it to her drawstring bag.

Higgins pulled out his wallet, but Nan waved him off. “No need to pay me. I'm just glad to see little Lizzie 'ere again. Besides, I ain't never paid 'er for these baskets.”

Eliza gave her a great hug, making certain to slip the rest of the money from her own purse into the pocket of Nan's skirt. “Take care of yourself, please.”

“Ta, luv,” Nan said when Eliza stood. “And don't be afraid to come to the market for a chat now and then.”

“I will.” However, Eliza wasn't certain she wanted to come back to a place that held so many memories of her former life.

Nan sighed. “Sorry I wasn't more 'elpful.”

“But you
have
been helpful, Nan. Now we don't have to waste time looking up old family crests. And I'll keep an eye out for a lady or gentleman wearing clothes with buttons that have a lion surrounded by stars stamped on them.”

Nan resumed tying up her bunches of violets. “Don't waste time looking at the ladies. That button belongs on a gent's jacket. A lady fancies flowers or a fleur-de-lis on their buttons, not a blooming lion's 'ead.” She looked up at Eliza and Higgins. “Trust me. It was a man what lost that button, not a lady.”

*   *   *

By the time they reached Waterloo Bridge, Eliza's energy had noticeably flagged. Higgins couldn't resist a chuckle when she once again slipped her feet out of those fancy shoes Pick had bought her. She leaned against the bridge's half wall and massaged first one foot, then the other. If she wanted to be a lady, then she'd have to be as uncomfortable as one of them, too.

As for him, it had been a most productive afternoon. His notebook was filled with snatches of dialect and rough speech he'd had the good fortune to overhear. After that blasted night spent in custody at Scotland Yard, it was heaven to be out and about on a warm spring day in London. He looked at Eliza, who struggled to put her French-heeled shoes back on.