Wouldn't It Be Deadly (24 page)

“If this is how they search for evidence, I'm not surprised they haven't caught the Maestro's killer yet.” Eliza frowned when she reached the last book. “Those blasted Scousers.”

Higgins looked over at her. “What now?”

“
The White Rose
isn't here.”

Redstone knelt beside Eliza. He scanned the titles of the books stacked on the sofa. “Are you certain? Let's look through all of them again.”

But none of them proved to be the volume by the anonymous poet that she'd planned to give him.

“How dare the police steal that book,” Eliza said. “It had nothing to do with either of the murders.”

Redstone didn't look happy. “This doesn't make sense. Why would the police care about a book by an unknown poet? Unless it was a rare book. Did it look antique?”

Standing with arms akimbo, she scanned the mess in her classroom. The sight of the wrecked room had sobered her up. “How would I know what an antique book looked like?”

“Maybe the police are poetry lovers like the Major,” Higgins said from across the room. “They came upon the poems while searching for evidence and ran off to swoon.”

Redstone looked at him with irritation.

“I'll have the coppers swooning the minute I find out who did this,” Eliza said. “And if they have taken anything else of mine, I swear I will—”

“What do you people think you're doing in here?” Two uniformed policemen stood in the doorway dripping rainwater on the carpet.

“No one's supposed to be in here by order of the police,” the taller one said. “Didn't you read the sign? You better have a good explanation as to why you ignored it.”

“I'd like an explanation, too. I am Miss Doolittle and this is my classroom. The wreckage behind me is what is left of my teaching tools.”

“I advise you to adopt a more respectful tone when speaking to us, miss.”

“And I advise you to answer my question, or else my cousin Detective Inspector Shaw will be the next person to listen to my complaints.”

The shorter policeman gestured at the chaotic state of the room. “I'm sure the Inspector will have a complaint of his own when he learns about this. Why the devil have you and your friends ripped this room apart?”

“What!” Higgins said.

“We found it this way,” Eliza said. “Blame the police for this sorry mess.”

Both men looked at each other. “The police haven't been in here since the day of Mr. Nepommuck's murder.”

“You can't be serious,” Redstone said.

“I am Detective Newell and this is Detective MacDonald. I assure you that we take our work seriously. Let me inform you again that no one from the Yard has been here since Thursday last. The room was left in order with every item in place. I can vouch for it since I was here.”

“But Jack told me the rooms would be searched yet again by the police.”

“He was correct, Miss Doolittle. We are the police assigned to search the room.” He paused. “And we have only just arrived.”

Eliza grew cold with fear. “That means another person has been here since then. And looking for something important.”

Redstone touched her arm. “Are you all right, Eliza?”

“No. Not really.”

She once again felt unsteady on her feet. If the police hadn't ransacked her classroom, it could be only one other person.

The killer.

 

FOURTEEN

Eliza vowed never to touch a drop of Irish ale again. When she'd discovered her ransacked classroom yesterday, she had to undergo yet another round of questioning at Scotland Yard—made worse by a queasy stomach and only the dimmest recollection of what she actually told Jack. Today her stomach had mercifully settled, but she woke with a terrible headache. Blimey, she had a hangover. Wouldn't her dad crow to see her now? Gin was mother's milk to Alfred Doolittle, and he'd always teased her for being a teetotaler. Eliza rubbed her throbbing temples. Lord, how did half the population of the East End throw back pints all blooming day without collapsing in the street?

Sipping her tea, Eliza was grateful the Colonel and Redstone had left early for the club. With them gone and Higgins buried behind his newspaper, she was spared having to make conversation. The only thing less desirable at this moment was breakfast. She stared down at the platters of poached eggs, kippers, and raspberry buckle that Mrs. Pearce had laid out for her. But she couldn't even bring herself to nibble the toast.

When the busy housekeeper called her out to the telephone in the front hallway, Eliza welcomed the chance to leave the table.

“Alfred Doolittle wishes to speak with you.” Mrs. Pearce handed her the candlestick base and receiver.

“My dad?” Eliza hadn't heard from him since his wedding day in February.

Mrs. Pearce seemed as surprised as Eliza.

“Hello?” Eliza said.

“Liza? Izzat you?”

Wincing at his bellowing voice, she moved the receiver several inches away from her ear. “Yes, Dad. What—”

“I need to see you straightaway, girl. No excuses.”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Since when does a loving father need a reason to see his daughter? I'm your dad and I want you to come see the family.”

“The family?”

“Me and your stepmother, who else?”

Eliza bit back a groan. There weren't many women she disliked more than her stepmother. Rose Cleary was the sixth in a long line of “stepmothers” and by far the worst. This one was likely to be around for a while, too; she was the only “stepmother” that Alfred Doolittle actually married.

“I can't visit today. Professor Higgins and I have an appointment later this afternoon.”

“I don't give a blooming fig if you're expected at Buck'nhem Palace. Besides, it's only nine o'clock. You got time to come see your family. Or are you thinking you're too good for the likes of us?” His voice grew louder with each word, and her head threatened to explode.

“Dad, you don't understand. The Professor and I are helping the police with the investigation into my employer's murder.”

“That's one of the reasons I wants to see you. I been reading about this murder business in the paper and I need to talk to you. Now get your skinny arse over here. And don't be bringing that Professor fellow, either.”

Eliza sighed. “All right, I'll come round this morning. But it may take me some time to get to Wapping.”

“Nah, we've moved up in the world. We ain't in Wapping no more.”

She memorized the directions he gave and the address. Wasn't that in Pimlico? What were they doing there? After her father nattered on for a good five minutes about how easy this newfangled telephone was to use, compared with the old days of finding a boy to send a message and pay him a halfpenny, Eliza finally rung off in relief.

As soon as she hung up, Eliza had second thoughts about the visit. She didn't relish seeing Rose Cleary. Her father claimed respectability had transformed Rose from a bullying harridan to a meek housewife. Unicorns trotting down Oxford Street would be easier to believe.

An hour later, Eliza emerged from the tube station in Pimlico. The day threatened rain again, and she set off along Belgrave Road through a fine mist. She glanced around at the white stucco terraces lining the road. Her father had moved up in the world, all thanks to Professor Higgins. On the day Eliza visited 27A Wimpole Street to ask for speech lessons, Alfred Doolittle came banging on the door soon after to shake Higgins down for a few quid. Not only did he get his five-pound note, the Professor had been so amused by the dustman's gift of gab that he mentioned him to an American millionaire. Although Higgins did this as a joke, the wealthy Ezra D. Wannafeller thought an articulate Cockney dustman sounded like the perfect person to work for the Wannafeller Reform Moral Societies. And when Mr. Wannafeller died, he left Alfred Doolittle an annuity of three thousand pounds if he would lecture for his Moral Reform League six times a year. Now her father was a respectable gentleman with the money—if not the manners—to prove it.

Finally spotting the correct address, she crossed the street. “Would you look at that?” she said aloud. “Flowers in the window and polished railings on the stoop.”

Eliza couldn't help admiring the pristine house with its narrow portico and colorful mass of pansies planted in window boxes. This house had cost her father a pretty penny. She lifted the heavy brass knocker shaped like a horse's head and rapped three times.

A parlor maid in black with a crisp white apron and cap opened the door. “Yes, miss?”

“I'm here to see Mr. Doolittle. I'm his daughter.”

The maid led her through a hallway covered in gold-and-white striped wallpaper and into the large parlor. The familiar smell of boiled cabbage and corned beef wafted through the house. Even with a windfall of three thousand a year, her father had apparently not developed a taste for mint jelly and capon.

The parlor also reassured her that newfound wealth hadn't resulted in either her father or her stepmother acquiring good taste. The crowded room was crammed full of tapestries, paintings of horses, potted ferns, and plush velvet furniture. Whatnot shelves stood in every corner filled with ceramic vases and souvenirs. And framed family photographs were scattered on every possible surface. While Eliza didn't recognize any of the people in the photos, she did notice a distinct resemblance to Rose Cleary. She frowned when she caught sight of the framed marriage certificate propped against a carved statue of an Indian elephant.

From upstairs came the sound of a slammed door and shrill voices. More noises and footsteps rippled above the parlor. She swore she heard a baby's muffled wail. Had the entire Cleary family emigrated from Ireland and taken up residence here in Pimlico?

Eliza leaned out of the doorway and peeked up the carpeted stairs. Two small heads stared back at her between the topmost banister's spindles and then vanished. A moment later her father appeared at the top of the stairs. Despite his age, he had more energy than an Eton boy and nearly galloped down the steps. Of course, he hadn't bothered to get dressed. Instead he sported a tattered plaid robe over his trousers. He hadn't shaved yet, either, and his eyes looked bleary. Even three thousand a year couldn't change some things.

“Well, well, my girl, high time you got here.” He charged past her into the parlor.

“You never mentioned moving out of Wapping the last time I saw you,” Eliza said as he sat back in a large velvet wingback chair.

“Ah, your stepmother rooked me into buying this place. Ain't it a beaut, though? We're movin' up in the world, that we are.”

She didn't have the heart to tell him this area of Pimlico was on its way downward in terms of the fashionable neighborhoods. Still, it was a damn sight better than the rundown streets of Wapping.

“Why is there a photograph on the mantel of a horse and jockey?”

“Noticed that, did you? That's the sire of the horse I bought,” he said, puffed with pride. “All his offspring have been winners, and so will the Donegal Dancer. Thought the name was a bit of luck, too, since your mum was from Donegal. That little colt is sure to beat the rest of the field at Ascot. Wait and see if I'm right.”

Eliza rolled her eyes. First a house and now a racehorse! Oh well, it wasn't any skin off her nose. Let him waste his money at the races while Rose filled these rooms with lavish knickknacks. Before too long they'd have to make do on a budget—or head back to Wapping. Her father spotted a decanter on a side table and rose to pour a glass of water. She suspected the water might be gin.

“Money can be a terrible burden, Eliza. Here I am tied hand and foot, and the ropes tightening every day.” He took a hefty swig and sighed. “Me wife's family moved in lock, stock, and barrel. Her nephew and his family are stuffed in the attic, and her brother and sister-in-law in the spare bedroom. Blimey, there ain't no room left for the rats, although some of those Clearys could pass for 'em.”

“I haven't heard from you in months, Dad. I near fainted from shock when you called me today.”

He returned to the armchair. “You're my daughter. Why shouldn't I call you? Wonder what your mum would think of you now, all gussied up like a lady. She'd be proud as a peacock, I wager.”

“I wish that were true.” Eliza sighed. “I also wish I could remember her.”

“You were barely three when she passed. No reason you should remember.”

Eliza sat down on a settee. “What did Mum die from again? You once told me it was a fever that took her, but Aunt Maud said it was the croup.”

“I didn't call you here to talk about your mother. It's about the Governor what put me in this muddle. That Professor of yours.” He tossed back another swig, and then wiped his mouth. “Wish now I'd never shown up on his doorstep, I do. That was the end of my free and easy life, the day I asked him for five quid.”

“You can't blame Professor Higgins for giving you what you asked for.”

“Well, I never asked him to send my name to that rich American bloke, did I? Now I'm one of the blasted middle class, and it's a sorry state to be in.” He pulled out a handkerchief from his robe pocket and blew his nose. “Then I hears about you and all the messy business you're in, so what's a father to do, I asks ya!”

“What are you talking about?” Eliza resented his sudden interest in her welfare. He had never worried about her before. “I'm not involved in any messy business.”

“You telling me you ain't involved in that murder business with the Hungarian?”

“It's hardly my fault that my employer was killed. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Nothing, is it? Are you knackers? Come on, girl. I read the papers. You know as well as I do that the Governor ain't above taking a rival down. Who's to say he didn't stab that foreign bloke in the back?”