Wouldn't It Be Deadly (16 page)

“How are you feeling, my dear?” Pickering asked.

“I hope you slept well.” Redstone pulled out the cushioned chair beside him.

“I am well, thank you. Just a bit sore,” she said, and sat down in relief.

“Good to see you back, Miss Eliza.” Mrs. Pearce poured coffee into a china cup and placed it before her. “The cream is fresh. I'll bring you some deviled kidneys on toast if you like. There's bacon on the sideboard along with currant scones and chilled strawberries. And a platter of scrambled eggs.”

“No deviled kidneys this morning, thank you.”

Eliza rose again and walked to the sideboard laid out with platters of fruit, eggs, bacon, and pastry. Still ravenous from yesterday's nonstop activity, she heaped food onto her plate. Perhaps she ought to ask Mrs. Pearce to bring her a few of those deviled kidneys after all. Eliza returned to the table not only with a full plate, but carrying the tiered dish of scones.

After the first few delicious mouthfuls, Eliza shot a look at Higgins still hidden behind his paper. “In case you're curious, Professor, I had quite a restful sleep despite the incident on the bridge.”

He lowered the paper a few inches. “Am I supposed to inquire about your welfare on an hourly basis? You must be mistaking me for Freddy.”

“As if I could ever mistake that sweet fellow for you.” She sprinkled sugar on her strawberries. “Anyway, you'd best hurry with your own breakfast and see about getting dressed. We have work to do.”

“Work? I don't know of any work.”

“Proving your innocence.”

“Isn't that Scotland Yard's job? Murder is their business, not ours.”

“Unpleasant business, too.” Redstone poured himself another cup of coffee from the silver pot that sat before him. “You might have been seriously injured last night. I'm surprised a policeman wasn't on Waterloo Bridge when you were attacked. Busy thoroughfare, that.”

Pickering set down his cup hard on the saucer. “Dash it all, Henry! You ought to have kept a better eye on our Eliza. Especially in that neighborhood, and with a killer running around London.”

Higgins grunted. “There are always a few killers running about London. I doubt they're all after Eliza.”

“I'm fine, Colonel,” Eliza said, sipping coffee. “I'm upset that my purse was stolen because I wanted to give my cousin the button. Besides, I'm not certain the attack was related to the Maestro's murder. It may have been a common thief.”

“Exactly. It could have happened anywhere in the city, which we explored quite thoroughly yesterday. I believe we looked everywhere but the King's bedchamber at Buckingham Palace.” Higgins turned the page of his paper and continued reading.

“Well, you're safe here with us, Eliza,” Pickering said. “We'll keep an eye on you. Won't we, Reddy?”

“Absolutely,” the Major chimed in. “No one remotely suspicious will have a chance to get anywhere near you, Miss Doolittle. You have our word.”

Eliza was touched by their concern. “Thank you so much.”

Pickering turned to Redstone. “What say we head to the club then, my good man?”

She hid her smile by biting into a scone. No doubt they hadn't given much thought as to how safe she would be once they had gone off to the club. Men were an odd lot, indeed.

“Although we'll need to reserve a private room to discuss our translations.” Redstone leaned closer to Eliza. “Whispers bother the older members. They're asleep most of the time, you know. I suspect a few of them have passed on and no one has noticed yet.”

She returned his sly smile with one of her own.

Mrs. Pearce entered the room with another pot of coffee. “Your things will be packed and sent over shortly from Mrs. Higgins's home,” the housekeeper said.

Higgins raised an eyebrow at the loud banging on the front door. “Damn tradesmen. Why can't they use the back door? Next thing you know, they'll be sitting down at table with us.”

Still hungry after finishing her eggs, Eliza snitched a currant scone from the cake dish.

“I say, Reddy, what did you make of that passage we tried last night?” Pickering asked. “I wish this translation was a bit clearer.”

“I believe it refers to—”

Redstone stopped as Freddy burst into the dining room. “Eliza! Mrs. Higgins told me what happened last night. Are you hurt?”

“No, not in the least,” she said, intent on enjoying her currant scone.

“Why were you alone on Waterloo Bridge, my darling?”

“I wasn't alone. The Professor was with me.” With his cheeks flushed redder than usual, Eliza thought Freddy looked adorable.

“I called this morning at the flat, thinking you were still there. I was dreadfully worried. Ever since Clara and I were questioned in Scotland Yard by that brute of an inspector—”

“Remember that brute is my cousin.” Eliza threw him a warning look.

“Oh, I don't care about him. Mrs. Higgins told me you'd been attacked, and your purse cut from your wrist.” He grabbed her hand and examined it, ignoring her wince of pain. “Look, there! A thin pink mark.”

“From my purse's silk drawstring. It's nothing. Have a seat.” She pushed him into the empty chair on her other side. “I'm fine, Freddy. I wasn't hurt.”

“But darling, you might have been killed.”

“I'm sitting here beside you, alive and well.” Eliza rubbed her chafed wrist. “Have some breakfast. You'll feel better.”

Mrs. Pearce topped off Higgins's cup and poured coffee for their new guest. Still upset about Eliza's attack, Freddy's hand noticeably shook as he added cream to his cup. He glanced at the others around the table. Higgins remained hidden behind his paper.

Pickering nodded at Freddy. “So good to see you survived Scotland Yard, young man.”

“Yes, sir. But poor Eliza was kept there for hours.” He grabbed her hand again. “I thought this whole matter was behind us, and then last night you were attacked. It's all too much, darling. I fear for your safety.”

Embarrassed, she took another scone from the tray and put it on Freddy's plate. “He wanted my purse, that's all. Besides, the thief didn't make off with any money.”

“Right, then,” Pickering said. “Now, Reddy, about that verse we were looking at last night. I don't believe it has anything to do with romantic love. A Buddhist scholar wrote it seven hundred years ago.”

“A Buddhist scholar is a man like any other. Desire is timeless.”

Redstone caught Eliza's eye and nodded toward Freddy with a smile. She realized he had forgotten his concern over her as he wolfed down the scone, then reached for another.

Pickering waved his knife. “I'll prove it once we get to the club. Some of the text is so indecipherable, I can barely read it at all.”

“How marvelous to imagine the two of you translating a poem that is seven hundred years old.” Eliza moved the bowl of clotted cream closer to Freddy.

“And in a Sanskrit dialect long forgotten.” Pickering sighed. “Unfortunately my book is useless as a reference.”

“Not completely useless. We did decipher a few puzzling words with your
Spoken Sanskrit
.”

“I'd love to read the poems when the translations are complete,” Eliza said.

Redstone looked at her with even more interest than usual. “Do you like poetry, Miss Doolittle?”

She nodded. “Very much. Before I came to Wimpole Street, I only knew a few rhymes, usually ones the street sellers sang in the market. But the Professor and Colonel Pickering used a number of texts to teach me how to speak properly. Several were books of poetry.”

Pickering smiled. “Keats, if I remember right.”

“And Emily Brontë, Kipling, Tennyson. Although I didn't care much for Tennyson.” Eliza eyed the plate of scones, wondering if she dared have another. “Poems are perfect for teaching someone the rhythms of speech. Even Nepommuck told me to use books of poetry for my lessons.”

The Professor muttered behind his newspaper again.

Pickering raised an eyebrow in distaste. “I can only imagine the sort of poetry that fellow had a taste for.”

“Limericks,” Higgins said.

“Not at all.” Eliza dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “He recommended Kipling. He also gave me poetry by writers he said were now forgotten: Temperance Burns, Hiram Daniels, Jasper Willoughby. My favorite was this little book of love poems called
The White Rose
.”

Redstone seemed puzzled. “I've never heard of any of these poets. Who wrote
The White Rose
?”

She shrugged. “Anonymous, which seems a funny sort of name. Anyway, the poems were written for a young woman. The book is dedicated inside to the White Rose of Rossendale, wherever that is.”

“Lancashire,” Higgins said from behind the newspaper.

“Well, whoever this Anonymous fellow was, he wrote some lovely poems. I imagine him as a handsome young soldier in the cavalry, pining away for his lady.”

Higgins peeked around the side of his paper. “He probably was a fat old man from the suburbs of Manchester, with a nagging wife and an even worse mother-in-law.”

“Henry, really,” Pickering said. “If ever there was a man resistant to poetry, it would be you.”

“Not at all, old chap. I have committed every line of Milton to memory. Now there's a poet, all thunder and gloom the way it ought to be.”

Redstone winked at Eliza. “Pay him no mind. A great love poem is like a song from God.”

She smiled at him. “You don't have to convince me. I quite enjoyed using the poetry books in my lessons. And Nepommuck was generous enough to make a gift of them to me.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back in my classroom at Belgrave Square. I should return and pack up what remains of my things. I certainly have no intention of resuming lessons just a few feet away from where he was murdered.”

“I'd like to see these poetry books when you retrieve them, especially the love poems in
The White Rose
. Interesting to see how they compare with the ancient Sanskrit poets that Pick and I are working on.”

“Of course,” she said. Sitting beside Redstone, Eliza realized for the first time that he was a handsome man. How had she not noticed that before? In fact, Freddy seemed quite boyish next to the tall strapping Major. And despite Freddy's love-struck chattering, she doubted he knew—or would even understand—a single poem.

A thought occurred to her. “The Professor and I have plans to visit Nepommuck's apartment today.”

“We do?” Higgins lowered his paper.

“How many times must I tell you? We need to get the list of Nepommuck's students and their addresses.”

“I've turned into a blasted police constable.”

“While we're there, I'll pop across the hall and retrieve the poetry books from my classroom,” Eliza said to Redstone.

“Excellent.” He looked across the table at Pickering. “I say, why don't we accompany them on the way to the club? We can take the books with us.”

“Fine idea, Reddy.”

“Good,” she said. “As soon as we're done with breakfast—and the Professor gets out of his pajamas—we can take a cab to Belgrave Square.”

Redstone cleared his throat. “Speaking of poetry books, Miss Doolittle, this seems an opportune time to give you a little something I found at the booksellers this week.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a slim leather-bound volume.

Higgins put down his paper.

Eliza's eyes widened. “What is it?”

Redstone placed the thin book in her hands.
“Hamlet,”
he said quietly.

Eliza was touched that he remembered her chagrin at the garden party about never having read the play. “What a thoughtful gift,” she said when she could finally trust her voice. “Thank you so much.”

Redstone smiled. “I hoped you'd like it.”

“I say, this seems most improper, Eliza. The gentleman scarcely knows you,” Freddy protested. “I insist you return the book to him at once.”

“Do be quiet, Freddy.” Eliza fluttered the pages of the book.

She stopped at the title page where Redstone had inscribed: “To the poetry lover of Wimpole Street.” He was such a considerate gentleman. No wonder he and Colonel Pickering were good friends. Elisa impulsively leaned over to give Redstone a quick hug. Freddy almost dropped his coffee cup.

“Since you care so much for poetry,” Redstone said, “you may like to hear a stanza from the poem we're translating.”

“Please.”

Redstone's blue eyes fastened on her intently. “‘Flushed with love, the moon puts forth his hand upon the cloud breasts of the night whose dark robe he has opened, revealing the silver honey within—'”

“How dare you!” Freddy sputtered so hard, crumbs landed on the tablecloth and his suit. He stood. “First you have the bad manners to give Eliza a volume of Shakespeare, and now you dare quote lewd poetry to her! I can't believe the liberties you take with the woman I love.”

Eliza tugged at his coat. “Sit down, Freddy.”

The Major shrugged. “I merely gave the lady an example of what we're translating, Mr. Eynsford Hall.”

“Hill. Frederick Eynsford Hill the Third.”

Redstone inclined his head with a worldly smile. “I beg your pardon. Mr. Eynsford Hill.” He paused. “The Third.”

The younger man's stammering indignation was no match for Redstone's confident tone and manner. “Eliza, you're coming home to live with me.”

“What?” Eliza choked on her coffee.

“I meant, you must come live with Mother and me,” Freddy corrected. “And Clara, of course. Mrs. Pearce, please fetch her things. I'm sorry, but I'm putting my foot down.”

“No. Now finish your breakfast.”

“But that poem was revolting. I couldn't possibly let you spend another hour, let alone another night, under the same roof as this man. You must leave with me at once.”