Wouldn't It Be Deadly (36 page)

Shaking off the plaster dust, Eliza looked around the rubble. “Where is that sneaky bastard?” she asked aloud.

“Right here, you miserable tart.”

She spun around to see Harrison looming over her.

He gripped her throat. “You've ruined everything. Everything!”

Eliza clawed at his hands, but this time he wouldn't let go. The bright lights dimmed. The sounds of shouting and objects crashing all around her began to ebb. Would he strangle her here, in front of all these people? If she had any breath left, her last words would be, “Where in blooming hell is Scotland Yard?”

Right before she blacked out, she saw a skull float in the air above her. I must be already dead, she thought. A second later, the skull came crashing down on Harrison's head.

He collapsed in a heap onto the stage without a sound. Eliza staggered back. The spry actor who played one of the gravediggers stood over the unconscious butler. The remains of Yorick's skull were still clenched in his hands. With a satisfied grin, the gravedigger handed what was left of the skull to Eliza.

Ignoring her pained throat, Eliza held it aloft. “Alas, poor bastard!” she shouted. “Yorick has done you in!”

The audience roared with approval. Applause and laughter thundered from every corner of the theater. Clasping the gravedigger's hand, Eliza and he bowed for the cheering crowd. Cor, but this was exciting. No wonder Miss Page loved the theater so much.

Spread-eagled on the floor, Miss Terry raised her head and looked in horror at the standing ovation out front. A broken crown sat askew on her head. An infuriated Hamlet threw his bent rapier at Eliza. In the wings, she glimpsed John Barrymore doubled over with laughter. A red-faced man in a formal suit stood beside him, his mouth hanging open.

A piercing whistle broke through the din. Everyone stood still, except for Claudius and Laertes, who continued to wrestle each other at the back of the stage. Eliza felt dizzy with relief as Jack marched onstage, followed by six of his plainclothes detectives.

She grinned wider when Higgins bounded up the stairs from the front of the stage. He looked happier than she had ever seen him.

“Professor, come here, I want you to meet the gravedigger.” Eliza gave the fellow a kiss on his cheek. “He saved my life, he did.”

But Higgins pointed behind her. “Eliza, watch out!”

She turned to see Redstone only a few feet away. Jack was on him in a heartbeat, and detectives immediately surrounded them.

“Are you hurt, Lizzie?” Jack asked as he gave Redstone an angry shake.

“I'm fine now.” Picking up one of the rapiers, she pointed it at Redstone. “And don't worry. If he makes a move, I'll run him through. Along with Harrison.”

The red-faced fellow from the wings staggered onstage. He looked aghast at the wreckage. The actor who played Osric hiccupped. “The manager's here. Everyone look sharp!”

Jack seemed concerned over the man's stricken expression. “Are you all right, Mr. Collins? You look ill.”

He opened and closed his mouth at least three times but no words came out.

“I think he's in shock,” Higgins said.

Jack stepped closer. “Sir, do you want to say anything?”

The manager took a deep breath. “Curtain down!”

 

TWENTY-ONE

Higgins kicked aside what was left of Yorick's skull. He settled back on the throne with a satisfied grin. Without a doubt, this was the greatest performance of
Hamlet
he had ever seen. His only regret was that he had missed part of the wild theatrics onstage. After Pickering informed him that Redstone was headed for his rooms at the Club, he knew the Major would discover the missing poetry book. And that made him even more dangerous. How was Higgins to guess that while he met with Jack, his detectives, and the manager in the lobby, Eliza was wreaking delightful havoc in the final scene? Luckily he caught the last few moments of it.

To his delight, the performance continued. Although the audience out front had gone home, the actors remained onstage, as did Eliza, Major Redstone, and Harrison. And like Roman soldiers guarding the lion pit at the Coliseum, Jack Shaw's detectives ringed the stage. None of the actors who participated in the final scene were allowed to leave, not even the nervous fellow who played Fortinbras. Higgins suspected the young man was close to tears.

“I am bringing suit against everyone in the last act!” Theater manager Arthur Collins stood in their midst. “Do you realize that the critics from four London papers were out front tonight? Critics! How dare all of you turn the hallowed boards of the Drury Lane into a boxing exhibition! What in blazes came over you?”

The actor who played Hamlet pointed an accusing finger at Eliza. “She's the one who started it. I'm dueling with Jimmy as nice as you please, and suddenly this lunatic girl knocks down the castle wall and takes a seat on the queen's throne! Why didn't someone come out and drag her away? Instead she's drinking from the flagons and quoting
my
lines. Then she takes off with my rapier. We rehearsed our fencing duel for weeks. What do I get for all that hard work? A bloody nose and tights ripped up my arse!”

Higgins chuckled. Sitting in the throne that belonged to King Claudius gave him a perfect view of the results of tonight's mayhem. That included a startling look at the bare buttocks of Hamlet. Shakespeare himself might have enjoyed the new ending to his play. Certainly both Higgins and the audience laughed more tonight than at any production of
Twelfth Night
or
The Taming of the Shrew
.

“What did you want me to do, mate?” Eliza piped up from where she sat cross-legged on the stage. “I had two gents chasing after me, one of them a murderer. The way I see it, I needed a sword a lot more than you did.”

“It's a rapier!” Hamlet shouted.

She stuck out her tongue.

“I don't care if Jack the Ripper was after you, young woman.” The manager's face flushed with rage. “You had no reason to run onstage and ruin the performance.”

“That Hamlet of yours was doing a pretty rum job of ruining it before I got here,” she said, picking pieces of broken plaster out of her hair.

“If I had my rapier back, I'd run you through myself,” Hamlet said. Eliza tossed a chunk of plaster at him. “Damnation, stop that!”

Higgins's burst of laughter drew everyone's attention. “Come now, Collins. Tonight's play was far more enjoyable than those annual Christmas pantomimes of yours. In fact, if they were as rousing as tonight's performance, I'd buy a ticket right now.”

Collins ignored him. “And I can't blame only this impertinent girl and those two ruffians over there.” The manager gestured toward Redstone and Harrison. “The rest of you lost complete control of yourselves. You're all to blame. The set is destroyed, and the props into the bargain. And at some point during the melee, I saw the dead King Claudius get to his feet and tackle Laertes!”

The actor who played Claudius seemed insulted. “Not without cause. Laertes flung a goblet right at my face.”

Laertes wore a contrite expression. “I was aiming for that fellow there.” He nodded at Redstone, now guarded by two detectives. “Wait, maybe it was the man on the stretcher. I don't know. There was simply so much commotion, the esteemed Mr. Hopkins got in the way. My dear man, I am so sorry.”

Mr. Hopkins, an actor renowned for his Shakespearean roles, looked up from examining his black eye in a hand mirror. “Apology not accepted.”

“Never mind about your eye. Who threw the poisoned goblet at me?” Miss Ellen Terry rose to her full height. Higgins winced at the sight of an egg-shaped bruise forming on the famous actress's forehead.

“I think it was one of the gravediggers,” Eliza said.

The chaps who played the gravediggers hurried to hide behind Fortinbras's attendants.

Collins flung his arms into the air. “Why were the gravediggers onstage anyway?”

“It was a lucky thing they were.” Everyone turned to look at Higgins again. “After all, one of the gravediggers knocked out that man”—he pointed to Harrison, who lay moaning on a nearby stretcher—“with the skull of Yorick. Poetic justice, I say. Especially since Miss Doolittle claims that Harrison is the man who murdered Nepommuck.”

“Who the bloody hell is Nepommuck?” one of the actors asked.

The manager shook his head. “I have never seen such a performance of
Hamlet
in all my years in the theater. It was absolute bedlam. And don't think I have forgotten that someone threw a lance right into the audience. It landed in the lap of the Liberal MP from Ipswich! I guarantee we haven't heard the last of that.”

Higgins noticed that one of the king's attendants averted his eyes in shame.

“I'm stunned the audience didn't demand we refund their tickets,” Miss Terry said.

“From where I sat, they got their money's worth tonight,” Higgins replied.

“Hear, hear!” The actor who played Osric leaned against an overturned table, waving his torn cloak like a flag. “Well done, I say.”

“Drunken sod.” Hamlet kicked one of the broken crowns in the young man's direction.

Pickering cleared his throat. “Since your own actors fought like pugilists tonight—one of them inebriated—I do not see how you can criticize the actions of Miss Doolittle.” The Colonel stood over Eliza in a belated attempt to protect her.

Higgins realized that even he had underestimated the Cockney cabbage. Eliza had proved that not only could she take care of herself, she could bring the house down while doing it.

“Because Miss Doolittle is the hooligan who started it all.” Collins ran a finger along his white formal collar, clearly getting hotter under the stage lights. “As if it wasn't appalling enough she set off a brawl onstage, she then had the audacity to quote lines from the play!”

A look of pride crossed her face. “I memorized all of it, I did.”

Higgins gave another hearty laugh, prompting the tipsy Osric to pass him a silver flask. He took a sip. The brandy went down his throat like fire. If the lad had been gulping this all night, it was a miracle he was still upright.

With a contented sigh, Higgins surveyed the stage strewn with broken props, bruised actors, and Scotland Yard detectives. Who knew a night at the theater could be this thrilling? He had prevailed on Freddy to see to it that the Eynsford Hill ladies, as well as his own mother, were safely escorted home. No one needed the excitable Mr. Eynsford Hill stirring things up even more.

“I hope they arrest you, Doolittle, along with that fellow on the stretcher,” Hamlet shot back. “You ruined the performance
and
butchered the sonorous words of Will Shakespeare!”

Eliza got to her feet with the assistance of Pickering. “Look, mate, I'm sorry I spoiled the play, I really am. I didn't plan on being onstage tonight. And I didn't think I'd be ripping off your tights while crossing swords with the blooming butler there.” She pointed at the semiconscious Harrison. “But don't forget I discovered this brute killed Nepommuck, and kept him from doing anybody else in. Including me! Everyone should stop carrying on about the play, and give me a bit of thanks for bringing a murderer to justice.”

“Are we supposed to take your word for that?” The manager sneered.

“You can take mine.” Jack strode onstage. “Along with the word of Miss Page. She overheard everything.”

Now fully dressed in a fashionable gown, Rosalind Page followed behind him. Higgins noticed that she bit back a grin at the sight of the wrecked set and disheveled actors.

Jack stood in the middle of the stage. “Miss Page was privy to the conversation between Miss Doolittle and Mr. Harrison. She has corroborated Harrison's confession to the murder of Emil Nepommuck, otherwise known as the Maestro. In fact, she is coming to Scotland Yard now to give her official statement.”

A loud moan sounded from the stretcher. Harrison had revived enough to catch sight of Rosalind, who was gorgeously gowned in flounces of rose tulle with a wide-brimmed hat atop her auburn curls. “She ain't no lady. She's—she's a chap.” He pointed a shaky finger at her. “A right bloke with a set to match my own!”

The fellow who played Horatio rolled his eyes.

Higgins worried at what Harrison might say next, but Eliza stepped in.

“He's off his nut, he is. The gravedigger over there smacked him over the head good with that skull. I wouldn't be surprised if he's never quite himself again.” Eliza threw Harrison a look filled with contempt. “Plus he's a blooming liar and a murderer. I don't think anyone will ever believe another word that comes out of his trap.”

Jack cleared his throat. “I assure you the police will listen to both Miss Page and Mr. Harrison, but I am confident that only one will be given the attention and respect they deserve.” He bowed to Rosalind. “My men will escort you to the Yard for your sworn statement. Thank you again for your cooperation and your honesty, Miss Page. I will not soon forget it.”

“You are quite welcome, Detective Inspector. And thank you.”

Rosalind gave him a gracious curtsey before gliding offstage. Higgins chuckled at the awestruck expressions on the detectives' faces. He felt relieved. No one would believe anything a cold-blooded killer like Harrison said, especially a whopper that claimed the most beautiful woman in London was, in fact, a man.

“While I am happy that your job is done, Inspector, I must still deal with the consequences of this ludicrous opening night performance,” Collins said. “As manager of the Drury Lane Theatre, I demand justice of my own.”

“Then you will have to seek it elsewhere, sir,” Jack said. “I am certain this wasn't the first time a criminal has walked into the Drury Lane, and it's not likely to be the last. Yes, it is regrettable the play was disrupted. But apprehending a killer is worth disrupting a hundred plays.” His expression softened. “And perhaps you should think of the publicity, not all of which will be unwelcome. The papers won't be talking about any other play but yours for weeks.”