Wouldn't It Be Deadly (9 page)

“She's a murder suspect, sir, all the same.”

“Miss Doolittle is no murderer, Detective Grint.” Jack gave her a wink. “She's my cousin.”

*   *   *

He'd gone too far this time. Henry Higgins stood at the railing along the Victoria Embankment staring at the Thames, now barely visible in the twilight. Guilt wasn't familiar to him, but as much as he hated to admit it, he was feeling a few guilty pangs now.

Don't know why I should, Higgins thought. If ever a scoundrel deserved a comeuppance, it was that blasted Hungarian. And seeing as how he had lied about so much else in his background, Higgins was amazed Nepommuck had been honest about being Hungarian. Since the lying bloke was fluent in thirty-two languages, he could have passed himself off as a native of any number of countries. It certainly would have made sense for Nepommuck—or Bela Kardos, as he was really called—to have taken on another nationality along with that fabricated royal lineage.

Higgins could only guess that the mountebank genuinely missed his homeland. The tiresome fellow loved to prattle about the glory of the Carpathian Mountains and the beauty of the Danube. He had even extolled the wonders of Hungarian cuisine, which as far as Higgins knew consisted largely of goulash.

Nepommuck wouldn't be suffering homesickness any longer. Higgins was shocked at how quickly word of the murder had traveled from the police to the evening editions of the penny dailies. For the past hour, newsboys had been crying out, “Disgraced Hungarian royal found murdered at Belgrave Square!” from every London corner. Of course, Higgins had felt compelled to buy a copy. And he was dismayed to read that a Miss Doolittle had found the dead body. Higgins knew that Eliza wouldn't forgive him for this, not with her damnable moral code.

In fact, he could hear her now: “Look what you've done, you arrogant bully. Just look what you've done!”

“Hey, guv'nor, can you spare a few coppers for an old soldier what lost a leg in the Transvaal?” a hoarse voice said.

A man dressed in a ragged army jacket held out his cap with one hand. A crutch supported his thin body. Even in the growing dusk, Higgins could see that the fellow did indeed have only one leg.

“And you don't want to be thinking about jumping into the river, guv. From the looks of you, I'm a damn sight worse off, and I ain't thinkin' of throwing meself in the drink.”

Those South Welsh tones sounded familiar. “Corporal Ted Trent, is that you?”

The fellow squinted at Higgins in the fading light. “Professor Higgins? Didn't see it was you. Thought you was just some toff what was getting ready to end it all.”

“So you thought it would be the perfect time to ask for a few coins?”

“Well, if a body is fixing to end it all, they got no more need for pound and pence, now do they?”

Higgins gave a short laugh. “Just so, Teddy. But I didn't plan on jumping into the Thames. I only needed to clear my head, think a few things through.” He paused. “It's been an interesting day.”

“They're all interesting if you ask me, as long as you're still breathing.”

“I believe you're right, Corporal.” This veteran of the last Boer War made him feel even guiltier about Nepommuck.

“Now that I sees that it's you, guv, how about if we talk for a while like the other times, and you can write down how a Swansea bloke like me sounds.”

“For a fee, of course.” Despite his glum mood, Higgins couldn't help smiling.

The fellow shrugged. “Seeing as how you're a well-heeled gent what lives in fancy digs, and I'm spending me nights shivering beneath Blackfriars Bridge—”

Higgins fished out his wallet. “Enough, Corporal. Here's a fiver. And I won't require a demonstration of southern Welsh dialect in return.” He handed the old soldier the money. “Only don't make me feel any guiltier than I already do.”

After the down-on-his-luck corporal shuffled off, Higgins turned his attention back to the river. He should go back to Wimpole Street. He'd been gone since morning, and no doubt Pickering, Eliza, and his mother waited to confront him about the newspaper article. And defend his actions he would. Despite how it ended, Nepommuck deserved to be exposed. Higgins had every right to set the record straight. How was he to guess that the Hungarian hid more secrets than Professor Moriarty?

When the private detective he hired two weeks ago presented him with pages of damning documents and photos from Hungary, Higgins was thrilled. He'd found the perfect weapon with which to take down an enemy who had blithely taken credit for Higgins's own accomplishments. And he had shown all of London—including Eliza—that Nepommuck was nothing but a deceitful bounder.

But Higgins hadn't factored murder into the situation. Scandal he had been prepared for, not a dagger in the back.

He sighed as he turned up the collar of his jacket. His mother would have at him even worse than Eliza for stirring up this hornet's nest. Higgins leaned over the railing and stared into the dark rushing waters below. Probably best that he couldn't see his reflection. He suspected that it might show a guilt-stricken man. Or worse.

*   *   *

“So what are we going to do about this dead man, Lizzie?”

“I don't know, Jack,” Eliza said. “I was hoping the police had a few ideas.”

Her cousin chuckled and drew out a chair for her. He waited for her to sit, like any real gentleman would. Then he turned the other chair around and straddled it to face her.

The door opened once more and Eliza let out a cry of delight. A constable entered with a steel tray holding two mugs, a pot of steaming tea, and a few biscuits. Jack took the role of Mother and poured, adding several lumps of sugar to both cups before handing one to her.

Grint and Hollaway stood near the wall, watching them with narrowed eyes.

Eliza took a long sip of the tea. She was so thirsty, she had to restrain herself from downing the entire hot brew in one gulp. “All I know is I don't like that one of my tuning forks was found in the Maestro's mouth. It makes me look suspicious, but also blooming stupid. As if I would kill a person, then leave something that obvious to point right at me. You and I learned better than that before we turned three.”

Jack offered her one of the biscuits. “That we did.”

She dipped a stale biscuit into her mug and devoured it. “I think I know how the killer got it, too. Last month I came into work with a bag of new tuning forks to use with my lessons. But when I reached the second floor, all the lights had been turned off. I realized I wasn't alone. Someone stood quiet as death farther down the hallway, right outside the Maestro's apartment. When I called out, whoever it was knocked me over like a feather trying to escape.”

Grint gave a derisive snort.

Jack shot him a warning look before turning back to Eliza. “The killer most likely pinched the tuning fork from your sack.”

“Sir, excuse me, but we have no proof that anyone was hiding in the hallway,” Hollaway said. “Except for her word.”

Grint cleared his throat. “Right. Miss Doolittle had access to the victim and ample opportunity to murder him. She also had a motive.”

Eliza choked on the biscuit. “Motive? What motive? If you're going to bring up that nonsense about me killing the Maestro over my salary then I—”

“You're not a suspect, Lizzie,” Jack broke in. “So calm down and enjoy your tea.”

“Sir, just because the young woman is a relative is no reason to believe she's innocent,” Grint said.

Jack nodded. “That's true. However, Nepommuck was last seen alive and well at eleven this morning by the housekeeping staff at Belgrave Square. Both Mr. Eynsford Hill and his sister insist Miss Doolittle was having tea at that time in Belgrave Square Gardens.”

Hollaway took a step forward. “It looked to us that Mr. Eynsford Hill was a bit taken with your cousin, so the gent might be willing to say anything to get his sweetheart released.”

Eliza didn't bother to protest. She knew that even if she were guilty, Freddy most likely would do just that.

“Exactly. Which is why my men and I spent the entire day tracking down every person who was having tea at the garden café this morning. At last count, we have at least eighteen people who swore they remember my charming cousin and her companions taking tea there from half past ten to eleven forty.” Jack glanced at his notebook. “We also have several witnesses—one of them a policeman at Grosvenor Crescent—who remember the three of them strolling past at noon. Miss Doolittle and the Eynsford Hills discovered the body at ten minutes past noon. So where was the opportunity for Miss Doolittle to murder the victim? Unless you believe the Eynsford Hills are accomplices.”

Both Hollaway and Grint looked sheepish at that suggestion. “The two of them don't seem like murderers,” Grint said reluctantly.

“Neither does Miss Doolittle,” said Jack. “And all three of them have witnesses which prove their innocence. From this point on, I will not hear a single word accusing them of anything criminal. Is that clear?”

Both detectives nodded.

Her cousin continued. “My main concern right now is the murder weapon.”

“The dagger,” Eliza said with a shiver.

“It's not technically a dagger. If it was, we'd have an easier time tracing where it came from. No, the weapon was an ordinary carving knife. A common brand made by Sheffield. You could find it in half the kitchens of London. Regent Street shops sell dozens of them every day. I'm afraid it isn't much of a clue.”

“That's too bad,” she said. “But did you release Freddy and Clara?”

Jack sipped his tea. “Hours ago. They weren't much help except for clearing you. The girl was totally hysterical. And truth to tell, the boy wasn't much better. I gave up trying to get a coherent story from either of them. And I am sorry that you've been kept here so long. But since some of my colleagues were convinced a young lady schoolteacher had done the deed, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went out there myself like the footpad I used to be and started doing my job.”

Eliza reached over and squeezed his hand. “Thank you. If I was still selling flowers, I'd send you a basket heaped with them.” Her eyes widened. “Maybe I should send flowers, but to your wife. After all, you must be married by now.”

He grinned. “Nearly. Miss Sybil Chase accepted my proposal of marriage just last week.”

“How lovely. You must tell me all about her.”

Grint cleared his throat, and Jack's expression turned serious. “We should probably leave that to another time,” he said.

Eliza sighed. “For a moment, I forgot about the murder. And that I was a suspect.”

“Not any longer. And you were never a likely suspect anyway.”

She crammed another stale biscuit down. “I do know that some of his pupils were none too happy with the Maestro, and others were a bit too taken with him. But Professor Higgins has known Nepommuck far longer than I have. You should speak to him.”

Jack exchanged glances with the two detectives. “We would very much like to question the Professor, but we've been unable to track him down. The last anyone has seen of him was this morning when he paid a call on his mother.” He paused. “To gloat.”

“About what? The article in the
Daily Mail
exposing Nepommuck?”

“You mean the article that the Professor is responsible for getting published.”

Her appetite vanished. “What do you mean?”

“We spoke to the editor this afternoon. It seems the paper was given exhaustive and accurate information about the true background of Emil Nepommuck, also known as Bela Kardos, ex-convict. All supplied by Professor Henry Higgins of Wimpole Street.”

“Blimey!” Eliza almost dropped her teacup.

“Did you know there was bad blood between the two men?” Jack asked.

Eliza hesitated. Even if Jack was her cousin, she hadn't seen him in a decade and he'd obviously risen far and fast. He'd been kind enough to rescue her, but he was a Scotland Yard inspector. And her ear still stung from the blow delivered by a Yard detective. How much could she really trust any of them?

“They didn't like each other,” she said finally, “but there were plenty others that didn't like Nepommuck, either.”

“So where has he been all day? His colleague Colonel Pickering said Higgins had no appointments on his schedule.”

“You've spoken to the Colonel? Does he know I'm here?”

“Indeed yes. He and a Major Redstone have been waiting for the better part of the day trying to secure your release.”

Eliza pushed herself away from the table. She wanted nothing more at that moment but to lay eyes on the Colonel's kind face. “Please. May I see him now?”

“Better than that. He and the Major can take you home.” Jack turned to Hollaway. “Send the gentlemen in.”

As soon as Pickering appeared, Eliza raced into his arms.

“My dear girl, we've been worried sick,” Pickering murmured. “We had no idea what happened until young Freddy came to Wimpole Street half out of his mind with concern over you. Aubrey and I have done everything but petition the King to get you released.”

Eliza blinked back tears as she looked up at him. “Thank you for that, Colonel.” She turned to Major Redstone, who stood off to the side. “You too, Major.”

“Are you all right, Miss Doolittle?” Redstone asked.

“I am now that both of you are here. Along with my cousin Jack, the Detective Inspector.” She smiled. “We haven't seen each other in years.”

“What?” Redstone threw Jack a puzzled look.

“It's true. The Inspector is my cousin. Both of us were raised hearing the bells of Bow Church.”

Jack grinned. “She means we're East Enders—Cockney to the bone—although I'm proud we learned to disguise our old accents pretty well.”