The Strange Case of Eliza Doolittle Read online

  “Colonel Von Stetten!” Holmes greeted him warmly.

  I stared in disbelief.

  “Herr Eynsford-Hill was a young man of great courage,” said the German. “I should have been here to protect him. He shall be avenged. Dr. Watson,” he nodded toward me, “this is neither the time nor the place, but I owe you the profoundest apology, sir. I only hope that when you write the story of this affair, you do not cast me as the villain.” He reached down and scratched Bert’s head. The dog licked his hand.

  I still saw madness in those calm grey eyes. But perhaps a madman could help catch a madman.

  “Who’s this, then?” asked the inspector. “Another amateur sleuth?”

  “Colonel Von Stetten is a diplomatic attaché with the Bavarian embassy,” Holmes answered.

  “Well, all right then,” said the inspector, impressed in spite of himself. “The more the merrier, I suppose.”

  Thus the four of us—five, counting Bert—began our hunt through London town. Our prey had not made it easy. He had crisscrossed a dozen or more streets in his flight, scaled walls and bounded over fences. But we moved steadily south and east from Marylebone to Soho. I remember hearing the sounds of Oxford Circus awakening to a new day, the whinny of horses, the squeaking of costers’ barrows, the sleepy cooing of pigeons. We passed through Compton and then Wardour Streets, both still drowned in slumber, beggars and their children stretched out beneath the sodden awnings of the storefronts, till at last we came to a low house of grimy red brick in Greek Street, wedged between a pawnbroker and a laundry. Bert whimpered and scratched at the door, eager to be let in. The inspector followed up with his best copper’s knock, loud enough to open windows up and down the street. Still, he had to knock several times before the door finally juddered open to reveal an old woman in a bedraggled dressing gown and kerchief. She looked extremely put out. It struck me that it must be getting on toward daylight.

  “Are you the landlady?” the inspector asked. The woman cocked her head quizzically, like a mynah bird.

  “Are you the landlady?” the inspector repeated.

  “Non ho capito.” She tried to shut the door, but the inspector wedged himself into the opening. Persistence was always the best quality of Scotland Yard.

  It was quickly established that the old woman was both Italian and half-deaf. She comprehended none of the inspector’s questions. She stood with her hands on her hips croaking “Non ho capito!” to every question. Holmes became impatient and stepped forward. “This is Inspector McKay of Scotland Yard, Madame! Either direct us to Edward Hyde’s rooms or we’ll have the whole house out in the street and take names from everyone.”

  Inspector McKay’s name was feared and hated in Soho. The woman’s transformation was immediate. “’E ain’t here now, I can tell you that. ‘E come bangin’ up the steps near an hour ago, and banged back down again in good time, as like he were being chased by the devil.”

  “Where did he go?” asked the inspector.

  “Where’d ’e go? Where’d ’e go? You think I ask my lodgers that? Specially not that villain, ’e’d as soon cut your throat as give you time o’ day. And don’t ask when ’e’ll return, neither. I don’t see him sometimes for weeks on end.”

  “We’ll see his rooms, then,” said Holmes. “Which are they?”

  At that moment Bert sprang forward, jerking the lead from my hand. He brushed past the woman and vaulted up the steps.

  “Never mind,” said Holmes, following Bert’s lead. We piled in after Holmes, with the landlady bringing up the rear, muttering to herself and fussing over her keys. We ascended to the third floor, where Bert was whining at the door. The landlady made a great show of pushing her way through us and counting over her keys, as though it were the labor of Hercules. The inspector leaned over to Holmes and whispered, “My name is Privet, sir, not McKay.” Holmes merely shrugged.

  At last she found the key and unlocked the door for us. The rooms were surprisingly well kept, considering the lodger, but there were signs of a hasty retreat. There were a pair of Hepplewhite chairs before the sitting room fireplace; one lay on its side. There were embers still glowing in the grate, and ashes ground into the rug. A rolltop secretary stood in the corner, with all its drawers standing open.

  Holmes knelt before the fireplace and raked up the ashes with the poker. “He’s been burning papers here.”

  Inspector Privet stooped over his shoulder. “Anything left?”

  Holmes retrieved a scrap of paper. He showed it to the inspector.

  “A check?”

  “What’s left of it,” Holmes answered. “Fifty pounds. Drawn from Coutts, I would imagine.” The bearer’s name was left blank, and the check was torn so that the signature was unreadable: Gabriel was the first name, but only the first initial of the second name was visible at all. It could have been a G or possibly an S.

  “Bad luck. Even Sherlock Holmes could never guess that name in a million years,” said the inspector.

  Holmes smiled thinly.

  In the bedroom, Bert was worrying at a bloody bundle of clothes on the floor. Holmes took it from him and laid the clothes out on the bed: shirt, pants, waistcoat, shoes.

  “So he’s changed clothes, eh? The dog’s no more use to us,” said the inspector.

  “Bert won’t be confused by a change of clothes. It’s the man he’s got the scent of,” Holmes replied coolly.

  The inspector turned to an old oak wardrobe. It held nothing but a heavy wool ulster and a few handkerchiefs in the drawer. As the inspector went through the pockets of the ulster, Holmes gave the suit of clothes a thorough going-over.

  “Here, what’s this?” The inspector had discovered something in the pocket of the ulster. He held it up: a small glass ampoule, apparently empty. “Our man was a drug user.”

  “It seems to be indicated,” said Holmes. He took the ampoule to examine it.

  “Opium?” asked the inspector.

  “Cocaine is more likely, given the man’s savage disposition,” said Von Stetten.

  Holmes pocketed the ampoule without comment.

  “Here we are!” The inspector had found something wound up in one of the handkerchiefs. It turned out to be the handle of a walking stick, ivory chased in silver, carved like a boar’s head, broken off an inch from the top of the shank, and stained with blood. “This is more to the point. I’ll wager this will match the stick we found at the murder scene.”

  “No doubt,” said Holmes, who seemed unimpressed. The inspector felt the sting of it.

  “Well, what has the great detective discovered, then?”

  “Ask the landlady about the other man who was here.”

  “What other man?”

  “There’s a partial footprint in the ashes by the grate. It’s not Hyde’s. His foot is small and wide. This other fellow is tall, with a narrower foot. And that ulster belongs to a much taller man than the clothes on the bed.”

  The inspector seized on this clue eagerly, but it led nowhere. The landlady swore up and down there had been no other man, that Hyde never had visitors. Even worse, Bert could find no scent. Hyde had come down the same stairs that he had gone up, the landlady was sure of that, but Bert could not pick up his scent again. Holmes was more dismayed by this turn of events than anything else. The trail had gone cold.

  “Change of clothes, that’s what it’s about,” said the inspector. “Well, we’ll put men on all the ports and train stations. According to the description you gave, this man should stand out like a sore thumb in any crowd. We’ll get him, you can bank on that.”

  I thought of Hyde’s disappearance after the murder of Sir Danvers Carew, and of the futile attempts of the entire force to bring the Ripper to justice. But Holmes seemed satisfied.

  The sun was sifting through the chinks and crannies of Soho as we parted with the inspector. Those streets were hardly more inviting by day than by night, but Holmes was sanguine. “Let us return our friend Bert to Mr. Sherman, and find ourselves some
breakfast. Then we can take up our business again, renewed.”

  “Yes, but where in the wide world do we begin to look for Mr. Edward Hyde?”

  Holmes showed me the torn check again. “Tell me, Watson, if you were a gambling man, would you say the initial of the last name was a G or an S?”

  “A ‘G,’ I’d guess.”

  “I agree. After breakfast, then, we shall pay a visit to Dr. Gabriel Guest. Colonel, will you join us?”

  Von Stetten demurred. “I am no Sherlock Holmes, but I have my own resources. I shall hunt in my own way, if you don’t mind. If I find Hyde, you will know of it, Herr Holmes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Our interview with Dr. Guest was not to come, not that day. His flat was in Montague Street. His door was answered by his valet, a middle-aged, whey-faced fellow who answered to the name of Mead. He regretted to say that his master was ill and would see no one. Had his master gone out that morning? His master had not left his bed for days. He had suffered a relapse of an illness contracted during his years in India. What was the nature of his illness? That was between Dr. Guest and his own physician. Holmes explained that the situation was dire. Mead was implacable. Was his master aware that Mr. Eynsford-Hill had been murdered that morning by Edward Hyde? He could not say whether his master was acquainted with either gentleman. Holmes offered to converse with the doctor through a door. Mead countered that his master had lost his voice. Holmes offered to pose his questions in writing. Mead allowed that it would be acceptable, but didn’t know when a reply would be forthcoming. His master was too weak to read or wield a pen.

  Stymied, Holmes requested pen and paper. The valet looked as if he was trying to think of a way to refuse him, but he lacked that much nerve. “Please remain here,” he said.

  He disappeared into the next room. As soon as he was gone, Holmes legged it down the hall and around the corner. I was so surprised I was speechless. The valet would surely return at any moment. I had no choice but to act. I went into the sitting room, coughing like a man in a house on fire.

  The valet appeared. He had pen and paper in hand. “I asked you to remain in the front hall,” he said peevishly.

  “Something to drink, for the love of God!” I said between coughs.

  The valet gave me a sidelong look, but he acceded to my request. He went to the kitchen while I continued coughing myself hoarse.

  By the time he brought me a glass of water and watched me drink it, I felt it safe to return to the front hall. Indeed, at that moment, I heard Holmes call, “Hello! Did you forget my pen and paper, my good fellow?”

  We returned to the front hall, where the valet grudgingly handed over pen and paper. Holmes appeared ready to write, but then said, “Never mind all this! I’ll see your master later,” and he handed paper and pen back to the valet. By this point the fellow had seen quite enough of us both, and he ushered us to the door without a word.

  We were on the step, and the valet shutting the door, when Holmes thrust his foot in the door and said, “One more thing. Dr. Guest’s own physician is Dr. Watson in Queen Anne Street, is that correct?

  “No, sir,” said the valet, visibly angry. “Dr. Strachey, in Harley Street.”

  “Ah, yes. That was who I meant.”

  Once the door was shut, Holmes led me around the side of the house, and pointed up at the top window. “Think you could climb up there, Watson?”

  There were no windows or doors beneath, no corbel or projection of any kind, no clinging ivy or kindly shade trees, only sheer stone blocks. “Not even when I was a boy!” I answered.

  “Nor could I. But Hyde can. He’s in there with Guest. The door was locked, but I heard his growl. Man and master are in camera. Though which is man and which is master, I cannot but wonder.”

  “Hyde hardly seems the kind of fellow to tend an invalid.”

  “Guest is no invalid. I saw his print upon the runner in the hall. It’s the same one I saw on the rug in Greek Street.”

  “What can two such men have to do with one another? Could they be members of some sinister brotherhood?”

  “Brotherhood?” mused Holmes. “There you might have something, Watson. Indeed, there are only two instances I know of when such disparate personalities are so close. When one is blackmailing the other, or when the two are brothers.”

  By now it was getting on for noon. We decided to return to Wimpole Street to give what aid and comfort we might. There was a constable posted at the door who gave us the once-over reserved for the most egregious miscreants, but we passed muster.

  The house we entered was a calamity of confusion. Higgins was in and out of the servants’ quarters, giving all sorts of contradictory orders that no one paid the slightest attention to. Mrs. Pearce followed behind him, telling him it wouldn’t do, sir, it simply wouldn’t do. Freddy’s mother, Mrs. Eynsford-Hill, and his sister, Clara, were both there, under the aegis of Mrs. Higgins. It seemed that Pickering had been deputized to break the awful news to Freddy’s family, and had enlisted Mrs. Higgins in the cause. Mrs. Eynsford-Hill and her daughter were absolutely overcome, so patently incapable of coming to terms with the news or making any kind of plan for the future that Pickering had brought them back with him and deposited them in the blue parlor. Clara Eynsford-Hill seemed as flighty as her brother, concerned that his violent death would be misconstrued by the better tiers of society, yet her affection and grief for her brother seemed real enough. Her mother sat staring into space, a querulous look on her face. Mrs. Higgins sat next her, holding her hand, and urging her to drink a cup of tea. Inspector Privet was there, sleepy-eyed and morose. He seemed more wrung out by the Eynsford-Hills than by Hyde, trying to draw out any pertinent information about Freddy. We stood in the hall, watching them, uncertain of our place.

  “I warned Freddy over and over about his associates,” said Mrs. Eynsford-Hill piteously. “All wastrels and vagabonds!”

  “Oh, Mother, do stop talking drivel!” riposted Clara.

  “Was Hyde an associate of your son?” the inspector asked.

  “Hyde. Hyde . . .” said Mrs. Eynsford-Hill distractedly. “Who is Hyde?”

  The inspector folded his notebook and put it away. He saw us standing in the hall. His eyes slid over us as if we were not there.

  Then Higgins descended upon us like a driving rain. “What are you still doing here?” he asked the inspector. “Have you arrested the man who broke into my home?”

  “We’ll get him, sir. Don’t trouble your mind on that score.”

  “Of course not,” returned Higgins pettishly. “Because we know Scotland Yard always gets their man. What I want to know is, how can you guarantee our safety here?”

  “I don’t make guarantees, sir. We’ll have a man watching your house round the clock until we’ve apprehended the suspect.”

  “You don’t make guarantees? My butcher can guarantee the freshness of his beef. My tailor can guarantee the fit of my trousers. I can guarantee my clients the results they want.” Here Higgins noticed Mr. Morello in the doorway, his greatest failure in phonetics, but our presence only seemed to fuel his sermon. “Why can Scotland Yard afford me no guarantee? This fellow has made an attempt on Eliza’s life. There’s no reason to think he won’t try it again.”

  “If he’d made an attempt on her life, she would not still be alive. It took him no time at all to dispatch poor Freddy,” said his mother drily. Clara Eynsford-Hill broke out in a sob.

  “Now see what you’ve done,” said Mrs. Higgins, chiding her son.

  “What I’ve done?” Higgins was vexed by an accusation he considered wholly unwarranted.

  “Could I see the young lady now, sir?” asked the inspector.

  “Are you out of your senses? The girl is prostrated, practically at death’s door!” Higgins fumed.

  The rest of us looked to the colonel for a saner opinion.

  Pickering steepled his fingers together and blinked like an owl. “Well, the fever has broken, or the spell, or wh
atever you call it. She’s sitting up, and taking some tea and toast, but she’s still quite weak, and with the terrible news about Freddy, her nerves are in quite a delicate condition. I don’t think she could stand up under a police interrogation. I’m sure she never got a look at this burglar to begin with—Freddy was on the scene so quickly. Can’t it wait?”

  The inspector agreed to return the next morning to interview Eliza. He made his bows to the ladies, fixed his hat on his head, and beat a hasty retreat from the house. Higgins recalled a few choice words that he had not yet launched, and chased after him.

  “Mr. Higgins is always so abrupt,” said Clara. “It’s like having a cat. You never know which way he will pounce.”

  “My son has no manners,” said Mrs. Higgins summarily.

  Holmes and I stepped into the hall. Pickering stole out to join us. I could spy Mrs. Pearce and one of the maids setting out a cold collation in the dining room for lunch. We spoke in confidential tones, though they seemed to pay no attention to us.

  “Damned uncomfortable, that!” said Pickering. “I hardly knew what to say to the fellow. One wants to be truthful with the police, but I’m not even sure what the truth is!”

  “I think we are coming close to the truth now, Colonel,” said Holmes, “though we have purchased it at a terrible price.”

  “Yes. Who would have thought Freddy had a hero in him?”

  “And to help us come closer to the truth, I have a question for you.”

  “This is my day to be grilled. Ask away, then,” Pickering answered affably.

  “It’s about your friend Dr. Guest.”

  “Friend!” Pickering snorted. “Neither friend nor doctor, so far as I’m concerned. A real doctor would leave his deathbed to tend to his patients.”

  “Your colleagues in India spoke glowingly of his dedication.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first to weave a reputation out of whole cloth.”

  “I’m interested in an earlier time. Do you know anything of his family in Ireland? Whether any of them came here with him?”

  “Oh! Well, he’s not actually Irish, you know. He was born and raised right here in London.”