The Strange Case of Eliza Doolittle Page 17

  “And how does one acquire an Irish brogue in the heart of London?”

  “The mother died in childbirth, I believe. He was raised by an Irish nursemaid out of County Clare. Bridgid or Cathleen O’Something. Five younger brothers and sisters she brought with her, I think. All swarming about the environs.”

  “Father dead, too?”

  “Never at home. Chief clerk to a solicitor. One of the old praetorians. Counted some of the highest in the land as clients, at least that’s what Guest claims. Utterson, I think the solicitor’s name was. Higgins would know.”

  The detective’s nostrils quivered visibly at the mention of Mr. Utterson. Even I recognized that here could be no coincidence. Utterson was a friend of Jekyll. Jekyll had murdered Hyde—or been murdered by him, if one discounted Nancy Kelly’s story. Now we had the son of Utterson’s clerk. It meant something. Unfortunately, I had no idea what. Holmes looked at me archly. “So we can eliminate brotherhood as a motive. Which leaves us with blackmail, eh, Watson?”

  I may have mumbled a reply of some sort. A moment before, Martha Pearce had looked up and seen me watching her through the door. The blood rushed to her cheeks. I mumbled something again by way of making my excuses to the gentlemen and slipped into the dining room.

  As soon as I was near, Mrs. Pearce flung herself upon me, burying her face in my shoulder. I was entirely unmanned. Her cool facade was broken, baring the soul beneath as she grieved for Freddy; I could only love her for her weakness. I would speak my heart, which I had not known till that very moment. Once again there would be a Mrs. Watson to grace the table at Queen Anne Street.

  But I could not simply declare my affections then and there, not as Hill Barton, secretary to a Mafia chieftain. I would have to confess my true identity to her first. There could be no deception between two minds in congruence. It would mean betraying the confidence of Sherlock Holmes. It might bring all his efforts to naught. What was that to me?

  Without realizing it, I had taken her hand. She looked up at me, tremulous. The maid vanished into the kitchen. This was our moment.

  Then Higgins popped in the door, with the ladies in tow. Mrs. Pearce fled like a wraith. “If we’re not safe here, we’ll go abroad until they’ve caught this fellow,” Higgins was saying. “We’ll go to Italy. Eliza will adore Italy.”

  I stood there in a daze. Higgins took a plate and began helping himself to the cold tongue. Pickering and Holmes filed in, Holmes’s eyes full of curiosity and concern.

  “You won’t adore it. You wouldn’t last a week in Italy, Henry,” said his mother reprovingly. “You wouldn’t last a week in Scotland. I don’t believe you could survive anywhere further than a twenty-mile radius from the Monument.”

  “Pickering, you’ll come with us to Italy, won’t you? You’ll find more dialects there than the entire damned subcontinent.”

  “Higgins, have you forgotten you have a student?” Pickering asked, nodding toward Holmes.

  Holmes chimed in: “We’re just hittin’ our stride, Henry.”

  Higgins darted him a murderous look. “In point of fact, Mr. Morello, no matter whether I voyage to Italy or Timbuctoo or the British Museum, it is my intention to discontinue your lessons as of present date. You and your strong-arm man may clear out, as they say in America, where I doubt you have ever set foot. I don’t know if your client is the Duchess of Wurttemberg or the Princess of Waldeck, but you can tell whoever it is that Eliza is not for sale to the blue-blooded boobies of old Europe. I fashioned her for better things than that. If you’ll start packing your bags now, you can be gone before tea.”

  “Henry, you’re talking gibberish,” said his mother.

  “I understand the strain your boy’s been under lately, ma’am. I’m sure it’d do him a world of good to take the waters at Bottom-Bottom or wherever. But we got us a contract, and in the good ole U.S. of A., when we sign on the dotted line, we stick to it, or the lawyers start mixing it up. I expect it’s the same way here in the land of John Bull. Least that’s what my solicitor says.”

  For a moment, Higgins seemed vanquished. Then he strained a smile through his lips. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Morello. I was forgetting myself. On the other hand, I’m sure you’ll agree that a contract is only binding so long as both parties are actually who they claim to be.”

  Holmes gave a benevolent nod. He took out a cigar and inhaled its aroma.

  “In which case I shall be rid of your company by five o’clock at this afternoon. Please do make yourself available at that time, sir.”

  I couldn’t guess what Higgins had in store for Holmes, but the threat seemed real enough. Holmes, however, remained unperturbed. He leaned over to Mrs. Eynsford-Hill and asked, “You got a light, sister?”

  The lady blushed like a schoolgirl.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Well, Watson, time we started packing, eh?”

  “Then it’s true? Higgins has the means to force us out?”

  “He certainly seems to think so. I think we can assume that his pet private detective is ready to share his discoveries. It should be an entertaining performance.”

  His bravado was cold comfort. “So we are destined never to discover the truth about Eliza Doolittle!” I mourned. “When we were so close.”

  “Be of good cheer, Watson. There may be other avenues of investigation still open to us.”

  I found Robert in our shared quarters, sitting on the bed, looking forlorn. “Well, old ’un, appears our fellowship is come to a untimely end. No more into our breeches, dear friend, and hanged be him wot first cries old enough!”

  Apparently this was his way of acknowledging the writing on the wall. I was bewildered by the sense of it but touched by the sentiment. Then he added, “Pack yer bag for a tanner.”

  It was five o’clock on the dot when the front doorbell rang. Mrs. Higgins had packed up the Eynsford-Hills and taken them to tea. Holmes and I were in the laboratory with Pickering. I had attempted several times to broach the subject of Higgins’s detective, but neither man evinced the slightest concern in the matter. Holmes had been expounding on the joys of beekeeping instead, which Pickering seemed to find a fascinating topic. The door flew open and Higgins entered with his avenging angel.

  The detective wore the same costume I remembered from our first encounter, including the deerstalker cap, which he seemed no more inclined to remove from his head than the meerschaum pipe from his lips, but he was an imposing figure for all that. Higgins seemed to glory in his aura of unyielding authority.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I would like you all to meet someone you may only know from the newspapers. This is the world-famous detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  It was an astonishing statement. Pickering and I sat forward in our seats. “Mr. Morello” leaned back comfortably, as if ready to hear a marvelous tale.

  Higgins continued. “From the moment I met you, Mr. Morello, I was convinced that you were not who you claim to be. Your American accent is good, but not good enough to deceive the ear of Henry Higgins.”

  “Then why invite me to bunk here?”

  “The best way to deal with a spy is to keep him close to the vest. In light of my suspicions, I sought out Mr. Holmes here to investigate you and find out your true identity. He has now completed his investigation. I’m sure you’ll be interested in his conclusions.”

  “Sounds like a humdinger. Fire away, Mr.—Combs, was it?”

  “Sherlock Holmes, thank you, sir. Immediately upon the check clearing, I began the investigation Mr. Higgins requested. I contacted certain parties in the United States, specifically in the area of New York City. After an exhaustive inquiry conducted in both America and Great Britain, I can now confirm that this gentleman is indeed Giorgio Bernardo Morello, born in Corleone, Sicily, emigrated with his family to New York City at the age of nine. Indicted three times for extortion, twice for conspiracy, twice for grand larceny, once for murder. Acquitted on every occasion. President of Morello Import
ers, with annual profits of—”

  “Wait!” cried Higgins. “I’m not interested in G.B. Morello. I want to know about this fellow, the imposter. You must have uncovered his true identity.”

  “I’m afraid this fellow is the real Mr. Morello, sir. If you’d care to examine these newspaper clippings with his photograph, you’ll see for yourself. Mr. Morello, I am convinced, is a fugitive from justice, and certainly from rival crime families, in his adopted country, but his passport and papers are in perfectly good order, and no extradition has been requested by the U.S. government.”

  “This is impossible! I tell you this fellow is no more American than I am!” Higgins’s face was purple with rage.

  “All the evidence speaks to the contrary, Professor. If he is not Morello, I am not Sherlock Holmes.”

  A sentiment that no one there could deny.

  “Just listen to his voice, man! Can you not hear that Sussex accent?”

  “Perhaps your ear for accents is not quite as reliable as you suppose, Mr. Higgins,” said “Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Now that you mention it, Mr. Holmes, I’m not at all certain your accent is authentic! Have you ever lived abroad?”

  “Higgins, this is preposterous! Are you going to question my accent next?” wailed Pickering.

  Higgins’s confidence seemed shaken. He pointed a finger at Pickering. “This is your fault! You recommended him. You said he was infallible.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I could have used that word. No one is infallible, Higgins. Excepting yourself, of course.”

  “When’s our next lesson, Henry?” asked Holmes blithely. “We could get in some work before dinner, what d’you say?”

  Higgins snarled and stormed out of the room.

  Holmes rose to shake his doppelganger’s hand. “Thank you, sir. Your assistance has been invaluable. I am deep in your debt.”

  “The honor is mine, Mr. Holmes. You have been and always shall be an inspiration. And Dr. Watson! I think of you as my writing partner.” He shook my hand, though I was dumbfounded. “Now, gentlemen, I must take my leave. Curtain’s at eight.”

  I must have still looked befogged after the detective made his exit. Holmes and Pickering both burst into laughter. “It was the colonel’s idea,” said Holmes.

  “When Higgins asked me who he could hire to investigate Mr. Morello, the first name that came to mind was Sherlock Holmes. But that, of course, was impossible. Then I remembered Eliza telling me all about the play she and Freddy had seen at the Adelphi.”

  “I confess I am no wiser,” I said.

  “Watson, I’m disappointed! Have you never seen the American actor William Gillette play Sherlock Holmes on stage?”

  “He’s seen him now, playing Sherlock Holmes right here in this room!” said Pickering, laughing again.

  I had never been fond of play-going. Sherlock Holmes himself in all the many roles he had impersonated in the course of our investigations had been enough theatre to last a lifetime, though I confess to a fondness for Gilbert and Sullivan. But from that moment on, William Gillette became my favorite thespian. Although I never quite understood the reason for the deerstalker cap.

  “I’ll have to tip the boy to unpack my bag again.”

  “Save your money, Watson. Tonight you will sleep in your own bed. It’s time we made a move in any case. Continuing on here can only restrict our freedom and hamper our investigation. Professor Higgins’s timing is advantageous for us.”

  “Then we’re never to find the real Eliza?” Pickering asked.

  “On that score”—Holmes pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to me—“I received a wire from Wiggins this afternoon. Watson?”

  I opened the telegram and read aloud:

  MISS LAVER HOME FOR FEMALE ORPHANS ST JOHNS WOOD 6 P.M.

  “That’s all?” I asked, bemused.

  “Wiggins was always a young man of admirable economy. I assume that if we want to find out more, we must be in St. John’s Wood in fifteen minutes.”

  Mrs. Pearce entered. “Mr. Morello, your cab is ready. Robert has put your luggage inside.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Pearce. You’ve been a doll.”

  She avoided my gaze. Perhaps she regretted our moment of intimacy. I was already half-convinced that I had been saved by fortune from committing a grave error. I have wondered ever since if my error was in walking out of that house that day without unburdening my heart.

  Pickering came out to the cab to see us off. “You’re coming with us, aren’t you, Colonel?” asked Holmes.

  “Well, but what do I tell Higgins?” He cast a look back toward the windows of the house, from one of which no doubt Higgins was watching our departure.

  “We’re about to find out if the girl in that bedroom up there is truly Eliza Doolittle. Shall we wire you the answer?”

  Pickering joined us without uttering another word.

  We arrived at the Home and dismissed the cab, sending the bags on to Queen Anne Street, where I had already alerted my housekeeper of my homecoming. The Home for Female Orphans had stood in Lisson Grove for over a century. Its matron, Miss Laver, had run the place for forty years; the costume she wore that evening might have been the same she was wearing when she first walked through the doors, all crinolines and stays and lace trim everywhere. Her office was devoid of luxury. Pickering sat down in the chair across from her desk before he noticed there were no other chairs, and was mortified when neither Holmes nor I would let him give it up.

  “Mr. Holmes?” She looked over her spectacles at him as if he had been sent up for some dire infraction of the rules.

  Holmes bowed. Miss Laver’s eyes dissected him swiftly.

  “I remember you, Mr. Holmes. Your name was once in all the papers. But I don’t believe I’ve read an account of a new case since the nineties.”

  “I’ve retired.”

  “I can’t imagine a man such as you retiring.”

  Holmes declined to answer.

  “Your associate Mr. Wiggins told me to expect you. Mr. Wiggins is another private detective. And these gentlemen?”

  “Friends of Miss Doolittle’s.” Holmes introduced us.

  “Is Eliza in trouble?” Miss Laver was not a woman to mince words.

  “First, I must ask. The girl in the picture is Eliza Doolittle? You’re certain of the fact?”

  Miss Laver glanced down at the photograph on her desk. Something in it made her smile. “Certain. I haven’t seen her in nearly two years, but it’s Eliza, all right. She looks well.”

  “She was under your care here?”

  “Oh, no. She wasn’t an orphan, you see. Our rules are quite strict here. Though her papa did try to pass her off as an orphan, and more than once. I think he and Eliza both came to wish fervently that it were the truth.”

  “Then how did you come to know her?”

  “The first time she came to us I was tricked into believing she truly was alone in the world. She was here for several months before the deception was exposed. By then she had burrowed her way into my heart.”

  “She was a model child, then? Nothing . . . out of sorts . . . with her?”

  “Far from it. There was everything out of sorts. She was a changeling.”

  Pickering broke in. “Changeling? You mean a . . . a . . .”

  “A fairy child, left by fairies when they steal human children away. Well, they’re not really children, are they? They look it, but they don’t act it. They make the milk go sour and the knives go dull. But they bring gifts, too.”

  “Madame, are you telling us you believe in fairies?” Pickering asked, incredulous.

  “I don’t know, Colonel. I only know there are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophies. I know there are children—girls are what I know, really—who simply have no place in this world of ours. They’re oddities, misfits. Every hand is against them. Nurse calls them woebegones. They’re always coming to her because they fall down more, get knocked down more, tr
y the patience of the world more than other children. Where do they belong? How came they here? I don’t know. But they are harder to love, so we must love them all the more.”

  “But you threw her out,” Holmes pointed out. “Did she return?”

  “Once she had found us, she was always in and out, stealing food from the kitchen, stealing books from the library. We turned a blind eye, as much as we could. Sometimes she stole a nap in the very chair you’re sitting in, Colonel.”

  Pickering patted the arm of his chair affectionately.

  “I wish we could have done more. But the orphanage depends on subscription, and our benefactors, kind as they are, are always quick to believe that orphans are liars and pickpockets out of Mr. Dickens’s books. Eliza had to make her way in the world when she was far too young, in the teeth of the wind, with no help from the father. Yet she was bound and determined to survive, and more than survive.” She consulted the photograph fondly once more, and then put it away in a drawer of her desk. “Now perhaps you’ll tell me: is she in trouble?”

  Holmes spoke carefully. “She’s in danger.”

  “Ah. Well, that has always been true. Never before has she had Sherlock Holmes to rescue her. Or do you do that, now you’re retired?”

  There was no reason to prolong the conversation, which only threatened to become more awkward. We had what we came for. We made our farewells and hastened away. To satisfy some perverse whim of Pickering’s, we hailed a motor-cab for the return trip. I nearly expired from the fumes.

  “Well, Colonel, you have your answer at last,” said Holmes. Miss Laver has made a positive identification of Eliza based on an acquaintance of fourteen years. There is and always has been only one Eliza Doolittle—”

  “Well, I’m glad of that,” said Pickering. “I’ve grown quite fond of her.”

  “—and I fear she has been in danger from the day she met you.”

  “But then Higgins was right! Wouldn’t Eliza be safer in Italy, or anywhere on the continent?” Pickering asked.