The Strange Case of Eliza Doolittle Page 22

  Then we heard the hoofbeats. Presently we spied Hyde galloping down the avenue, bearing down on our barricade, throwing terror in the hearts of passersby. He had left his pursuit far behind. I drew my revolver.

  “No, guv’nor, you’ll kill the horse!” cried our driver.

  Holmes stayed my hand. “He cannot pass.”

  But Hyde showed no signs of stopping. He came thundering along, flogging the horse furiously. At the last moment our driver dove from the car, Holmes threw himself beneath the dash, and to our wonder, the horse took flight, sailing over our heads, its last hoof knocking the hat from my head. It cleared the car, hit the street with a spark, and continued onward.

  The young man let out a whistle. “I’d like to put twenty quid on that bally Pegasus in the steeplechase!”

  “He’ll kill the horse beneath him,” I said.

  “He’ll have to halt soon,” Holmes replied.

  “Doesn’t look as if he’s in a hurry to slow down,” said the young man. He took his seat, put the car in gear, and spun it around, and we started our pursuit once more.

  “We’re almost to the docks. It’s Brunswick Wharf he’s making for. That’s where the steam packet sails for India.” Holmes opened the Bradshaw between us, the wind whipping the pages. The dog-eared page was a timetable for ships embarking from Brunswick. One ship, the Abydos, had been circled on the page.

  It wasn’t long indeed before we came upon the abandoned horse, standing in the middle of the street, its tongue lolling and coat covered with foam. The poor beast was surrounded by a group of boys who seemed to be wavering between throwing rocks at it or hanging garlands of flowers upon its withers. The young man braked the car and hopped out. He strode up to the horse and threw his coat over its back.

  “One of you lads fetch me a bucket of water and there’s half a crown in it for you,” he said. The boys dispersed like a swarm of flies, racing for the nearest pump.

  “Gentlemen, take the car if you need it!” he called back to us. “Leave it on the pier. I’m staying here with Pegasus.”

  “You’re a man of heart!” I called back.

  The young man was crouched beside the horse, checking its hooves. “Heart? I’m going to buy this ruddy steed and race him in the Grand National.”

  The streets ahead were so packed with humanity, on foot and in every kind of conveyance, that Holmes and I opted to walk. Walk he called it, at least, but I soon found myself at a near trot trying to keep up with him. We could have wished for the company of Bert and Toby both, I thought, but Holmes seemed like a hound himself with the scent in his nostrils, moving ahead unwavering. I thought I glimpsed Hyde a number of times ahead of us, bowling over innocent passersby in his advance, but when I pointed, Holmes barely acknowledged me. He was focused on his target. We came at last to the wharf itself, so engorged with humanity that we could barely move forward, but Holmes betrayed no frustration, only clear-eyed determination. It was easier slogging through the crowd than I anticipated. I wondered if Hyde had blazed a trail for us. At last we burst into daylight, the sun sparkling on the Thames, the smoke from a dozen smokestacks rising toward heaven.

  “We’re looking for the Abydos, remember, Watson. And that,” he pointed south to the end of the pier, where a steam packet was blowing its horns “—will be it, I think.”

  “They’re raising the gangplank!”

  “Yes. The question is, has Hyde already boarded?”

  Now we sprinted. Yet even as we ran, the answer revealed itself. There was a black figure hanging from one of the boat’s mooring ropes. From a distance it could almost be mistaken for a rat, but as we closed, it became evident that it was a man, climbing hand over hand up the breastline toward the ship’s foredeck. We were hardly the only ones to see it. There was a crowd at the rail shouting and pointing, and they had already won the attention of a couple of deckhands.

  “Should we find the harbormaster and have him contact the captain?” I asked.

  “I have no doubt the police are already taking that step. Let us try something more direct.”

  He ran to the bollard that held the line. It was a thick rope and taut. Holmes attempted to pry the rope off the bollard. I ran to his side to help. The wharf hand in charge of the line descended upon us in wrath, but after a hurried explanation he joined our efforts. We pushed and pulled and grappled with it till we were red in the face, but all at once the rope sang free, almost snapping us in the face. We watched the rope sway out across the pier and slam against the hull of the ship, with Hyde still holding on. For a moment it seemed he would lose his grip and fall, but then he was pulling himself up hand over hand toward the bow rail.

  “He’s not a man, he’s a python!” cried Holmes, exasperated.

  Hyde climbed over the rail into a knot of sailors armed with blackjacks. Whether they were trying to help him or harm him we couldn’t make out, but the next moment he was knocking them aside, tossing one over the rail screaming into the river. A moment later he was climbing the superstructure toward the upper deck. A crowd of hands and passengers gathered beneath him, a couple of sailors waving carbines, but no one seemed inclined to shoot. Another crowd formed on the deck above, but as soon as he reached it, he scattered them like ninepins and continued his climb.

  “What can he be thinking, Holmes? There can be no escape.”

  “He does not seek escape, but revenge.”

  As he spoke, a porthole opened above Hyde, and a small face looked out. I seemed to recognize that brave face; my heart beat faster. I pulled my gun out and tried to aim, but I found my left arm shaking so damnably that I dared not shoot. There was something hypnotic in the man’s jerky, swaying ascent, as if he were the bob of a pendulum. He would surely reach his goal; he was almost there now. There was a sudden glare, which made me turn my eyes, and then the crack of a gunshot. I looked up again to see Hyde still hanging by one hand from the rail. Then he fell like a stone.

  “Who fired?” I asked, looking about wildly. The crowd seemed to sway as everyone turned toward where the sound of the gunshot had come from. “Who fired?”

  “Ah, John.” Holmes’s eyes were not on the ship but on the far shore. “That we may never be able to say.”

  The gangplank was let down again, and the police bustled aboard in short order. No one on deck seemed to have seen who fired. Sherlock Holmes identified the dead man as Edward Hyde, the murderer of Frederick Eynsford-Hill. There had been such a white-hot pitch of life in the man that even now, gnarled and twisted, he seemed more alive than most. Yet there was no question he was dead. There was a bullet through his heart, as well as one through the right shoulder, though witnesses had heard only one shot. Neither Holmes nor I felt it necessary to volunteer any information about the shoulder wound. Once Holmes had identified him, he seemed to show little interest in the corpse. He searched out the purser instead, to ask him a question.

  “Purser, when do we sail? Can’t the police take this fellow and go?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t be long now,” the purser replied.

  “The gentleman in cabin eight invited me to cards this evening. He’s not one of those seagoing card sharpers, is he?”

  The purser consulted his manifest. “Colonel Pickering, sir? Nothing to fear there. I met him when I came aboard. Retired army. Returning to India.”

  “Certainly is blessed with a beautiful young wife.”

  The purser coughed discreetly. “His niece, sir. Miss Elizabeth. In cabin ten. You won’t see much of her, I’m afraid. Took sick as soon as she came aboard.”

  “Ah, well, thank you, Purser. One can’t be too careful these days.”

  As soon as the purser was out of sight, I exclaimed. “Pickering and Eliza? How can that be? I’ll be dashed if I understand anything about this case, Holmes.”

  “I think we’ll find the answers in your rooms. Let us repair there.”

  It was Holmes at his most enigmatic, but I was too exhausted from the frenetic events of the morn
ing to ply him with more questions.

  The throng on the docks had become a sea of people. Crowds of the curious, who had already heard of the shooting on the Abydos, swelled in among the usual crowds of leave-takers and well-wishers. Holmes and I moved against them as against a great tide. Then a tall fellow in an astrakhan coat and a Tyrolean hat collided full on with Holmes, nearly knocking him down. I bent to help Holmes, who’d had the wind knocked out of him, and thus only caught a glimpse of the man before he was swallowed by the crowd. “Holmes!” I cried. “That looked like Colonel Von Stetten!”

  Holmes only grunted and leaned upon my shoulder. We ground our way through the boiling mass of humanity. At last we got hold of a cab and went home the slow way.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  We were in my rooms, sitting before the fireplace. Neither of us had mustered the energy to light a fire. For the longest time we neither spoke nor smoked nor even looked at one other, but only sat leaden and dispirited, staring dumbly at the ashes in the grate as the evening grew chill round us. The day’s events had unsettled me profoundly. Once again I looked to Sherlock Holmes to set the world in order, but he seemed as lost as I. Then at last he roused himself and turned to me. “I expect a communication of some sort from Colonel Pickering. I hope it will shed light on this affair.”

  I nodded, unbelieving.

  “You are a medical man, Watson. What devil’s brew could affect a man of parts that he is so transformed—?”

  “Blasphemy” was all the answer I could muster. “Blasphemy.”

  Holmes put a hand to his cheek and winced. I had applied liniment, but the bruises would take weeks to heal. “Your arm?” he asked.

  I lifted my right arm slowly. The feeling had come back into it, but it was a mixed blessing at best. “I could not shoot him, Holmes. Even seeing what he was, I could not shoot him.”

  “No. You are too decent.”

  “He would have killed Eliza! And the colonel. But for the intervention of some man not so decent.”

  “Go into the hall. Bring me what you find in my coat pocket.”

  I brought back a heavy object, tied up in a woolen scarf. Holmes unwrapped it. “A Mauser C96,” he said. “Recently fired. This is the weapon, I think, that was used to kill Edward Hyde.”

  Where had Holmes got it from? Then the answer came to me, plain as a pikestaff. “Von Stetten,” I said.

  “Yes, it was he. As you said, he ran into me at Brunswick Wharf. No coincidence there. He must have followed us, or Eliza. He had no intention of letting her come to harm. And then he planted the murder weapon on me.”

  “He tried to frame you!”

  “I think not. He couldn’t chance being found with the weapon in his own possession. It would have created an international incident. But who would search Sherlock Holmes? In Von Stetten’s eyes, I am an entity outside and above the law. We have your case histories to thank for his impression.”

  We heard a light step in the hall, and a timid rap on the door. “Our messenger!” cried Holmes. He strode to the door and flung it open before there was another knock.

  “Oh!” cried the messenger, frightened by his suddenness. She looked up at us, fragile as a canary.

  I recovered myself first. “Mrs. Higgins. Do come in, ma’am.”

  She was still dressed in mourning. She walked in, bird-like and querulous, casting sidelong looks at Sherlock Holmes, but we persuaded her to take a seat and some refreshment. Once her nerves were calmed, she regained some of that air of authority that was her natural armor.

  “Colonel Pickering asked me to come,” she said. “He gave me a letter for you, Mr.—Watson, isn’t it?” she said, looking at me. “I’m not accustomed to dealing with persons of your . . . trade. You should know that my son is devastated by what has occurred, although he is of course in no way to be considered responsible.” She produced a thick envelope from her bag, and handed it to me. Then she composed herself, aquiver with anticipation. Apparently she expected to hear the contents of the letter. Considering the trials we had put her through in the last few days, it was difficult to deny her the right. I glanced at Holmes. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  I took a penknife from the table and slit the envelope. Inside was a short letter in Pickering’s hand, and still another envelope. I unfolded the letter and read aloud.

  MY DEAR JOHN,

  As you read this, I will have set sail for India. I do wish I could have made a proper goodbye, but some secrecy has been necessary for our preparations. I’m afraid that long years of service to the Raj have rendered me unfit to enjoy the free and easy ways which are now the custom of the capitol. I am of the opinion now that the heart of the empire is closer to Calcutta than London.

  I do not return alone. Miss Doolittle accompanies me on my voyage. Over the course of the last months, she has become dear as a daughter to me. After her interview with Mr. Holmes, Eliza revealed certain facts to me that I found frankly astonishing, but they did not alter my fondness for the girl one iota. Her story and its consequences, I think, should make it impossible for her to remain in England, so I offered her the opportunity to take up a new life far away from her old haunts. She has accepted unreservedly. I cannot say what alterations may occur in her in the near future, but she will always be Eliza. I have you and your Mr. Holmes to thank for assuring me of that. Enclosed you will find a letter from her which should clear up any lingering questions you may have regarding her role in the events of the past months.

  London is a great city, Wobbly, but it’s cold and grey and wet. If ever you find the wind digging into your bones as it did mine, remember that you have friends in sunnier climes who would welcome you as family.

  Your old comrade,

  HUGH PICKERING.

  The second envelope was addressed to Sherlock Holmes, but he requested that I read it aloud as well. It was from Eliza.

  DEAR MR. HOLMES,

  I have asked the colonel to take down what I say, since no one ever taught me to write so well as Professor Higgins taught me to speak.

  I was always what you might call a spitfire, or as some would say, a shrew. I had no mum to teach me better. And then my deformity told against me with those who might have been kinder. My father was an amiable old scoundrel, but took no more notice of me than he would a pet parakeet. He tried more than once to shove me into an orphanage. Miss Laver at the Home would have taken me in, but the subscribers wouldn’t abide it. So I went my own ways. The first time a man spoke to me kindly was Colonel Pickering. The first time a man paid attention to me was Professor Higgins. He took down my words. My words! As if something I might say could be worth listening to and remembering. Learned men they were, anyone could see. You wonder that I made my way to their door the very next day? Henry Higgins turned my head; not with chocolates or dresses or taxi rides, but with the attention he poured upon me. He scolded me and cursed me, but he never ignored me.

  I never suspected I had sold myself into bondage. I let them take me in and try to bend me and shape me into a middle-class lady. But at first I could not learn what Professor Higgins wanted to teach, because no one had ever taught me how to learn anything. I was a failure. I would always be a failure. Professor Higgins was beginning to lose patience. Soon I would be out on the street again.

  That was when I met the devil. Gabriel Guest was the first doctor I ever met, and a gentleman, too, it seemed, so when he told me I needed an injection to keep from catching chills like Colonel Pickering, I never doubted him. And when I came up so sick after, I thought I’d got my medicine too late to save me. I came over weak as a lamb, and I was off my head for what seemed like weeks, though it was only a few days. When I came round again, I knew something was wrong. Colonel Pickering tells me he feared the real Eliza had been spirited away and replaced by a new girl. He wasn’t far wrong.

  I could only wonder at the cause of it. The sickness, or the cure? The fever had burned through me like fire in a dry wind, lighting my flesh, turning
my bones to kindling. Everyone around me noticed the change, how could they not? But no one said a word, no, not even me. Every time I tried to speak of it, my tongue grew unaccountably heavy, my heart pounded, and my lips felt as if they were sewn shut. I was looking out at the world through the bars of a prison. A terrible fog settled over my mind, while my heart rattled like a tambourine.

  Slowly it dawned on me that I was being treated differently. Tradesmen were more at ease with me. Professor Higgins smiled upon me. Even Mrs. Pearce unbent toward me. At first I thought it was only sympathy for me after my illness. Then I began to realize it was due to the alteration in my appearance and bearing. My deformity had slid from my shoulders. I began to grow more confident as the professor became more lenient, and that made my lessons easier. Everything became easier, at least outwardly. I began to think of myself as two women, the old contrary Liza and the new Miss Doolittle, the professor’s pet. Liza was always there, dark and brooding beneath the deep layers of the drug, and oh! how she hated Miss Doolittle and all her pretty little ways. Miss Doolittle was worshiped and adored, but she was no more than a porcelain doll upon a shelf. Miss Doolittle was the cage Liza was confined to. And whenever Liza shook the bars of her cage, along would come sidling Dr. Guest with his needle.

  He told me quite brutally that the change in me was due entirely to the injections, that I would degenerate—that was the word he used—to my former condition without a steady schedule of them. If I obeyed him, I could become a true lady, he claimed, not just on the surface but in the blood, “fit to be the helpmeet of a gentleman.” Else I would be reduced to the streets once more, this time to the very lowest dregs of society. The picture he painted was so terrifying that I let him dose me again and again, till I practically became a prisoner locked inside my own body. There were times he took liberties with me, and I could not summon the old will to fight. For the first time in my life, I needed a protector. I wanted to reach out to the colonel, but I was too ashamed. Then I found my knight in shining armor, the last man you would think: Edward Hyde.