The Strange Case of Eliza Doolittle Read online

  “What the blazes do you want?” he asked.

  “We have never been properly introduced. My name is Dr. John Watson. Do you remember me?”

  The shock of recognition curdled his face. Though we had never returned to Wimpole Street after Pickering and Eliza set sail, Pickering had left a letter with Higgins explaining what he could of the matter, as well as a check for Higgins’s tutelage of “Mr. Morello.” Holmes himself had sent Higgins tickets to Sherlock Holmes, when it was still playing at the Adelphi.

  “Am I likely to forget the criminal saboteurs who came into my house, stole my peace, turned my household upside down, and turned those dearest to me against me? State your business, sir, and be gone with you.”

  “I came here to gaze on the face of the man responsible for the death of Frederick Eynsford-Hill.”

  “Ah, that was my fault, was it? I suppose I’m also to blame for the death of Captain Scott and the Norwich floods, too. Damn your impudence!”

  “You knew what Gabriel Guest was when you brought him into this house.”

  “If I had known what you were, I would have had the footman turn you into the street! Perhaps I should do so now.”

  I ignored the threat. “You knew what Guest would do to Eliza. You urged him on.”

  “It’s Eliza now, is it? You’re on familiar terms with the girl you helped steal from under my roof?”

  “The girl you would have broken down till she was fit to be no more than your slave? I thank heaven we were able to save her from that.”

  “What gentleman of discrimination does not attempt to mold his future helpmeet into a creature that will bring him satisfaction? I had the means at hand and I employed them.”

  “You could make Eliza talk like a lady, but you couldn’t tame her spirit. You needed potions for that.”

  “Come, Doctor, we’re not unlike, you and I. We’re men of science, settled in our habits, comfortable in our solitude. Does this mean we must be denied female companionship entirely? I don’t mean the sodden harlots of Whitechapel or Soho. I mean young, vital women. But they must be pliant, they must be amiable, they must be disciplined. Between Guest and myself, we were able to turn a girl of the streets into the simulacrum of a lady. Had it not been for Pickering’s unfathomable sense of conscience, she could have been an ornament to my household. Have you never wished for such an ideal?”

  “And if men, yes, and women, too, die because of it?”

  “That was Guest’s fault, not mine. He could not rule his appetites. I have no such weakness. And now, Doctor, I must beg you to take your leave. I have other responsibilities to attend to.”

  He seemed unassailable in his egoism. He turned his back and started down the hall. I wanted desperately to penetrate his complacency.

  “At least I know that Miss Doolittle is safely away, and you will find the days of your loneliness stretching away before you.” It was an awkward thrust, one I knew had not hit home.

  “Oh, quite. An excellent sermon. Good afternoon.”

  He turned and went into the laboratory. I heard the lock turn. Then his voice, clearly, with perfect enunciation:

  “Are you ready to resume your lesson, my dear?”

  And a woman’s voice—nay, a girl’s voice—answered, “Yes, thank you, Professor Higgins.”

  It is raining today in London as I finish my narrative. Whenever the weather is like this, I think of old Pickering, and his invitation to join him in the tropics. I went out to visit a few years ago, after the war. He had lost the use of his legs by then, but his spirit was still strong, and he had a devoted nursemaid in Miss Doolittle, or Mrs. Parvinda, I should say. She had married one of the native gentleman, a librarian and teacher. She had changed, but no more than could be accounted for by the passage of years and the vicissitudes of climate. She was no longer beautiful as I remembered her in her youth, but she was now something better: she was lovely. Loveliness is a trait of the soul, which shines forth in spite of any outer device. As for deformities, physical or spiritual, she had none that I can report.

  Together they urged me to stay and make my home with them, but I was restless. I remembered how Holmes used to say that when he stayed away too long from London, the criminal element became excited. Holmes is in his grave on the green Sussex downs, and Pickering in his on the Malabar Coast. I am retired from my practice; I could travel anywhere I wish. But the grey streets of London have me locked in their embrace. Like old Toby, I retrace every day the footprints I once followed eagerly in the shadow of Sherlock Holmes, remembering the faces and the voices of all those we hunted and all those we helped. There is only one mystery left to explore, and as always, Holmes is one step ahead of me.

  Acknowledgments

  That this book rests in your hands is a bit of a miracle, so it’s only right that I thank the miracle-workers. First my infinitely patient editor Dan Mayer and the staff at Seventh Street, especially Marianna Vertullo and Jennifer Do, as well as copy-editor Marianne Fox. I’d like to thank my faithful readers for their incredible kindness and inexhaustible enthusiasm: Laura Roach Dragon, Betsy Hannas Morris, and Pat Shriver. Special thanks to Nancy Bilyeau, Max Epstein, and Patricia Burroughs, who led me through the tortuous maze of publishing. Thanks also to agent Jill Grosjean.

  Without my entire family, this book would never have seen the light of day, nor would I be here to see it. My profound thanks and love to my sisters, Nancy Bos Labiak and Beverly Williams Ward, and my nieces Maurna Thornton and Dawn “Sassy” Williams.

  Certainly I must acknowledge i migliori fabbri: Arthur Conan Doyle, George Bernard Shaw, and Robert Louis Stevenson. I hope you can forgive the liberties I’ve taken with your characters.

  Finally, a thanks to my teacher, Diana Ely, to whom I owe so much.