The Strange Case of Eliza Doolittle Read online

  Pickering squeaked, I nearly jumped, and even Holmes seemed to lose his sangfroid. Mrs. Pearce was standing behind us, arms folded, a look of contempt stealing in behind her bland servant’s expression.

  “Absolutely appalling,” Pickering started. “I was just telling these fellows—”

  “Really, Colonel!” It was enough to silence Pickering.

  But the shouting behind the door had not ceased. “Somebody don’t do something quick, gonna be an English gentleman brought up on a murder beef,” Holmes rasped. He set his hand to the doorknob, but before he could act, Mrs. Pearce shoved past us and hammered upon the door.

  “Professor Higgins?” she called out. “This won’t do, sir!”

  And just like that, silence fell inside the room.

  Chapter Six

  Mrs. Pearce cracked the laboratory door, but paused before going in. “Mr. Morello, this is Robert, the footman.” A young lad of twelve or thirteen, heretofore concealed by the housekeeper’s skirts, stood squirming on the hall carpet. He was barely tall enough to fit his livery.

  “Robert will show you and your man to your rooms. Dinner will be served early tonight. If you require any special accommodations, please address them to me only. The professor is not to be disturbed.” Every syllable she spoke was weighted with authority.

  Holmes flicked an ash from his cigar onto the carpet. “So is your boss the real goods, honey, or just another hustler with his hand out?”

  Mrs. Pearce appeared scandalized by the idea, or perhaps by the cigar ash on her carpet. “Whatever Professor Higgins says he will do, he will do,” she answered squarely.

  Holmes grinned. “You’re English from your gums to your garters, ain’t you, Miz Post?”

  “Robert?” Mrs. Pearce dismissed us without another word and disappeared into the laboratory, shutting the door firmly behind her. Left alone, Robert appeared a bit intimidated by his charges, but he braved it out.

  “If you’ll follow me, gents?” He hitched up the cuffs of his trousers and pushed off toward the staircase, walking on the balls of his feet.

  I was still anxious to tell Holmes about the afternoon’s adventure, but was again stymied. After showing Holmes to his room on the third floor—”next to Miss Doolittle, sir. She do bang about sometimes at night, it ain’t housebreakers”—he directed me to “come on then, old ‘un.” Perforce I followed him to a small room at the top of the house. It was sparsely furnished, with bare walls, two iron bedsteads, a night-stand between them, and a washstand in the corner. One bed was made up as a sort of burrow of dingy wrinkled sheets. The other had a bare grey mattress on which lay a neat stack of sheets and pillowcases. It looked dismal enough. “Am I to share this room, then?” I asked.

  “With me, old ’un!” Robert plopped down on the bed already made, and wrestled off his shoes. He must have noticed the grim look on my face. I hadn’t shared a room with anyone since Mary’s death, and I hadn’t made up my own cot since Afghanistan.

  “It ain’t the Savoy, but it’s a nice kip. There’s three housemaids, each one prettier than the other, and my good lady housekeeper ain’t so particklar about lockin’ up the larder at night as some butlers is.” He added an emphatic nod and wink, as between two men of the world.

  Apparently my face did not light up at his encomiums. He switched to another tack. “Make your bed for a tanner!”

  I confess I felt horribly put upon having to share a room with the footman. It was absolutely beneath my dignity. I imagined Holmes in the comfort of his own room, couched among downy pillows, chuckling in amusement at the thought of my discomfiture. In all our years together, I had rarely been called upon to don a disguise or act the part of anyone save John Watson, M.D. It was always Holmes who capered about in the false beards and broad-brimmed hats, mixing it up with every element. He had never complained when forced to commingle with even the lowest dregs of society. Indeed, he had seemed to relish it. Domestic servants were a wellspring of information on their employers, he had told me often enough. Perhaps if I put aside my prejudices and kept my ears open, I could gather valuable information about Henry Higgins from this rude lad. But the prospect seemed daunting.

  Robert set to work making my bed as I unpacked my bags and prepared for dinner. My toilet was in quite some need of repair after the afternoon’s expedition, and my mind was unsettled. When I had beseeched Holmes to come out of retirement in this matter, I had no idea that he would ask me to strap on the traces once again as well. But he had insisted that he could not take a single step without “dear old Watson” at his side. Watson was certainly feeling old this evening, decidedly decrepit, and Robert’s endless stream of chatter was uninfor-mative and frankly exhausting.

  I wondered what Holmes’s preternatural powers of observation had made of the professor and his student. I could almost hear him telling Pickering “beyond the obvious fact that he spent time as a missionary in Hong Kong, learned fencing at Heidelberg, and first introduced Charlotte Russe to the kitchens of Great Britain, I can deduce nothing about the man.” Robert helped me into my dinner jacket (for the price of yet another tanner), and I hurried downstairs in anticipation.

  I was to be disappointed yet again. Holmes and Pickering were alone in the dining room when I arrived, but no revelations were forthcoming. “Still expecting conjuror’s tricks after all these years, Watson?” Holmes scolded. “I’m not a calculating chicken. Professor Higgins is exactly as he presents himself, although his self-regard far outruns his talents. The early years in South Africa and his father’s untimely demise no doubt influenced his choice of profession, but they have no direct bearing on our present problem. It is the young lady we must train our attention upon. The bruise upon your cheek and the scratches on your knuckles tell a story of far more import than Henry Higgins’s battles with neurasthenia.”

  At his prompting, I plunged into my account of the afternoon’s events and their mystifying denouement. Holmes peppered me with questions, but there was little I could tell him beyond what I have already recorded here. He asked Pickering whether he recognized either the young man in the top hat or our hideous assailant.

  “The young fellow sounds familiar, somehow, though I can’t place him. But the other one sounds more like a Hindoo yaksha than a human being,” he answered. “I find it hard to believe Eliza could have gone anywhere of her own accord with such a dreadful man. She must have been forced.”

  “I believe I can settle that question,” said Holmes. He pulled a few meager scraps of paper from his pocket, and arranged them on his palm. They were yellow, curled and blackened about the edges as if by fire. There was printed type on a few of them.

  Pickering stared. “I haven’t the faintest notion what I’m looking at,” he concluded.

  “Watson?”

  “A telegram?” I hazarded.

  “A telegram indeed,” said Holmes. “I took the liberty of making a quick search of Miss Doolittle’s room earlier. I found this in the grate.”

  “You detective johnnies don’t stand on ceremony, do you? What’s it say?”

  “It says that Miss Doolittle received a wire this morning and went out immediately afterward. But not before making sure to burn the message in the grate. The coals were still warm.”

  “I’m dashed!” Pickering said.

  “Could the man be some relation to Miss Doolittle?” I asked.

  “So far as I know, Eliza’s only living relative is her father,” Pickering answered. “I met him a couple of times, briefly. A common dustman with a penchant for scandalous opinions. He’s no beauty, old Alfred P., but he’s nothing like the bogeyman you’ve described. I still can’t fathom what Eliza would want with such a fellow.”

  “There’s a father in it? Do you have his address?” Holmes asked eagerly.

  “Yes . . . well . . . I know for a fact that he’s not in London at present.”

  “Whence does this certainty arise?”

  “He’s up in Scotland right now, on the lectu
re circuit. He gives lectures on morality or ethics, that sort of thing. Or possibly Wales.”

  “You said he was a dustman,” I reminded him.

  “He was, till Higgins got an earful of him. Touted him as the philosopher of the common man. Wangled an American philanthropist into backing him. Thought it was funny. Then he caught on with the cognoscenti.”

  “It seems a family of chameleons,” I said.

  Holmes looked as if he was fervently wishing he were back home with his bees. He stared down at the cloth, the gleaming china plate, the regimented lines of silver. “The girl is an enigma,” he said. “I see nothing in her attitude or carriage to suggest that she was once a creature of the streets—”

  “Then Pickering was right!”

  “—but I see nothing in her to suggest anything whatever of her origins. Eliza Doolittle is a cipher. It’s as if she were molded out of clay and had the breath of life forced into her lungs by Professor Higgins. Her speech is an echo of his. Her dress—”

  “Her dresses were chosen for her, by Mrs. Pearce and the dressmakers,” Pickering put in.

  Holmes sighted down the table, realigning the wine glasses. I hadn’t even noticed they were out of line. “As for her manner, I know not whence it was grafted, but it certainly is not native to the Tottenham Court Road or Drury Lane.”

  The admission obviously nettled Holmes. When I thought of the dozens of times I had heard him sum up a man’s entire biography after what seemed the most cursory observation, I found myself distressed as well. Were his analytical powers failing with age? Or could it be that the mystery of Eliza Doolittle was even stranger than we supposed?

  “She seems a perfectly well-bred young lady to me,” I said. “I don’t understand why Higgins seems so concerned about her health.”

  “I’m inclined to think there is something in that. I find the professor a man of keen perception,” said Holmes.

  “You seem to have put it over on him easily enough,” I said with a chuckle.

  “I doubt it, Watson.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Holmes is right there,” said Pickering. “Higgins is certain your American ‘Mr. Morello’ is as English as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. He told me so this afternoon. He wasn’t fooled by your story or your accent.”

  “By thunder!” I exclaimed. “Then why has he invited us to dinner rather than showing us the door?”

  “Curiosity, Watson. Professor Higgins is, after all, a man of science. Indeed, I was counting on it,” said Holmes.

  “True enough,” said Pickering. “Higgins wants to divine who you are, and what your purpose is. He intends to keep you as close as possible, till he discovers your game. He suspects you of being a spy.”

  “A spy? For whom?” I asked.

  “Eliza’s appearance at the embassy party gave rise to a mountain of gossip. A beautiful girl of impeccable manner whom no one had ever laid eyes on before? That simply doesn’t occur in our circle. There was some rather rash talk that she might secretly be a duchess, or even a princess. A number of eligible young bachelors and their mothers were keenly interested. Higgins thinks the house is being watched. And he thinks you’ve been hired to find out just what Eliza’s provenance may be, if one may use such a word in reference to a young lady.”

  “Which is not far from the truth. Is Higgins’s own interest in the girl . . . proprietary?” asked Holmes.

  “Let’s call it ‘friendly,’ and leave it at that, old boy. He asked me to drop hints to you that she’s a daughter of the Austrian archduke.”

  “Which would put her beyond all but the highest station.”

  “That seems to be his game,” Pickering agreed.

  At that juncture Robert shuffled in to announce a new arrival. “Dr. Paddy at the door, Colonel, sir,” he said.

  “Well, don’t leave him standing on the mat, boy! And don’t call him Paddy. He’s Dr. Guest to you.” Pickering shooed Robert out of the room. “He picked up that name from Higgins, I’m afraid.”

  “The young lady seemed decidedly averse to this Dr. Guest,” Holmes remarked.

  “He’s not exactly the fellow for the soothing bedside manner,” Pickering replied. “But you’ll see for yourself.”

  Robert returned, alone.

  “Where’s the doctor, lad?” asked Pickering.

  “Still at the door.” The boy’s face held a peculiar expression, as if he’d been bitten by a favorite dog.

  “I told you to bring him in!”

  “I tried, sir. But he’s too heavy. I can’t lift ‘im over the doorstep.”

  At first it sounded like nonsense. Then Holmes bolted for the door, with the rest of us at his heels.

  Chapter Seven

  The front door was standing open. There was a man lying crumpled in the doorway. We raced to him. He was a long, narrow thing, in an old-fashioned frock coat and high collar. When we turned him on his back, his flesh was so pale I was sure he was dead. Then he moaned softly and his eyes stood open like flung shutters. We helped him struggle to his feet and steered him into the dining room. He collapsed into a chair, and allowed me to loosen his collar and pour a glass of claret down his throat.

  “Are you unwell, Guest? Should we call a doctor?” asked Pickering, leaning over him.

  The young man held up a hand to stay him. “Please don’t trouble yourselves, gentlemen,” he said weakly. “The heat of the day . . .” He fumbled in his pocket and came up with a small tin of pastilles. He threw two of them down his throat.

  Physician, heal thyself! Dr. Guest looked to be a man in his thirties, thin to the point of emaciation. His strong, almost handsome features and Byronic curls were marred by a sallow complexion and dark circles under his eyes. Were he my patient I would have dosed his liver with Andrews till it sang.

  His story came out in bits and pieces. He had been working in the surgery since early morning, without food or drink it seemed, and then decided unwisely to walk to Wimpole Street. “Please don’t mention it to Higgins or Miss Doolittle,” he begged. I couldn’t blame him for being embarrassed. It was warm outside, but hardly fainting weather.

  “It’s a long slog from Limehouse on a warm day,” Holmes said. “Shoulda took a cab.”

  Guest rose to his feet in a sudden furor. “Who said I came from Limehouse? Who are you?”

  “I thought Higgins mentioned some such place. Was I thinking of someone else?”

  Pickering cut in with introductions, explaining to the doctor that Mr. Morello was a newcomer to London who didn’t know Limehouse from Whitehall. Of course no one had ever mentioned anything to Holmes. He had deduced it from the mud on the doctor’s boots, or the soil on his collar, or the nap of the hair on his wrists, or some other “conjuror’s trick.” It was a slip on his part to mention it, but the explanation seemed to mollify Dr. Guest. “I oversee some charity cases down the East End, but my practice is in Mayfair,” he said primly.

  “Dr. Guest! Welcome!” Higgins sailed into the room. He touched the new arrival’s hand and bade us all be seated. “Don’t stand on ceremony, gentlemen. Eliza will join us in good time.” Guest fiddled with his tie and collar till he was in no more disarray than Higgins himself.

  “Are we expecting Freddy, as well?” Pickering asked.

  Higgins snorted mirthlessly. Guest let a crooked smile curl his lip. For a man who seemed at death’s door five minutes earlier, he appeared remarkably recovered.

  No sooner were we seated than Robert bolted into the room to serve the first course. It took all the agility the company possessed to avoid having our shirtfronts emblazoned with the consommé.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so large a company gathered in your dining room, Higgins,” said Guest, eying Holmes with naked curiosity.

  “Morello here is a new pupil. This other fellow is his fellow. Pickering is Pickering, and you are you. It’s more of an accretion than a gathering.”

  Guest turned to Holmes. “You couldn’t hope for a better teacher than Professor
Higgins, Mr. Morello. I can vouch for his abilities myself.”

  “Guest sounded like a Galway bogcutter when he first came to me,” Higgins said, cackling.

  A dark cast came into the young doctor’s eyes. If he were Irish, Higgins well knew how to get his Irish up. The conversation lapsed into wretched silence.

  Miss Doolittle did indeed make her appearance shortly. The gentlemen all rose as she entered, but she refused to acknowledge the courtesy, dropping her eyes to the floor.

  “Miss Eliza, you look a vision!” said Dr. Guest, making a stiff little half-bow. He attempted to take her hand, but the hand was not forthcoming. I darted a look at Holmes, and caught a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

  A vision she looked indeed: a spectral one. She was dressed from head to toe in a black frock that might have last been worn at Prince Albert’s funeral, lacking only a veil to make her mourning costume complete. She gave a nod to Pickering as he drew her chair out, but as soon as she was seated, her gaze went to her dinner plate and remained fixed there for most of the evening.

  “How are you feeling tonight, Miss Doolittle?” Dr. Guest asked innocuously.

  Miss Doolittle gave over her whole attention to the turbot, shaving off flakes of flesh as thin as tissue paper.

  “Eliza, the doctor asked a question of you.” Higgins’s admonition was neither sharp nor loud, yet as insistent as a terrier in a rat-hole.

  Miss Doolittle swallowed. “Quite well, Doctor,” she said to the back of her spoon. Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Not at all feverish?”

  “Not at all feverish.” The girl’s voice mounted. “Not at all phlegmatic. Not at all bilious. Neither scrofulous nor dropsical nor drowsy. Not anemic. Nor lymphatic nor splenetic. How do you feel, dear doctor? You look a bit peaked.” By now her voice was fairly ringing.