Read Wouldn't It Be Deadly Online
Authors: D. E. Ireland
Wouldn't It Be Deadly
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Dedicated with many thanks to George Bernard Shaw and his immortal characters Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins. Shaw's celebrated play
Pygmalion
inspired this mystery series; an added thanks to the Irish playwright for inspiring our pen name. We hope Mr. Shaw would have approved of our reimagining. If not, we take comfort in Shaw's own statement: “A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.”
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CONTENTS
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HENRY HIGGINS:
“There's only one way of escaping trouble; and that's killing things.”
âGeorge Bernard Shaw,
Pygmalion
, Act 5
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ONE
LONDON, 1913
The shadowy hallway seemed as black as the heart of Jack the Ripper.
Eliza Doolittle paused at the top of the stairs. Why were the lights turned off on the second floor? Since there were no windows along the corridor, the housekeeping staff normally kept four electric lights burning. But all she could see before her was darkness.
Although she had no idea where it was located, Eliza fumbled for the light switch. She cursed these newfangled devices. How was a soul to know what to do when the electricity went out? When she'd needed illumination when she'd lived in her old digs on Drury Lane, she'd reached for a gas lampâassuming she had a penny for the meter. Now every building in London was awash in the dim glow of electric lights. Maybe the storm caused the lights to go out. Today's weather was especially foul as thunderous rains and wild winds swept over the city.
If she felt her way, she'd reach the room where she gave phonetics lessons. Her fingers brushed the flocked velvet wallpaper as she inched along the corridor. With her other hand, she grasped a heavy cloth sack weighted down with the tuning forks she used for her lessons.
What a silly goose she was. For years, Eliza wandered through alleyways darker than this, with murderous dodgers lurking in them. That's what civilized living did to peopleâmade them fear every sound. Put a Whitechapel girl among the gentry and she became as jumpy as a Brighton maiden aunt. After all, she wasn't walking along the corridors of a Bethnal Green council house. This was fashionableâand sedateâBelgrave Square.
The distant ring of a telephone downstairs reminded her that she was far from alone in the building. Not only did a prestigious company of solicitors rent offices on the first floor, her employer Maestro Emil Nepommuck lived and gave lessons in the apartment directly across from her classroom. In fact, she could probably hear him moving about his rooms as he prepared for the arrival of his own students.
Eliza stopped and listened. Not a sound. There wasn't even the usual smell of Nepommuck's Turkish cigarettes, which often permeated the whole second floor. Only the relentless pounding of rain on the roof broke the eerie silence.
Raised in the slums of Lisson Grove and London's East End, Eliza was uneasy with too much quiet and stillness. A year ago at this hour, she would have been selling violets under the skylights at Covent Garden Market as dozens of costermongers hawked their wares around her. Now that she'd learned to speak like a lady, she had a more genteel occupation teaching others to speak the King's English. But she missed the cacophony and lively crowds of market day. And at this moment she would have given five quid to hear just one greengrocer sing out, “Who'll buy me fresh strawberries? Strawberries ripe from Kent! Sixpence a pound!”
She even harbored a regret or two that she was no longer living with Professor Higgins and Colonel Pickering at 27A Wimpole Street. For certain there was never a quiet moment in that house with Henry Higgins holding court from breakfast to bedtime. However, if she were still living there, Higgins would never cease to remind her how grateful she should be to him for turning a Cockney guttersnipe into a proper lady. No, she had made the right decision to become Maestro Nepommuck's teaching assistant.
She strained again to hear any sound from Nepommuck's apartment. The Hungarian was not fond of mornings so perhaps he was still asleep. It was unlikely he had ventured outside. Eliza couldn't imagine Nepommuck stepping outdoors on such a wet and miserable day.
As she crept down the hall, a floorboard creaked beneath the carpeting. Eliza froze. Had she caused that sound? Blimey, if she swooned after hearing her own footsteps, she'd best head back to the stairs before she made a complete fool of herself and yelled for help.
Another creak, louder this time, but she hadn't moved an inch. The sound came from farther down the hallway near Nepommuck's apartment. Eliza held her breath.
Was someone slowly walking toward her? If so, why didn't they speak? Unless they didn't realize she was here. After all, if she couldn't see a foot in front of her face, neither could anyone else. Eliza opened her mouth to call out, but hesitated. A childhood spent living on the London streets had taught her to trust her instincts. Just now they told her to keep quiet.
When thunder crashed overhead, she jumped. Hand over her racing heart, she heard the floorboards creak yet again.
Eliza refused to stand still like a frightened bird. How many steps had she taken since she left the stairwell? If she turned and fled, she might fall headlong down the steps in the dark. And she didn't fancy breaking her neck because a noisy hallway gave her the vapors.
The carpeted floorboards squeaked two more times, the sounds closer. No doubt about it, someone was in the hallway with her. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and Eliza thought she saw a shape move in the shadows.
Instinct be damned. She had to do something. “Who's there?” Her voice sounded especially loud in the unnerving silence.
Nothing.
“I hear you, mate.” She put as much bluster as possible in her voice. “No use pretending you're not there. If you're lost, speak up. And if you're lurking here in hopes of cutting a purse, it'll be slim pickings.”
Again, only silence. Eliza heard a furtive footstep, and another. Suddenly a rush of pounding feet headed right toward her. She spun around and ran for the stairs, the bag of tuning forks banging against her hip.
“Leave me alone!”
Behind her came the sound of a grunt as whoever chased her drew near.
“Get away from me, you bloomingâ” Without warning, she lost her footing and fell hard to the floor. The bag of tuning forks slammed against the opposite wall. Eliza tried to get to her feet, but something hard pressed against her spine.
Her face flattened against the carpet, Eliza shouted, “Get off!”
A shaft of light broke through the darkness. She heard Maestro Nepommuck call out, “Who's there? What is happening out here?”
The weight against her back released and a slight breeze ruffled her hair. Sprawled on the floor, Eliza turned her head and spied a figure darting into the shadowy stairwell.
“Miss Doolittle, is that you?”
“Yes, Maestro.”
She heard him mutter in Hungarian. A moment later, the lights flashed on. Her shiny new tuning forks lay scattered across the carpet.
Nepommuck crouched beside her. “Are you hurt?”
Shaking her head, she sat up. A tuning fork slipped off her back. “I'm fine. I just tripped.”
“Whyever did you turn off the lights?” He helped Eliza to her feet.
“The lights were already off when I came upstairs.” She readjusted her hat, which still dripped from the rain. “Did one of your pupils switch them off when they left?”
“I do not have pupils until after ten. You know I do not like to rise early.”
Eliza now saw that the Hungarian wore a gold brocade dressing gown and embroidered black-and-gold slippers. He had obviously not been awake long. What really caught her attention was the black netting covering his hair. And when he moved his head, she spied two strips of tape holding down his luxuriant mustache. She tried not to stare.
Clearing his throat, he seemed to realize he was dressed inappropriately. “If you are not hurt, I shall return to my apartment. I trust you can pick up your tuning forks.” Nepommuck sniffed. “Although I do not agree with the practice of using such devices. We are teaching people to speak correctly, Miss Doolittle, not tune violins.”
“Professor Higgins sometimes used them during his lessons with me.” Eliza knelt to collect the scattered forks. “A person may have a speech problem because they do not hear properly. A tuning fork helps to uncover that. And they also are good forâ”
“Enough. I do not wish to hear about the Professor or his silly tricks.” He tugged at his dressing gown's belt. “If you are done tripping about in the dark, I would like to get dressed before our pupils arrive.”
“One moment, Maestro. Did you see anyone in the hallway when you turned on the lights?”
“I saw only you and your tuning forks lying on the floor. A most unladylike sight, too.”
“Someone was in the hallway with me. It was too dark to see, but I heard the floor creak.”
He gave her a patronizing smile. “Floors often creak, Miss Doolittle. Old buildings make all sorts of odd noises.” A roll of thunder accompanied his last words. “Add thunder to the dark, and you would not be the first young woman to take fright.”
“It takes more than a thunderstorm to make me run for the stairs,” Eliza said. “I'd bet a week's wages there was someone hiding by your door.” She nodded toward his apartment. “He chased me when he realized I was here. That's why I fell.”
A strange expression briefly crossed the Maestro's face before he shook his head. “Nonsense, Miss Doolittle. The storm and the dark hallway caused these fancies. Besides, why would someone stand outside my doorway only to run away when I appear?”
“I don't know, but it's not likely they had a pleasant purpose in mind. I thinkâ”
He held up his hand to cut her words short. “I think you are imagining things. You may have hit your head when you fell. Perhaps you are ⦠how do you say in English?⦠hallucinating.”
With a muttered curse, Eliza bent down to pick up her tuning forks. “Please don't let me keep you from getting dressed, Maestro. I am sure it must take you some time to become presentable.”
“Impertinent girl.” He kicked a stray tuning fork with his foot.
She bent to retrieve it, but stopped when she saw the metal button that lay beside it. “Is this yours?” Eliza held up the button. Brass or even gold, she thought, and carved with an intricate design of a lion surrounded by stars.
Nepommuck stared at her in disdain. “Do you think I stand outside my door ripping buttons off my clothing?”
Eliza examined the item closely. Did it belong to the person who'd fled in the dark?
When the clock inside his apartment chimed the hour, Nepommuck gave a great sigh. “Please stop wasting time picking up trash, Miss Doolittle. Our students will be here soon.” He stalked back to his apartment. “And don't turn off the lights again.”
