Wouldn't It Be Deadly (22 page)

“Until today I thought Professor Higgins was the most arrogant man in London. It seems I was wrong.”

Before he could reply, she realized they were approaching the same two men Nottingham spoke with earlier. They had remained on the park bench and now gave a friendly nod to Nottingham. He didn't respond. They didn't notice, since their brazen attention was focused on Eliza. She felt as if she was strolling through the park in nothing more than her corset.

Matching their boldness with her own, she stared back at them. The ruddier bloke had the cheek to wink at her.

“Morning to you, miss,” he said. “But I think you could do a sight better than him.”

Startled, she noticed his broken nose and glass left eye.

Both fellows laughed. Nottingham shot them a dark look and hurried her away. Eliza heard one of the men say to the other under his breath, “I don't Adam and Eve our Jimmy sometimes. He's got too much flash for a tea leaf.”

As their laughter faded behind them, Eliza did her best to keep up with Nottingham. They were nearly halfway to the Speke Monument before she convinced him to slow down.

“Enough, Mr. Nottingham. We're not competing in a race through the park. You'll have us jumping steeples next.” She stood still and panted for breath.

“Sorry, but I didn't want to subject you to those rude men any longer.”

“I didn't find your friends so offensive that we had to run away.”

Nottingham looked surprised. “Those men are not my friends. In fact, I've never seen those blokes before.”

“Please, Mr. Nottingham. Or should I call you Jimmy as they just did?”

He paled. “What are you talking about?”

“When I arrived at the park, you were already deep in conversation with them.”

“All right, all right. They're a couple of mates from Liverpool. Came to the city they did, and wanted advice on where to find some honest work.”

“Try again. The man who spoke to me did not have a Scouser accent. He's a Cockney from Wapping.”

Nottingham swore under his breath. “I keep forgetting you're a teacher of dialects.”

“I didn't have to be a teacher to peg him for an East Ender. Being an East Ender myself, I knew exactly what he said.”

The young man looked uneasy. “What do you mean?”

She snapped her parasol shut. “Your friend said, ‘I don't Adam and Eve our Jimmy sometimes. He's got too much flash for a tea leaf.'”

He looked about, as if worried someone might be eavesdropping. “So?”

“Translated into proper English, he said, ‘I don't believe our Jimmy sometimes. He's acting much too flashy for a thief.'”

“That bloody eejit. He never knows when to keep his head down and his mouth shut.” He took a deep breath. “Look, back in Liverpool, I was a bit light-fingered. But I never pulled off a job that landed me in jail. And I was a boy. Don't think what I did at fifteen should be held against me now. I haven't pinched anything for years.”

“Really? Then why are you meeting with Hyde and Rathbone, two of the most clever and accomplished thieves in London?”

His expression grew even more alarmed. Nottingham led her to a park bench partially hidden by rhododendron bushes in full flower. Neither spoke until they were seated.

“Okay, Miss Doolittle, I know two men who are thieves. Can't arrest me for that. But maybe I should be suspicious of you, seeing as how you happen to know who they are.”

“Don't turn this around on me. I told you I was raised in the East End. Not only do I know Cockney-speak, I know most everyone who lives within the sound of St. Mary's Bells. And that includes the fellow with the broken nose and glass eye. His name is Bill Rathbone and he grew up around the corner from me.” Eliza shook her head in disgust. “He's been a ‘tea leaf' since he was eight years old and nicked my corn husk doll. He hasn't stopped stealing since—except for a stay in Walton Prison in Liverpool, where no doubt you first met him. So you may want to change your story about never being arrested.”

“Bloody hell.” Nottingham sat back, clearly shocked. “Then why didn't he say anything to you, seeing as how you grew up in the same neighborhood?”

“Billy boy looks as he always has, in need of a wash, a shave, and a few pints of stout. Last time he saw me, I looked as scruffy and unkempt as he does now. I don't wonder he didn't recognize me.” She paused before adding proudly, “I've changed. He hasn't.”

Leaning forward, Nottingham clasped his hands over his knees. “You want the truth, Miss Doolittle? I'll give it to you. I am a thief, one of the best in the south of England. I grew up on the Liverpool docks and had a hand in nabbing something off every ship that came in.” The young man's voice grew hard. “Should have stayed on the docks, but I fell in with some mates who wanted to break into houses. Regular burglars we were, sneaking about like shadows. Right fun, too, unless someone woke up and discovered us. One of those times was enough to send me to Walton for a few years.”

“Where you met Bill Rathbone?”

He nodded. “We became mates. Bill got out first and told me to look him up if I ever came to London. Stealing from Liverpool judges and ship owners was too dicey. Since Bill had all sorts of connections in London, I decided to come to the city and work on one big score.”

“But why were you taking lessons from Nepommuck if you planned to remain a thief?” Eliza gasped when she realized the truth. “You wanted to get a job at a bank so you could steal from it.”

“Yes.”

“That's why Nepommuck was blackmailing you.”

“He wasn't blackmailing me.” Nottingham looked smug.

“I don't understand. You would be a perfect person to blackmail.”

“Not really. Nepommuck wasn't stupid. It's one thing to blackmail cheating wives, quite another to threaten men like Bill or me. We know too many dangerous people.”

Eliza grew uneasy. Pickering was right. It was reckless to confront murder suspects on her own. She knew how unsavory the criminal element could be. And yet here she was sitting beside a man who realized she knew his secret plan to rob the Bank of England. Cor, would she ever learn?

As if reading her thoughts, Nottingham gave her a sly grin. “Don't worry, Miss Doolittle. I'm a thief, not a murderer. I'm a good thief, too. Problem is I have a hard time keeping the money I steal. I like to buy things—for myself, for my mates, for my lady friends. I'm like a modern Robin Hood. That's why I gave myself the name ‘Nottingham.' But I never had to kill anyone to get what I want. And I certainly wouldn't start with you or even a fellow like Emil Nepommuck.”

“Did he know about your past?”

“Oh, the devil take my past. All he cared about was my future. I needed him to teach me how to speak like an educated man, one who could toady his way up to a bank manager's desk. I only sought a position at the bank to have access to their vaults. Once I learn how the bank is run, I can go in there one night and make off with a fortune to last even me for a few years.” He paused. “With a little help from Bill and his friends.”

“And Nepommuck knew this?”

“Of course he did. I didn't even pay for my lessons. But I had to agree to hand over a portion of the bank haul once I'd pulled off the robbery.” Nottingham shrugged. “It seemed a fair deal for both of us. I've spent my life splitting the spoils with fellow thieves, fences, or crooked police. Don't know why you think I would suddenly go off my head now, and take to killing a man for his fair share.”

Nottingham could be lying to her, yet the whole story seemed strangely plausible. He was cocky and young enough to think he could pull off such a robbery. Who knows? Perhaps he could. Whatever the truth, her instincts told her she wasn't sitting next to a murderer. Which was good news for her and Nottingham, but bad news for Higgins.

“Who do you think murdered Nepommuck?” she finally asked.

“I don't know. Probably the most unlikely suspect.” He turned to her. “And what will you do with this information, Miss Doolittle? Run off to the police?”

“If I was that foolish, I would never have survived twenty years in London's East End.”

He frowned. “I believe you, but I don't know about Bill. Despite how fancy you look now, it may occur to him later on that you are actually Lizzie Doolittle, the girl who knows far too much about him. About both of us, in fact.”

A nervous shiver ran through her. “Is this a threat?”

“A warning.”

Again, she had that feeling of being watched. Eliza rose to her feet and scanned the area about her.

“What's wrong?” Nottingham jumped up to stand beside her.

“Someone is watching us.”

“Bollocks,” he muttered. “It better not be the bloody police.”

“I don't know who it is.”

“Let's get out of here then.” Nottingham grasped her elbow so tight, she winced. “Together. Right now, I don't trust you out of my sight.”

Before Eliza could react, a familiar voice rang out. “Miss Doolittle, how charming to come upon you like this.”

Eliza and Nottingham turned to see Major Redstone emerge from around the corner. Pulling free from the young man's tight grip, she hurried to meet Redstone.

“Major, I am so glad to see you.”

He reached out for her hand and held it. “Are you all right, Eliza?” he said in a voice so low only she could hear.

She nodded. “I am now.”

“Perhaps you would like to join me for a cup of tea?” He drew her closer. Eliza felt like she had taken shelter under a strong tree.

“I would join you for a bowl of cold porridge,” she whispered back, “as long as it doesn't include Mr. Nottingham.”

Redstone looked over to confront the younger man, but Nottingham had vanished.

 

THIRTEEN

The day went from bad to worse. Hadn't it been frustrating enough that Higgins was forced to strike Kollas off the list of murder suspects? Yesterday he and Eliza had spoken with five of Nepommuck's students; all of them either had alibis for the time of the murder, or were physically incapable of committing such a crime. Now he had to place Kollas among them.

There were only a few of Nepommuck's current pupils left to question. And all of them were ladies. Who among them had the motive and the ability to kill a man in such a manner?

The minute he learned Kollas's story, the first person Higgins wanted to tell was Eliza. The two of them arranged to meet at one o'clock at the Princess Louise pub. They planned to compare notes on their respective encounters with Kollas and Nottingham. But the last thing he expected was to see Eliza arrive at the pub clinging to the arm of Major Redstone.

How had that poetry-spouting chap become so involved in this investigation? Wasn't he supposed to be translating Sanskrit folderol with Pickering? Honestly, the man traveled halfway across the world for a chance to elevate his status as a Sanskrit expert, and instead wasted time following a flower seller about.

Of course, Eliza didn't look like a Cockney flower girl today. Higgins had never seen her so elegant and refined, not even at the Embassy Ball where they tricked her out like a prize pony in feathers, diamonds, and silks. Sitting across from him at the table, in her pale apricot skirt and jacket, she appeared as much a lady as his own mother. And there was no higher compliment he could extend to any woman but that she compared favorably to Lady Grace Honoria Winslow Higgins. What a metamorphosis for the little guttersnipe he'd found screeching outside St. Paul's last summer.

Eliza raised a dainty hand in the barmaid's direction and pointed at her empty glass.

Higgins smiled. He was happy to see traces of the Cockney cabbage leaf remained. Apparently she worked up quite an appetite parading about Kensington Gardens. She spent the better part of the past hour tucking into her shepherd's pie and sipping Guinness. His own appetite vanished when he was forced to sit through lunch with Redstone as well.

“You should inform the police that Kollas is wanted for murder in America,” Redstone said for the third time.

“What happened in Chicago has nothing to do with Nepommuck.”

“How do you know? My word, a fellow gives his father a fatal dose of morphine and you think Scotland Yard should remain ignorant.” Redstone seemed more puzzled than exasperated. “At least let the police decide for themselves if this information is pertinent.”

Eliza swallowed another piece of pie. “The Professor gave Kollas his word he wouldn't tell. And I agree with him. It has nothing to do with the Maestro's murder.”

“Except the Hungarian knew a damaging secret about a wealthy and desperate man.” Redstone shook his head. “Kollas—or Dr. Richards, as he more rightly should be called—had an excellent reason to want Nepommuck dead. He also confessed to killing his own father. I don't understand what either of you think qualifies as a likely suspect.”

Higgins regretted telling both of them the details of his conversation with Kollas. He should have waited until he could speak with Eliza alone. “As I explained, the man has an alibi for Nepommuck's murder. I wish he didn't, but the fact is he does. Running off to the police like an informer will not change his innocence. Nor will it prove mine.”

“True.” Eliza sipped her Irish beer.

Redstone sighed. “But dear Eliza, the man is leading a fraudulent life. How do you know if Kollas is being honest about anything, including his alibi?”

“‘To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.'”

He smiled at her with obvious pride.
“Hamlet?”

“Act 2, scene 2. It's a marvelous play. I read it all in one night. Thank you so much for giving it to me, Aubrey.”

Higgins rolled his eyes. Bloody hell, what a cozy pair they seemed. And when did she start calling him “Aubrey”? The man was old enough to be her father. As for Redstone, he hung on her every word. The glances he cast her way showed the man found her attractive. More than that: desirable. As if Freddy wasn't bad enough, now he would have to deal with a middle-aged Lothario in his midst. And with Eliza living at Wimpole Street, Higgins wondered if he should toss the Major out of his house. Maybe Pick could convince him to move his lodgings elsewhere, preferably back to India.