Wouldn't It Be Deadly Read online

  Three pupils canceling in one day was unheard of. He felt like the victim of some perverse practical joke. Without a student to terrorize, half the fun had just gone out of the day. If it weren’t raining buckets, he’d grab his notebook and head outdoors. It was always great sport listening to his countrymen murder their native tongue.

  Now he faced a long idle day inside. While Colonel Pickering was good company, they had just spent the better part of two months together touring Spain. Higgins suspected they had run out of conversation somewhere in Granada. Plus Higgins was in a combative mood and he didn’t want to take it out on a fellow as congenial as the Colonel.

  Indeed, he found it most fortuitous to have met Pickering last summer near Covent Garden’s vegetable market. Higgins had been so impressed by the scholarly tome Spoken Sanskrit that he was determined to meet its author, Colonel Pickering, even if it meant traveling halfway across the world to India. Fortunately he was saved the tedium of a long ocean trip when the Colonel arrived in England for the sole purpose of meeting Henry Higgins, the author of Higgins’s Universal Alphabet. That both of them happened to be standing outside Inigo Jones’s St. Paul’s Church that rainy evening was nothing short of remarkable. A certain young Cockney flower girl was also there that night, but Higgins wasn’t certain if he would term that encounter remarkable or ominous.

  As two confirmed bachelor scholars, it seemed only fitting they continue their research together at Higgins’s home at 27A Wimpole Street. Soon after, Eliza Doolittle joined the household as their prize student, and the past year had been spent turning her from a caterwauling street urchin into something resembling a lady. If nothing else, Wimpole Street was never dull once that upstart had moved in.

  Higgins plucked a tuning fork, threw it down, wiped nonexistent dust from the phonograph, and ran his hand over the life-size model of a human head. After straightening the Piranesi drawings on the wall, Higgins ate a chocolate cream from the dessert bowl on the piano. Just the sight of the candy reminded him of Eliza, who gobbled up his chocolates like a greedy child. Maybe Pickering was right. Maybe they should pay a call on his mother. And if the “Cockney duchess” happened to be in attendance, he would treat her with the profound indifference she deserved.

  “Jolly good.” Pickering nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Major Redstone arrived in Southampton yesterday. I wouldn’t be surprised to receive a call from him later today as soon as he settles in at his club. Quite looking forward to seeing him again.”

  “Is this the chap who’s an expert on Sanskrit poetry?”

  Pickering nodded. “Redstone’s not yet forty, but he’s one of the best in his field. In fact, he’s coming to London to present a paper next month at the Asiatic and Sanskrit Revival Society.”

  “Sounds like a fellow who enjoys a decent conversation. Have him stay with us. We’ve more than enough room here, especially since that ungrateful flower peddler left.”

  “Ripping good idea. I’ll ask him as soon as he contacts me.” Pickering gave the paper a shake, then turned the page. “Oh, my word.”

  Higgins glanced his way. “Did the suffragettes burn down another cricket pavilion?”

  “Henry, I think I may know why you are losing pupils. Our Hungarian colleague has taken to advertising in the paper during your absence.”

  “Nepommuck? That peacock has been riding my coattails ever since I corrected his abysmal English. I find it absurd I would lose pupils due to an advertisement in the Daily Mail.”

  “It appears he has an assistant now.” Pickering cleared his throat and began to read. “‘Learn the King’s English from the flower girl who successfully passed for a duchess at the Embassy Ball two months ago. Taught by the renowned Emil Nepommuck himself, Miss Doolittle will have you speaking like the gentry in less than eight weeks. Visit Maestro Nepommuck today at Belgrave Square and arrange a lesson with his star pupil.’ I say, the man has more brass than the horn section at the symphony.”

  “The bloody liar!” Higgins grabbed the paper. “Let me see that.”

  “Try not to get too upset with Eliza. I’m sure there’s a good explanation.”

  “That treacherous harridan!” He kicked the nearest table, sending a box of wax cylinders crashing to the floor. “How dare they collaborate.”

  “No need to tear down the laboratory, old man.”

  Higgins flung open the door. “Mrs. Pearce! Bring my coat and hat, I’m going out.”

  “What are you going to do?” Pickering looked pale.

  “I am going to see our Miss Doolittle, as you suggested. And when I do, I intend to strangle her with my own hands. And that thieving Hungarian, for good measure!”

  TWO

  Every time Eliza lit a coal fire, she thought of her dead canary. Poor little Petey. Eliza sent a brief prayer his way as she added another lump of coal to the grate. While she blamed the blustery spring day for feeling so cold, this morning’s strange encounter in the dark hallway had added to the chill. She smiled as the flames leaped higher. It had been almost a year since she left her shabby room in Angel Court, but Eliza still marveled whenever she sat before the loverly warmth of her own coal fireplace.

  A pity she didn’t have this coal the winter before last. She’d bought a little canary from a street seller in Brick Lane. The purchase of the bird and cage set Eliza back a week’s wages, but the cost was well worth it. What a treat to return home to her lonely room and be greeted by the lilting song of her own bird. That is, until the harsh cold of winter set in. Without a coal grate or enough wood for the fireplace, Eliza could barely keep herself from freezing. Petey was dead by Boxing Day.

  “How did that sound, Miss Doolittle?”

  Feeling guilty that she hadn’t heard a word of the vocal exercises, Eliza turned her attention back to her pupil. In two months, she’d taken on ten students. It wasn’t difficult work, nor as unpleasant as selling flowers in a chilly downpour. But listening to people misspeak their native tongue reminded her of how recently she had been among them.

  “Much better, Mrs. Finch, but you must avoid slurring your ‘r’s. Especially when your voice dips into a lower register.” Eliza picked up a tuning fork and struck it. “Try to pitch your voice to this. The conscious effort to do so will cause you to slow your speech and better enunciate the ‘r’ sound.”

  After a deep breath, the woman began reciting the day’s diction lesson in a higher key.

  Mary Finch had newly come to London with her husband, Cornelius, who owned several woolen factories in Leeds. Prosperous and young, the pair decided to use their growing wealth to climb the social ladder. However, they quickly learned that wealth without the right accent and diction proved meaningless in the circles they aspired to. The sooner they learned to speak like the upper crust, the faster their ascent. Or so they hoped.

  Eliza found Mrs. Finch an agreeable young woman, although with her sleek head of blond hair and propensity to wear bright colors, “Goldfinch” would have been a more apt name. And while Mary was a diligent student, she seemed more interested in fashion than in vowels.

  This morning, it took twenty minutes to distract Mary from asking endless questions about Eliza’s outfit. Where had she purchased her satin, faille, and leather boots? Was the color of her shadow lace blouse the celebrated peony hue all the fashion magazines were writing about this season? Did she find it troublesome to keep wrinkles from spoiling the silhouette of her gray linen skirt? She even asked to examine Eliza’s kid gloves.

  One more question and she’d hand the woman Colonel Pickering’s card. After all, he had bought every stitch of clothing she possessed. Thinking of the dear Colonel sent a wave of sadness through her. Eliza missed the sweet man, and wondered if he’d returned from his research trip to Spain and Portugal. Henry Higgins had gone with him, at least according to his mother, with whom she was staying. And that insufferable man was the last person she wished to see again. Particularly since she was now working with the Professor’s main competitor.
She felt a bit guilty about that. Still, a girl had to make an honest living. And she had warned Higgins that she might become a phonetics teacher.

  A loud banging erupted downstairs.

  Mrs. Finch looked up in obvious alarm. Someone seemed to be battering down the door. Eliza frowned. This was turning into a day of oddities. What next?

  The banging ceased.

  “Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.” Eliza shot a reassuring smile at her student. She tapped the tuning fork. “Shall we try again?”

  Mrs. Finch cleared her throat and launched into her recitation. Eliza nodded with satisfaction when she finished. “Much better. You see, it only takes a bit of concentration to—”

  “Eliza! Where are you, you ungrateful baggage?”

  “Oh, no!” Eliza dropped the tuning fork in shock and ran behind the corner chair.

  “Miss Doolittle?” Mrs. Finch looked wide-eyed with fear. “Whatever is the matter?”

  Before she could answer—or suggest a good hiding place—Henry Higgins barged into the room. With his beet-red face and eyebrows twitching, he appeared ready to hurl a deadly thunderbolt or two at her.

  “Go away.” Eliza clutched the chair for support. “I am engaged with a pupil.”

  “A pupil?” Higgins pointed his dripping umbrella at Mrs. Finch, who sat with her mouth agape. “Do you mean this benighted fool has come to you for assistance in how to speak proper English?”

  Eliza’s fear vanished at that familiar mocking voice. “Who better to go to?”

  He shook his umbrella again at Mrs. Finch. “You there. Say something.”

  Mary Finch looked over at Eliza for support. “I … I don’t know what everyone is shouting about, but I have an appointment with my jeweler and really must run.”

  Higgins turned back to Eliza with a smirk. “She is lately come from Leeds in Yorkshire. Dreadful slurring of the ‘r’s. But she was raised in Sedbergh, hence the west Cumbrian inflections. In fact, I would guess the northern part of the village.”

  “However did you know that?” Mrs. Finch sounded impressed despite her obvious fear.

  “He’s showing off,” Eliza said. “It’s a favorite parlor game of his. I don’t know why he simply doesn’t buy a dog and train it to do tricks for his amusement.”

  “I did have a monkey quite recently who was very good at fetching slippers and mimicking her betters. She was more amusing than a dozen trained dogs.” He glared at her. “But far less loyal.”

  “Monkey, was I? More like your best pupil. A pupil so talented the mere idea she decided to give lessons threatens you.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t care if you teach the entire East End to hold on to their aitches. What I do resent is you giving that hairy Hungarian access to my hard-won methods!”

  “Maestro has no interest in your methods.”

  “By Jupiter, Eliza. You’re calling that buffoon ‘Maestro’?”

  “It’s what you called him that night I won your bet at the Embassy Ball,” she shot back. “And he hasn’t asked me a single question about your phonetics techniques. Why should he? From what I can see, the Maestro charges twice your fee and has three times the number of pupils. Maybe you should be asking me about his methods.”

  “You imp of the devil! I should have instructed Mrs. Pearce to drown you in the bathtub the day you came begging at my doorstep. Judas Iscariot had more loyalty!”

  “The gentlemen downstairs are beginning to complain about the noise,” Pickering said as he entered the room.

  “Hang them all,” Higgins said. “And they’re not gentlemen. They’re solicitors.”

  Eliza hurried over to embrace the Colonel. “You are the only gentleman here. How lovely to see you again.”

  “And you too, Eliza.” Pickering beamed at her with approval. “I’ve been thinking about you for weeks now, hoping you were well. And here you are, looking so pretty and proper. By the way, I bought the loveliest lace shawl for you in Seville.”

  “Please sit down, Colonel.” She gestured to her student. “Colonel Pickering, this is Mrs. Finch. Mrs. Finch, I would like you to meet the esteemed Colonel Pickering, a renowned expert in Indian dialects.”

  “What about my introduction?” Higgins said with a growl.

  “That’s Henry Higgins.” Eliza didn’t even glance in his direction.

  “Very pleased to meet you both,” Mary Finch murmured as she hurried to pull on her gloves.

  Eliza sat opposite Pickering at the lesson table. “Tell me all about Spain. How many Basque dialects did you record? What was the food like? And what about the weather? Did it rain much?”

  “Bloody hell!” Higgins’s curse elicited a gasp from Mrs. Finch. “Who gives a damn about the rain in Spain?”

  “I do,” Eliza said. “What would you rather talk about? Your wounded pride, your insufferable vanity?”

  “Why don’t we talk about your treachery? And the unethical tactics of that lying unskilled ape Nepommuck!”

  “Why am I being called a liar and unskilled?” Emil Nepommuck stood in the open doorway to Eliza’s classroom.

  Since his phonetics laboratory and living quarters were directly across the hall, she was amazed he hadn’t appeared when Higgins arrived. Indeed, if the Professor wanted proof of the Maestro’s success, he need only peek into his rival’s apartment, with its ornate furnishings and Persian carpets. She doubted the Duke of Edinburgh lived as lavishly as Nepommuck.

  Higgins was unfazed. “Eavesdropping is a perilous occupation, dear boy. You may want to stop doing it if you don’t want to hear insulting things about yourself.”

  “Eavesdropping? I could hear all this noise from the roof.” He smoothed down his mustache. “And, Miss Doolittle, haven’t we had enough excitement for one day? I thought you were a lady.”

  “No, you didn’t, you deceitful oaf.” Higgins banged his umbrella on the floor. “You knew she was a Cockney flower girl when you hired her. Or did you think I’d never read that blasted piece of fiction in the newspaper? I should pummel you over the head for those lies you had printed!”

  Nepommuck flushed. “I have no time for this bullying nonsense. And I would rather you not come here to frighten Miss Doolittle and Mrs. Finch.”

  Mary Finch scurried to his side. “Thank you, Maestro. I feel so much better now that you are here.”

  He patted the woman’s hand. “Look how you have upset the gentle Mrs. Finch. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Professor.”

  “Oh, I don’t give a tinker’s dam about Mrs. Finch,” Higgins said. “Why doesn’t she leave if I make her so nervous?”

  “Henry, really,” Pickering said.

  “It’s true, I must be going.” But instead of leaving, Mrs. Finch pressed closer to Nepommuck, who bent down to kiss her hand.

  “No, my dear. I am sure Miss Doolittle wishes to finish your lesson.”

  “I certainly do,” Eliza said. “As soon as we get rid of Professor Higgins. Unless he’s not done threatening everyone in the room.”

  “The only person I mean to threaten is you.” Higgins walked over to Nepommuck, clearly pleased that he towered over the younger man by at least six inches. Mrs. Finch took a step back. “Or need I remind you that I taught you literally everything you know?”

  “I hardly think you taught me thirty-two languages, Professor. You taught me a little phonetics, yes, but the ear and the linguistic skills? Ah, they are of my own making.”

  “Nonsense. You made a career for yourself by posing as my apprentice. Every country you set foot in, you trumpet my name before you. Being my student has been your entrée to all the drawing rooms in Europe. Now you have the brass to steal away Eliza, the recent beneficiary of my latest phonetics methods.”

  “Steal? Miss Doolittle came to me after I made her acquaintance at the Embassy Ball. She asked for a job as my assistant, and I hired her.”

  “That’s true,” Eliza said. “I did.”

  “And why should I not hire such a c
lever girl, a girl so clever she fooled even the great Hairy Faced Maestro, as I am known on the Continent.”

  “She fooled you only because I taught her!”

  “Congratulations, Professor.” He clicked his heels together. “I salute you. But she has chosen to work with Emil Nepommuck, not Professor Higgins. And why should I not let the world know that my assistant is the celebrated flower girl who passed as a duchess? It is a genius advertisement for my business. Thank you for allowing our paths to cross.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that you have no intention of stealing my techniques and passing them off as your own?” Higgins’s expression grew even more suspicious.

  “Miss Doolittle, have I ever asked about this man’s methods?”

  “Never.”

  Nepommuck looked immensely satisfied with himself. “Ah, then. You see? Quarrel settled. I do not wish to even hear of your latest techniques, when I, Nepommuck, have developed excellent ones of my own.”

  Eliza noticed that a blood vessel pulsed in Higgins’s temple, a sure sign his temper was growing worse. The Professor pointed his umbrella at her this time.

  “So what does Miss Doolittle use to teach? What is recorded on those wax cylinders I spy scattered about the room, the phonograph records, the notebooks in her crooked handwriting? Are they your techniques?”

  “Of course not. They are her techniques.”

  “She has no techniques except for the ones I gave her! Those are the only ones she knows.”

  “Stop.” Eliza banged on the table. “I have every right to use what I learned and pass it on to those who want to improve themselves. I do have to make a living, after all. Unless you expect me to trot back to Covent Garden with a basket of violets dangling from my arm.”

  “Hang that. Pickering told you dozens of times he’d set you up in a flower shop.”

  “I will, Eliza,” the Colonel said.

  Eliza reached across the table and squeezed Pickering’s hand. “Thank you, Colonel, but I’ve only been teaching for a few weeks. And while I find it satisfying work, I don’t know what I shall do in the future. You’ve both controlled so much of my life this past year, I need time to breathe on my own for a while.”