It rained all night and into the morning. Outside, the shifting skies were gray, giving the streets a dismal autumnal cast. But as gloomy as it was outside 27-A Wimpole Street, the atmosphere was far gloomier within.
Eliza had just finished her Monday morning lesson with Miss Agnes Dudley. Unlike most of her pupils, Miss Dudley was not anxious to lose an embarrassing accent. Instead, Miss Dudley was raised in a respectable middle class household in Essex. An intelligent woman of twenty-three, she spoke in a cultured manner that Eliza’s other students hoped to emulate. What frustrated her was a stutter that had plagued Miss Dudley since childhood.
Fortunately, this impediment did not prevent her from working as a type writer for a biscuit manufacturer. Miss Dudley’s typing skills enabled her to earn a nice living since her parents died five years ago. But she suffered from crushing shyness whenever she wasn’t sitting before her machine. Embarrassed by a tendency to stammer whenever she was nervous, Miss Dudley avoided any woman who wished to befriend her, and any gentleman who showed an interest. That changed three months ago when a new clerk joined the firm.
The young man seemed quite taken with her. Rather than risk losing him, she had come to Eliza for instruction. Miss Dudley was the first pupil who needed a stutter corrected, and Eliza had been doubtful at first. But after four weeks, she showed great progress. So much so that Miss Dudley had agreed to attend a concert with her new suitor.
Eliza walked Miss Dudley to the front door. “You’re doing splendidly. I don’t expect you to have any problems during your outing with the gentleman.”
She tugged at her gloves. “Thank you, Miss Doolittle. I feel almost as confident in my abilities as you do.”
“You need only relax. Do not rush while speaking. And we have discussed those words that give you particular trouble. You have a large vocabulary. Simply choose an easier word.” Eliza handed the woman her umbrella. The day was much too stormy for a mere parasol.
Miss Dudley took it with a grateful smile. “Until next Monday.”
With a heavy heart, Eliza closed the door behind her and walked to Higgins’s lab. Time for elevenses, and she wagered he needed tea as much as she did. Higgins sat slumped in his favorite chair by the Victrola.
She flung herself down on the leather sofa. “Your lesson ended early.”
“My pupil needed to leave at half past the hour. It appears he had a previous appointment with his wife. Or as he put it, ‘Sozz, Professor, but I needs to take the auld baig to doctor cause she’s sick. Even though it’s likely she’s blaggin’ me ‘ead. An arl arse life it is.’” Higgins shrugged. “There was more, but I don’t think you need to hear it.”
Eliza couldn’t help but smile. “I wish I had a few Scousers. I like a good Liverpool accent.”
“You would. They speak almost as atrociously as you Cockneys.”
“Not this Cockney, at least not any more.”
She gazed about the drawing room, which Higgins had long ago turned into his speech laboratory. When she came to the Professor for instruction a year ago, it was in this very room that he agreed to take her on as his pupil. She never guessed she would spend every waking hour here for the next six months. It seemed tortuous at the time. But she’d grown fond of the tall, book-lined shelves, comfortable leather furniture, and writing desk heaped with papers. She was less enamored of the lamp chimneys, laryngoscope, and life-size model of a human head, all of which reminded her of how difficult her linguistic journey had been.
Her eyes fell on the dessert bowl atop the piano. She jumped up to retrieve a chocolate cream. Sighing with pleasure at her first bite, Eliza reached for another. Her sweet tooth was insatiable. In fact, Higgins had used sweets as a reward when he was struggling to teach Eliza not to drop her aitches. The smell of pipe tobacco wafted over her, and she looked down to see Colonel Pickering’s pipe and tobacco pouch sitting on a side table. Her already low spirits plummeted even more.
“The house doesn’t feel right without the Colonel here.” She sat down again on the couch with a handful of chocolates.
“No, it doesn’t. And I’d hold off on the chocolates. Mrs. Pearce should be bringing in tea any moment.”
“I’ve never seen her so upset. I’ve reassured her a hundred times that he’ll be fine, but she doesn’t believe me.” Eliza popped another candy in her mouth.
“I’m not certain I believe you either. Yes, I know the doctors say Pick is recovering nicely after the surgery removed the bullet. But the fellow is sixty-five years old. It’s much harder to rally when you’re up in years. One tiny setback could be disastrous.”
Eliza flung a chocolate cream at him. It hit Higgins squarely on the forehead. “Don’t you dare say that! The Colonel will be fine. The doctors said so, and they know more than you. You just teach people to speak proper. What do you know about bullets and surgery and such? The Colonel is getting better each day.”
Higgins looked as miserable as she felt. “It’s only been two days since he was shot.”
“But he seemed better when we saw him early this morning.”
“True. I should not have said anything. My apologies.”
This made Eliza feel worse. Higgins never apologized. He must be as terrified as she was over Pickering. Clasping her hands, she leaned forward. Eliza was torn between uttering a prayer for the Colonel’s speedy recovery and having a good long cry. She was prevented from either when Mrs. Pearce entered the room with a tray.
“Here’s your tea. Sorry there was no breakfast today, Professor, but Cook and me wanted to visit the Colonel before we started work.” Mrs. Pearce set the tray down. “That poor man. It broke my heart to see him sitting in hospital, looking so weak and pale. I’ll not take an easy breath until that dear man is back in Wimpole Street.”
“The doctors say he might be home in a week,” Eliza said.
“A week? Lots can happen in a week. People die in hospitals all the time.” With a muffled sob, the housekeeper rushed from the room.
Eliza and Higgins looked at each other. “I have a feeling we shouldn’t expect luncheon or dinner today either,” he said.
She walked over to the tray with its teapot and plate of biscuits. Quickly pouring out two cups, Eliza handed one to Higgins. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry.”
Higgins smile was rueful. “Nor I. Although I predict that bowl of candy will be empty within the hour.”
“You have another pupil at half past twelve, if I remember. And my next pupil arrives at one. I think we should cancel them, along with the others scheduled today.”
“I assume you want to spend the day at hospital.” Higgins took a sip of tea. “I won’t argue about it. But we spent all of Saturday and Sunday with him. You even slept beside his bed the first night, and we visited him shortly after dawn today. He may want a break from our company. Giving lessons could be a nice distraction for us both.”
“I agree. We don’t need to spend every waking minute at the Colonel’s bedside. But there are more useful things we can do than remain here correcting someone’s fractured vowels.”
“You mean chasing the murderer? Eliza, let’s leave this in the hands of the police.”
“Don’t you have a high opinion of the police all of a sudden.” She set aside her tea without tasting it. “Whoever shot Jack nearly killed the Colonel. And a misfired shot might have killed Sybil, too.”
“Or you and me.”
“These past few months have proven we can take care of ourselves. And we know how to get answers out of people who have too many secrets. I suggest we start doing that as soon as possible. The killer must be aware Jack survived. What if another attempt is made on his life? Could you live with yourself if something happened to Jack and we did nothing to stop it?”
“I’m certain I couldn’t live with you after that.”
She got to her feet. “I hate to say it, but the most obvious suspect is Pearl Palmer. Grief must have driven the woman mad. We’ll start with her.”
“I do believe she disappeared on the day of Jack’s wedding.” Higgins gave her a jaundiced look. “Although I suppose we could purchase a bloodhound and try to catch her scent on the London streets.”
“Don’t be smart. We’ll start with people who might know something about Miss Palmer. And I bet the Duchess knows more than she’s telling.”
“Are we supposed to simply barge in on her unannounced?”
“Of course not. We’re not cave people. Call her London house and say we’d like to stop by for a visit. She likes you.”
“After what happened at the gallery reception, I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Jack’s life is at stake.” She stared hard at him.
With a great sigh, Higgins got to his feet and went to the phone on the desk. She waited impatiently while he placed the call and spoke to Her Grace’s butler.
After he hung up, she walked over to him. “Well?”
“Minerva is attending a musical rehearsal at St Martin-in-the-Fields with Mr. Smith. Where I assume you’re about to drag me.” He sat with a grunt. “Can I finish my tea first?”
“Yes, you may. I’m going upstairs to change. The weather has turned quite chilly.”
“That’s right. We mustn’t catch cold,” he muttered after she walked out.
Eliza immediately reappeared at the open door. “No, we can’t afford to get sick, Professor. Not when we have to catch a killer.” She pointed at his teacup. “Now drink fast.”
Higgins couldn’t remember when he’d been inside so many churches in such a short period of time. If he visited several more, people might think he was considering ordination. At least St Martin-in-the-Fields had admirable acoustics, along with ravishing architecture. Located amid the hustle of Trafalgar Square, the elegant church resembled a neo-classical temple with its wide portico and Corinthian columns. The exterior of the building held no religious symbols; even the church’s looming steeple was crowned by a weather-vane, not a cross. But despite the surrounding traffic in the square, a feeling of peace and serenity surrounded visitors as soon as they climbed the front steps and walked inside. It didn’t surprise Higgins that the Royal Family chose St Martin-in-the-Fields as their parish church.
As they walked through the doors, Eliza and Higgins heard music within. Soon enough they spied a quintet of musicians at the nave’s far end. Higgins didn’t recognize the piece they played; it sounded a bit like Delius with a little Ralph Vaughn Williams thrown in. Thaddeus Smith stood before the musicians, his arms moving. Was Smith a conductor now?
“Looks like it’s official. The Duchess is once again the patroness of Thaddeus Smith. He’d never be conducting at St. Martin without her imprimatur.”
“I don’t know what ‘imprimatur’ means, but I assume it’s good news for Mr. Smith.” Eliza sighed. “Although given what happened to the last man she championed, I might be a little nervous if I were him.”
“Minerva must be here.” Higgins’s gaze swept over the church sanctuary, organ case, stained glass windows, oak pulpit, and the Royal Arms over the chancel arch. A dozen people sat in the pews up front, but otherwise the galleries were empty.
Eliza pointed to the paneled nave ceiling. “That’s beautiful, it is.”
He agreed. In the eighteenth century, architect James Gibbs did an admirable job designing this latest incarnation of St Martin-in-the-Fields. “A pity it’s raining today. In bright sunlight you can see all those cherubs, clouds, and scrollwork.” At least the domes and statuary could be appreciated, even in the afternoon gloom.
“Henry,” a voice echoed. “What are you and Miss Doolittle doing here?” The Duchess of Carbrey sat on one of several wooden benches placed flush against the wall. Whoever sat there faced the opposite wall, not the altar.
No wonder Higgins hadn’t spied her upon entering. Unlike her colorful ensemble at the memorial service, today the Duchess wore a coffee brown dress which blended into the dark oak of the bench. Even the ostrich plumes on her wide touring hat were a muted brown. In her green walking suit and white blouse, Eliza seemed positively festive compared to the older woman. Perhaps the Duchess was mourning Farrow after all.
The older woman waited until Higgins and Eliza sat on either side of her. “May I ask what prompted the pair of you to visit St Martin-in-the-Fields on a rainy Monday afternoon?”
Higgins evaded the question. “I assume you’re here to give support to Mr. Smith. Given that he’s rehearsing a chamber music piece, I also assume it will be in the upcoming concert program to celebrate the archbishop’s retirement.”
“Just so, Henry. You do have your ear out for more than speech patterns.” She shot him an approving look. “Yes, a concert of new music written in his honor has been planned next month. One of the composers – a German fellow from Leipzig – had the bad taste to be arrested for public drunkenness last week. They needed another new piece quickly, and from a composer less inclined to losing control. Of course I suggested Mr. Smith. You may not know this, but Thaddeus is as accomplished a composer as he is an organist.”
Higgins cocked his head and listened for a moment. “The piece sounds pleasant.”
“Faint praise indeed.” She gave him a playful tap on the shoulder. “Then again, we all know your musical tastes run to Gilbert and Sullivan.”
“And your musical tastes run to the shocking, like Mr. Stravinsky.”
“I do like a good scandalous performance almost as much as I like horse racing.”
In fact, the Duchess spent most of her free time at the racecourse or her stables. Only a new attractive paramour would tempt her into spending a day listening to church music rather than meeting with trainers and jockeys.
She turned to Eliza. “And you, Miss Doolittle. What sort of music do you prefer?”
Eliza smiled. “The tinkling of the piano when I’m at the cinema. I know when I hear that sound, it’s time for the film to start.” She grew serious once more. “Speaking of the scandalous, we’re still recovering from the horrible attack at my cousin’s wedding.”
“How is dear Colonel Pickering? I couldn’t believe it when I read the papers.”
“He’s better,” Higgins replied. “But he did lose a lot of blood. At his age, such assaults are not simple to recover from.”
“Yes, sixty-five can be a perilous age.” The Duchess sighed.
Higgins didn’t remind her she was only five years younger. Yet he had to admit she possessed the energy and appetite of a thirty-year-old. Perhaps that was why she preferred much younger men. They were the only ones who could keep up with her.
“Colonel Pickering showed himself to be quite the brave soldier,” the Duchess went on. “Throwing himself on top of Inspector Shaw to shield him. Not many are willing to sacrifice their own lives in such a way.”
“He’s a wonderful man, the finest man I ever knew.” Eliza’s eyes welled with tears and Higgins feared she would cry. She’d been doing that quite a lot since Saturday.
“Which brings us to the reason we’re here,” Higgins said quickly. “The person who shot Jack and the Colonel may also have killed Mr. Farrow.”
The Duchess sat back. He had taken her by surprise, and the worldly Minerva was not easily surprised. “But there’s no connection between Ambrose and Detective Shaw.”
“Pearl Palmer is the connection.”
“We’re not certain,” Eliza added. “But things aren’t looking good for her.”
Higgins leaned forward. “Miss Palmer had a strong reason to poison the cog at your wedding. After all, the man she loved was marrying another woman. Then you asked Commissioner Dunningsworth to put Jack on the Farrow case. Since then, he’s brought her to the Yard every day, pressuring her to confess. She might have felt persecuted.”
“Infernal woman.” The Duchess’s eyes narrowed with anger. “Yes, it makes sense such a conniving creature would try to get rid of a Scotland Yard detective, too. She should have been hauled off to jail the day Ambrose was killed.”
“Not without proof, Minerva. That’s what they need for an arrest. They still do, but Miss Palmer has now made herself look even guiltier by disappearing the day of Jack’s wedding.”
She stamped the tip of her parasol on the oak floor. “Will this business never end? How can it be so difficult to put that woman in handcuffs! She never seemed all that clever to me.”
“You actually met Pearl Palmer?” Eliza asked.
“Once. When Ambrose opened his Mayfair gallery, he held a champagne reception. Lady Winifred told me that he had an astute eye for artwork, and I decided to attend with her.”
Higgins also thought she must have heard Farrow was a handsome young man. “How do you know Lady Winifred? Hasn’t she lived in Africa and India most of her adult life?”
“Winifred is the wife of a soldier, not an inmate in a penal colony,” she answered. “The wife of a high ranking officer, too, which means she returns to Britain whenever she has a taste for Yorkshire pudding and a week or two of shopping on Oxford Street. I met her a few months after the siege of Mafeking was lifted. She and Sir Ian were in England for a well deserved furlough. Given what they had been through in South Africa, all of London society clamored to play host to the brave pair. My late husband and I were among them.”
“Why was Lady Winifred at Mafeking?” Eliza looked puzzled. “I was only seven years old when the siege was lifted, but I do remember all the celebrations in the street when it happened. How did a woman end up at a military siege?”
“The Osslers have no children, therefore Lady Winifred has accompanied Sir Ian wherever he is posted. They were already living at the garrison there when rumors of an attack surfaced. Most women in the town fled; others chose to remain with their men. Those that stayed found themselves trapped the entire time the Dutch Boers laid siege.” She grimaced. “Two hundred and seventeen days. Can you imagine? That brave group of people surrounded on all sides by an army four times their size.”
“Lady Winifred must have incredible stories to tell,” Eliza said. “I’d love to hear them.”
“Indeed.” Higgins would like to hear those stories as well, but at the moment, tales of the siege were not why he was here. “Since you’ve known Lady Winifred for years, I understand why you attended Mr. Farrow’s gallery opening with her. I assume Miss Palmer was also at the champagne reception.”
“Oh, Pearl was there, swanning about as if she was the hostess. But Ambrose assured me she was only some woman he’d known in America. They had a dalliance back in New York, but he broke it off when he came to England. The trollop had the nerve to follow him here.”
Eliza and Higgins exchanged dubious glances. It appeared the Duchess preferred her own version of the story.
“What did you know of Miss Palmer’s background?” Higgins asked.
“Do you mean her life in America? I heard she was some sort of cowgirl. Probably rode a pony or two, in between spreading her legs for any cowboy who asked.” She looked at Eliza. “Forgive me. But that woman brings out the cruder aspects of my nature.”
“I spoke with her last week when I visited Maison Lucile. She told me she spent five years touring with a Wild West show.”
“Why in the world did you keep this from me, Eliza?” Higgins felt offended she hadn’t shared this information with him.
Eliza waved a dismissive hand. “At the time, I wanted to concentrate on Jack and Sybil’s wedding. It only seemed important after the attack at the church. And the police learned about her past almost immediately. There was no need to irritate Jack by admitting I’d gone off to question Pearl Palmer without his knowledge. Anyway, Pearl told me she was once a sharpshooter. Like Annie Oakley.”
The older woman looked up at the echo of approaching footsteps on the stone floor. “Thaddeus, I’ve learned something most enlightening about that awful Pearl Palmer.”
Thaddeus Smith stood before them, looking more self-assured than he had at the memorial reception. He was as tall as Higgins, giving him an imposing air. His auburn beard and mustache were trimmed neatly, and Higgins caught a whiff of lavender, bergamot and verbena, which meant the organist had begun wearing the Guerlain men’s cologne Mouchoir de Monsieur. He was also dressed in a charcoal gray broadcloth suit that likely came from Savile Row. In two weeks, he had turned into quite the dandy.
“What’s this about Miss Palmer?” Smith asked in an officious tone. Higgins suspected Thaddeus Smith would turn into a proper snob with just a few more favors granted by Her Grace.
“Not only did she kill Ambrose, but it appears she may be responsible for the shooting at the church on Saturday. Pearl was in a Wild West show in America, which means she is a skilled markswoman.” The Duchess shuddered. “What a horrid creature.”
Thaddeus raised an eyebrow. “She may be the only woman in London with the ability to do such a thing.”
“I doubt there are many men who could hit their target from that distance.”
“I disagree, Professor. Most men in society spend their autumns shooting grouse. Even among the lower classes, there are countless chaps who learn to shoot in the military.”
“Exactly,” the Duchess said. “Oh, not that I think anyone but Pearl shot at Jack and the Colonel. But my first husband was a crack shot. My second husband, too. I daresay Colonel Pickering learned to be quite the marksman in the army as well.” She gave Thaddeus an indulgent look. “You, my dear, are too much the sensitive artist. No one expects a musician and composer to wield a gun with any accuracy.”
Higgins narrowed his eyes at Smith. “No military experience, then? I hear a trace of Afrikaans in your speech. Were you in South Africa during either of the Boer wars?”
“You guessed correctly, Professor. I’m from the Transvaal.”
“It wasn’t a guess. I can hear the intonations of a person raised in the Transvaal. Also a word or two that indicates you spent several years at Cambridge.” He paused. “And Surrey.”
The Duchess laughed. “I told you Henry was a linguistic wizard.”
Thaddeus’s brief smile lacked warmth. “Impressive.”
“Was he also correct in thinking you fought in one of the Boer Wars?” Eliza said.
“I was never a soldier. My father had a homestead in South Africa when the Dutch began raiding British farms. Like every boy in the Transvaal, my brother and I were taught to shoot from an early age so we could hunt game and kill boomslangs. They terrified Mother.”
“What in the world is a boomslang?” the Duchess asked.
“A poisonous snake with large fangs and slow-acting venom. They love to hide in the shrubbery and trees. We always had a gun at the ready if one suddenly appeared.”
“Then you only used the gun for hunting game and killing snakes,” Higgins said.
“Until the Dutch started to cause trouble. After that, we were expected to help protect our land. And that involved guns, knives, axes. Even an occasional stick of dynamite.” His face darkened, as if this had evoked unhappy memories.
The Duchess regarded the church organist with renewed admiration. “Thaddeus, I had no idea you had a thrilling boyhood.”
“Unfortunately, fighting in the war ended my boyhood. No one remains a boy after such things. When we moved back to England in ’82, Mother was relieved. But my brother and I loved living in Africa. I even miss the boomslangs.”
“Then you learned how to be a good marksman.” Higgins was determined to confirm that.
He looked confused. “Yes, but I left when I was fourteen. I haven’t picked up a rifle in thirty years. What are you implying? That I shot Inspector Shaw?”
The Duchess seemed amused. “Why would Thaddeus want to kill Shaw or Ambrose?”
“You were engaged to Mr. Farrow. And before you met Farrow, I have been told Mr. Smith was your protégé. He might have wanted to rid himself of a rival.”
The Duchess and Thaddeus laughed. “I may be the first church organist to be accused of such a colorful secret life. I’d also be curious as to why I’d wish to kill Inspector Shaw.”
“Yes, please tell us, Henry.” The Duchess wore a challenging grin.
Higgins glanced at Eliza, who shrugged. “I have no idea. Which leaves us with the elusive Miss Palmer.”
“You said you met her at the art gallery, Your Grace,” Eliza said. “Was that the only time you and she were in the same place?”
She nodded. “Until the memorial service. After Ambrose and I began to keep company, I made it clear I did not wish to be embarrassed by any adventures he might have with other women. But I’m not a fool. I know gentlemen enjoy a dalliance or two on the side, and I saw no reason to force the issue. Time enough to rein him in after we were wed. I certainly knew he visited the shameless hussy at her apartment now and then.”
“How do you know?” Higgins asked.
“More than one friend informed me they’d seen Ambrose’s yellow Pierce-Arrow parked outside Pearl’s apartment.” She rolled her eyes. “If Ambrose planned to cheat on me, you’d think he would have asked me to buy him a less ostentatious motorcar.”
“I assume you will be selling it,” Higgins said.
Thaddeus looked as if this was a foregone conclusion. “Of course. In fact, her Grace found a buyer three days ago. She will never have to look at that garish machine again.”
Higgins wondered when the Duchess would buy Mr. Smith his own motorcar. Soon, he suspected.
“Exactly,” she added. “I also dismissed that brute of a driver. I only hired him because Ambrose insisted, though I never understood why. Luther North was an insolent fellow. And sounded like he came from the slums.” She turned to Higgins. “You’d probably be able to tell exactly where.”
“Bluegate Fields.”
Her face registered distaste. “As I thought. There’s not a filthier slum outside Whitechapel. No doubt that’s where he returned now that I’ve let him go.”
Eliza didn’t look pleased at this description of Whitechapel. Many of her relatives still lived there. “I don’t know if it’s as filthy as all that,” she muttered.
“When did you dismiss him?” Higgins asked.
“The same day I sold the motorcar. Good riddance to both.”
Nothing more could be learned from the Duchess or Thaddeus Smith. If anyone had information about Pearl Palmer, it would be the man who drove Ambrose Farrow to his secret assignations with her. That meant their next stop was Bluegate Fields.
The prospect gave Higgins pause. Bluegate Fields might not be the filthiest slum in London. But it was the most dangerous.