Eliza stared at the White Hart pub entrance, barely visible in the haze of tobacco smoke. “Dad, are you certain Billy said he’d meet us?” she asked. “It’s half past four.”
Alfred Doolittle gulped deep from his glass of ale, then swiped his mouth on his sleeve. “If Billy says he’ll be here, he will. I trust him.” He belched loudly.
“Why would you trust a yob? At least I think that’s what I’ve heard you call him.” Higgins sipped his dark brown ale and winced. Definitely not the best quality. Then again, what did he expect in a seedy Whitechapel pub. “Doesn’t that mean he’s a thief?”
“Not any longer, he ain’t. You met him at Ascot. Billy Grainger’s one of the best bookmakers in London, he is. And what does being a thief got to do with it?” Alfred downed the rest of his drink. “Who’s to say you’re innocent as a babe in his mother’s arms, Professor? ’Specially after your shenanigans with my daughter this past summer.”
“What does that mean?” Eliza turned her attention back to the table where she sat with Higgins and Alfred.
“It means the pair of you are wily rascals at heart. How else could you have tracked down those killers?” He scooped up a few peanuts from a chipped dish, and chucked them into his mouth. Alfred’s cheeks were flushed, and his nose even redder. Clearly he’d come early to the pub and downed his fair share of pints. “If you two put your crafty minds together, you might be damned fine criminals. Something to consider if those elocution lessons don’t pay enough.”
Eliza’s response was to throw a peanut at her dad. Higgins sat back, irritated beyond measure that this blasted relative of Eliza’s had kept them waiting so long. He couldn’t even spend the time in linguistic research since there were no more than ten other patrons in the pub and saloon. And he recorded their speech patterns in his notebook two hours ago.
Being mid-afternoon, the White Hart hadn’t yet filled with workers from the docks and clay pipe factories in the East End. The rainy afternoon didn’t help, although he doubted if much light ever penetrated the grimy windows. He squinted at the narrow wood-paneled interior and the bar’s scarred counter with pumps jutting upward. A jumbled array of bottles sat crammed onto shelves behind it. While Higgins often encountered unwashed bodies on his linguistic jaunts throughout London, the odors in the small, airless pub were impressive. Especially the sickening smell of damp, sweat-soaked wool combined with alcohol. He felt like he’d been trapped in a pen of drunken, wet sheep.
From the table behind them, Higgins heard one man telling a tale. “You was there for the crossing near Tiger Bay, between that chee-chee and some josser who couldn’t see straight.”
“Right-o! He must’ve been off his chump.”
Out of habit, he reached for his notebook, only to drop his pencil under the table. Higgins dared not reach a hand down to locate it, given the state of the sticky tables and buzzing flies. And he’d glimpsed mice scurrying among the sawdust sprinkled over the floor.
A couple shoved past Higgins to clap Doolittle on the back. The man wore an eyepatch and the woman sported a dirty crocheted shawl over her faded dress. Atop her untidy dark hair sat a straw hat tied with a frayed strip of ribbon. Her cheeks were streaked with equal parts grime and rouge. And the cheap lilac water she doused herself with made his head swim. Higgins slid his chair sideways to put distance between himself and the couple.
“Bring us a glass, darlin’,” the man called to the barmaid. He sported a tattered coat and patched pinstripe trousers, with several days growth of beard. “Good t’see you agin, Alfie. Yer lookin’ fine today, all gussied up like a guv’nor! Can you spare a couple quid?”
“I gave you a fiver two weeks ago!” Doolittle pushed him away.
“Aw, come on. You can spare it. And me dollymop needs a new dress.”
“Then you shoulda used that fiver I gave you instead of pissin’ it away.”
The man now looked at Higgins. “This gent here must be a friend, ain’t he? I bet he can afford to give me even more than you can.”
His dollymop flashed Higgins a gap-toothed smile. “What you say, guv? Like to buy me a pint or two?” She leaned closer, “I’ll sit on yer lap, if you like.”
“As delightful as that sounds, I must refuse,” Higgins said.
She draped herself over his shoulder. “Are ya sure, lovie? I can be awful fun, I can.”
Higgins had no idea how to politely extricate himself, especially with everyone in the bar watching them. Given how finely he and Eliza were dressed, he’d suspected they might have trouble in Whitechapel. Only he hoped Alfred would serve as their bodyguard. And Doolittle might have...about four pints ago.
Eliza pointed at her. “Move away from the Professor before he catches your fleas.”
The woman stiffened. “You filthy cow. I should kick yer teeth in.”
“I’d like to see you try.” Eliza half rose from her chair.
The fellow with the eye patch yanked the woman away from Higgins. “Let’s go. These people got no heart. Fortune smiles on ‘em, so they look down on us. Bloody snobs.”
As the pair stalked away, cursing under their breath, Higgins shook his head. It was one thing to wander about the East End taking notes, quite another to sit for hours in a dim pub surrounded by suspicious denizens. Truth be told, he felt trapped. If trouble broke out, he needed to ascertain how to get Eliza and himself safely away. Although in all likelihood, it would be Eliza who would help him escape.
“It seems a bit odd, don’t you think?” Eliza turned to Higgins with a pensive expression. “Both Lady Winifred and Mr. Smith were involved in the Boer War.”
“What’s so odd about it? You do realize there were two Boer Wars. Smith fought in the first one back in ’80 and ’81, but the siege at Mafeking occurred in the Second Boer War in ‘99. Their ‘involvement’, as you term it, took place years apart. Smith simply had the bad luck to be a British farmer’s son in the Transvaal when the raids began. And Lady Winfred is married to an Army officer. It’s only natural she might occasionally find herself in the middle of a military skirmish.” He paused. “Or even a siege.”
“Thought about being a soldier meself,” Doolittle piped up. “But I had to take care of little Lizzie here, ‘specially since her mum died. That’s what being a father means. Caring for some bawling brat even when you’d rather be killing people for King and country.”
“I recall you going missing a time or two when I was a child. Once you disappeared for five months.” Eliza’s quiet voice rang with bitterness. “I ended up being sent to the workhouse.”
“Hey, it weren’t no workhouse. It was a school. Why do you think it was called the Central London District School for Paupers?”
Eliza glared at her father. “The only thing I learned there was how to scrub floors. And how to avoid being sent to the punishment room for a flogging.”
“That’s appalling. How old were you?” Just when Higgins thought he had heard all the sordid tales of Eliza’s wretched childhood, another dark incident cropped up.
“Nine,” Eliza said.
Higgins shot Alfred Doolittle a disapproving look. “Did you really abandon your child to the workhouse?”
“Abandon? She makes it sound like she weren’t getting two meals a day and a roof over her head in the workhouse. Besides, I had business in Swansea that needed my attention.”
“Business meetings? I thought you made your living as a dustman.”
“For a time, Dad set up cock fights,” Eliza explained. “That year, he was holding matches in Wales. He finally came home when he lost all his money. And all his fighting birds.”
“Now there’s no need to be walking down memory lane, Lizzie girl. It’s water under Tower Bridge, as far as I’m concerned. And I did right by you. Otherwise how would you be sitting here in your fancy clothes and talking like you was the Duchess of Marlborough.” He looked around for the barmaid. “You think I’d get a little thanks for that.”
“Should she also thank you for throwing her out on the street when you met your present wife?” Higgins’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “After all, if she hadn’t been a half-starved flower seller when I met her, I might never have taken her on as my pupil.”
“Exactly,” Alfred said with a wide grin. “Being my daughter helped toughen her up.”
Eliza held up her hand. “Let’s get back to Mr. Smith and Lady Winifred.”
“What’s so interesting about that pair?” Higgins asked, confused.
“Maybe Pearl didn’t shoot Jack. After all, Smith fought beside his father in the First Boer War. And Lady Winifred must know something about guns if she spent her entire marriage living in garrisons and military outposts.”
“Do you suspect that either of them shot Jack?” Higgins glanced down at the glass of ale in front of Eliza. It looked untouched, which meant she was perfectly sober. “They don’t have a reason to want Jack dead. Pearl Palmer does.”
“But Smith does have a motive for wanting Mr. Farrow out of the way,” she persisted.
“And what about Lady Winifred? Why would she want to kill Farrow? Eliza, I know you feel sorry for Pearl, but from where I sit, she’s the only possible murderer.”
“I know. Except she seemed so lonely and homesick when I spoke with her. And so sad.” Eliza got to her feet and waved at a man entering the White Hart. “He’s here!”
The cheerful fellow doffed his derby in response. Even through the haze of tobacco smoke, Higgins recognized him as Billy Grainger, whom he’d met in June at Royal Ascot. An inch or two taller than Eliza, Billy was stocky and compact with a wiry mass of red hair.
Although Eliza stood waiting, Grainger stopped to greet about seven friends along the way. His hearty belly laugh echoed off the walls. Like all Doolittle friends and family, he was twice as loud as he needed to be.
“Where’s me racing money, Grainger?” a drunken man bellowed from the bar.
“Ah, you’re a whiskey soaked fool, you are,” Billy replied. “I already paid yer winnings for that run of good luck. Be ready for St. Leger’s, though.”
“Hey, Billy, what odds will ya give me for the cockfight in Limehouse this Friday?” It appeared the barkeep was also a betting man. At this rate, the bookmaker wouldn’t reach their table for another hour.
“Billy, you’re late!” Eliza shouted. “So get your blooming arse over here!”
Higgins chuckled when the other bar patrons looked stunned. In her Mayfair walking suit, feathered hat, and elegant coiffure, Eliza resembled a debutante. Little did they know.
The bookmaker spread his arms wide as he walked towards her. “Darlin’ Lizzie, heard you got in a spot of trouble at the Eclipse Stakes! Glad to see you lookin’ so fine and fancy.”
Higgins admired the natural rhythms of the man’s speech, similar to that of Alfred Doolittle. Billy Grainger must be doing well in his new line of trade. Unlike the other men in the pub, his brown and yellow checked suit looked clean and well pressed – with a silk waistcoat and fancy watch chain besides. And he wore his bowler at a rakish angle.
After giving Eliza a bear hug, Billy gripped Higgins’s hand firmly. “Bet this is your first visit to the White Hart, Professor.”
“Indeed it is.”
Alfred kicked the chair next to him. “Sit yerself down, Billy. I’ll get us a fresh round.” He waved at the barmaid as Billy sat between Eliza and Alfred.
“The Professor doesn’t care much for ale,” Eliza said. “Sherry is more to his taste.”
“Bein’ a professor, I bet he likes history though. And the White Hart’s got plenty of it. Bloody history it is, too. A man once worked as a barber in this very building. A man who might’ve been using his razor as old Jack.” He leaned over the table. “The Ripper himself.”
Alfred sighed. “Too bad there wasn’t enough proof to hang him.”
“I never heard any of the suspects in the Ripper murders was a barber,” Higgins said.
Eliza shivered. “Billy scared me silly with tales of Bloody Jack when I was growing up.”
“Right you are, Lizzie. Taught you to keep yer wits and eyes about you when walkin’ about the neighborhood.” Billy winked at Higgins. “Jack the Ripper’s neighborhood.”
He had no interest in the Ripper murders, though. That was over twenty years ago. He was here to ask the bookmaker about Bluegate Fields so a new killer could be tracked down. But Billy had now settled back with a pint of ale and a wide smile.
“The White Hart’s famous for Jack working ‘ere,” he began. “Old George ran a barber shop near St George-in-the-East. And they say Georgie worked magic with his razor.”
“Magic, indeed,” Alfred grumbled. “Bloody Jack, he knew how to cut a tart from stem to stern, didn’t he now. Taking a few kidneys and other parts.”
Eliza put her fingers in her ears. “Can’t we talk about something else?”
“Mr. Grainger, we had Alfred contact you today for a reason,” Higgins broke in. “Eliza and I need you to track down someone for us in Bluegate Fields. I hear you grew up there, which means you are no doubt well acquainted with the residents, including those along the docks.”
“That I am.” Grainger drained his glass and set it on the table with a thud. “I was born and raised in Bluegate. Me mum still keeps lodgings there. Who is it yer lookin’ for?”
“A man called Luther North,” Eliza said. “He recently worked as a chauffeur in London. But we have reason to believe he’s from Bluegate.”
For the first time, the bookmaker’s ever present smile vanished. “Yeah, the Norths are from Bluegate. I’ve known the family since I was a boy, but most of the Norths have died or moved away. Luther’s father was a sailor in the British Royal Navy, and he followed in his dad’s footsteps. Wanted to see the world, Luther said. Especially since his parents died young. Enlisted as a bluejacket before he was sixteen. Not surprising for a fellow raised on the docks.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know about Luther?”
“He may have information about a young woman we’re interested in,” Eliza said.
“Nothing dangerous, I hope. We’re not talking information about a crime, are we?”
“Why do you say that?” Higgins asked. “You just told us Luther was a sailor. What makes you suspect he might be involved in anything shady?”
“Professor, if you’re a boy from Bluegate, you got two choices: the seafaring life or the criminal life. And sometimes you choose both. Unlike me, Luther chose the sea, and I ain’t heard nothing to ever say he changed his mind. He’s a fine seaman, too. Got his training at Shotley where he learned to be a gunner and an engineer. Luther spent about eighteen years in the Royal Navy, too. He came back home now and then, and we shared a pint whenever he did. When his contract was up, he decided not to re-enlist. But me mum learned from a friend that Luther went back to bein’ a sailor again.” He shrugged. “Trouble is, once you hear the call of the sea, nothing else can compare. Or so they tell me. I get seasick meself.”
“Then he rejoined the Royal Navy?” Eliza asked.
“Nah. This time he chose the Merchant Navy. An engineer from all accounts, which means he’s a good mechanic. Not surprised he’s driving cars now. He could probably find himself work in a garage if he wanted.”
“If you find him, would you please call on me?” Higgins drew a card from his outer jacket pocket. “We need to ask him a few questions. It’s quite important.”
Eliza cleared her throat. “Of course, we’ll make it worth your while.”
Billy’s wide grin reappeared. “Well, if that’s the case, there’s no need to delay. Come with me now to Bluegate and you can ask your own questions. I’ll introduce you to people who might have heard if he’s about. If Luther’s working as a chauffeur, he needs money. That means he’s probably taken a room in the old neighborhood.”
“I’m not certain this is wise.” Higgins didn’t like the sound of this plan. “It’s getting late. I never intended to visit Bluegate after dark. Especially with Eliza.”
“Ain’t it better and quicker to come with me while I’m doin’ it? And now is as good a time as any. We’ve wet our whistles. Might do us some good to pad the hoof for a bit.”
“All right, then.” Eliza straightened her hat. “You coming, Dad?”
“Nah. You go on, Lizzie.” Alfred rubbed his face. “Rose wants new curtains in the house, and she has some fancy draper coming over to bring samples. If I’m not there, she’ll order the most expensive thing he’s got, and I’ll be crushed by the weight of those bills for months.”
At the moment, Higgins would have preferred to spend the rest of the day with Rose Doolittle choosing draperies. He was not looking forward to their trip to Bluegate Fields. Whitechapel was dicey enough.
Eliza didn’t seem to share his apprehension and pulled Higgins toward the pub’s entrance. Billy Grainger followed but only after stopping to speak to a group of new arrivals. While Higgins and Eliza waited on the wet pavement outside, he looked longingly at the East Aldgate tube station across the street. If only he dare make a dash for the next train. He’d love nothing better than to be heading home to his warm fire and slippers at Wimpole Street.
A gusty cold breeze blew down on them, and Higgins turned up his collar. It had rained on and off all day. The overcast sky gave no indication of the hour, but it seemed as gloomy as twilight. Higgins glanced at the sooty and ramshackle buildings lining Whitechapel Road. He’d heard nothing good about the area between Limehouse and St. Katherine’s Docks, otherwise known as Bluegate Fields or Tiger Bay.
“Are you certain we ought to be searching this late?”
“We’ll be fine, Professor.” Eliza patted his arm. “And I’d hate to lose this chance. We can turn back if things get a bit too rough, never fear.”
But Higgins was afraid. Despite Eliza’s confidence – and the spirited Billy Grainger as their guide – he expected trouble.
Maybe the Professor was right. Eliza kept a firm grip on Higgins’s arm as they followed Billy along the narrow street. Too many unsavory looks were cast their way. Slack-jawed women eyed her up and down, as if wondering what they could get for hawking her clothes, while rough men licked their lips. She’d seen plenty of that when she sold flowers on the street. Eliza had fought off more than a few unwelcome advances, but her Covent Garden mates had watched her back. The three of them were outnumbered here, however.
This area looked far worse than Lisson Grove where she’d been raised. Even her piggery in Angel Court was a palace compared to the weather-beaten and sagging buildings on Cannon Street. Ragged urchins cowered under rickety stairs, and an occasional strange grunt sounded from the shadows. She fought the urge to run back to the pub in Whitechapel. And the farther they walked, the more Eliza’s instincts flared. Someone was following them. But whenever she glanced over her shoulder, she saw only the sullen glances of people watching from a dark doorway.
Billy stopped to speak to two men wrapped in layers of mismatched clothing. One worked his toothless jaw in silence as he squinted at Higgins.
“I think I seen Luther at the rooming house owned by Mick Whistler. If I was you, I’d head over there,” the other fellow said.
“We’re sure to find Luther now,” Billy said as he hurried across Commercial Street.
In an effort to keep up with Billy, Higgins pulled Eliza at such a fast pace, she nearly fell. She knew Higgins was nervous. And that made her nervous.
A minute later, Billy greeted a burly man who staggered out of the darkness into the dim light of a nearby gas lamp. “’Ello, Mick. I ain’t seen you in a month of Sundays. ‘Ow are things with you and yer trouble and strife?”
“No worse than usual,” he said, staggering a little.
By Mick’s slurred speech, Eliza marveled the man could stand upright. While he and Billy caught up on old times, she kept looking over her shoulder. A mist had fallen in the past hour, shrouding the wooden houses leaning against each other. And the slow dripping from the eaves was maddening. Eliza had foolishly left behind her umbrella at the pub. A pity she’d chosen a summer walking suit this morning. The weather had turned wet and cold the past two days, and Eliza would give ten pounds to be wearing thick woolens and a mackintosh.
“Try the dock-shes.” Mick slurred his words. “Luther always goesh after sundown. Wans t’ see if any choice bits, a crate of ‘baccy or so, gets tossed off a ship. Accidental, a’course.”
Billy slipped Mick a coin. “Thanks, mate. You take care not to slip on the docks yerself.”
The man stumbled up Grove toward Commercial Street, before vanishing into an alley. Meanwhile a knot of young men, no doubt sailors by their tattoos and striped shirts, whistled at Eliza. Fear pooled in her heart.
After a few threatening jeers and a rude gesture or two, Higgins caught Billy’s arm.
“I sorely regret bringing Eliza,” he said. “This isn’t safe.”
“Aye, guv, you’re right about that. ‘Oo knows how long it’ll take to root out the likes of Luther? We should leave Lizzie with me mum a few streets over, on Back Church Lane. No need to worry. Mum will watch out for Lizzie.”
“I am rather cold,” Eliza said. “So I wouldn’t mind sitting with your mother awhile. And I’ve known Bessie Grainger since I was a child, Professor. It will be fine.”
“Thank God for Bessie.” Higgins drew Eliza between them, one arm around her waist.
Billy led them down to the corner and then south before turning west in the maze of short streets; the houses and buildings all looked the same dingy gray, with few lanterns to illuminate the night. Billy ducked between two brick walls with an open arch and then inserted a key; he twisted it and pushed the wooden door aside. Relieved, Eliza stumbled into an open room that looked surprisingly normal.
A plump older woman looked up from the stove, a shiny kettle in her hand. “Now, Billy. You should’ve warned me you was bringin’ company. I would have changed me dress.”
“’S’alright, Mum. This is Alfie Doolittle’s daughter. You remember Lizzie. Brew a fresh cuppa for her while Professor Higgins and I take care of some business.”
“Lizzie girl, I ain’t seen you for nearly five years.” Bessie swept Eliza up in a bear hug. “What brings you to my home after all this time?”
The woman had such a kind face and welcoming smile. Eliza didn’t have the heart to confess that fear had brought her to Bessie’s doorstep.