Move Your Blooming Corpse

by D. E. Ireland

  “And why would electricity matter to a mental patient?” Eliza looked down her nose at him. “Unless you plan to give them a little shock now and again.”

  Higgins hurriedly cleared his throat. “What Miss Hewitt means is that she hopes her brother is receiving the best care possible.”

  “He could be in no finer hands. Not only is Claybury the best asylum in the Greater London area, it is the best in Britain. Currently we have two thousand patients in residence, most of whom enjoy considerable freedom within our walls and grounds.” A note of pride crept into his voice. “Claybury contains fifty acres of woodland and ninety-five acres of open parkland. Many of the residents are allowed to walk about the gardens or sit by the ponds. I can’t think of anything we lack.”

  Eliza sniffed. “Do you have a zoo?”

  He looked startled. “Why, no.”

  She sat back. “There you are.”

  Higgins bit back a grin. Eliza was overplaying her part, and it was time to get her out of this office. “We’ve traveled a long way, Superintendent. Could we see Mr. Hewitt now?”

  “Of course. He has been quite tractable since his arrival. Because he is a suspect in a murder case, the police have requested he be under observation at all times.” Cullen smiled. “We explained that every resident in an asylum is always under observation.”

  “Have the police been here often?” Higgins asked.

  “A Scotland Yard detective inspector visited Mr. Hewitt twice.”

  Eliza straightened. “Is he here now?”

  “No, he visited earlier today. About half past seven.”

  Turning to Higgins, she said in her most elongated vowels, “As my aunt used to say, ain’t that a stroke of luck.”

  “All right, then. I think we’re done here.” Higgins rose to his feet. “Thank you for speaking with us, Superintendent.”

  Cullen walked around the desk, and the two men shook hands. They watched as Eliza took a deep breath and began the laborious process of getting out of her chair. Higgins wanted to applaud when she finally stood up.

  “One of our attendants will escort you to Mr. Hewitt.” Cullen glanced at the wall clock. “Ten o’clock, so he should be in the chapel. Mr. Hewitt prays at this time.”

  When they reached the reception area, Cullen signaled a stocky young man in a white uniform. “Stevens will take you to Mr. Hewitt. Oh, and as you walk through the building, please take note of the carved wood paneling and stained glass windows. As I said, there aren’t many asylums that are so beautiful as ours.”

  “You have convinced me, Dr. Cullen,” Eliza said with a gracious nod. “If I ever become a lunatic, I shall ask to be taken here straightaway.”

  * * *

  Since Hewitt was not in the chapel, the recreation hall, or even his private cell, Higgins feared the patients weren’t as closely observed as Dr. Cullen claimed. And Eliza moved so slowly, it took almost an hour before the erstwhile Mr. Hewitt was discovered in one of the Day Rooms. Apparently he had been reading there since breakfast and barely looked up from his Bible as they approached.

  Stevens tapped Hewitt on the shoulder. “Your sister and solicitor have come to visit you.”

  Hewitt gave them a quick, incurious glance before he resumed reading.

  “He likes his Bible, he does,” the attendant said. “Maybe if you just sit here nice and quiet, he’ll look up and say a few words.” He gestured to the settees and armchairs scattered about, all of them padded in leather or carpet. “You’ll have a bit of privacy. Everyone else is in the recreation hall or with the doctors. Have a nice chat, and don’t worry. I’ll be right by the door to keep an eye on things.”

  Higgins and Eliza waited until Stevens sat down in a bentwood chair by the entrance. He was far enough away that any conversation would not be overheard.

  “Mr. Hewitt,” Eliza said in a soft voice. “May we speak with you?”

  No response. Hewitt sat in the middle of a green leather sofa, but Higgins thought the man might grow nervous if they sat next to him. He grabbed a nearby settee and dragged it over. After Higgins sat down, he gestured for Eliza to sit. She sighed and once again made her descent.

  “Do you remember me?” Higgins asked. “We spoke at Ascot.”

  “The man with the notebook,” Hewitt said, his eyes still fixed on the Bible.

  Eliza and Higgins exchanged excited looks. “Yes, that was me.”

  “Best not write in your book here.” Hewitt kept his eyes on the Bible. “They’ll take it from you.”

  “We heard the police have your diary now,” Higgins said.

  Hewitt’s jaw tightened. “They had no right. The diary belongs to me. My thoughts were in the diary. They stole my thoughts.” He finally raised his head. “It’s unforgivable.”

  “Perhaps we can persuade the police to return it to you.” Eliza ignored Higgins, who shook his head. “They might once they’re done with it. I mean, once the case is solved.” She made a face at Higgins. “Why are you looking at me that way? I bet I’ll convince Jack to give it back to him.”

  Higgins turned to Hewitt. “Please ignore her. That skirt makes all the blood rush to her head.”

  “But why should I ignore my sister?” Hewitt smirked. “Except my real sister is old enough to be this young lady’s mother. A shame no one has informed the staff here.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Who are you besides a pretty girl? Do you wish me ill?”

  “Oh no, we’ve come to find out what really happened at Ascot.”

  “What is there to tell? I ran in front of the horses. And I waved a flag that stands for a righteous cause. I hoped to draw attention to that cause.”

  “You also waved a gun,” Higgins said.

  “That, too, was meant to draw attention.”

  “But didn’t you realize you’d be trampled like that poor woman at the Epsom Derby?” Eliza said. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  He took a shuddering breath. “Yes, the Lord spared me. I don’t know why He did not spare Miss Davison. Perhaps He wanted her as one of His angels. In my eyes, she had long been an angel for truth and courage.”

  “Was Emily Davison a friend of yours?” Eliza asked.

  “Only in spirit. I regret I never exchanged a word with her, though I heard her speak once. And I had the sad honor of attending the funeral.” He gave Eliza a penetrating look. “Were you at her funeral?”

  She shook her head.

  “Of course not. You’re a pretty girl. Pretty girls only know how to be pretty. They care about pretty things and pretty people. They have no use for serious ideas, or serious men like me.” He sounded dejected.

  “That’s not true, Mr. Hewitt. I know plenty of pretty girls who care about such things, and plenty of ugly ones who are as dumb as brick.”

  Higgins held up his hand. “Before this pretty girl compels me to throw a brick at her head, I want to ask you a few questions about Ascot.”

  “What is there to say? I went to Ascot to protest injustice. Injustice perpetrated by the complacent, the greedy, the fearful and ungodly. I knew I would suffer for it, perhaps even die.”

  “But you weren’t the only one on the racetrack,” Eliza said. “You might have crippled one of the horses. Or even killed a jockey.”

  Hewitt sighed. “It was never my intention to injure the horses or the jockeys. I hoped they would see me and stop in time. But the horses were upon me so quickly. They ran faster than I thought possible.”

  “Of course they ran fast,” Eliza said, clearly exasperated. “They’re racehorses, you silly natters.”

  Higgins shot her a warning look. “Mr. Hewitt, are all your activities on that day recorded in the diary now in Scotland Yard’s possession?”

  He looked amused. “I fear I did not have the opportunity to record anything after I was trampled by the horses.”

  “You don’t talk as if you were mad.” Higgins regarded him for a long moment. “In fact, you appear quite rational.”

  Hewitt stared back. �
�‘I am but mad north-north-west.’”

  “Hamlet!” Eliza cried in delight. “Act two, scene two. Do you know, I memorized the whole play last month right before we went to see it at the theater.”

  “‘When the wind is southerly—’”

  Eliza finished for him. “‘I know a hawk from a handsaw’!”

  “Don’t you dare start quoting with him,” Higgins grumbled. “If I have to hear you recite one more line from that play, I’m going to beg Stevens to stick me in a padded cell.”

  “Don’t you see? He’s only pretending to be mad.”

  “Unlike a certain Cockney girl who grows more unhinged by the minute.”

  “Do you know John Dryden, pretty girl?” Hewitt asked.

  She glanced at Higgins. “Have I met him at one of your mother’s teas?”

  “Given that he was a seventeenth-century poet, Eliza, that seems unlikely.”

  “So your name is Eliza, not Elizabeth?” Hewitt sounded triumphant.

  “How blooming stupid.” She smacked Higgins on the shoulder. “Why don’t you tell him that we both teach phonetics at 27A Wimpole Street? And that Colonel Pickering lives with us.”

  Higgins groaned. “I don’t have to now.”

  She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Blimey.”

  “Mr. Dryden was a playwright as well as a poet, Eliza.” Hewitt closed his eyes. “‘There is a pleasure sure in being mad, which none but madmen know.’” He opened his eyes and stared at them, as if waiting for a reaction.

  “Not only pleasure, but safety,” Higgins said wryly. “Mr. Hewitt, did you see who killed Diana Price?”

  No emotion registered on Hewitt’s face. “I do not know who Diana Price is.”

  “She was a singer in the theater,” Eliza said. “But she started out as a Gaiety Girl, like one of those pretty girls you mention. You can’t be a Gaiety Girl unless you’re pretty. Diana Price was rather famous. I’m surprised you don’t know her.”

  “The theater is nearly as foul with corruption as the racecourse. I haven’t been to the theater since I was a boy.”

  Eliza turned to Higgins. “Poor man. I bet he hasn’t been to the cinema, either.”

  “Following the Gold Cup, Diana’s body was found in the stables,” Higgins said. “She’d been run through with a pitchfork.”

  “How tragic.” Hewitt opened his Bible once more. “I still don’t know her. But I will pray for her immortal soul. I shall now read from the Book of Judges.”

  After several minutes of him reading aloud, an impatient Eliza interrupted. “Did you visit the stables while you were at Ascot?”

  “I did not,” Hewitt said, then resumed reading.

  Higgins and Eliza waited until he finished the account of Samson and Delilah. But when Hewitt began the biblical account of Micah and the young Levite, Higgins lost patience. “Read the biblical injunction against spreading falsehoods. You just said you did not visit the Ascot stables. Yet jockey Bomber Brody and a young groom both claim they saw you there that morning. Since you weren’t an owner or racing official, Brody had you removed from the premises.”

  “Perhaps I did.” Hewitt closed his Bible. “I believe I arrived at the racecourse early in the morning. I may have wandered into the stables at some point. Remember I suffered a head injury at Ascot.” He touched the bandage at the back of his head. “My memory may be faulty.”

  “But why go to the stables at all?” Eliza asked.

  He was silent for a moment. Higgins guessed he was trying to concoct a convincing lie. For certain, Hewitt was a slippery fellow.

  “I wanted to see the horses,” he said at last.

  “Why?” Higgins and Eliza asked in unison.

  “I planned to run in front of them during the race and knew that might startle them. But if I showed myself to those horses scheduled to run in the Gold Cup—let them catch my scent, listen to my voice, note my appearance—perhaps they wouldn’t take fright later.”

  Higgins snorted. That was the first irrational thing Hewitt had said. “Where did you go after we spoke? Did you go back to the stables?”

  He remained silent, his eyes on the Bible.

  “Tell us where you went.”

  Hewitt looked off into space. “‘If wishes were horses, blind men would ride,’” he chanted in a singsong voice, then stopped. “That’s what you all are. Blind.”

  “Blind to what?”

  But Hewitt’s attention turned unexpectedly to Eliza’s tight skirt. He pointed a stern finger at her. “‘Cast away thy sinful raiment.’”

  “I will as soon as I get home,” she replied. “I can barely breathe.”

  Higgins’s frustration grew by the minute. “Mr. Hewitt, do you remember where you were between the time we spoke in the paddock and the start of the Gold Cup?”

  “Now you sound like a policeman.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I cannot sit a minute longer.” Eliza jabbed the tip of her parasol into the waxed floor and slowly pushed herself to her feet. “Bad enough I can hardly take a step. When I sit, it’s like a giant snake is wrapped around me.”

  Hewitt looked solemn. “It’s too pink.”

  “What? This is a lovely color. Freddy says pink makes me look like a ballerina.”

  “Who is Freddy?”

  “Never mind about Freddy.” With a sigh, Higgins stood up. He doubted they would learn anything more from this fellow. Hewitt wasn’t mad. But he was stranger than most chaps. And probably more cunning than the asylum doctors realized.

  “Did you go back to the stables after that first visit?”

  “Why would I go back to the stables? There was evil in that place. And much falsehood.” Hewitt closed his eyes. “‘He hath blinded their eyes and hardened their heart, that they should not see with their eyes, nor understand with their heart.’” He looked once more at Higgins. “John, chapter 12, verse 40.”

  “This is like being at Sunday service,” Eliza said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Stevens comes by with the collection plate.”

  “What exactly are we blind to?” Higgins asked.

  “That which seems hidden away, but is in plain sight. And you are not only blind but deaf. For I have seen and heard the truth. And it is a terrible truth indeed. One that I shall never reveal to the ungodly and the weak.” He pointed at them. “That is what you both are.”

  “I bet he thinks you’re the ungodly one,” Eliza said.

  Higgins shook his finger at the man. “Enough of this nonsense. If you saw or heard something suspicious in the stables, then by heaven you’re going to tell me or the police.”

  Hewitt startled them both by springing to his feet. “Get behind me, Satan!” He shoved Higgins and Eliza, sending them both flying backward onto the settee. Higgins heard fabric ripping at the same moment Eliza shrieked.

  Stevens rushed over. “There, now. It’s time to say good-bye to your sister and solicitor. They have to leave.” He grabbed the suddenly docile Hewitt by the arm. “As soon as I take him to his cell, I’ll come back and escort you and the young lady out.”

  Higgins leaned over to examine the jagged tear along the side of Eliza’s dress. The linen had ripped from her ankle to her waist. In fact, he could see the white cotton of her knee-length drawers through the bulging gap.

  “That’s one hobble skirt you’ll never have to wear again.”

  Eliza grinned. “It was worth a visit to the lunatic asylum just to get rid of it.”

  SIX

  Rainclouds threatened the final day of the Henley Royal Regatta, but not even a downpour could dampen Eliza’s spirits. Although Diana Price had been killed only two weeks earlier, Eliza was thoroughly enjoying what Professor Higgins called the Carnival on the River. Murder was the furthest thing from her mind.

  The town of Henley-on-Thames hosted the regatta and welcomed visitors by transforming into a fancy country fair. Every street held shops and cafés decked out in flowers, banners, and Chinese lanterns. Military bands performed long
into the evening while illuminated houseboats drifted on the river. Rich attendees rented bungalows along the water for the four-day event, but Eliza traveled by train each morning. In fact, she looked forward to taking the day train from London’s Paddington station and chatting with excited regatta fans.

  Since all the festivities centered on the racing, the Thames naturally took center stage. Hundreds of onlookers clustered along the riverbank, with more on boats bobbing in the water. Despite its prestige, Henley was more casual than Ascot. Even lords and ladies sat on the grass or in punts, with food hampers piled around them. To Eliza, the regatta seemed like one long elegant picnic, and with boat racing besides.

  Surprisingly, she found the actual regatta competition rather dull. The first race proved fun to watch; sculls floated expectantly near Temple Island, tense rowers and fans waited in anticipation for the starter pistol. But by the end of the first day, Eliza had wearied of the bewildering number of qualifying races. Each race—or “heat,” as everyone called it—lasted only a few minutes. The handsome young men striding about in their rowing uniforms did catch her eye. Just as the horses were the focus of attention at Ascot, the oarsmen were the stars at Henley. Pride filled her since one of those dashing oarsmen was her devoted Freddy.

  From her vantage point on the Thames’s Berkshire side, she often glimpsed the London Rowing Club team members. Eliza had no problem catching sight of Freddy. Cor, but he looked handsome in the LRC blue and white colors. She’d never suspected his forearms and calves were so nicely muscled. At times like this, she wondered if Freddy was right. Perhaps they ought to marry—and quickly, too.

  “My son makes a fine figure in his colors, doesn’t he?” Mrs. Eynsford Hill said.

  “Indeed he does. And the LRC has performed so well this week. Do you think they’ll win the Diamond Challenge?” Eliza asked.

  “I have no idea. But Freddy is quite pleased to be a member of the team. I’ve never seen him care about anything so much. Until he met you.”

  “He is a dear, isn’t he?”