Move Your Blooming Corpse

by D. E. Ireland

  “Mr. Turnbull, where is everyone? Have the servants gone for help?”

  But the man couldn’t reply. Instead, his eyes rolled toward the back of his head.

  “Freddy, run down to the boathouse. And yell for a doctor all the way there. Hurry!”

  She spent the next few minutes shouting for help while trying to revive Turnbull. The brass bands playing loudly from different ends of the Berks shore drowned out her voice. Who could make themselves heard with that blooming racket?

  Turnbull shuddered as if he were having a seizure. Eliza wept with frustration.

  “The doctor’s coming! Don’t worry. The doctor is almost here.” But by the time she heard the approach of a group led by Freddy, it was too late.

  Jonathon Turnbull was dead.

  EIGHT

  Higgins glanced up at the arched entrance to Chelsea Old Church with foreboding. “We’ll soon learn if my brother was right. He swore lightning would strike if I ever visited this church again.”

  Eliza looked startled. “You have a brother?”

  “Two of them, actually. I’m the second spare.”

  “I say, Professor, do you have sisters as well?” Freddy stood on the other side of Eliza as they waited to enter. “If so, why haven’t we heard about them before now?”

  “Because my siblings are none of your business.” Ignoring their obvious curiosity, Higgins led the way inside the brick church. “And that is enough about my family tree.”

  Although he did not attend regularly, he appreciated the history of the place, which dated back to the twelfth century. Chelsea’s Lord of the Manor had once owned the north chapel, and the south chapel served as Sir Thomas More’s private domain. In fact, Higgins’s older brother James was ordained here in an interminable ceremony that he had been forced to attend. His mother had been quite mortified at Higgins’s caustic remarks about the vicar who presided over the ordination. She’d refused to attend church with him ever since. Hopefully a new vicar had replaced the doddering old one.

  “Did you know Henry VIII married Jane Seymour in this church?” he said.

  “We’re here for Jonathon Turnbull’s funeral, not a blooming history lesson.” Eliza tugged at his sleeve. “And the service has already started, so keep your voice down.”

  Their footsteps echoed on the aisle’s stone floor. Jack Shaw sat in the back pew. The Inspector shifted in his seat as they walked past. He had an eagle-eyed look about him, as if suspicious of everyone at the funeral—even them. Higgins noticed that Freddy put a protective hand at Eliza’s waist.

  As for Jonathon Turnbull, Higgins didn’t give a damn about the wretched fellow. Indeed, he was surprised the church held so many mourners. Not that he believed most of these people had come to grieve. Turnbull’s sudden death following so soon after Diana Price’s murder had obviously drawn a horde of curious onlookers. And Higgins recognized at least three newspaper reporters. It was no secret that Diana was Turnbull’s mistress, one of dozens he had kept over the years. Of course, many of the mourners today would also be the tea merchant’s employees come to pay their respects. But from what Higgins knew of Jonathon Turnbull, there was little about the man to respect.

  Eliza and Freddy still felt guilty about being unable to save Turnbull’s life at the picnic. As for Higgins, he had his own guilt to contend with. And he wondered how Rachel Turnbull was responding to her husband’s unexpected death. He remembered her recent horror at seeing Diana’s body in the stables. He was surprised to see her in attendance today; most widows remained at home during the funeral service. But here she was in a jet-black gown and a hat shrouded with black netting. Rachel sat in the front pew between two elderly women also garbed in black. Her mother and mother-in-law, perhaps.

  “Rachel Turnbull seems a bit subdued,” Higgins said.

  “She’s a lady,” Eliza whispered. “That sort know how to control themselves. Not like my Aunt Lottie, who wept and wailed like a banshee at her husband’s funeral. Nearly tipped the casket right over.” She adjusted the enamel tulip pin on her dress. “However, she was fine the next day and back to selling apples at Covent Garden.”

  Freddy sighed. “After Father died, Mother spent three years in seclusion.”

  Higgins settled back in the hard pew, nodding to the Duchess of Carbrey across the aisle. She looked regal in dark purple, her black straw hat crowned with a tulle bow. He spotted Sir Walter Fairweather in the pew behind her, his hands resting on a brass-topped cane. Lord and Lady Saxton sat near the Duchess. Saxton wore the proverbial black armband, but Lady Saxton sported a pale rose walking suit and an endless string of pearls that hung below the waist. Nestled on her coiffed curls perched a flat-brimmed hat; two pink plumes waved from its crown. Clearly she didn’t feel the need to dress properly for the occasion.

  Higgins thought that rather in bad taste. Eliza had chosen a simple black outfit without decoration or jewelry to set it off, save for the red tulip pin. Even Brody’s lady friend wore a dark skirt and jacket, although her straw hat was banded in yellow ribbon.

  When he caught sight of Alfred Doolittle and his wife, Higgins winced. They also arrived late for the service and hurried to grab a seat a few pews ahead of Higgins and Eliza. Although Doolittle wore a black armband, he forgot to remove his hat. If Higgins’s mother had been here, she would have knocked it off his head. Not surprisingly, Rose Doolittle’s bright floral gown was also in poor taste. He couldn’t resist chuckling at the stuffed bird pinned backward to her wide picture hat. Its glass eyes seemed to stare straight at him.

  Rose turned to her husband. “I’ve got an appointment, Alfie, remember—”

  “Shh, woman,” Alfred said in a loud voice. “You won’t be late. Now shut yer trap.”

  Higgins leaned toward Eliza. “You should talk to your stepmother about her wardrobe.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Rose is a lost cause.”

  With a sigh, he focused on the high stone arches above the vicar’s head. The church did not appear different from his last visit. Chandeliers still dangled above the mourners’ heads. The wall and pillar plaques had not been moved, and the old carved musical cherubs flanked the arches. Higgins thought the eclectic mix a bit too much, although his mother loved attending every Sunday and listening to the choir warble out hymns.

  Mother had been overjoyed to attend the ceremony here when his brother was appointed Bishop of St. Albans. Every Christmas, Higgins was forced to spend time with family, made more tedious by James carping about those who wallowed in a sinful life. His sanctimonious attitude invariably drove their oldest brother Charles into the study, where he spent the holiday smoking, drinking, and playing cards. Higgins often joined him in the latter, or shut himself in Charles’s library, away from the women, children, and Bishop James.

  Luckily the ancient vicar of Chelsea Old Church was long gone, either dead or retired. The younger man who replaced him now held the prayer book in a viselike grip. His round spectacles glinted in the sunlight streaming through a window overhead.

  “Forgive us our sins and those of our dearly departed brother…”

  “A tall order. St. Peter is probably still reading through his list of Turnbull’s sins and vices.” Higgins winced when Eliza elbowed him in the ribs. “There’s nothing wrong with telling the truth.”

  “Hush. This is a church, not a pub.”

  “Lord, hear our prayers and comfort us.”

  “Hm. I believe our vicar is from Norfolk—Yarmouth, on the coast. One of the lesser streets,” he mused. “Although I’m not certain. Not until I hear a little more.”

  “Renew our trust…”

  The vicar’s strong voice echoed into the high rafters, drowning out the clacking noise from Lady Saxton. Visibly bored, she played with her long rope of pearls, back and forth, back and forth. Snickety-snick. Higgins was tempted to throttle her with them.

  “Strengthen our faith that Jonathon Michael Turnbull and all who have died in the love of Christ will share in his res
urrection…”

  “It’s rather comical.” Higgins chuckled. “The man pronounces ‘share’ like ‘shah,’ as if he’s talking about a Persian king. That definitely places him from Norfolk.”

  “… blessed us all with the gift of earthly life. He has given to our brother Jonathon his span of thirty-six years and gifts of character…”

  Higgins snorted so loud that everyone, especially the syndicate owners, turned to stare. “I wasn’t aware Turnbull had any character.”

  His whispered remark started a flood of murmurs from the other attendees. Higgins strained to hear what everyone was saying. It seemed a combination of gossip about Turnbull interspersed with heated talk about the Irish Home Rule Bill passing once again in the House of Commons.

  “I hear Turnbull often visited opium dens—”

  “The Prime Minister opposes it, as he ought. You know the House of Lords will be bound to cut it down. There will never be a free Ireland.”

  “Didn’t he own a brothel in Spitalfields? I believe he kept it for his gambling cronies and business partners’ exclusive use.”

  “It’s passed the Commons before and never made it further.”

  “Turnbull was no gentleman, no matter how popular his tea is.”

  “Look what you started,” Eliza hissed. “Your mother warned me you couldn’t behave.”

  Higgins fiddled with a loose button on his jacket. “Did you know this is the only church in London with chained books? The Homilies of 1683 are here, plus two volumes of the Book of Martyrs.”

  “You’ll be the next martyr if you don’t keep quiet,” she muttered.

  “The 1717 Vinegar Bible is also one of the chained books, and clearly you must have read how thieves tried to make off with it during Victoria’s reign. Ouch!”

  Everyone turned in his direction again. Cursing under his breath, Higgins rubbed his left forearm, which stung like the devil. Eliza shot him a satisfied grin and stuck her hatpin back into place.

  “That was bloody uncalled for.”

  “I warned you.”

  “The service is over.” Freddy looked worried they might start to argue in earnest.

  The mourners noisily got to their feet. As the church organist played “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” pallbearers carried the white lily-draped wooden casket up the aisle. Rachel followed, her arms linked with the elderly women’s. The other family relatives trailed behind. The rest of the congregation exited through the doors in time to watch the pallbearers lift the casket into the hearse. Five black horses waited in their caparisoned purple and gold harness. The lead horse had a postilion rider in a formal black coat, a black cap, and purple breeches.

  Higgins saw no evidence of damp cheeks nor heard sobs from anyone. A sorry epitaph for Jonathon Turnbull. Not even Rachel seemed upset by her husband’s death, although he’d given the poor woman little reason to mourn his passing. Pickering had related a bit of Turnbull’s background. The tea merchant had avoided marriage until his family insisted he take a wife, if only to stop the scandalous gossip surrounding him. But Higgins wondered what made the titled Rachel agree to marry someone like Turnbull. Perhaps the Duchess of Carbrey knew more about the match. Minerva was privy to every scandal and shameful secret of the British upper class.

  The hearse ambled its way toward the street while church bells tolled a mournful dirge. Rachel and the older matrons headed to a closed carriage behind the hearse, but Jack Shaw stopped them. Meanwhile Higgins walked over to the Duchess, Eliza and Freddy close behind.

  The older woman greeted him with a kiss on his cheek. “You rogue. I heard you prattling in there like a rude schoolboy bored at his lessons. Although Turnbull certainly didn’t deserve much respect, alive or dead. Still, that’s no reason to hurt Rachel’s feelings. She’s suffered enough, mostly while she was married to that scoundrel.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Higgins began.

  “Beg pardon, Your Grace.” Jack Shaw suddenly appeared at Higgins’s elbow. “I’ve asked the syndicate members to meet in the garden. I need you to join us as well, Professor.” He nodded at Eliza and Freddy. “And the two of you.”

  Jack herded them toward the group gathered by the ironwork fence. Rachel stood between the two older ladies who’d flanked her at the funeral service. Higgins planted himself beside Sir Walter and the Duchess. Lord Saxton immediately started complaining to his indifferent wife. Brody and his lady friend stood near Alfred and Rose Doolittle; Rose was fussing with the stuffed bird on her hat.

  Eliza looked at her father. “Dad, did Gordon Longhurst have a funeral service for his wife?” Higgins leaned closer to eavesdrop.

  “That he did, but it was very hush-hush and private. Me and the little woman would’ve paid our respects since Diana was a syndicate member. But we didn’t hear a thing about it till it was all over.”

  “The headlines were full of Diana’s murder at the time,” Higgins added while Jack conferred with his detectives. “I imagine Longhurst wanted to avoid more publicity.”

  Jack rejoined them. “Some news has come to light that all of you should know. Especially since the newspapers have gotten hold of it and will be publishing these revelations later today.”

  They all stared at each other in alarm. “Jack, what in the world has happened?” Eliza asked.

  He turned to Rachel Turnbull. “I am sorry for what I have to tell you, but we received a preliminary report from the coroner. Your husband did not suffer a heart attack after all.” Jack paused. “He was murdered.”

  The group let out a collective gasp. Rachel grew even paler. The two older women on either side pressed close to her, as if fearful she might faint.

  “Every syndicate member who attended both Ascot and the Regatta is therefore a suspect, as is Harold Hewitt,” Jack continued. “I need all of you to prepare a list of where you were during both events. Please include anyone who can support your alibis.”

  “This is preposterous!” Sir Walter sputtered in protest. “I’m a Senior Steward at Ascot. It’s impossible to recall everyone I saw or every spot I visited during my time there.”

  Jack threw him a stern look. “I expect everyone’s full cooperation. Half of you may come to Scotland Yard later today for questioning. The rest of you I expect to see tomorrow. Of course, I will call on Mrs. Turnbull at a more convenient time, and extend that same courtesy to you, Your Grace.”

  The Duchess raised her eyebrow at him. “I am perfectly capable of coming to Scotland Yard in person, young man. No need to treat me like a feeble-minded dowager.”

  He nodded. “Very well, Your Grace. But I intend to question everyone who was at the Henley Regatta picnic as soon as possible.”

  “Are you going to tell us what he did die from?” Saxton demanded. “Or is that going to remain another mystery Scotland Yard can’t solve?”

  “Yes, how was my husband murdered?” Rachel Turnbull asked in a quiet but steady voice. Higgins found her composure admirable.

  “We’re still waiting for several more test results from the coroner. But the toxicologist is certain about his conclusions.” Jack’s expression was grim. “Jonathon Turnbull was poisoned.”

  NINE

  Walking along the Victoria Embankment, Eliza and Freddy had only a short way to go to reach Scotland Yard. She wasn’t looking forward to the visit. Far too many hours were spent in the red granite building this past spring trying to clear Higgins of murder. And from the glum expression Freddy wore, he obviously felt the same. The only time he’d been to Scotland Yard was after they stumbled upon a murder victim.

  “Don’t know why your cousin couldn’t take our statements at the funeral,” Freddy said when they walked inside. “It’s a damnable nuisance ordering us to come here.”

  “Turnbull’s death is official police business. Jack can’t be seen treating family members differently than anyone else.” Eliza stopped at the front desk.

  The sergeant on duty checked their names off a list, then hand
ed her a slip of paper. “Third floor, miss.” He turned his attention to the ledger book in front of him.

  Once they got to the third floor, Eliza looked over the common room. Each desk held a detective hunched over paperwork, some with a nervous person sitting across from him. Phones rang from every corner, and everyone seemed to be talking at once. She knew that the adjacent corridor led to several holding cells where suspects and witnesses were interrogated. Eliza’s memory of her own experience still gave her chills.

  “Here we go, then.” Eliza pushed through a swinging gate that led to Jack’s office.

  Before they could get too close, a policeman barred their way. He gestured for the paper she held and scanned it. After giving them a suspicious look, he rapped on the glass of the closed office door. A muffled voice answered, and the policeman stuck his head inside to say something. Security had been heightened since she was last here.

  “The Inspector says you can go in,” the policeman said.

  Once she entered, Jack gave her a great bear hug.

  “Is that your new guard dog out there?” Eliza and Freddy sat down in the chairs directly in front of a large cherrywood desk. “He seemed fierce.”

  Jack plopped down in his own chair with a sigh. “New regulations. Two PCs were found murdered within a mile of the Yard. And we have no end of bomb threats by the suffragettes, though Sybil swears not from any woman she knows. We had another bomb threat just this morning. The Commissioner feels extra protection is in order.” He shrugged. “Don’t know why he’s feeling nervous all of a sudden. Danger’s always been part of a policeman’s job. When construction workers were putting up this place in ’88, they found the dismembered body of a woman. Still haven’t solved that one.”

  Freddy’s face turned a bit green. “I say, I don’t know how you fellows spend your days hunting down villains.”

  “If we didn’t, Londoners would be running for their lives every time they left the house.” Jack rearranged the files and pencils on his polished desk, although it was the picture of neatness and order. “Let’s get down to why I asked you both here. I questioned the Duchess yesterday, along with Sir Walter and Brody. I also spoke with the jockey’s lady friend.” He glanced down at his notebook. “A Miss Patsy Wilkins from Putney. I interviewed the Saxtons about an hour ago, and your father and Rose should be here before teatime.”