“Oh, it isn’t that out of our way,” Eliza said. “We’ve got a good three hours before we have to meet Rachel. There’s no reason we can’t stop by and check on Dad.”
“If I must spend the next three hours with your family, start looking for some oleander or nightshade to eat. Because that would be a damned sight more enjoyable than listening to your Madame Defarge of a stepmother.”
Eliza climbed the porch steps of the house where Alfred and Rose now lived. She lifted the doorknocker shaped like a horse’s head. “I don’t know why you keep calling her that. You know her name is Rose Cleary Doolittle.”
“To me, she will always be Madame Defarge,” Higgins said with mock seriousness.
After Eliza knocked ten times, the door swung open at last. Higgins was surprised to see Rose Doolittle glaring at them. Alfred’s three thousand pounds a year was more than enough to pay for a servant or two. Obviously Eliza felt the same.
“Why are you answering the door?” she asked. “What happened to the maid?”
“Upstairs putting out the blasted fire.” Rose looked like she was on fire herself, freckled cheeks aflame and red hair wildly askew from its pins.
“Fire?” Higgins cast an alarmed look at the upper floors. “Have you called the brigade?”
Rose smirked. “Now what would I be needing the fire brigade for? All they’d be good for is tramping over my new carpet, and soaking the drapes and coverlet in the bedroom.”
“Is the whole house on fire?” Eliza peered over Rose’s shoulder, but she moved to block her view.
“Just the bedroom,” Rose said as if such things happened every day. “My brother’s youngest was playing with a box of cigars and matches. The little devil wanted his morning smoke, but set the bed on fire instead.”
Eliza looked shocked. “You mean Danny? The boy’s only eight.”
“What if he is? The child likes a cigar now and then, and if his dad and ma don’t mind, it’s no concern of yours.”
“If he keeps this up, it may be the fire department’s business,” Higgins warned.
“Now see here, Rose,” Eliza said. “You’ve got about twenty relatives living here, some of them even younger than Danny. If there’s any danger of the fire spreading, you have to get everyone out now. And if you don’t, I’ll call the brigade myself.”
Rose crossed her arms. “Don’t you be telling me what to do in me own house.”
Eliza tried to push her aside, but the older woman was as immovable as a brick chimney. “Dad! Dad, it’s Eliza! Are you all right?”
“Your dad ain’t here right now. Now back off, or I’ll be throwing your arse right into the street, I will!”
Since fisticuffs seemed imminent, Higgins took Eliza by the elbow to hold her back. “Mrs. Doolittle, is everyone in the bedroom safe?”
“’Course they are. I told ya, the maid went up there and put the fire out. But there’s a right mess to clean up, and I don’t have time to be wasting on the sorry likes of you.”
“Blooming witch,” Eliza said, her eyes flashing with anger. “Where is my father? I need to talk with him.”
“For the last time, he ain’t here.” Rose looked down her nose at them and said airily, “He’s at a business meeting.”
“With the Wrexham syndicate?” Higgins grew worried.
“Whenever Dad says he’s going to a business meeting, that means he went to the pub.” She took another step toward Rose. “Which one is he at?”
Rose sniffed. “The Hand and Shears. Not that he’ll be any happier to see you.”
“You’re such a rude cow.”
Higgins pulled Eliza off the porch. “Time to go.”
“And you’d better keep those children in your house safe!” Eliza shouted as Higgins dragged her away. “Bad enough they’re learning manners from you, like never taking a bath and eating biscuits with their feet!”
Rose slammed the door so hard, all the windows rattled.
By the time they reached the Hand and Shears in Smithfield, Higgins was in desperate need of a pint. By Jupiter, these Doolittles were exhausting. Eliza hadn’t stopped railing against her stepmother since they left Pimlico. He prayed she’d lose her voice soon.
“I can’t believe out of all the so-called stepmothers I’ve had, that’s the one he finally marries,” she fumed. Higgins held open one of the curved pub doors. “I swear, I’d rather see him in prison than tied to the likes of her. It would be quieter in prison. And now that’s he’s got money, she’ll never leave him. Oh, she has her claws in him now.”
“Eliza, cease this babbling or I shall throw you in front of a double-decker bus.”
When they entered the small pub, Higgins inhaled the delicious smell of fish and chips. Ale, too. A dartboard hung on a matchboard wall, and there seemed to be more than one bar area. Since it was noon, the pub was filled with people. At least a half dozen were women, but the ladies all sat at tables along the wall. He and Eliza pushed through the crowd and spied Alfred Doolittle with two men at the polished wooden bar.
When Doolittle saw them, he broke out in a wide grin. “Lizzie, my girl. What are you and the governor doing here?” He waved at them. “Come join us.”
His two companions looked like they had been drinking since dawn. One of them quietly sang the old sea shanty “Hanging Johnny” under his breath.
“The Professor and I can’t stay.” Eliza pointed toward a small adjacent room with tables. “But we need to have a few words with you in private.”
Higgins was grateful when her father rose with a grunt. No doubt Alfred had downed a few pints already. He was in his shirtsleeves, with one suspender hanging off his shoulder. Plus his eyes looked red. However, he acted as clearheaded and sharp as ever.
“Can I be getting you a drink, governor?”
“I wouldn’t mind a pint.” Higgins noticed that Eliza looked over at him with disapproval. “It promises to be a brutally long day.”
Doolittle waved at a barmaid who walked past, her hands filled with empty glass mugs. “Ellen, the Professor here will have a pint of Robinson’s Old Tom.” He sat down at the table next to Eliza. “Now what brings the two of you to the Hand and Shears? I’m betting it’s not for the fine ale and conversation.”
“Dad, I told you last night that Jack and I are worried about you. These murders may be connected to the Donegal Dancer. Every owner of the horse is in danger.”
“And what do you want me to do about it? Hide under the bed until Scotland Yard finds the killer?” He sipped his ale. “It’s like I said yesterday at dinner. Diana and Turnbull were killed because they was fiddling around and didn’t care who knew it. I’d bet a year’s worth of pub bills that either Diana’s husband or Turnbull’s wife did them in. Let me tell you, if I got caught foolin’ around, Rose would put a knife through me heart before I got past the front door.”
“I’m sure she would,” Eliza said in a grim voice. “However, it is possible Turnbull and Diana were murdered over the horse. You need to be extra careful.”
“I’m always careful. I didn’t spend all those years in the East End without knowing how to look after myself.”
“Please stay home for a while. And don’t let any strangers in the house.”
Doolittle slammed his glass down, splashing ale onto the table. “Are you daft? Every day another relative of Rose’s comes knocking on my door, suitcase in one hand and a bawling child in the other. I tell you, there’s no peace to be found in that fancy house I bought. See what money and respectability has done to me? Killed my free and easy ways. Now I got to take care of every Cleary that loses their job, and that’s the whole lot of ’em! A sad day it is when a man is forced to become responsible for other people.”
Higgins took pity on Eliza. “Alfred, be careful whenever you’re around any of the racing syndicate members.” The barmaid set down a glass of ale before him. “Since you probably won’t see them until the Eclipse Stakes next week, you should be safe until then.”
/> “Oh, I’m seeing them all before that,” Doolittle said. “Tomorrow, in fact.”
“What do you mean?” Eliza asked. “It’s not time for another syndicate meeting.”
“No, but we all talked after Turnbull’s funeral and decided to check out the security measures at the Windsor farm what stables the Donegal Dancer. With the Eclipse Stakes set for next Friday, we can’t risk any thieves making off with our colt.”
Eliza shook her head. “Absolutely not. You can’t go to the farm tomorrow. It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m going, Lizzie, and don’t you be trying to stop me. There’s never been a Doolittle born who can be talked out of doing a fool thing once they’ve set their mind to it.”
“Amen to that,” Higgins muttered.
“Can’t you go to the farm on Sunday? If you go then, I can come along and keep an eye on things.”
Higgins’s curiosity was piqued. “Where exactly are you going tomorrow? Really, Eliza, if you are putting the cinema ahead of your father’s safety—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I promised Sybil to attend a suffragette rally with her.”
Alfred groaned. “Girl, you better not be chaining yourself to no fences tomorrow.”
“I’m not going to chain myself. Lord, you’re as bad as Freddy. I promised Sybil I’d be there, and it will be a perfect time to ask the suffragettes about Harold Hewitt and Turnbull. As well as Diana Price.” She gave Higgins a cynical look. “They certainly wouldn’t open up to you. Besides, I also want to learn some ju-jitsu moves from the Bodyguard.”
“What?” Higgins thought he must have misheard that last part.
“Never mind.” Eliza turned back to her father. “Dad, can you reschedule the visit to the stables for Sunday?”
Doolittle burped. “Nope.”
She drummed her fingers on the table for a minute. “All right, then. The only solution is for the Professor to go to the stables with you tomorrow. He’ll keep an eye on things.”
“I beg your pardon,” Higgins said.
Doolittle grinned. “If the governor wants to come to the stables, it’s fine by me. We leave at eight.”
“I’m glad that’s settled,” Eliza said in obvious satisfaction.
Higgins grabbed the glass of ale in front of him and drank it straight down.
* * *
Eliza hoped she was dressed appropriately for their visit to the widowed Mrs. Turnbull. She’d first donned the same black ensemble she had worn to the funeral two days ago, but decided it might be presumptuous. After all, she wasn’t a family member or even a friend. She finally settled on a printed silk dress of dove gray, devoid enough of color, and bordered in black silk with a summer neckline of gray and black flowers.
“You should have put on an armband,” she whispered to Higgins as they stood on the front steps of the Turnbull residence. A large black funeral wreath hung on the door.
“Whatever for?” Higgins idly scanned the long row of white stucco houses in one of Knightsbridge’s finest neighborhoods. The trees in the park across the street afforded welcome shade from the July sun, as did the elegant colonnaded porch of the Turnbull mansion.
“To show proper respect for the dead,” Eliza replied. “And if not for Turnbull, then out of consideration for his widow.”
“I haven’t even been formally introduced to Rachel Turnbull. And I couldn’t give a hang that her husband is dead. Besides, I think you’re looking mournful enough for the two of us.” He raised an eyebrow at her black-feathered hat. “The hat is a bit much, and a gray parasol would have sufficed. Not a black one.”
Before Eliza could fret about her outfit, a tall maid in a black uniform opened the paneled door. A moment later, she ushered them into the drawing room.
Rachel stood at a writing desk by the window. She greeted them with a smile. “Miss Doolittle and Professor Higgins, how kind of you to accept my sudden invitation. Please sit down.” She gestured toward a gold brocade divan. “We’ll have tea, Lucy.” The maid curtsied before scurrying away.
The sunlight streaming through the tall windows showed that Turnbull’s widow looked quite rested, almost rejuvenated. Indeed, the plain-featured Rachel looked rather attractive today. Her black silk dress enhanced her creamy complexion. And for the first time, Rachel wore her wheat-colored hair piled fashionably atop her head, a few curls spilling around her ears. The new hairstyle combined with her dress’s high gauze neckline made her appear swanlike.
“No doubt you were both surprised to receive my message this morning.” She sat across from them in a maroon velvet chair. “As you know, it is not customary for the recently bereaved to receive guests other than close family for the first few months.”
Before she could continue, the phone on the writing desk rang. With a murmured apology, Rachel answered it. She stood facing the window while she spoke, her voice too low for Eliza to hear any of the conversation.
The interruption gave Eliza and Higgins time to examine the drawing room. Considering the late Jonathon Turnbull’s domineering personality, Eliza wasn’t surprised by its masculine decor, maroon walls, and dark wood trim. Although crystal vases of white roses were placed in every corner, the room felt oppressive. A towering grandfather clock loomed over them. Eliza was grateful the thick velvet draperies had been pulled back to let in light. The room needed all the fresh air it could get, what with the cloying scent of those funeral roses.
“Please forgive the interruption.” Rachel sat back down with a sigh. “Turnbull relatives I have never heard from before are now eager to make themselves known. I should hire a secretary to handle the calls and letters, along with all the legal matters forced upon me.” She smiled. “As I was saying, you must be curious why I asked you here.”
“I’m glad you did,” Eliza said. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your husband’s death. I would have spoken to you at the funeral, but I didn’t want to bother you or the family.”
“It is I who should have spoken to you earlier. After all, you were the only person with Jonathon when he died. My dear Miss Doolittle, I want to thank you for trying to help my husband, and for seeing to it that he wasn’t alone at the end.”
“I only wish Freddy and I had found him sooner. We might have been able to save him. If there is anything the Professor and I can do, you have only to ask.”
“Please tell me exactly what happened. I need to know how Jonathon died. Was he able to speak at all? Did he have a message, either for me or anyone else?”
Eliza took a deep breath before describing the final minutes of Jonathon Turnbull’s life. Rachel listened intently. But at no point did she seem close to tears.
“I see,” she said in a soft voice. “No message, then.”
“I’m sorry,” Eliza added. “But the poor man was in a bad way when we found him. It’s a wonder he could speak at all.”
Rachel glanced at Higgins, who had already been silent for longer than Eliza expected. “Professor, you must be wondering why I wanted to see you as well.”
Higgins shrugged. “I do admit to a little curiosity, Mrs. Turnbull. I wasn’t with Eliza when your husband died. And the only time I ever met him was at Ascot.”
“Lady Saxton told me that you suspect Harold Hewitt murdered both my husband and Diana Price. I would like to know why you think Hewitt is responsible. Many people believe it was Mr. Longhurst.”
Eliza wasn’t surprised when Higgins eagerly complied. He’d been convinced since Ascot that Hewitt was the murderer. The Professor described his conversation with Hewitt at the racecourse and their subsequent visit to Claybury.
“But what was his motive for the murders?” Rachel asked when he was done.
“It appears Mr. Hewitt championed women’s suffrage,” Eliza said.
“Ah, I see,” Rachel said. “And my husband did not. In fact, he was an outspoken opponent. My sister Ruth was most offended by Jonathon’s efforts to derail their movement. I think she was even more upset with me for not
being able to restrain him. But no one could control Jonathon.” She sighed. “Least of all, a woman.”
“My cousin’s fiancée is a member of the Women’s Freedom League,” Eliza said. “Their leaders were insulted when Diana refused to sing at their rally. She made things worse by giving an interview in the paper in which she mocked the women.”
“I heard no end of that from Ruth. Of course, she also had a grievance against Miss Price for other reasons.” Rachel’s smile was bitter. “After all, it is common knowledge that my husband and Diana were lovers. Another situation I could do nothing about.”
“We heard your sister threw a hammer at Diana Price,” Higgins said.
“Ruth is impulsive, but I can’t fault her loyalty. Or her courage.”
They were again interrupted, this time by the maid carrying in a silver tea tray. Everyone waited until tea had been poured and biscuits offered. Once the maid left, Eliza turned her attention back to Rachel.
“If Mr. Hewitt did murder your husband, how was he able to poison him at the regatta picnic? I watched the servants unload the hampers from the cars and set everything up. When would a stranger have had the opportunity to poison anything there?”
“I do not believe Jonathon was poisoned by anything he ate or drank at the picnic. After all, each of the luncheon guests sampled everything.”
“Except for Gordon Longhurst,” Eliza reminded her.
“True, but I don’t think Mr. Longhurst came to the picnic with the intention of harming anyone. He wanted his share of the winnings, and only grew upset when he learned it was not forthcoming. I find it unlikely he had poison hidden on his person for just such an occasion.”
Higgins agreed. “It’s possible your husband was poisoned between the end of the luncheon and the award ceremony. He might have been followed.”
“I’d like to believe that is what happened. After all, Mr. Hewitt is not only a madman but a total stranger. If he didn’t do it, the murderer of my husband and Miss Price is someone we all know.” Rachel shuddered. “That is a chilling thought.”
“Did you see Mr. Turnbull with anyone suspicious after the luncheon interval?” Higgins asked. “A man you didn’t recognize, perhaps?”
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