Move Your Blooming Corpse

by D. E. Ireland

  Eliza swallowed hard. “But why?”

  “Don’t you see? He’s trying to catch her out about that damned fool picnic. Rachel—Mrs. Turnbull is such a gentle soul, a virtual angel. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less kill two people.” Longhurst shook his head. “They’re treating us both in a monstrous fashion, Miss Doolittle. I insist you have a word with Inspector Shaw.”

  “I have no right to interfere in his investigation. And he wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”

  “You can broach the subject at least.”

  “How do you know all this about Mrs. Turnbull? Like you said, she’s been in seclusion as a widow. Did Rachel ask you to speak to me?”

  “Of course not. But I’ve heard from mutual friends that Mrs. Turnbull is being most dreadfully harassed by the police. By your cousin, in fact.”

  She took a deep breath. “And I have heard from mutual friends that you and Mrs. Turnbull share a special friendship. A romantic one, in fact. One friend even claims to have seen you embracing the widow in rather a familiar manner.”

  Longhurst turned purple. “That is preposterous and untrue!”

  He stood so quickly, the table overturned. Eliza jumped back as the teapot, sugar bowl, and creamer crashed to the floor. The ladies at the next table gasped when he stormed past them out of the Palm Court. The waiter rushed over.

  “Madam, are you all right? I do apologize.”

  “No need. The gentleman was rude, not you.”

  When Eliza rejoined Clara, Lord Ashmore, and Lady Tansy, they stared at her with stunned expressions. “I say, Miss Doolittle,” Lord Ashmore said. “That man seemed a bit mad.”

  “I agree.” Eliza pushed her teacup aside. She’d pay two quid for a glass of champagne right now. “And if Longhurst ends up in the asylum, I refuse to visit. I don’t care what Higgins says. Once was quite enough.”

  They looked even more bewildered, but Eliza didn’t bother to explain. Her only concern was that Gordon Longhurst seemed as unhinged as Harold Hewitt. And perhaps—just perhaps—she should not have mentioned that he and Rachel had been seen embracing in public. She had spooked him for sure. Not a wise decision.

  If Longhurst was the killer, he was now more dangerous than ever.

  SEVENTEEN

  “I hope murder isn’t on the menu,” Higgins said as they exited the taxi. The blare of a dozen horns and the cries of a bus conductor greeted them. At half past twelve, the streets teemed with pedestrians, horse-drawn wagons, and motorcars.

  “I wouldn’t joke about something like that.” Eliza gave him a disapproving look. “My dad is still lying in a hospital bed, with a jaw so swollen he can barely swallow oatmeal.”

  “I wasn’t joking.” In fact, he looked upon the upcoming Wrexham Racing Syndicate luncheon with trepidation.

  Such a pity, too. The lunch was being held at the Criterion, one of his favorite dining spots in London. Although the opulent restaurant and its adjacent theater sat in bustling Piccadilly Circus, the outside world slipped away the minute patrons stood beneath its fabled gold leaf ceiling. In addition, the Criterion had an excellent kitchen and a fine wine list. The only thing he had to worry about was another murder.

  As they walked toward the entrance, a gleaming blue Daimler pulled up to the curb. Inside he glimpsed not only a uniformed chauffeur but the Duchess of Carbrey and the Saxtons. Higgins hurried Eliza through the doors of the Criterion. He had little patience with either Saxton. Conversation could wait until the appetizers had been served.

  As soon as they were inside, Eliza pointed down the wide hallway. “There’s Jack.”

  Jack Shaw and his detectives marched ahead of them, a maître d’ trailing in their wake. At least the police would keep a close eye on things this time. Only the brashest of killers would dare strike with four Scotland Yard detectives scrutinizing everyone’s movements.

  Eliza straightened her hat, a small white Tam o’Shanter with but a single black aigrette feather. She was dressed more conservatively than usual in a white and black houndstooth skirt and matching jacket. It gave her a brisk businesslike appearance. Higgins thought she was taking her responsibility as representative for her father quite seriously.

  Sir Walter appeared from around the corner. “How glad I am to see you both. Almost everyone is here. Brody and Miss Wilkins are already upstairs, and I see the Duchess and the Saxtons dawdling outside. Mr. Longhurst was twenty minutes early.”

  “The police are here, too,” Eliza said.

  “Yes, I spoke with them. A shame your father is still recovering. He so enjoys the syndicate luncheons.” Sir Walter smoothed down his linen suit coat. “Excuse me while I greet the Duchess. I believe she’s speaking with Lord Gosley. One of his horses won at Ascot. If I don’t hurry them along, luncheon will never be served.”

  After he left, Higgins nodded at the adjacent room. “That is the Long Bar. You’re reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, so I trust you know what it’s most famous for.”

  Eliza had been quiet all morning, which worried him. But at the mention of Conan Doyle, her eyes sparkled. She peeked at the long polished bar as they passed, a wide grin on her face. “That’s where Dr. Watson first heard about Sherlock Holmes. A friend of Watson’s told him that an eccentric fellow was looking for a roommate.”

  “Exactly.” Higgins beamed at her. Eliza was still his best pupil.

  “I wish Watson and Holmes were here right now. We need someone’s powers of deduction aside from our own.”

  “I think we’re doing rather well.”

  Eliza smirked. “Really? Two people have been murdered, while someone tried to kill my father four days ago. Yet we haven’t a clue who the blighter is.”

  “After yesterday’s encounter at the tearoom, I thought you had settled on Longhurst.”

  “So I have, which means Rachel Turnbull is probably part of the murderous scheme, too. What we don’t have is proof. That’s why we need Sherlock Holmes to reason it out for us.”

  As soon as they reached the second-floor dining rooms, Eliza hurried off without a backward glance. Higgins stared after her as she greeted Jack and his detectives. What was going on? He’d expected her to chatter his ears off on the taxi ride over, but she seemed lost in thought. At breakfast, Eliza ate in total silence, her attention focused on the latest issue of The Suffragette. Had she become an active member of the WSPU? He hated to sound as silly as Freddy, but was she about to start throwing bricks through windows or chain herself to No. 10 Downing Street?

  When Higgins reached the luncheon table, he noticed that Gordon Longhurst avoided looking at either of them. Eliza sent him a cold stare, however. Higgins knew that if she could prove Longhurst was behind the attack on her father, a brawl might ensue during lunch.

  To keep things calm, Higgins sat between them. Her resentment toward Longhurst might explain why she seemed so distracted. Eliza had never been inside the Criterion before. Normally she would have delighted in the sheer grandeur of the restaurant: the expansive mirrored walls and curved ceilings of golden mosaic, the marble floors, the neo-Byzantine arches studded with semiprecious stones. But she acted as if she sat in the Hand and Shears pub.

  Brody’s girlfriend plopped down across from them. “Ain’t this a blooming lovely place?” she whispered in delight. “So happy Jimmy asked me along.” She reached over the water glasses. “I’m Patsy. Me and Miss Doolittle were at the picnic. And we met at the funeral.”

  Higgins shook her hand. “I remember.”

  “Hope I’m dressed fancy enough.” She smoothed her butter yellow dress.

  “You look fine,” Higgins assured her. Eliza loved fashion, and he expected her to comment on Patsy’s dress and velour hat. Instead, Eliza threw caustic glances at Longhurst.

  “The Duchess is here.” Brody suddenly appeared behind Patsy’s chair.

  Everyone looked over as Sir Walter escorted the Duchess to the table. Thankfully, she appeared less Bohemian this afternoon in a beaded blue outfit. The Saxtons, ho
wever, looked like dress mannequins from the windows at Selfridges. They had donned nearly identical outfits; he sported a white shirt, jacket, and pants, while his wife wore an ivory skirt and bolero with her white blouse. Higgins had never seen Lady Saxton look so jubilant. And the two-foot-high white plumes on her hat bobbed with every movement.

  The reason for her joy became evident once she reached the table. Lady Saxton stood before them, both hands clasped on her parasol’s carved ivory handle. “This is the last meeting of the Wrexham Racing Syndicate that either Maitland or I shall ever have to attend.” With a victorious smile, she sat in the chair Lord Saxton drew out for her. “I insist on drinking the first glass of champagne to celebrate.”

  Her husband sat down beside her with a glum expression. Higgins suspected Saxton would buy another horse as soon as possible, albeit one without murderers involved.

  As agent for the syndicate, Sir Walter took his place at the head of the table. Gordon Longhurst sat directly to his right, the Duchess to his left. Brody sat at the other end of the table. He winked at Patsy, and she squeezed his hand in reply. Higgins wondered why the jockey was here. Then again, everyone probably wondered the same about him.

  Once all the guests were seated, Sir Walter tapped a spoon against his water glass for attention. “The recent unhappy events at the Bay Willow Stables have prompted this meeting. Normally the syndicate would not meet until after the upcoming Eclipse Stakes, but much has happened over the past few days.”

  “Far too much, in my opinion,” the Duchess said.

  “Agreed. I spoke with the hospital this morning, and am happy to report that Alfred is recovering nicely. He may be released as early as next week.”

  “Has there been any further news about who attacked him?” Saxton asked.

  Sir Walter pointed to the detectives who ringed the table. “As you can see, Scotland Yard will be joining us this afternoon. Inspector, perhaps you would like to say something.”

  Jack walked over. “We have questioned everyone who was at the stables that morning, including some of you. At this time, Mr. Doolittle cannot remember the attack. We hope his memory improves and he will give us a piece of crucial information.”

  “Which means you don’t know anything more than you did on Saturday,” Saxton said with obvious contempt.

  Jack’s expression grew steely. “I know enough to realize that someone at the stables that day was responsible. Until the culprit—or culprits—are found, everyone remains a suspect.”

  Lord Saxton swore under his breath. His wife leaned over and whispered, “Ignore him. He’s just a policeman.”

  Higgins bit back a chuckle when Eliza shot an icy glare at Lady Saxton.

  “Not only are you suspects, you are all possible murder victims,” Jack continued. “That is why my men and I are here this afternoon. If another attempt is made to kill one of you, at least it won’t take the police long to respond.” Jack tipped his hat. “Enjoy your lunch.”

  “Yes, well. Ahem. Thank you, Inspector.” Sir Walter took a deep breath. “Before we proceed, Mr. Brody will relay some pertinent news about future breeding opportunities for the Donegal Dancer.”

  After giving a self-conscious tug to his navy blazer, Brody droned on for five minutes regarding recent offers to breed their horse with various prize mares. Higgins heard Eliza’s stomach growl. He was more than ready for lunch, too. And Lord Saxton looked most unhappy that Sir Walter hadn’t yet asked the waiters to uncork the champagne.

  At long last Brody sat down. Sir Walter stood again. “No doubt everyone is aware that Lord Saxton sold his shares of the Donegal Dancer this past Saturday to Mr. Longhurst. My solicitor drew up the proper papers, and both men signed them yesterday. I have the original documents with me for anyone who cares to inspect them. I also made copies for each of the owners.” He held up a sheaf of legal documents.

  At a nod from Sir Walter, one of the waiters lifted a magnum of champagne from an ice bucket. “Let us toast the arrival of a new member of the syndicate, as well as bid farewell to one of our original owners.” Sir Walter lifted his full glass.

  After the rest of the glasses had been filled, even Higgins took a few appreciative sips. It was an excellent vintage, although he preferred a good port.

  Still holding his champagne flute, Sir Walter smiled at Eliza and Higgins. “A pity Alfred could not be here. With the Eclipse Stakes only two days away, he would be feverish with anticipation. Obviously he could not attend, nor his wife, who is staying by his side in hospital. But his daughter Eliza is here today to represent him. Given the alarming outcome of recent syndicate meetings, she has brought along Professor Higgins for moral support.”

  Eliza set her glass down. “I am here not only to represent my father’s interests,” she said. “I am also representing my own.”

  Curious, Higgins watched her reach for her handbag, a larger one than she normally carried.

  After Eliza withdrew several papers, she stood. “I have decided it is too dangerous for my father to remain the only Doolittle in the Wrexham Racing Syndicate. If another attempt is made on an owner of the Donegal Dancer, then by heaven, we need more members.”

  “What in blazes are you talking about?” Higgins asked.

  “The more targets, the harder they are to hit.” Eliza shook the papers at Sir Walter. “I am the latest syndicate target. My father sold me part of his shares in the racehorse.”

  Startled cries rose up from everyone at the table.

  “My dear girl, you didn’t!” The Duchess looked aghast.

  Saxton’s wife sighed. “You ninny. Now you’ll have to wear those awful colors.”

  “Are you out of your mind, Lizzie?” In an instant, Jack appeared at her elbow. Without asking, he grabbed her papers and scanned them.

  What had the impulsive girl done? Higgins groaned. Eliza wasn’t there at the stables to see how close her father came to dying. She didn’t seem to understand that whoever was behind these attacks was utterly ruthless. And she had just offered herself up as a sacrificial victim.

  “What a foolish thing for you to do.” Higgins joined Jack in examining the documents.

  “Not as foolish as waiting for this devil to make another attempt on my father’s life.” Eliza lifted her chin in defiance. “And I don’t care what any of you think. I am now a part owner of the Donegal Dancer. I had papers drawn up by Sibley & Moffett, and the lawyers and I visited Dad in hospital on Monday so he could sign them.”

  “Sibley & Moffett?” Higgins shook his head in frustration. “You not only went behind my back to do this, you used my family’s solicitors?”

  She shrugged. “I had to use somebody. Anyway, the papers are all in order. Everything has been witnessed and the money transferred.”

  Higgins cursed under his breath. Damnation, Eliza had bought the shares with all her winnings from Ascot. Once again, she had bet everything she owned. If Eliza kept this up, she’d be back to selling violets at Covent Garden by the time she was twenty-five.

  Sir Walter looked as concerned as Higgins and Jack. “If I may see the documents.”

  Handing them over, Eliza sat down once more and ignored both Jack and Higgins.

  “You’ve put a blooming bull’s-eye on your back, girl,” Jack whispered in her ear.

  “Better me than Dad. And if you solve these murders, none of us will have to worry anymore, now will we?”

  Jack swore under his breath. With a last furious look at his cousin, he stomped back to rejoin his detectives near the mirrored wall.

  Higgins leaned over her shoulder to say something, but Eliza put up a hand. “Not a word, Professor. Not a single word. All I asked you to do was keep an eye on my father, but he almost got trampled to death because you were talking, as usual. So I am done listening to what you or Jack have to say.”

  He felt cut to the heart, especially since her accusation was true.

  “It appears Miss Doolittle’s papers are in order.” Sir Walter folded them and
returned them to her. “Therefore, the Wrexham Racing Syndicate now has two new members.” He lifted his champagne flute. “To Miss Eliza Doolittle, the latest owner of the Donegal Dancer.”

  Higgins refused to join in the toast. Eliza was not only the latest fool to own that blasted racehorse, she could very well be the next murder victim.

  * * *

  Eliza was pleased. Things had gone better than planned. As expected, Jack and Higgins carried on for a bit, but it could have been worse. It might be wise, however, if she spent all her free time with Freddy until the Eclipse Stakes. Otherwise, Higgins and Jack would lecture her nonstop.

  She had worried for days about their reaction after learning she was now a syndicate member. Although she wasn’t good at keeping secrets, this one was too important to divulge. Those papers had to be legal and signed before she breathed a word of it to anyone. Of course she had put herself in danger. But it was the right thing to do. If Higgins and Jack were this upset, imagine how disturbed the killer must be now that another owner stood between him and the Donegal Dancer!

  For the hundredth time, she wondered if Longhurst was the murderer. When she announced the news, she made sure to catch his reaction. He seemed surprised and upset. Then again, so did everyone else. Especially Higgins.

  Clearly she had unsettled the Professor. He barely touched his lunch, odd since he was always going on about how much he loved the Criterion’s food. For her part, she quite enjoyed the pickled oysters, Norwegian anchovies, oxtail consommé, and fillets of beef. She’d eaten two servings of the boiled new potatoes, and almost asked for a second of the plover on toast and cress salad. Now and then she worried a bit of poison might have been included on the menu. But Jack and his detectives shadowed the waiters, inspecting every single dish they served. Four more detectives reportedly stood guard in the Criterion kitchens. How in the world could the food be poisoned under such scrutiny?