Move Your Blooming Corpse

by D. E. Ireland

  That made sense. “I should head over there before Jack and his men leave.”

  “If you’re right about Gordon Longhurst having a partner in crime, it’s best you not be alone,” he said gallantly. “I’ll be happy to escort you there.”

  “Yes, please. I’d like that very much.”

  Eliza slid her hand under his proffered arm, although she knew the older gentleman would not be much protection against a murderer. After all, he’d been poisoned two days ago. Sir Walter had been lucky to survive.

  She only hoped Higgins found Rachel Turnbull before it was too late.

  * * *

  Squinting from the bright sunshine, Henry Higgins caught sight of two women waving copies of The Suffragette. One of them wore black. He hurried across the grassy racetrack and climbed over the white railing. Too bad he hadn’t known Rachel was on this side of the course, or he’d have found her earlier. He noticed how most of the well-heeled racing fans ignored the women. One man in a shabby suit bought a paper and then shredded it, laughing with his friends.

  “You dollies better not be plannin’ some fool trick like at Ascot and the Derby,” he said loudly, “or me and my pals will make sure you’re trampled good and dead.”

  “Here now, that’s uncalled for,” an onlooker said, but the ruffian’s friends jeered him into silence. His wife hushed him, and they both hurried away.

  The men next tossed the paper shreds onto the women’s hats. Rachel looked miserable, but her sister Ruth stared them down. “This abuse is one reason why women ought to vote,” she cried in a ringing voice. “We have every right to free speech and assembly.”

  “Take yer trash elsewhere!”

  Higgins pushed the biggest bully aside. “Go on, you’ve made your point.”

  “And who the devil do you think you are? I’ll mash yer face—”

  The fellow lunged, but Higgins grabbed his wrist and twisted it. When Higgins finally let go, the man fell backward with a loud curse into his group of friends.

  Offering his arm to Rachel and her sister, he escorted them a few hundred yards down the track. Luckily the crowd had scattered during the altercation, making it easier to maneuver.

  “Where the devil is Scotland Yard?” he murmured. “Are you ladies all right?”

  “Yes, but however did you know how to disable that man?” Mrs. Lowell asked.

  “A trick I picked up in my carefree youth.” Once he’d adjusted his sleeves, Higgins glanced around but saw no sign of the men. “A wrestler in northern Lancashire taught me. He had quite an interesting dialect, too.”

  “Thank you so much,” Rachel said, her voice shaking. “I feared they would attack us next. I’d never have come today if I’d known the danger was this great.”

  “Actually, Mrs. Turnbull, I am surprised to see you here.”

  “Meaning I ought to have stayed home?” She bristled at his challenging tone.

  “You are in mourning.” He glanced down at her black gown and gloves.

  “Why shouldn’t she be here?” her sister asked. “Rachel was mistreated by her lout of a husband. Why should she pretend to mourn his death?”

  “Ruth, please. This is no time for a lecture.” She turned to Higgins. “I lived in silent terror of my husband for too long. Years, in fact. That’s why I came today.”

  “And he did all he could to fight women’s suffrage, too.” Ruth sounded bitter.

  “Yes. I was afraid to show the slightest sympathy for the cause. I let my sister and her friends down, especially since they risk prison and injury every day. I see now how much abuse they suffer, just as I did from Jonathon. It was long past time for me to gather my courage and join them. But thank you, Professor, for helping us avoid further trouble.”

  “You’re welcome. Still, I wouldn’t have thought a racetrack was the right place for you to make your first appearance for the cause.”

  “Ruth asked me to attend and wear a ‘Votes for Women’ banner. I refused her so often in the past, it didn’t seem right to do so again. After all, Jonathon is gone now.”

  Despite her reasonable explanation, Higgins remained suspicious of the widow. “What did you think of Mr. Longhurst’s arrest? Do you think he poisoned Sir Walter at the Criterion?”

  “Absolutely not! Why would a gentleman like Gordon Longhurst kill someone over a horse? I don’t believe he poisoned Jonathon or Sir Walter. He certainly didn’t kill his wife.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “He loved Diana, even though she treated him with contempt. Like my husband did me.” Rachel regained her composure with a deep breath. “It simply isn’t possible.”

  “Jealousy may have driven him to murder,” Higgins replied.

  “Gordon is innocent, I tell you. He’s a good man.”

  “Is that why you two have become such great friends?” He noted Rachel’s cheeks flush dark red. “I’ve heard rumors that you and he have grown quite close.”

  Ruth Lowell shot him a warning look. “Gossip, nothing more.”

  “When my husband’s affair with Diana became public, I turned to Mr. Longhurst in despair.” Rachel lifted her chin in defiance. “He understood my misery and humiliation.”

  “Did your friendship grow into something more, perhaps?”

  “That’s enough, sir!” Her sister shoved him hard.

  Rachel stared at Higgins for a long uneasy moment. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Well, it’s Scotland Yard’s business. In my opinion, Gordon Longhurst stabbed his wife and killed your husband. The bottle of poison was found in his jacket after Sir Walter nearly died. And he could easily have hired men to arrange the attack on Alfred at the horse farm, all in a scheme to gain sole ownership of the Donegal Dancer.”

  Her gaze turned cold. “Someone slipped that bottle into Gordon’s pocket to implicate him. It’s circumstantial evidence, Professor.”

  “The police will determine that, along with a court of law. Meanwhile your friendship with him seems highly suspicious,” Higgins said. “If Longhurst does have an accomplice, the most likely person is you.”

  Ruth Lowell again sprang to her sister’s defense. “How dare you accuse her? You have no right to spout such nonsense!”

  Aware of the other suffragettes muttering their disapproval, Higgins forced himself to listen to Mrs. Lowell’s harangue. She insulted his intelligence and status as a gentleman, accused him of pandering to the police, and even questioned his involvement with the syndicate.

  “Who’s to say that you aren’t the murderer?” Ruth said at the end of her tirade.

  “Wasn’t he the governor accused of killing that Hungarian fellow?” another suffragette asked. She shook a fist at him. “I read about it in the papers, I did.”

  “The police caught Nepommuck’s murderer.” He scanned the angry women now pressing close about him. “Ladies, I insist you allow me free passage. I will use force if I must.”

  “Do you mean to twist our hands like you did that bully’s?” Ruth sneered. “I dare you!”

  Higgins fought to keep his temper in check. “I mean you no harm. And I have no issues with your cause. I only want to ask Mrs. Turnbull a few more questions.” He turned to where Rachel had stood a moment ago.

  Damn, damn, damn. Rachel Turnbull had vanished.

  TWENTY

  When Eliza entered the tent, she smiled at the sheer size of the billowing white silk structure, along with the green and purple balloons floating above a long table. The Duchess had marked off an entire piece of Sandown Park as her own—at least until the end of today’s races. However, despite being surrounded by colored balloons and bottles of champagne chilling in silver buckets, her cousin looked unhappy.

  “Glad you’re here, Lizzie. And I’m relieved to see you’re not alone.” Jack nodded toward Sir Walter. “But I thought Higgins or Freddy would be with you.”

  “I sent Freddy to join the others in the Duchess’s private box. He’s driving himself mad with worry that I
’ll somehow run onto the racetrack.”

  “Where’s Higgins? If he’s off writing down people’s dialects at a time like this—”

  “The Professor is figuring out if there will be another murder attempt at Sandown. And we’ve discovered something that should interest you and your detectives.”

  Jack raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Which is?”

  Eliza sank in a chair by the banquet table, hands clasped over her parasol handle. “Rachel Turnbull is at the racetrack today.”

  “Why would Turnbull’s widow be at the Eclipse Stakes?”

  “It does seem peculiar,” Sir Walter chimed in, and pulled out a seat at the table.

  “Rachel’s maid is at the racetrack and claims that her mistress is here. The girl is selling copies of The Suffragette near the paddock. She says Rachel Turnbull is doing the very same thing. And wearing her widow’s weeds, too. Now that is a sight I’d like to see.”

  “Then you and Higgins did not actually see Rachel?”

  Eliza shook her head. “But Lucy swore her mistress is at the track selling the magazine alongside her sister Ruth. Higgins is looking for her. He wanted me to find you straightaway, and send you and your detectives after him.”

  Jack seemed troubled. “I hoped we could relax with Longhurst in custody. But if Rachel Turnbull is at the Eclipse Stakes so soon after her husband’s murder, I have to ask myself why. The answer makes me uneasy.”

  Eliza noticed three policemen examining the hampers in the tent. “Are you checking the luncheon food for anything suspicious?”

  “I’m taking no chances. My men and I have been through every basket, bottle, and champagne bucket in here. All the food is either safe in unopened cans or boxed up and taped shut. And the champagne is sealed.”

  “Blimey, I forgot the most important thing.” Eliza leaned forward. “Lucy told me that one of the pots of honey spilled at the regatta picnic. When she cleaned it up, a drop got on her finger and she licked the honey off. Lucy swears she never ate or drank a single other thing from the picnic except that tiny bit of honey. She felt quite ill afterwards.”

  “I never thought about the honey.”

  “Higgins remembered right off what Sir Walter said when we visited his gardens. That even the nectar from poisonous plants is dangerous. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Sir Walter said eagerly. “The ancient Greeks killed people by using the nectar from poisonous flowers. They often baked it into honey cakes. An ingenious method of poisoning. If more people at the picnic had asked for honey in their tea, half the syndicate members might be dead by now.”

  “I think the murderer knew very well who used honey and who didn’t,” Eliza said. “The same person who organized the picnic and planned the menu.”

  “Rachel Turnbull.” Jack nodded. “It makes sense.”

  “And now she shows up at the Eclipse Stakes! Jack, I’m certain she’s going to do something during the race. We must get to her first.”

  “Right, then. Both you and Sir Walter are to remain here.” Jack waved for his detectives to head outside. “I’m hoping it’s not too late to find Rachel. When I do, I’m putting her under arrest. Meanwhile, promise me you’ll stay inside this tent. You too, Sir Walter.”

  “See here, Inspector. The Donegal Dancer’s race is due to start in less than thirty minutes.” Sir Walter rose to his feet. “I have no intention of staying here.”

  “Neither do I,” Eliza protested. “We want to watch the race from the Duchess’s box. I’d rather put up with Freddy lecturing me than miss the race altogether.”

  “Both of you will stay in this tent until I tell you otherwise. The Duchess’s servants are right outside the entrance, which is where they shall remain with instructions that neither of you is to leave.” Jack sounded grim. “When I find more of my detectives, I’ll send them here. But I can’t allow Rachel Turnbull to walk about free during this race. And I have no time to worry about you. Now do I have your word that you’ll stay here?”

  Eliza shrugged, while Sir Walter muttered, “Damned presumptuous, I must say.”

  “Presumptuous, but wise. The pair of you can afford to miss one race. Or perhaps you have forgotten that someone tried to poison you only two days ago, Sir Walter.”

  He seemed abashed by that. “Very well, Inspector. I shall do as you ask.”

  Jack wagged his finger at Eliza. “And keep an eye on her, too. I should send Freddy to join you as punishment.” Before he lifted up the tent flap, he turned back. “Even though we’ve checked all the food, don’t eat or drink anything until I get back.”

  “Not bloody likely,” she said under her breath.

  After her cousin left, Eliza turned to Sir Walter. “How long should we wait before we head for the Duchess’s box? I vote ten minutes.”

  “I suggest fifteen.” He grinned. “Just to be safe.”

  * * *

  Starting with Diana’s murder, Higgins had been wrong every step of the way. For too long he’d been convinced Harold Hewitt was the prime suspect. Then he let Alfred Doolittle out of his sight at the Bay Willow Stables. Next he encountered the recently widowed Rachel Turnbull at a horse race. But instead of heading for the nearest detective, he stupidly confronted her. A brilliant move, one worthy of the nonsensical Freddy Eynsford Hill.

  Now he’d made Rachel so nervous, she had vanished like a magician’s rabbit. And the Donegal Dancer’s race was due to start soon. Thankfully, he was a phonetics specialist and not a policeman. They would have had his badge three times over by now.

  The crowd pressed about Higgins. He looked in vain for a glimpse of a dull black gown. With so many people milling around, he only caught a blur of movement here, a glimpse of something black there. Whenever he got a better look, the black was invariably a gentleman’s top hat. Perhaps he should make his way over to the Duchess’s luncheon tent. Eliza was most likely there by now, along with Jack.

  Unfortunately, he was on the wrong side of the racetrack. Higgins gazed in frustration at the huge white tent in the distance. A purple and green pennant waved from one of its poles. He should have tried to get there ten minutes ago. The crowd grew larger by the moment, and police were beginning to keep people back. They’d never let him cross the track until after the race.

  Even worse, he didn’t recognize a single detective. It was like Ascot all over again, and look how that turned out. Higgins cursed under his breath. No, he refused to let another person be murdered during a race without doing all he could to prevent it. Damn it, Higgins would run across the track and reach that tent, no matter what.

  “There he is!” a woman cried. “He’s the man chasing after Rachel!”

  Alarmed, Higgins spun about. Four women, all sporting WSPU banners across their chests, pushed their way through the crowd toward him. One was Rachel’s sister Ruth, whose angry expression seemed worthy of a marauding Viking.

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Please, I must speak with Mrs. Turnbull again. If not, the police will get to her first.”

  The women surrounded him in a half-circle. “I wouldn’t doubt you already set the police on her,” Ruth said in disgust. “My poor sister finally decides to support our cause in public, and you tell the police to arrest her.”

  “No, no! But I do need to speak with her before the police do, or they will arrest her.”

  Ruth glared at him. “I knew it. The police plan to haul her off to prison. They’ll make a big show of arresting the widow of a man who openly worked to undermine the WSPU.”

  “And you’re no doubt her dead husband’s friend,” another lady accused him. “That means you’re up to no good.”

  A small woman dressed in men’s clothes clapped her hands. “He wants to get us all arrested, he does. We can’t let him do that, ladies!”

  As if they had choreographed it, the four women lunged toward him. At the same moment, Higgins bolted in the opposite direction.

  “Wait!” Ruth shouted. “Come back here,
you coward!”

  Higgins had no intention of stopping. As he shoved through the crowd, he glanced over his shoulder at the pursuing women. What did one call a band of angry suffragettes? He ran through the names of collective groups: a gaggle of geese, a pack of wolves, a leap of leopards.

  Another quick look told Higgins he was being chased by a storm of suffragettes. And he’d better run fast before he got struck by their “lightning”—or their fists.

  * * *

  “I think we’ve waited long enough.” Eliza traced designs with the tip of her parasol on the sandy ground. The white silk walls of the tent billowed softly about her.

  “Hold on, let me take a look.” Sir Walter stepped outside. A few moments later, he returned. “I’d wait a bit longer to be certain the Inspector is nowhere around.”

  “If we don’t leave soon, we’ll miss the Donegal Dancer.”

  “Never fear, Miss Doolittle. I promise that neither of us will miss that race.” He sat once more at the table. “And I trust our horse will win again today. You must be excited. This is your very first race as an owner.”

  “Absolutely. But I feel terrible Dad will miss it. At least the doctors say he’ll be released from the hospital soon.”

  “How remarkable that Alfred is still alive. Not many men would survive a frightened horse stamping on them.”

  “My father’s tough, believe me.”

  “He does seem strong as a bull for a man his age. And luckier than most.”

  “If he’d been lucky, he never would’ve been attacked in the first place.” Eliza tapped her parasol on the ground. “I wonder how Gordon Longhurst pulled it off at the horse farm. He and Rachel are obviously responsible for poisoning you and Jonathon Turnbull. I wonder if the poison you drank was the same one used at Henley.”

  He shook his head. “No. The poison I drank at the Criterion was tasteless. But the honey at the regatta would have tasted bitter.”

  “Why?”

  “Blame the flower nectar. In this case, rhododendrons.”

  Eliza sat up straighter. “I don’t remember Jack saying what sort of plant had poisoned Jonathon Turnbull. How do you know it was rhododendron?”