Move Your Blooming Corpse
Page 28
She felt such a wave of affection for the Professor, Eliza had to fight back tears. She blamed the poison for her uncharacteristic weepiness. “You should have been there, Colonel. I was flat on the ground and couldn’t see anything. But everyone says it was a miraculous sight to behold. Higgins spread-eagled on top of me, while racehorses leaped over his back.”
“I was quite magnificent,” Higgins said with a wide grin as he buttered his toast.
Laughing, Eliza got up from her chair. Before he could protest, she gave him a quick hug. “Thank you again, you marvelous preening hero.” She sat back down. “Maybe by Christmas you’ll stop reminding me every hour that you saved my life.”
Higgins seemed thrown by her unexpected embrace, but she knew he’d pretend it hadn’t happened.
“Let’s strike a bargain,” he said. “I won’t remind you that I saved your life, if you stop reminding me how you rescued me from prison this past spring.”
Eliza slapped her hand on the table. “Done.”
“Now I feel far worse.” Pickering stood. “Both of you have been in deadly trouble the past few months, and I have been no help at all. None.”
“Colonel, that’s not true.” It bothered Eliza to see how upset the dear fellow was.
Higgins leaned back in his chair. “How about this? The next murder case Eliza and I stumble across, we’ll let you be the one who nearly gets killed.”
Pickering shook his head. “I’m going to my club. All this talk of murder and poison is simply no way to start the morning.”
“Don’t be silly, Pick,” Higgins called after him. “Come back.”
Higgins and Eliza shrugged at each other when he didn’t return. A few minutes later, voices rang out from the entry foyer. Eliza frowned. Neither of them was dressed to receive visitors. As always, the Professor wore a tattered bathrobe at the breakfast table; she had come down this morning in her most comfortable satin wrapper. Eliza hadn’t even bothered to put her hair up. Instead, a thick braid hung halfway down her back.
With a flurry of greetings, Jack, Sybil, and Rachel Turnbull entered the dining room. Eliza was taken aback to see all three in their Sunday best.
“I wish you’d telephoned first,” she said. “We’re not properly dressed.”
“Oh, hang that.” Higgins snorted. “They’re the ones being beastly rude. It serves them right to find us sitting here in our carpet slippers and bathrobes.”
Sybil laughed. “True. Forgive our ill manners, but we won’t stay long.”
Higgins rang for Mrs. Pearce to bring in more coffee, scones, and eggs.
When everyone had taken a seat, Jack cleared his throat. “I thought you’d like to know that Sir Walter isn’t the only one arrested for murder. Keene, Ingleby, Melling, and Owens have all been charged as accomplices.”
“And Mr. Longhurst has been released,” Rachel said. Although the widow wore a black mourning gown, she’d pinned a VOTES FOR WOMEN brooch to her collar. “I asked him to come with us today, but he’s still unsettled from his past few days in jail.”
“Please tell him how sorry I am for believing he’d poisoned Sir Walter.” Eliza bit her lip. “I also apologize for thinking you poisoned your husband.”
Rachel smiled. “I would have believed the same thing in your place. Let’s not speak of it anymore. I’m only glad to see how quickly you’ve recovered.”
“And I’m glad you saw me run out of the tent and found Jack. Sir Walter might have woken up and escaped if you hadn’t.”
“Highly unlikely, Lizzie,” Jack said. “You broke his nose with that bottle. He was so disoriented from the blow, it took a solid day of interrogation before we got a coherent story out of him. Not that we needed it to arrest him. He still had the bottle of poison in his pocket.”
“He confessed, I hope?” Higgins asked.
“Indeed he did. And to much more than killing off the syndicate members.” Jack took a long sip of coffee. “We know now why Brody killed Diana Price at Ascot.”
Eliza sat forward in anticipation. “I’ve been waiting to learn this. Sir Walter wouldn’t tell me. What did she overhear that drove them to murder?”
Before Jack could answer, someone knocked furiously on the front door. Mrs. Pearce left the room with a worried frown.
“Who the devil is here now?” Higgins asked. “If that’s your father and Rose, I’m going upstairs to take a bath.”
“Don’t be silly,” Eliza said. “Dad won’t be released until Wednesday.”
“It’s worse than I thought,” Higgins muttered as Freddy rushed into the room.
Eliza had only half risen before Freddy crushed her to his chest. When he was done with his painful embrace, she realized he had also smashed the bouquet of daisies he held.
“I’m so sorry, I’ve quite battered these flowers. But they’re to welcome you back home from the hospital, my darling.”
“I was only there for a day, but thank you, Freddy.” Eliza handed the bouquet to Mrs. Pearce. “Sit down and have some breakfast. Jack’s brought news about the murders.”
Luckily Freddy spotted fresh scones and jam preserves on the table. He sat across from Eliza without further protest and reached for a plate.
“As I was saying, we interrogated Sir Walter. I also sent men to his house in Essex, and to Brody’s apartment in Chelsea. We found papers in both places confirming that Brody was a secret owner of the Donegal Dancer,” Jack said. “And that wasn’t the only horse Brody owned with Sir Walter. We uncovered documents exposing their other criminal deeds.”
“I say, wasn’t it a bit of ill luck the only jockey killed yesterday was Brody.” Freddy stopped smearing his scone. “The Donegal Dancer swerved at the last minute just as he reached you and the Professor. Perhaps the horse knew you were there, darling, and didn’t want to harm you. But the horse veered so abruptly, it sent Brody flying. A most alarming sight.”
“It would have been more alarming had the horse trampled us,” Higgins said.
“Of course, but I feel sorry for that lady friend of his. What was her name again?”
“Patsy,” Eliza said. “The poor girl probably had no idea what Brody was up to.”
“It doesn’t appear so.” Jack cleared his throat. “Now if I could continue.”
“If you don’t let him finish, that eye of his will start twitching,” Sybil said with a grin.
“We shall be silent for as long as you want, Jack.” Eliza winked at Sybil.
“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Higgins said.
“As I was saying, we found papers proving their joint ownership of several racehorses. We also found evidence that both men were part of the infamous horse kidnapping ring that has plagued the racing world for five years.”
Eliza’s mouth fell open. “The one my dad was so worried about?”
“The very one.”
Rachel shook her head. “Sir Walter hired men to guard the Dancer, when all along the syndicate should have been protecting the horse from him.”
“How big a part did Brody and Sir Walter play in the ring?” Higgins asked.
“Part? They ran the organization. We’ve found at least eleven men who worked for them. Melling, Owens, Ingleby, and Keene were only a few.”
Eliza thought this over. “Sir Walter said he and Brody had been having an angry conversation at Ascot. Diana obviously heard them speak about the kidnappings. But was it really worth killing her over that?”
Jack looked at her as if she had just sprouted wings. “Worth killing for? Lizzie, these men were kidnapping champion racehorses and holding them for ransom. These horses are worth tens of thousands of pounds. Many of the thefts never even reached the papers. Owners paid the ransom without reporting it to the authorities for fear the horse—or they—would be harmed. However, several owners refused to pay. They either didn’t have enough money, or they feared by paying the kidnappers, it would only encourage them to steal more horses. Regardless, those who didn’t pay the ransom never saw
their horse again.”
“Did they kill the horses?” Eliza’s anger built once more.
“Only one horse was killed, and we believe that was accidental. At least according to Sir Walter. If the horses weren’t ransomed, the kidnappers bred them with other horses they had stolen. In fact, they often bred the horses even if the ransom had been paid.”
“What would be the purpose in that?” Higgins seemed puzzled. “The kidnappers could never reveal the true bloodlines of these animals. If so, they’d be arrested.”
“Don’t you see?” The truth seemed clear to Eliza. “By racing them! They knew these young horses were the offspring of champions, and likely to become champions themselves. To avoid suspicion, Sir Walter probably sold these horses when they were first foaled. Then he bought them back under assumed names when they were old enough to race.”
“By George, I believe she’s right.” Higgins chuckled. “I told you we didn’t need Sherlock Holmes, Eliza. We figured the mystery out ourselves.”
“What do you mean we?”
“Maybe you figured it out, but my detectives and I got the murderer to confess.”
Sybil winked at Jack. “If you ask, Eliza might promise to let you solve the next mystery.”
“And I promise she has no idea how valuable the Donegal Dancer really is,” Jack said.
“Is he the offspring of one of the kidnapped champions?” Higgins asked.
“Not just one champion. Two.” Jack made them wait while he took another sip of coffee.
Eliza snapped her fingers. “Red Glory and Maximus!”
Jack choked on his coffee as Freddy asked in confusion, “Who are they?”
“They’re the champion racehorses Jack told us about when he questioned the syndicate members at Ascot,” she said. “Actually, Brody brought it up.”
“The girl does have a phenomenal memory,” Higgins said.
“I don’t know why I bother. Scotland Yard should just come to her with their next case.”
“So the parents of the Donegal Dancer are two champions?” Freddy persisted.
Eliza nodded. “Brody said they stole Red Glory when she was pregnant. She was found a year later, unharmed, but her foal had already been born. No one knew what happened to the foal. I remember the Duchess was upset about that. But Maximus was taken the year before as well. The kidnappers must have mated them.” She let out a whistle. “No wonder Sir Walter and Brody wanted the Dancer all to themselves. The horse hasn’t lost a race in two seasons. Except for this last one. And I’ve never been happier to see a horse lose than I was on Friday.”
Higgins pushed aside his plate and rested his elbows on the table. “Even if they couldn’t use his real parentage to hike up the stud fees, the Donegal Dancer’s winning record has already made the horse worth his weight in gold.”
“Sir Walter told us they shipped the foal off to a horse farm in Ireland,” Jack said. “The owner Ahearn Griffith was eighty and not well. Over the past five years, they had sold these ‘secret’ champions to Griffith, only to buy them back a year or two later at low prices. Using an assumed name, of course. They planned to do the same with the Donegal Dancer, only—”
“My husband bought the horse first,” Rachel finished. “A pity Jonathon never learned what a prize the Dancer really was.”
“What this all means is that the four members who remain in the Wrexham Racing Syndicate are likely to see substantial returns on their investment,” Jack said. “That includes you, Eliza. Because we only have the word of horse thieves to back up the Dancer’s true parentage, that won’t be enough to get the Jockey Club to accept it. But given the horse’s bloodlines, the rest of his racing career looks to be a glorious one. With a lucrative breeding career to follow.”
“Cor, wait till Dad hears this.” Eliza grinned. “We’ll be rich in just a few years.”
Jack nodded. “Extremely comfortable at the very least.”
“We haven’t told Gordon yet,” Rachel said. “We’re going there next.”
“This is excellent.” Freddy got to his feet. “Now that our financial future is secure, Eliza and I can marry and set up our own household.”
“Freddy, please. I told you I’m not ready to marry.”
“Eliza’s right.” Sybil gave Freddy a stern look. “Besides, you’re both too young.”
“Pardon me, Miss Chase, but you and the Inspector are planning to marry soon,” Freddy said in an offended tone. “I hardly think you should be dissuading us from doing likewise.”
“You’re only twenty-one,” Jack said, “and Eliza a year younger.”
“But you’re getting married,” Freddy repeated.
“Jack is ten years older than you,” Sybil said, “and I am twenty-six. We are old enough to know our own minds. However, you both need more experience of the adult world, especially you, Mr. Eynsford Hill. You should consider taking up a profession. I’d hate to think you plan to live off Eliza for the rest of your life.”
Higgins sat back with a whoop. “I knew I liked you, Sybil!”
Freddy sank back down in his chair. “I’ve never heard anything so absurd. Eliza, tell them. I am a gentleman, not a member of the working class. And with your racing money, neither of us will ever have to work a day in our lives.”
The stress of the past few days had taken its toll. Eliza wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and nap. She hoped Freddy would be gone when she woke up.
“I enjoy teaching, Freddy. And no matter how much money I have, I don’t want to stay home all day while servants wait on me. I’ve worked my whole life. I plan to keep doing so.”
“Hear, hear,” Sybil said. “By the way, we’d like you to speak at our next rally.”
Eliza perked up at that. “I’d love to. I especially want to thank the Garruds for those ju-jitsu lessons.” She leaned close to Sybil. “They came in quite handy.”
Freddy frowned. “Any woman would leap at the chance to marry a man who adores her. Clara can’t wait for Baron Ashmore to propose. I wish you were more like my sister.”
“God forbid,” Higgins muttered.
Eliza poured herself another cup of tea. “Today is not about weddings. The murders of the Wrexham Racing Syndicate have been solved, and justice will be served. So let’s celebrate.” She raised her teacup. “A toast to the Donegal Dancer.”
Everyone raised their teacups, even Freddy. “A toast to the Donegal Dancer.”
Higgins turned to her. “And a toast to Eliza, a woman of independent means.”
“To Eliza!” they echoed.
He was right. After a lifetime of privation and hunger, Eliza realized that blooming racehorse had given her something she hardly dared dream of.
Her freedom. How loverly.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
D. E. Ireland is a writing team of two Michigan authors who met as undergraduates in an anthropology class and have remained friends ever since. Both are married to computer geeks, and each has one beautiful and brilliant daughter. Lifelong book lovers and history buffs, they have authored several novels on their own.
Visit their Web site at www.DEIreland.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY D. E. IRELAND
Wouldn’t It Be Deadly
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraphs
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8<
br />
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Authors
Also by D. E. Ireland
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
MOVE YOUR BLOOMING CORPSE. Copyright © 2015 by D. E. Ireland. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration by Dan Craig
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-04936-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5036-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466850361
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First Edition: September 2015