Move Your Blooming Corpse

 

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To Rex, Julie, and Audrey

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Amanda Lynn for thinking up the title, and to George Plumptre's book
The Fast Set: The World of Edwardian Racing
for the invaluable role it played in our research.

 

I can imagine few things more delightful than to be invited there for Ascot. One sees the racing in the most comfortable way, meets all one's friends (and enemies), makes—or loses—a little money, and all without any fatigue or bother.

—Daisy, Princess of Pless

If I am asked to give advice to those who are inclined to spend their time and their money on the Turf, I should give them the advice that “Punch” gave to those about to marry—don't.

—Archibald Philip Primrose, 5th Earl of Rosebery

A sensational incident, even surpassing that which characterized the Derby, took place at Ascot this afternoon during the race for the Gold Cup. Just as Miss Davison rushed at the King's horse Anmer at Epsom, so a man ran on the course at Ascot.

—A cable sent from London to
The
New York Times
reporting how Harold Hewitt ran onto the Ascot racetrack and was trampled on June 19, 1913

 

ONE

ROYAL ASCOT—JUNE 1913

A high-pitched scream pierced the air. Startled, Professor Henry Higgins looked up from his notebook. He saw only horses, jockeys, and a sea of outlandish hats. It was the third day of Ascot Week, and all of British society was in attendance, including the King and Queen. Half of London seemed to be crammed into the paddock where owners admired their horses while trainers gave last-minute instruction to nervous jockeys. As it was Ladies Day, hordes of titled women also milled about, vying to see who sported the most eye-catching ensemble and towering hat.

One of those ladies let out another shriek. “This is insufferable,” she said to her female companions as a stableboy led a magnificent black gelding past them. “How dare they allow a horse in here. The beast will trample us all!”

Higgins wrote in his notebook,
Fifty-year-old matron born in northeast Scotland. Currently resides in Hampshire
.

She shook her sky-blue parasol at the animal. “I insist this horse be removed!”

“Hush, woman,” Higgins said. “You're in the paddock at Ascot Races, not Selfridges department store. The horse has far more right to be here than you do.”

“How dare you speak to me in such a fashion.” She pointed her parasol in his direction.

“And have a care how you wave that lace weapon,” Higgins continued. “At last year's Ascot, some actress stabbed General Owen Williams in the cheek with her parasol. Injured the poor chap simply because she took fright at a horse. The addlebrained ninny.”

“Of all the nerve,” the lady said as her friends crowded about. “I cannot believe the ruffians they allow into the paddock.”

“Oh, I suspect you've known a few ruffians in your time, madam.” Higgins smiled. “Especially during your girlhood in Aberdeen.”

The woman's mouth fell open.

“But several dozen years in East Hampshire have concealed much of your Scottish past. In fact, you spent your adolescence in the market town of Petersfield or its near environs.” This pronouncement caused her to visibly blanch.

“Do you know that gentleman, Lady Marjorie?” a white-haired friend asked.

“I certainly do not.” Lady Marjorie snapped open her parasol. “And he is no gentleman. More likely a sordid reporter spying for some penny daily.”

“Hardly that, madam. I am Henry Higgins, professor of phonetics and elocution. It is no boast to say that I can place a person within six miles of his birthplace after hearing a few sentences out of his—or her—mouth. And I can place a Londoner within a street or two.”

“Ridiculous.” The white-haired friend shot him her haughtiest look. “You'll be performing circus tricks next, no doubt.”

“And you, madam, have spent all of your life in London, much of it in Notting Hill.” Higgins thought a moment. “Pinehurst Court, I believe.”

She gasped. The matrons looked at him as if he had just lifted their skirts.

“We have had quite enough of your insufferable rudeness,” Lady Marjorie said as she turned to go. “And I must say, that four-legged beast was preferable to a knave such as you.”

Higgins tipped his hat at the departing women.

“Really, Henry, I believe there is enough entertainment today at Ascot without you baiting the ladies.” His friend and colleague Colonel Pickering stood behind him, looking quite formal in his finest gray morning coat and silk top hat. He gestured at Higgins's notebook with a silver-tipped walking stick. “And you might stop writing down speech patterns long enough to watch a race or two.”

“I've seen two races today, each lasting three minutes. You can hardly expect me to spend the afternoon conversing about horses and hats, which is all anyone here wants to talk about. Besides, I don't want to converse, I want to listen. During one casual stroll, I can eavesdrop on dissolute earls or bookmakers from South London. Imagine the possibilities for recording regional dialects.”

“Hey, governor, why ain't you in the stands?” a familiar voice called out to them.

Higgins nodded toward the man now pushing his way through the crowded paddock. “You see, even Cockney dustmen are here.”

Of course, Alfred Doolittle was no longer a dustman. After Higgins took on his daughter Eliza last year as a pupil, Alfred had come to 27A Wimpole Street hoping to shake down Higgins for a few quid. Instead of being insulted by Doolittle's blatant appeal for money, Higgins was amused by the older fellow's brash manner and colorful eloquence. As a lark, he mentioned the dustman to American millionaire Ezra D. Wannafeller. The last thing Higgins expected was that Wannafeller would offer Doolittle an annuity of three thousand pounds if he agreed to lecture for his Moral Reform League. Soon after, Alfred Doolittle left the squalor of the East End behind. He was a respectable member of the middle class now, with a wife, a house in Pimlico, and—most incredibly—an Irish racehorse.

“What'cha two gents doing in the paddock?” Alfred said when he reached them. “I convinced my Viscount to open up his private box for us owners and our friends. No reason to stay here. He's put magnums of champagne chilling in buckets by every seat, he has.”

“Champagne gives me indigestion, and the Colonel has misgivings about sharing the largesse of your Viscount,” Higgins said.

Pickering frowned. “Of all the people I might ask to share ownership of a racehorse with, Saxton would be last on my list.”

“Does this mean you prefer Turnbull's company?” Higgins asked in surprise. Jonathon Turnbull was yet another man who owned a share in Doolittle's racehorse.

“Good grief, I'd forgotten about him.” Pickering shook his head. “My word, Doolittle, you chose two of the most scurrilous chaps in London society as partners.”

“And lucky I was to get them.” Doolittle adjusted his brushed top hat. Dressed even finer than Colonel Pickering, he sported a black morning coat, sharply pressed striped trousers, a black waistcoat, white gloves, and a green Ascot tie. His Oxford dress boots fairly gleamed in the June sunlight. No doubt Doolittle's Savile Row tailor bills were impressive.

Higgins thought it time for a change of subject. “I trust you have been to the stables to see the Donegal Dancer. Does the jockey seem confident of victory?”

“Aye, Professor. Not only do I have the most fleet-footed colt to ever come from the Emerald Isle, there's not a jockey better than Bomber Brody to ride him. A word of advice: get an Irishman to ride an Irish horse. The horses know the difference, they do.” Doolittle had acquired the racehorse only three months ago, but acted as if he were on the Board of Stewards at the Jockey Club. “Anyway, gents, the next race begins in fifteen minutes. You don't want to be watching the most important race by jostling for a place along the track.”

“The King might disagree,” Pickering said. “Prince Palatine defends his title in the Gold Cup, and it's no secret His Majesty favors last year's champion. But Tracery may nose him out.”

“His Majesty is wrong to think the Gold Cup is the race to watch. He ain't seen my Donegal Dancer fly down the course, now has he? Aye, and when he does, I wager he'll want to buy my beauty. But none of us will sell a single hair on his fetlock.”

“That horse has a bewildering number of owners,” Higgins said. “I hardly think another one will matter.”

“I swear, I'd like as sell my darlin' Rose rather than surrender that sweet colt.”

“Alfie! The race is starting soon!” The aforementioned Rose waved from the other side of the paddock. Doolittle's wife looked as fancy as he did, and in their racing colors besides. Higgins's eyes popped at her shamrock green dress and tricorn hat festooned with purple berries. When this was combined with her brassy red hair, Rose made quite the colorful figure.

Doolittle sighed. “Wish you gents would give a few lessons to my Rose. After all, it only took the two of you a few months to turn Eliza into a proper lady. Makes me proud to see her parading about Ascot like a blooming snob. I don't mind telling you, Rose could do with a little polishing.”

Higgins shrugged. “Your wife seems to be doing fine at her first Ascot.”

“Let's go, Alfie!” Rose yelled again. “Get your arse over here.”

“Perhaps a little polishing might be in order,” Higgins added.

“I'd best get moving.” Doolittle gave an exaggerated sniff to the sprig of violets in his lapel. “She don't like to be kept waiting. And you two should get to our private box before the fun begins. Eliza is already there, eating every tea cake in sight. But I'm right offended she didn't wear the Donegal Dancer's racing colors. The least my daughter could do for her old dad is wear the green and purple of our silks.”

Higgins cast another look at the vividly arrayed Rose Doolittle. No reason to tell the man that Eliza was appalled at the idea of putting together a tasteful outfit in green and purple.