Move Your Blooming Corpse (15 page)

“Go to the devil,” Saxton spat out.

“Bad enough you both treated Diana like a toy you'd bought at Harrods. Now you steal her money when she's barely cold in her grave. Don't think you'll get away with this. I don't care how many titles Saxton and the Duchess have.” He jabbed his finger at Turnbull's chest. “Or how much tea your bloody company crams down people's throats. I will have justice.”

“Don't threaten me. You weren't even man enough to warm your wife's bed!”

“Bastard!” Longhurst swung at Turnbull. The punch landed squarely on his jaw.

Reeling from the blow, Turnbull fell against Brody. The jockey fought to keep his balance before he also tumbled backward onto the tea table. He and the table crashed to the ground. A nearby picnic hamper was knocked over, sending tarts spilling onto the grass.

Before anyone could help Brody, Longhurst spun on his heel and charged off into the crowd. Dozens of people stared after him.

Lady Tansy broke the awkward silence. “What a pity he smashed the lovely tea things. I had just decided I wanted a cup of tea.” She smiled coolly. “I suppose I must settle for champagne instead.”

*   *   *

The storm that had threatened all day let loose with a fury during the distribution of the regatta prizes. After the ceremony, the rain mercifully slowed to a drizzle. But it was near dusk, and the rain had dissipated the afternoon's earlier warmth. Chilled, Eliza shivered so hard that Freddy draped his LRC blazer over her shoulders.

He looked up at the roiling sky. “We won't know if there'll be fireworks for at least an hour. They'll make a decision when the sun sets.”

“If there are fireworks, I'm not watching them during a thunderstorm.” She pulled his blazer tight around her. “Besides, we saw enough fireworks at the luncheon. Let's find your mother and Clara so we can return to London.”

Freddy scanned the milling crowd. “I haven't seen them since the end of the Diamond Challenge. But if we find the Saxtons, we're sure to find them. They drove up together.”

“They'll probably drive back with them as well. Freddy, let's you and I catch the next train. But first we must thank Mrs. Turnbull for inviting us to the luncheon.” Given the furor after Longhurst threw that punch, Eliza had never had a chance to extend her gratitude.

However, Eliza wondered if they'd ever find Mrs. Turnbull in this teeming throng, much less Freddy's mother and sister. A virtual sea of dripping parasols and umbrellas surrounded them on all sides. She didn't see a single familiar face.

“Why don't we return to the picnic site?” Freddy suggested. “The servants will be there.”

He was right. Mrs. Turnbull had mentioned the servants would remain in that spot until after the fireworks. Eliza hoped so. With luck, there might be something left in those hampers. She wouldn't mind another chicken pie and a steaming cup of tea. Blimey, right now she'd settle for warm claret and a few curried eggs.

As she and Freddy walked toward the luncheon site, people scurried in every direction. Some headed to Henley and a dry roof over their heads; others clustered near the private boating clubs or the bandstands where musicians continued to play. No doubt the Professor and Colonel Pickering were warm and dry at the Remenham Club. Eliza had enjoyed her first regatta, but she couldn't wait to settle into a train compartment and kick off her damp shoes.

“Miss Doolittle!” The Duchess and Sir Walter waved at them from the boathouse.

“Do you know where the Turnbulls are?” Eliza asked after they joined her and Freddy. “We want to make our good-byes. I have no wish to get wetter, not even for fireworks.”

“I haven't seen Rachel since the end of the Visitors' Challenge Cup. I did see Jonathon about an hour ago.” The Duchess frowned. “He looked rather awful. Pale, shaky, feverish. I suspect he's caught a chill.”

“Too much damp river air,” Sir Walter added.

“If Mr. Turnbull is ill, we should find his wife,” Eliza said. “She may not realize he needs her. We'll check the picnic site. Would you like to come with us?”

“I'm sorry, but my driver is getting the car. If this drizzle worsens again, the roads may become too muddy to navigate.”

Sir Walter nodded. “Her Grace has been kind enough to offer me a ride.” After a tip of his straw hat, he and the Duchess disappeared into the crowd.

Eliza frowned. “I'm not all that fond of Mr. Turnbull, but I hope he's not really sick. If we can't find Rachel, we should send the servants to search for her.”

But when she and Freddy reached the site of the picnic luncheon, it was deserted. Perhaps they'd lunched on some other grassy hill bordered by bramble bushes and a large tree. Then Eliza caught sight of Lady Tansy's sodden paper fan.

“This is the right spot.” Eliza saw smashed tarts among the grass blades, along with a few shards of broken china and a stray sugar cube. Aside from that, the area had been swept clean. Not a hamper, blanket, or servant in sight. “I suppose the Turnbulls decided not to stay for the fireworks either.”

“Such a shame about the weather.” Freddy wrapped his arms around Eliza from behind. “I wanted you to see the fireworks. They put on a ripping good show at Henley.”

She turned and snuggled against his chest. “I don't need fireworks. My four days here have been wonderful. Thank you for being an oarsman in the London Rowing Club.” Eliza peeked up at him. “A winning club, too.”

He laughed. “That we are.”

When someone moaned, Eliza and Freddy froze. “What was that?” he asked.

“I don't know.” Another moan, weaker this time.

“Is anyone there?” Eliza slowly turned in a circle but only saw wet grass, the bramble hedge, and the dripping tree. “Who's there? Are you hurt?”

“Help me.”

The rasping voice came from behind the bramble bush to the left of the tree. Once they rounded the hedge, Eliza cried out. Jonathon Turnbull lay slumped on the muddy ground against the tree trunk. Hair plastered to his face, eyes wide open, he stared at them in despair.

Eliza and Freddy knelt on either side of him. She noticed vomit on the grass. “You poor man. What happened?”

“It hurts.” Turnbull clawed at his chest with a trembling hand.

“Maybe he's having a heart attack.” Freddy took his wrist. “I'll check his pulse.”

“When did you fall ill, Mr. Turnbull?” She brushed wet hair out of his eyes.

“Can't—move—my legs,” he gasped.

“His pulse is damnably slow,” Freddy said. “He needs a doctor.”

“Mr. Turnbull, where is everyone? Have the servants gone for help?”

But the man couldn't reply. Instead, his eyes rolled toward the back of his head.

“Freddy, run down to the boathouse. And yell for a doctor all the way there. Hurry!”

She spent the next few minutes shouting for help while trying to revive Turnbull. The brass bands playing loudly from different ends of the Berks shore drowned out her voice. Who could make themselves heard with that blooming racket?

Turnbull shuddered as if he were having a seizure. Eliza wept with frustration.

“The doctor's coming! Don't worry. The doctor is almost here.” But by the time she heard the approach of a group led by Freddy, it was too late.

Jonathon Turnbull was dead.

 

EIGHT

Higgins glanced up at the arched entrance to Chelsea Old Church with foreboding. “We'll soon learn if my brother was right. He swore lightning would strike if I ever visited this church again.”

Eliza looked startled. “You have a brother?”

“Two of them, actually. I'm the
second
spare.”

“I say, Professor, do you have sisters as well?” Freddy stood on the other side of Eliza as they waited to enter. “If so, why haven't we heard about them before now?”

“Because my siblings are none of your business.” Ignoring their obvious curiosity, Higgins led the way inside the brick church. “And that is enough about my family tree.”

Although he did not attend regularly, he appreciated the history of the place, which dated back to the twelfth century. Chelsea's Lord of the Manor had once owned the north chapel, and the south chapel served as Sir Thomas More's private domain. In fact, Higgins's older brother James was ordained here in an interminable ceremony that he had been forced to attend. His mother had been quite mortified at Higgins's caustic remarks about the vicar who presided over the ordination. She'd refused to attend church with him ever since. Hopefully a new vicar had replaced the doddering old one.

“Did you know Henry VIII married Jane Seymour in this church?” he said.

“We're here for Jonathon Turnbull's funeral, not a blooming history lesson.” Eliza tugged at his sleeve. “And the service has already started, so keep your voice down.”

Their footsteps echoed on the aisle's stone floor. Jack Shaw sat in the back pew. The Inspector shifted in his seat as they walked past. He had an eagle-eyed look about him, as if suspicious of everyone at the funeral—even them. Higgins noticed that Freddy put a protective hand at Eliza's waist.

As for Jonathon Turnbull, Higgins didn't give a damn about the wretched fellow. Indeed, he was surprised the church held so many mourners. Not that he believed most of these people had come to grieve. Turnbull's sudden death following so soon after Diana Price's murder had obviously drawn a horde of curious onlookers. And Higgins recognized at least three newspaper reporters. It was no secret that Diana was Turnbull's mistress, one of dozens he had kept over the years. Of course, many of the mourners today would also be the tea merchant's employees come to pay their respects. But from what Higgins knew of Jonathon Turnbull, there was little about the man to respect.

Eliza and Freddy still felt guilty about being unable to save Turnbull's life at the picnic. As for Higgins, he had his own guilt to contend with. And he wondered how Rachel Turnbull was responding to her husband's unexpected death. He remembered her recent horror at seeing Diana's body in the stables. He was surprised to see her in attendance today; most widows remained at home during the funeral service. But here she was in a jet-black gown and a hat shrouded with black netting. Rachel sat in the front pew between two elderly women also garbed in black. Her mother and mother-in-law, perhaps.

“Rachel Turnbull seems a bit subdued,” Higgins said.

“She's a lady,” Eliza whispered. “That sort know how to control themselves. Not like my Aunt Lottie, who wept and wailed like a banshee at her husband's funeral. Nearly tipped the casket right over.” She adjusted the enamel tulip pin on her dress. “However, she was fine the next day and back to selling apples at Covent Garden.”

Freddy sighed. “After Father died, Mother spent three years in seclusion.”

Higgins settled back in the hard pew, nodding to the Duchess of Carbrey across the aisle. She looked regal in dark purple, her black straw hat crowned with a tulle bow. He spotted Sir Walter Fairweather in the pew behind her, his hands resting on a brass-topped cane. Lord and Lady Saxton sat near the Duchess. Saxton wore the proverbial black armband, but Lady Saxton sported a pale rose walking suit and an endless string of pearls that hung below the waist. Nestled on her coiffed curls perched a flat-brimmed hat; two pink plumes waved from its crown. Clearly she didn't feel the need to dress properly for the occasion.

Higgins thought that rather in bad taste. Eliza had chosen a simple black outfit without decoration or jewelry to set it off, save for the red tulip pin. Even Brody's lady friend wore a dark skirt and jacket, although her straw hat was banded in yellow ribbon.

When he caught sight of Alfred Doolittle and his wife, Higgins winced. They also arrived late for the service and hurried to grab a seat a few pews ahead of Higgins and Eliza. Although Doolittle wore a black armband, he forgot to remove his hat. If Higgins's mother had been here, she would have knocked it off his head. Not surprisingly, Rose Doolittle's bright floral gown was also in poor taste. He couldn't resist chuckling at the stuffed bird pinned backward to her wide picture hat. Its glass eyes seemed to stare straight at him.

Rose turned to her husband. “I've got an appointment, Alfie, remember—”

“Shh, woman,” Alfred said in a loud voice. “You won't be late. Now shut yer trap.”

Higgins leaned toward Eliza. “You should talk to your stepmother about her wardrobe.”

She rolled her eyes. “Rose is a lost cause.”

With a sigh, he focused on the high stone arches above the vicar's head. The church did not appear different from his last visit. Chandeliers still dangled above the mourners' heads. The wall and pillar plaques had not been moved, and the old carved musical cherubs flanked the arches. Higgins thought the eclectic mix a bit too much, although his mother loved attending every Sunday and listening to the choir warble out hymns.

Mother had been overjoyed to attend the ceremony here when his brother was appointed Bishop of St. Albans. Every Christmas, Higgins was forced to spend time with family, made more tedious by James carping about those who wallowed in a sinful life. His sanctimonious attitude invariably drove their oldest brother Charles into the study, where he spent the holiday smoking, drinking, and playing cards. Higgins often joined him in the latter, or shut himself in Charles's library, away from the women, children, and Bishop James.

Luckily the ancient vicar of Chelsea Old Church was long gone, either dead or retired. The younger man who replaced him now held the prayer book in a viselike grip. His round spectacles glinted in the sunlight streaming through a window overhead.

“Forgive us our sins and those of our dearly departed brother…”

“A tall order. St. Peter is probably still reading through his list of Turnbull's sins and vices.” Higgins winced when Eliza elbowed him in the ribs. “There's nothing wrong with telling the truth.”