Move Your Blooming Corpse (3 page)

“Very well,” she grumbled, although she knew Higgins was right. Eliza had promised to stay only a minute at the celebration, but she got caught up in the wild joy of it all. Heaven help her, she even found herself embracing Rose Doolittle. With luck, both of them would forget that as soon as possible.

With a sigh, Eliza turned away. “I think you're worrying about nothing. This Harold Hewitt fellow probably carries a gun because he works here. Dad says when horses are severely injured, they put them down with a gun.”

“Hewitt doesn't work here.” Higgins sounded impatient. “He told me he didn't even like horse racing. I'm telling you, there's a suspicious man walking around the racecourse with a gun in his bag.”

Luckily they hadn't gone more than thirty yards when Eliza spied a portly man lighting a cigar. “See that fellow in the brown suit and bowler? I think he's one of the Scotland Yard detectives who were at Drury Lane last month. I remember thinking he looked like a bulldog. What was his name again?” She snapped her fingers. “Detective Jeremy.”

She and Higgins hurried over to the detective. Although he seemed wary when Higgins and Eliza first approached, he soon recognized her from the eventful night at the theater. He listened intently while Higgins explained his encounter with Harold Hewitt.

Detective Jeremy puffed on his cigar as though mulling the story over. “Did he threaten you with the gun, Professor?”

“I don't think he realized I'd seen it. I only caught a glimpse before he closed the satchel.”

“Perhaps it wasn't a gun that you saw.”

Higgins threw him a jaundiced look. “There aren't many things that look like a revolver.”

The detective blew a smoke ring before replying. “You and Miss Doolittle solved a murder last month. And you both received a great deal of attention from the press. Maybe you enjoyed the experience so much that you are now seeing suspicious things where none exist.”

“He thinks you're barmy, Professor,” Eliza said with a smile.

“No, he thinks I'm a liar. Or worse, some sensation seeker that actually enjoyed the circus we went through last month in the papers.”

Eliza heard the anger in Higgins's voice and hoped he would keep his temper in check. “Detective Jeremy, as you may remember, Inspector Shaw is my cousin, and he will vouch for our characters. I know Jack is on duty at the racecourse today. Please let him know about Mr. Hewitt. Ask him to meet us at Lord Saxton's private box.”

“I'll do what I can, Miss Doolittle, but there's a reason so many police are at Ascot. We don't want a repeat of the incident at the Derby two weeks ago.”

Although Eliza had not attended the race at Epsom, she knew the incident he referred to was the death of Emily Davison. Determined to bring attention to the suffrage cause, the political activist ran in front of the King's horse Anmer on his way to the finish line. She suffered fatal injuries and died four days later. Thousands had attended her funeral this past weekend in London. Feelings were running dangerously high on both sides.

“We're keeping a close eye on any woman who looks like a suffragette,” Detective Jeremy continued. “Dozens have been turned away at the gate. And any suffragette already here will not be allowed to get within ten feet of the racecourse. Or the King.”

She was puzzled. “How can you tell which woman is a suffragette?”

He cast an appreciative gaze over her figure. “For one, they're not likely to be dressed as you are, miss.”

Eliza took offense at his comment, but held her tongue.

“Why keep an eye out only for women, Detective?” Higgins asked. “Many men also believe the fairer sex should have the vote. This Harold Hewitt fellow may be one of them.”

For the first time, the detective looked concerned. “You could be right. Let me put the word out about the man, and I'll track down Inspector Shaw.” He removed a notepad from his jacket pocket. “Can you describe what this Hewitt looks like again?”

Higgins reached for his own notebook and tore out a page. “I've already written it down.”

Once the detective left, Eliza turned to Higgins. “You can stop worrying now. So let's have one more look at the Dancer before we head to Lord Saxton's private box. The Colonel will wonder what became of us.”

When they found themselves once again among the raucous owners, Higgins shook his head. “They've turned the place into one of Dante's Circles of Hell. I should ask the police to arrest a few of them. Starting with your father.”

“You're just angry you didn't place a bet on his horse.” Eliza waved to her dad, who was singing “Whisky in the Jar” to an embarrassed racing official. “Next time don't be so cheap.”

“Next time a Cockney flower girl asks me for speech lessons, I'll charge for them.”

She laughed. “Good luck finding another flower girl who can win a bet for you. A bet that paid you far more than what my lessons cost.”

“You impudent, ungrateful turnip. I've a mind to—”

Eliza stepped on Higgins's foot to quiet him as Lord Saxton headed in their direction. Although Colonel Pickering disapproved of the man, she found him gregarious, friendly, and attractive. The Viscount was tall and athletically built, with dark red hair and a ready smile for everyone, commoner or lord.

“Congratulations, sir,” she said.

He winked at her, his eyes glassy. “Damn fine race, Miss Doolittle. Run by a damn fine colt.” Saxton paused as if seeing her for the first time, although they'd been introduced three hours ago. “Damn fine filly, too.” His smile turned into a leer, and Eliza's cheeks grew hot.

She heard Higgins clear his throat. Saxton ignored him and picked up Eliza's gloved hand. Turning her palm up, he kissed it. Before she could react, he leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. As she stood speechless, he strode off toward his jockey.

“A shame Freddy wasn't here to see that,” Higgins said in mock outrage. “Your excitable swain would have challenged Saxton to a duel—and been beaten to a pulp right afterward.” He let out a dramatic sigh. “But then who knew you would turn out to be the temptress of Ascot.”

Eliza rolled her eyes. “It's not hard to tempt a drunk man.”

“I do apologize for my husband's behavior,” a woman said.

Startled, Eliza turned to see Lady Hortense Saxton, a willowy brunette with alabaster skin and an entitled air about her. Like Rose Doolittle, the young viscountess was dressed in the horse's racing colors, but she looked far more elegant. The tulle skirt of her promenade suit was the requisite green, but above the satin cummerbund, she wore a cream-colored blouse of flowing chiffon. Even her hat was tasteful—a small green toque with but a single purple feather. Despite her conservative outfit, there was no mistaking Her Ladyship's station in life. An emerald brooch as big as a plum was pinned to her green cummerbund, and Eliza was close enough to see that the shiny handle of her green silk parasol was real gold.

“It's quite all right,” Eliza said. “Perfectly understandable to kiss and embrace everyone after winning. I accidentally kissed a reporter when I first got here.”

“The horse, too,” Higgins added.

Lady Saxton ignored him. “Still, my husband barely knows you. I am sorry we haven't had the opportunity to speak before now. Maitland invited so many people to sit in our box, it's as crowded as the Hippodrome. I wouldn't be surprised if a street sweeper showed up. But if I remember correctly, you are Mr. Doolittle's daughter Eliza.”

“I am. And this is Professor Henry Higgins.”

After a brief tip of his hat, he turned away with a bored expression.

“The Professor and I teach phonetics and elocution, although I was his student only last year,” Eliza said with pride.

“You seem to be in the papers with some regularity. I am fully aware of your remarkable transformation from Covent Garden flower girl to lady.” Eliza heard the amused condescension in Lady Saxton's voice. “And certainly all of London read about your droll exploits last month at the Drury Lane Theatre.”

“There was this murder, you see. And the Professor and I were—”

Lady Saxton shook her head. “Spare me the details, Miss Doolittle, and send my regards to the Eynsford Hills. I hoped Clara would attend the race today. She may have told you that we attended finishing school in London together, although I was two years ahead of her. Such a pity she isn't here.”

“Clara wanted to come, but her mother insisted she and Freddy attend a family wedding in Brighton.” No need to tell her that Clara was so furious at missing Ascot, she ripped the dress her mother had bought for the occasion.

“I heard you and Clara are friends,” Lady Saxton said. “My cousin Isabel knows Mr. Eynsford Hill. He confided that he was engaged to you. If so, I extend my congratulations.”

Eliza didn't know how to explain that both statements were untrue. For while she enjoyed Clara's company, an hour spent with the girl could seem like a day. And Freddy must stop telling people they were engaged. It was too soon for them to be making marriage plans. Eliza was only twenty. Of course, according to Clara, Lady Saxton was the same age as Eliza, which meant she married the Viscount when she was eighteen. Eliza couldn't imagine marrying anyone at that age, not even one of her favorite cinema stars.

“Freddy and I are not engaged. We've only been courting since March.”

Lady Saxton shrugged. “I married Lord Saxton six weeks after we were introduced. How unfortunate that Clara has never had a proper ‘coming out.' I know it's 1913, and everyone is going on about how times have changed. But if a girl hasn't been presented at Court, she may as well resign herself to marrying a bank clerk.” She smiled and suddenly looked like the girl of twenty she really was. “I should introduce Clara to several suitable gentlemen. Maybe I can get Clara married off to a man with a title. A proper one, too, not some penurious knight.”

Eliza smiled back. “Clara would be thrilled.” Indeed, Clara wanted nothing more out of life than to marry a rich man. The girl would marry Jack the Ripper himself if he had a title.

Like a sudden strong breeze, Lord Saxton threw himself into their midst. Unsteady on his feet, he spilled champagne out of the glasses he held in each hand. He offered them to the women. Eliza shook her head, and the Viscountess pushed the other one away. With a careless laugh, Saxton drained both glasses before tossing them to the ground. Broken glass scattered. Eliza shook a few shards from her skirts.

“It seems we have outstayed our welcome,” he announced. “I've been told by three different racing officials to leave the parade ring immediately. The Gold Cup race is due to start, and they want us to clear out before the next winner is led in.”

“I don't blame them,” Lady Saxton said, her dark eyes flashing anger. Even though she was at least a decade younger than her husband, Eliza thought she seemed the older of the two. Certainly she was far more sober.

“I agree with Lady Saxton,” Eliza said. “We should leave.”

“Lady Saxton?” He shook his finger at Eliza. “Why so formal? After all, your father and I own the Donegal Dancer. That makes us family, a racing family. I insist you call me Maitland and I'll call you Eliza.”

“Maitland, really,” his wife said in a tone that would freeze water.

He ignored her. “And you ought to call her Tansy. That's her nickname, you know. All the upper crust have nicknames. Don't know why, maybe to prove we are the upper crust. Anyway, she's Tansy, so that's what you call her.” He looked at Eliza. “Go on.”

“I wouldn't be comfortable calling her that,” she said.

His expression grew hard. “But I insist. You're as good as she is, Eliza, even though Tansy thinks she's better than anyone here. Better than me for certain.”

“You're making a spectacle of yourself,” his wife said under her breath. “Again.”

“This is how I act. I've always acted this way. You and your family didn't mind my behavior when they trotted you in front of me two years ago.”

Eliza looked around for Higgins to rescue her from this marital spat. But he was busy writing in his notebook as he eavesdropped on some racing fans.

“Why don't you escort your wife back to the box?” Eliza suggested. “Maybe one of your footmen can bring a spot of tea for everyone. I'm sure Lady Saxton—”

“No, no, no. Her name is Tansy.” He held up a warning finger.

“It's quite all right, Miss Doolittle. You may call me Tansy.” She glared at him with a tight smile. “
Lady
Tansy.”

Eliza tugged at her gloves. “Glad that's been settled. Now I think I'll just—”

“What is
she
doing here?” Lady Tansy pushed her husband aside with her parasol.

A beautiful blond woman sauntered through the crowd in their direction. Her apple green dress sparkled in the sunlight, drawing numerous stares.

“How dare she show her face here!” Lady Tansy said. “I told you I will not allow her anywhere near me!”

“Keep your voice down.” He grabbed her arm. “She'll hear you.”

“I hope she does hear me. That trollop, that wanton baggage you throw money at. If you must make a fool of yourself, I'd rather you choose a woman less garish and slow-witted.”

“Enough,” he said between clenched teeth.

Lady Tansy shook free from his grip. “As though half of London doesn't know about the pair of you. Now she further humiliates me by wearing the colors of your racing silks!”

The young woman drew near. Eliza now saw that her dress glittered with tiny green sequins, while her lacy bodice was dyed pale lilac. To complete the look, she sported a purple silk turban—something normally reserved for evening—but it looked sweet atop her honey blond curls.

“She has a right to wear them,” Lord Saxton muttered. “They're her racing colors, too.”