Move Your Blooming Corpse (4 page)

“Don't treat me like a fool!” His wife shouted so loud, everyone within ten feet turned in her direction. “I am well aware of how she seduced you into becoming a syndicate member. As she has seduced you in so much else. But I will not have it rubbed in my face!”

“I can't stop her from wearing the colors. She paid for the privilege. And please remember that Turnbull was the fellow who brought her into the syndicate, not me.”

This enraged Lady Tansy even more. “You are both unspeakable cads.”

Saxton managed a drunken smile. “All is fair in love, war, and horse racing.”

Lady Tansy slapped him so hard across the face, his hat flew off. While everyone gasped, she stormed into the crowd.

As Eliza stood speechless, Higgins appeared beside her. “What the devil is going on?”

“I don't know exactly.”

Lord Saxton picked up his top hat and waved it at the onlookers. “Nothing to worry about. My wife had too much champagne.”

Stony silence greeted his words.

Instead of going after his wife, Lord Saxton bowed to the young woman in the turban.

“Why is Diana Price wearing the horse's racing colors?” Higgins asked in a low voice.

Eliza realized he was right. The woman in the turban was Diana Price, a popular musical hall singer and former Gaiety Girl. “She owns a share in the Donegal Dancer.”

“I can't keep track of who owns that horse. I'm afraid I'll wake up one morning to discover I've become an owner, too.”

“I'm amazed you even know who Diana Price is,” Eliza said. “I thought you only went to Oscar Wilde plays.”

“Proves how little you know me. I never miss a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. Miss Price sang Casilda in a production of
The Gondoliers
a year ago. Decent soprano voice, albeit a little ragged in the higher registers.”

Saxton took Diana by the arm, his head bent close to hers.

Eliza frowned. “Even a drunk seaman at the Speckled Pig wouldn't flaunt his fancy lady in front of his wife. The Colonel was right about Lord Saxton. He is a boor. I wonder why Miss Price bothers with him. He has no class at all.”

“She doesn't have much class either. The fellow standing off to the side is her husband.” He gestured at a somber young man in a top hat.

Eliza gave Higgins a playful shove. “How in the world do you know all this gossip? I'm beginning to think you're writing down people's secrets, not their speech patterns.”

“I know Gordon Longhurst because he works for a stockbroker firm in the City. In the past, I conducted business with his late father, who worked at the same firm.” Higgins stared at Longhurst, who was clean-shaven and of middling height. “I always wondered how he got Miss Price to marry him. He's just an ordinary chap with a decent income.”

“And an indecent wife,” Eliza murmured as the wife, her lover, and her husband now headed their way.

Higgins sighed. “I told you we should have left the parade ring a long time ago.”

“Diana, this is Miss Eliza Doolittle. Eliza, this is Diana Longhurst, better known by her stage name, Diana Price.” Saxton leaned even closer to Diana. “Eliza's father is the chap who joined our syndicate in March.”

Diana clapped her hands. “How delightful. Do you know I haven't even met your father? I've been touring the provinces this spring and missed all the racing fun. But now I can see my lovely horse again. Where is the precious animal who won us so much money?”

“He's back in the stables,” Eliza said.

Diana tossed her head in a theatrical gesture. “Then I am off to the stables this instant to visit our darling colt. I wish now I had thought to bring him flowers.”

Her husband leaned in. “Best to wait, my dear. Last year's champion Prince Palatine will soon be running against Tracery, the favorite.”

“How large a bet did we place on him?”

Longhurst seemed puzzled. “You never said you wanted to bet on the Gold Cup.”

“But we can't come to Ascot and not bet on the favorite.” Diana stroked her husband's cheek. “My sweet, place a bet for me. Please.”

He took a deep breath. “Very well, but I'll have to hurry. It's close to post time.”

“I trust you'll manage, Gordon. You run nearly as fast as the horses. If this horse takes the Gold Cup, we'll have won twice today. First, the Dublin Dancer—”

“Donegal Dancer,” Higgins corrected.

She shot Higgins a flirtatious smile. “The Donegal Dancer and whatever the other horse is called.”

“Tracery,” Eliza and Higgins said in unison.

“What a strange thing to call a horse.” Diana tugged at her husband's lapel. “Now run off and place a bet on that animal with the dreadful name.”

Without another word, Longhurst hurried away.

“Faster, sweetheart!” Diana looked at them with a smug smile. “Gordon was a runner at Cambridge. He's so fast, the man never misses a train no matter how late I make him.”

“The Professor and I should go,” Eliza said. “By the way, this is—”

“Will you take me to see my horse, Maitland?” Diana smiled at Lord Saxton, who had just thrown back another glass of champagne. “I am certain there is a great deal you can teach me about horses.” She pressed closer to him. “And stables.”

“Diana? What in the world are you doing here?” Jonathon Turnbull marched over to join them.

An intense man, his dark goatee and even darker eyes lent him a devilish appearance. Unlike the affable Lord Saxton, Turnbull treated everyone with indifference or contempt. When they were introduced earlier this morning, Eliza couldn't leave his presence fast enough.

“I thought you were not coming to the race today, Diana,” Turnbull said.

She gave a careless shrug. “I changed my mind. Besides, I wanted to see my horse run. Or should I say
our
horse. After all, you were the one who convinced me to join the syndicate.”

“Diana has every right to be at Ascot,” Saxton said. “Now clear off and leave us alone.”

Turnbull looked at Saxton with a vicious expression. “Move away from her or I'll make you regret it. Besides, you're so drunk, you're barely able to stand.”

“Even drunk, I could knock you into the dirt.” He sneered, although he proved the truth of Turnbull's accusation by nearly falling over. “And Diana likes to keep me close.”

Turnbull brushed her aside and stood toe-to-toe with Saxton. “I wonder a drunken sod like you even dare speak to her, let alone touch her.”

“I do a damn sight more than just touch her.”

“This is not the place for such an absurd conversation,” Higgins said sternly. “All of you have spouses attending the race. They don't deserve to be humiliated like this.”

Eliza caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. A brown-haired woman in a lavender walking suit watched them. Eliza recognized her as Turnbull's wife, Rachel. Although Eliza had met her earlier in Lord Saxton's viewing box, the woman barely spoke a word.

Diana giggled. “How exciting. Two gentlemen want to fight for my honor.”

Eliza felt a wave of pity for Mrs. Turnbull. “I wouldn't think you had any honor left to fight for, Miss Price,” she said in a loud voice.

Higgins made a choking sound.

Diana's silly smile vanished. “How dreary you all are, spoiling my lovely day at the races. If the boys wish to behave like pugilists, I will go off to the stables and see my horse.”

When she passed Eliza, her blue eyes seemed as unfocused as Saxton's. The singer was as drunk as he was.

“I wouldn't go after her, Turnbull,” Saxton said. “Not with your wife watching.”

Turnbull looked over his shoulder in time to see her slip into the crowd. “Rachel! Rachel, come back here!” He grabbed Saxton by the lapels of his morning coat. “Stay away from Diana.”

Cursing under his breath, Turnbull set off in the direction of his wife.

“You both should be ashamed of yourselves,” Eliza said. “And if I were your wife, Lord Saxton, I'd push you in front of one of these racehorses.”

He gave her an injured look. “Eliza, is that any way to talk to me? I thought we were friends. In fact, I thought we were—” His face suddenly turned as green as his racing colors. “Excuse me, but—but I think I'm about to be ill.” Without another word, Saxton ran off, cradling his stomach.

Higgins looked at Eliza. “Are we done here?” he asked in a long-suffering voice.

But they'd gone no farther than twenty feet when Eliza was waylaid by an overenthusiastic Cockney fellow by the name of Billy Grainger. A friend of the Doolittles from the East End, he near talked their ears off before Higgins was able to drag Eliza away. When they finally reached Lord Saxton's private box overlooking the racecourse, Colonel Pickering greeted them with a scowl.

“About time the pair of you arrived,” he said. The viewing box was now a muddle of empty chairs and trays of discarded tea cakes. “Detective Inspector Shaw and I thought we'd have to send the police out looking for you.”

Jack Shaw stood leaning against the box railing, arms crossed. “This story about the man with the gun better be good, Lizzie. I won't be happy if you've wasted my time.”

She hurried to give her cousin a hug. “Jack, thank you for coming. I know you're on duty and trying to keep an eye out for suffragettes and all, but the Professor saw a man with a gun. He's so upset, he won't stop talking about it and—oh look, the Gold Cup has started!”

Jack threw his hands in the air. “I give up. How about you, Professor? Have I been summoned here to watch another race, or will someone tell me about the man with the gun?”

“Hang the race.” Higgins joined the detective at the railing.

Feeling a bit guilty, Eliza divided her attention between the horses and the conversation about the gun. The Colonel stood next to them, listening. None of the Donegal Dancer's owners or their wives had returned to the box. They must still be at the parade ring.

Although she hadn't placed a bet on this race, Eliza found herself caught up in the excitement nonetheless. As the horses made the turn, she got to her feet. The roar of the crowd rose to fever pitch. Tracery was in the lead as the horses hit the straight mile headed for home.

She heard Jack ask, “But what exactly did this Harold Hewitt look like? What was his approximate age? And what was he wearing?”

“Come on, Tracery,” she murmured. “Run. You're almost there. You can beat that Prince.”

Suddenly a man burst from the shrubbery along the track. Eliza couldn't believe her eyes as he ran onto the racecourse. She let out a cry as the horses thundered toward him. The same tragedy that occurred at the Derby two weeks ago was going to happen again. Someone was about to be trampled!

“Look!” She pointed at the man who now stood in the middle of the course, the galloping horses almost upon him. They would never be able to stop in time.

Higgins and Shaw jumped to their feet. The man waved a flag in one hand and what looked like a gun in the other.

“Bloody hell!” Higgins shouted as the horses reached the man.

Several swerved wildly to avoid him, hitting other animals. But Tracery rode right over him. Eliza screamed as the man fell beneath the horse's hooves. Another horse kicked him as it raced past. Tracery went down immediately. His jockey somersaulted over the animal's head and crashed to the ground.

Pandemonium erupted. Many spectators hissed and booed that anyone dared run in front of the horses again. Once the other racehorses galloped past, dozens of people dashed onto the field. The man and the jockey lay motionless. Tracery, now riderless, got back on his feet and continued running down the track.

After a moment of stunned silence, Higgins said, “If you want to know what Harold Hewitt looked like, he's now lying dead on the racecourse.”

*   *   *

The trampling incident dampened everyone's high spirits. The owners had spent the past hour restless and agitated after they finally returned to Lord Saxton's box. They assumed the man had run out as yet another political gesture. If that was true, Higgins thought that being trampled by racehorses seemed a ridiculous way to champion women's suffrage.

As Senior Steward, Sir Walter came to inform them that things weren't as tragic as feared. Tracery's jockey Albert Whalley had recovered and was now walking about the paddock. There was still no word concerning Harold Hewitt, who had been taken away by ambulance. News of his death would probably follow. But none of the horses had been hurt. And Prince Palatine snagged a Gold Cup victory once again in a bittersweet win. Tracery had been a good twenty lengths ahead of the Prince when Hewitt threw himself in the horse's path.

Eliza repinned her hat. “I'm ready to call it a day.”

Her father had other ideas, though. Alfred Doolittle pushed himself up from his chair, his top hat wildly askew. “Hard to believe some barking mad loon ran in front of the horses. And if he had done that to our Donegal Dancer, I'd have run over there and trampled on him meself. Then kicked him in the arse for good measure.”

“Dad.” Eliza sent him a warning look.

“Anyway, why turn this wonderful day into a time of weeping and wailing? Our glorious colt won at Ascot! The devil take these fools who want to get trampled. Let's pay one last visit to the Dancer in the stables so we can end the day on a high note.”

“You tell 'im, Alfie!” Rose thumped him on the back.

The Duchess of Carbrey also rose to her feet. As the owner with the most exalted title, she commanded their attention with barely a word. Women who owned racehorses were frowned upon. But such was her standing that the Jockey Club turned a blind eye to the stable of horses the Duchess ran under the alias “Mr. Stirling.” Higgins admired her sheer tenacity and disregard of convention. And the widowed duchess had livened up more than one afternoon tea at his mother's flat in Chelsea.