Move Your Blooming Corpse (5 page)

Just now, the older woman silenced all conversation with a single look. “Alfred is right. We must not allow poor misguided fools like Emily Davison and this Mr. Hewitt to ruin our great racing traditions for their own political ends. I myself am in favor of women having the vote. Certainly I have far more sense than most men taking up space in Parliament. But throwing oneself in front of a charging horse is stupidity of the highest order. Therefore, we shall do as Alfred suggests and go to the stables to cheer our champion.”

Everyone rose and filed out of the viewing box. Higgins started to follow.

Eliza hung back with Pickering. “We want to go home, Professor. And your mother is still in the Royal Enclosure. I'm sure she's ready to head back to London.”

“The racecourse and stables are crawling with police right now.” Higgins felt guilty that he hadn't found a policeman in time. They might have been able to stop Hewitt. “I need to see if Jack's learned anything about this mad fellow.”

“All right,” Eliza said as Pickering gave an exasperated sigh. “But let's do this quick.”

Within minutes of their leaving the viewing box, Diana Price's husband hurried over to them. “Have any of you seen my wife?” Gordon Longhurst sounded frantic. “When I came back from placing the bet, she was gone. And I haven't seen her anywhere. It's not like her to miss a race, especially one she's wagered on.”

Higgins hoped she wasn't engaged in a tryst with yet another man. “She said she wanted to visit the Donegal Dancer in the stables.”

Longhurst shook his head. “I've been to the stables. The police won't let me through.”

Eliza took his arm. “My cousin is a Scotland Yard detective inspector. He'll let us pass.”

Higgins followed behind, grinning. If only he had a pound note for every time Eliza boasted about her cousin.

True to her word, Eliza got them into the stables. Jack Shaw was deep in conversation with racing officials and waved to his men to let them through. As soon as Jack was done talking, Higgins would ask him a few questions about Hewitt.

Up ahead, Eliza, Longhurst, and Pickering entered a stall where a rollicking chorus rang out. “Three cheers to the Donegal Dancer!”

Higgins glanced into the nearby stalls. Some held curious or nervous horses; others were filled only with hay and feed buckets.

Longhurst emerged once again. His wife was not with him.

“Did you find her?” Higgins asked.

“No, and the jockey says no woman's been near the horse's stall all day.” He sighed. “I can't imagine where she could be. Could you help me look for her?”

As Longhurst walked along the stalls, Higgins searched in the opposite direction. He hoped he would be the first to find her—and whatever man she was probably with. But each stall revealed only another horse, a suspicious trainer, or a tired groom. Not until he reached the last stall did Higgins stop short. A purple turban lay on the pile of straw inside.

“Miss Price?” Higgins asked. “Are you in there?” When there was no answer, Higgins swung open the half-gate and entered the stall. What he saw made him reel back in horror.

Diana Price lay crumpled on the straw, her body covered in blood. Beside her was a pitchfork, its prongs streaked with red.

“Mr. Longhurst, come here!” Higgins shouted, amazed he was able to get the words out. He steadied himself by clutching the gate.

“Have you found her?” He heard Longhurst running toward the stall. “What in the world is she doing down here? I swear, sometimes I could kill that woman.”

After a moment's hesitation, Higgins crouched down and felt the woman's pulse. Clearly someone else wanted to kill her, too.

 

THREE

As if sensing the horror of what had happened, horses whinnied from every corner of the stables. Higgins pulled Eliza out of the way when two men carried the blanketed corpse past them. Even after they left, however, the metallic scent of blood lingered.

After Gordon Longhurst spotted his wife's dead body, his frantic cries brought the owners of the Donegal Dancer running. Grooms, jockeys, managers, and racing officials soon followed. While the men shouted for the police, Rachel Turnbull fainted at the sight of Diana's blood-soaked gown. As soon as Scotland Yard arrived, the owners were mercifully hustled into an adjacent stall and instructed to stay there until a policeman told them otherwise.

Since Higgins and Eliza could not contain their curiosity, they lingered in the corridor. But they learned little. Jack Shaw hadn't left the stall where Diana was found, and Detective Jeremy stood in front of the gate. His grim expression warned them away.

A chilling moan rose once again from the stall where the owners waited. “Diana! Oh, God, Diana!” It was Gordon Longhurst. “Who did this to you? Diana!”

Higgins frowned. How uncivilized for the poor man to be kept here like this. Eliza must have thought so as well; she stepped up to Detective Jeremy and peered over his shoulder.

“Move aside, miss,” Jeremy said.

Eliza ignored him. “Jack, someone must see about Mr. Longhurst. The fellow has lost his wife. He needs to see a doctor and perhaps a minister, too. He's in a bad way.”

Higgins was about to add his sentiments when Jack emerged from the stall. “You're right, Lizzie,” he said, brushing straw from his trouser legs. “I should have sent him elsewhere. I got caught up examining the crime scene.”

Jack gestured to another policeman a few feet away. “Detective Boyd, you and Detective Toller take Mr. Longhurst to the infirmary. Have a doctor tend to him, but keep him there until I am able to question him.”

Eliza began to protest, but he held up his hand. “Sorry, Lizzie. Until I have the chance to talk to everyone involved, no one can leave.”

A moment later, the two detectives half carried Gordon Longhurst out of the stall. Higgins winced. The man looked dreadful. What a damned awful day.

Once the police had taken Longhurst, Higgins turned to Jack. “Who would do such a vile thing? Killing someone with a pitchfork is unspeakable.”

“There's also a sizable lump on the back of her head, along with a bruise on her cheek,” Jack said. “I suspect someone struck her first, causing her to fall. The killer must have used the pitchfork to finish her off.”

Eliza shuddered. “Are there any fingerprints on the pitchfork?”

“It looks as if someone wiped it clean. We'll take it to the lab for analysis.”

Guilt hung heavy on Higgins's mind. If only he'd found a policeman sooner and informed them about Hewitt and the gun. They might have prevented him from running onto the racetrack, which put the horses and jockeys at serious risk. Far worse was the likelihood that Hewitt killed Diana. After all, what other suspicious person was lurking about Ascot with violent intentions? If Hewitt was the murderer, Higgins would blame himself until the day he died.

“I didn't find evidence to indicate who was with Miss Price in that stall,” Jack said.

“But who would kill her?” Eliza asked. “And why?”

“As far as we know, the only dangerous man at Ascot was Hewitt,” Higgins said.

“Maybe Miss Price learned about Hewitt's plan to run out on the track and tried to stop him,” Jack said. “Killing her with a pitchfork seems a barbaric response.”

“How much longer are you going to keep the owners in there?” Higgins jerked his head toward the stall, where a babble of irritated voices grew louder by the minute. He was glad Pickering had taken his mother home. After what happened last month, she didn't need to be involved in yet another murder investigation.

“Thank you for reminding me.” Jack stepped over to the half-gate of the stall. “Ladies and gentlemen, I need everyone to follow me. My men have found a meeting room in the other building which should comfortably accommodate us.”

Another hue and cry rose up.

“Protest all you like,” he said sternly, “but none of the Donegal Dancer owners may leave until after I have taken a statement.”

“This is unconscionable.” Lady Saxton's affronted voice was unmistakable. “Who do you think you are to treat us in this beastly manner?”

“I am in charge of investigating this murder. If you don't wish to speak to me here, my men will be happy to haul you off to Scotland Yard.”

Everyone filed out of the stall. Lady Saxton threw Jack a poisonous look. Alfred Doolittle was the last one out, and he seemed a bit sheepish. “Jackie, I don't think my Rose is in any fit condition to be questioned right now.”

Higgins peered inside the stall. A snoring Rose sat sprawled against the far wall, the grapes on her hat tilted far over her face. Rose hiccupped but remained asleep.

“A bit too much champagne, y'see.” Doolittle shrugged.

“Blooming idiot,” Eliza muttered before she stalked off.

Jack turned to Detective Jeremy. “Keep anyone but the police from going into the stall.” He pointed at Rose. “And as soon as that woman wakes up, bring her to me. But try to get some tea or coffee in her first.”

Relieved to be out of the stables, Higgins enjoyed the brief seconds of walking to the other building. Too soon, he found himself seated at a square oak table in what was apparently a conference room for racing officials and managers. The air was redolent with the smell of leather, pipe smoke, and tobacco, which he found comforting.

After everyone was seated in the spindle-back chairs, Jack shut the door behind him. He walked over to the head of the table and smoothed back his hair. It did little good. Jack had a mop of black unruly hair that only a zealous barber could tame. Higgins also noticed that Jack's left eye was clamped down in a squint, which the detective only did when he was troubled.

“I have been told that Miss Price was last seen by some of you in the parade ring,” Jack began. “These individuals are the Turnbulls, Lord and Lady Saxton, Miss Doolittle, and Professor Higgins. After her husband went off to place a bet, Miss Price decided to visit the stables on her own. The Gold Cup race began about twenty minutes later. I need to know exactly where each of you was during that time period, as well as during the race. Who would like to go first?”

Everyone looked down at the table or stared back without expression at Jack.

Eliza cleared her throat. “The Professor and I were making our way back to Lord Saxton's private box. It took longer than planned because we ran into Billy Grainger. You remember Billy. He's a bookmaker now, but in the old neighborhood, he was a yob.”

Higgins was afraid to ask what a “yob” was.

Alfred Doolittle chuckled. “Billy Boy has straightened himself out. Makes his money now without having to steal it. And with a gift of gab to set your ears bleeding.”

“I concur,” Higgins said. “He was an alarmingly voluble gentleman.”

“Anyway, he near talked our heads off so we couldn't get to the box until right before the race started. And you were there when we arrived, so we watched the Gold Cup with you.”

Jack nodded. “That you did. As for Mr. Doolittle, we've confirmed that until the Gold Cup began, several racing officials were in his company. Apparently they were trying to keep him away from the parade ring.” He paused. “And the champagne.”

Alfred winked at Higgins, who couldn't help but grin back at him.

“And during the Gold Cup, Mr. Doolittle and his wife watched the race while these same officials stood behind them.” Jack looked at the others. “As for the rest of you…”

The Duchess of Carbrey shook her head at her fellow syndicate members. “I shall go next, since everyone else seems to have lost their tongue.”

Higgins noticed Jonathon Turnbull's face growing red in anger. But not even Turnbull dared cross the Duchess. It wasn't only her wealth that gave Turnbull pause. Minerva Richardson Cox boasted a self-confidence that could lay waste to his customary arrogance. And as her two late husbands—and several discreet lovers—could attest, she was also a handsome woman. Although she was past sixty, her ash brown hair bore only a few strands of gray. Minerva was an apt name for her. He could easily see her as the Roman goddess of wisdom she was named after. All she needed was a sacred owl sitting atop her shoulder.

“Before the Gold Cup began, I went to the paddock to confer with my trainer.” The Duchess adjusted the enormous plumed hat tilted above her coiffure. “One of my horses is set to run in the last race today. My trainer and I also watched the Gold Cup from the paddock.”

Jack scribbled that down along with the name of the trainer. He then turned to an older gentleman sporting old-fashioned Dundreary sideburns and a drooping white mustache. His pinstripe trousers, gray morning coat, and brushed top hat were nearly an exact copy of Pickering's formal wear at Ascot. “And you, sir? I have been told that you are Senior Steward of the Jockey Club.”

“Yes, I am Sir Walter Fairweather.” The older man straightened in his chair. “Prior to the Gold Cup, I oversaw the weighing-in procedure at the stable. And during the race, I was investigating a complaint on the track.”

Higgins detected a hint of East Anglian dialect in Fairweather's cultured speech. Although Higgins had first met the distinguished gentleman this morning, Fairweather was an old acquaintance of Colonel Pickering. A former professor at the University of Edinburgh, Fairweather had retired early to conduct botanical research at his manor house in Essex; that research led to a knighthood six years ago.

Jack waited for someone else to speak. “Lord Saxton,” he said finally. “Where were you and your wife leading up to the Gold Cup?”

Higgins took his first good look at Saxton since discovering Diana's body. By Jupiter, the man looked worse than Longhurst. His pallor was chalk white, and his eyes red and swollen.

“I was ill,” Saxton said in a hoarse voice.

“He threw up,” Turnbull sneered. “We all saw how much he had been drinking. But that's what Saxton does best. He drinks. The epitome of being drunk as a lord.”