Move Your Blooming Corpse (6 page)

Higgins prepared himself for an ugly scene between the two men.

Lady Saxton didn't bat an eyelash, however. If anything, she looked amused. Saxton surprised Higgins by nodding his head.

“It's true. I drank too much champagne.” He took a ragged breath. “If I hadn't—if I'd gone with her as she asked—Diana would be alive. Diana would be alive!” A sob escaped him, and he buried his face in his hands.

Lady Saxton seemed mortified. “Maitland, take hold of yourself. You shame us all with this maudlin display.”

Saxton pushed back his chair. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry—I'm going to be ill again.” He rushed from the conference room, followed by one of the detectives.

Jack crossed his arms. “And where were you, Lady Saxton? Tending to your sick husband?”

She shot him a scornful look. “Anyone who was at the parade ring can attest I was in no mood to do any such thing.”

“Why was that?”

“Inspector, this has already been a long, distasteful day. If you persist feigning ignorance of Maitland's very public affair with Diana Price, it shall grow far more tedious.”

Eliza leaned closer to her cousin. “It's true, Jack,” she said in a stage whisper. “When Miss Price arrived, they had a proper row.”

“So where were you, Lady Saxton?” he asked.

“Once the unfortunate Miss Price made her entrance, I left. I was in a bad temper, as you can imagine, and went off into the crowd. I didn't even watch the Gold Cup.” She sniffed. “Not that I cared a whit about it anyway.”

“Then you had a reason to want Miss Price dead?”

“A banal observation.”

Jack bristled. “You had a motive and no alibi during the time of the murder. How is that for a banal observation?”

Lady Saxton narrowed her eyes. “It may be banal, but it's also incorrect.” She sat back with a weary air. “My husband has been indiscreet with a number of women since I married him. If I
was
the jealous murderess you imagine, I would have done away with five ladies by now. Although none deserves to be called a lady.”

Higgins fought back a grin. The woman had brass enough to stare down the Kaiser.

Jack seemed a bit flustered by Lady Saxton. “Regardless, madam, you had no reason to wish the victim well.”

“I am not the only woman in this room humiliated by her husband's liaison with Miss Price.” She looked pointedly at the Turnbulls, who sat across the table from her.

“You're a venomous bitch,” Jonathon Turnbull said.

While Lady Saxton only lifted an eyebrow at his outburst, Rachel Turnbull began to cry. The Duchess rapped sharply on the table with her gloved knuckles. “I warn you, Jonathon, such language will not be tolerated here.”

Jack frowned. “Mr. Turnbull, I advise you to keep yourself in check.”

“In check? An innocent woman has been murdered in the most brutal fashion, and you're bothered by my language! Why aren't you trying to find the killer?”

Jack threw his notebook down on the table. “I'm doing just that, but first I must wade through a few tales of sordid behavior. And speaking of finding the killer, where did
you
go after you left the parade ring, Mr. Turnbull?”

Turnbull leaned forward. He seemed as tense and coiled as a snake eager to strike. Higgins realized the fellow was as agitated by Diana's death as Saxton and Longhurst, only he showed it through anger.

“I feel like I'm living in a damned nightmare! As if I would harm Diana. While she was being murdered, I was trying to find my wife. More fool I to think Rachel needed me more. Neither Saxton nor I would kill such a beguiling woman. We adored Diana.”

Tears rolled down Rachel's cheeks. Higgins exchanged troubled glances with Eliza, who seemed as uncomfortable as he was.

Jack's left eye squinted tighter than before. “Mrs. Turnbull, I am sorry to upset you more, but I must ask where you went after leaving the parade ring.”

Eliza reached over and gave her a handkerchief. Rachel took it with a grateful but watery smile. After a moment, she regained control.

“Jonathon had words with Lord Saxton when Miss Price arrived. I was too far away to hear what was being said, but the situation confirmed rumors I'd heard.” Her voice was so quiet, Higgins strained to hear. “I simply could not face Jonathon at that moment. Like Lady Saxton, I began to walk blindly through the crowd. I didn't stop until the race began. When that gentleman was trampled, the crowd grew so agitated that I returned to the viewing box.” She took a shaky breath. “That's all I can tell you, Detective Inspector.”

Someone rapped on the door. “Come in!” Jack barked.

A constable entered the office with a jockey. It was Jimmy “Bomber” Brody, who rode the Donegal Dancer to victory. Brody snatched off his flat racing cap and held it in his long-fingered hands, along with a riding crop. He still wore the Wrexham purple and green silks.

“You wanted to speak to me, Detective Inspector?”

“Yes, I did. Before I forget, how is Tracery's jockey?”

“Bert Whalley? Shaken up a bit, sir, but all right.”

“Glad to hear it. I know you were with the others when Miss Price's body was found. But you'd left by the time the police arrived.”

“Sorry, Inspector, but I have another race today. I had to meet with the trainer. Otherwise I'd be as good as dead myself.” He flushed. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”

“Did you see anyone suspicious today in the stables? Someone who didn't belong there?”

“That I did. The fellow who ran out on the racecourse.”

“What?” Higgins couldn't hide his surprise.

“I saw the man this morning as soon as the course opened. I caught him wandering about the stalls. He weren't dressed fine enough to be an owner, and he didn't look like any trainer I'd ever seen. Seemed a bit off, too. Writing in some fool book, talking to himself. Had a bad feeling about him. I told one of the grooms to toss him out.”

“You're certain this was the same man who ran out onto the field?”

“No doubt, Inspector. I saw that madman when they brought him in on a stretcher. It was him, all right.” Brody frowned. “I wish I'd told a racing official this morning. Because of the trouble at the Derby, they would have thrown him out of Ascot altogether.” He paused. “Is he the one who killed Miss Price?”

“We don't know yet,” Jack said. “Were you here when Miss Price came to the stables?”

“I never saw her. Of course, I'd never met her before, but I didn't see any ladies in here after the race.” Brody shook his head in disgust. “It's not right that strangers who have no business being in the stable come here and wander about. This sort of thing wouldn't have happened last year.”

“Are you referring to the horse thieves?”

“Yes. For a time, we kept a close eye on anyone coming to the stables, but we've gotten lazy. That means it's sure to happen again.”

“Someone's kidnapping racehorses?” Eliza asked.

“The first horse was stolen five years ago,” the Duchess said. “Then a little over three years ago, thieves took a champion mare called Red Glory right off the Sussex farm where she was stabled. Even worse, the horse carried a foal at the time. No ordinary foal, either.”

“I remember,” Higgins broke in. “It was in all the papers. She had been bred with some great racing champion a few months earlier.”

“Maximus,” Sir Walter said. “No greater champion has graced the Turf since. Any foal with the bloodline of Maximus and Red Glory would be worth a fortune.”

“But they found the mare, didn't they?” Higgins said.

“A year later, wandering along a country road in Yorkshire.” The Duchess looked somber. “Thank heaven Red Glory was alive and well. However, she had already given birth. And there's been no sign of that filly or colt since.” She frowned. “I suspect the foal died, or was sold off for breeding purposes. Not that it will do them any good. If you can't prove the bloodlines, a horse's offspring are worth little.”

“Some racehorse owners have claimed their horse was born to Red Glory,” added Brody. “But like Her Ladyship says, they can't prove it.”

Doolittle leaned forward in excitement. “What if that foal was our own Dancer?”

“Alfred, you know perfectly well Calypso and Lady Carlin are the sire and dam of the Donegal Dancer,” the Duchess said, not bothering to conceal her exasperation.

“Whatever happened to these horse thieves?” Eliza asked.

“Never caught,” Sir Walter said. “The following year, they stole another champion racehorse called Sea Wind. Such a tragedy. Because no one could pay the outrageous ransom, the horse was found dead a month later. Another attempt was made to steal a prize mare this past April down near Lincolnshire, but the grooms scared the thieves off.”

“This is awful,” Eliza said. “Jack, you must find these horrible people.”

“The Yard is working on it, along with a few other cases. Now getting back to today's events.” Jack gestured at the jockey's coat. “The Donegal Dancer's racing colors are purple and green, the same colors of the suffragette movement. Who registered them?”

“I registered the silks, Detective Inspector,” Sir Walter said. “After all, I am the Wrexham Racing Syndicate's agent. But the Duchess of Carbrey chose those colors.”

Jonathon Turnbull glared at the older woman. “She never asked our permission, either. Not that I would have given it. She knows how I feel about those infernal women.”

“Exactly,” the Duchess said with a cool smile. “I am aware of your backward attitude about women's suffrage, which Miss Price inexplicably shared.”

“I wonder if Hewitt knew they were the suffragette colors,” Eliza said.

“I saw a small flag in his satchel. Was it a suffragette flag?” Higgins glanced up at Jack, who nodded.

“If Miss Price was opposed to women's suffrage, and Mr. Hewitt was a champion of it…” Eliza looked over at Higgins.

“But how would he know she opposed the movement?” Higgins asked.

Jack turned to the jockey. “You're free to go, Mr. Brody. I believe you're scheduled to ride in the next race.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I need to change my silks.”

After Brody hurried off, Jonathon Turnbull banged his fist on the table. “We've told you what we can, Inspector. Now what have you found out about this dead fool who ran in front of the horses?”

“Oh, Mr. Hewitt is still alive,” Jack said. “He was only unconscious when taken to hospital. His injuries are severe but not fatal. Once Mr. Hewitt is able to speak, we intend to find out everything possible. In the meantime, I need to know why there are so many owners of the Donegal Dancer. This is a racing syndicate, I presume?”

“Indeed it is,” Doolittle said. “The Wrexham Racing Syndicate.”

“Why Wrexham?”

“You should know that, Jack.” Doolittle wagged a finger at his nephew. “Wrexham is the Welsh town where I was born and raised.”

Jack gave a rueful grin. “You're right, I should have remembered. But how did you become part of it?”

Doolittle thumbed his waistcoat. “Turnbull and I met at a boxing match this spring. Since we were such sporting men, we got to talkin' about horse racing. Sounded like a right bit of fun, owning a racehorse. And seeing how I came into money this year, Turnbull suggested I join the syndicate. Glad I am of it, too.”

“Owning a racehorse is expensive,” Turnbull added. “Sharing expenses through a syndicate reduces the share of the winnings, but it also reduces the risk. I formed the syndicate after Diana and the Saxtons bought a share of the horse. It was a wise business decision.”

“The only wise one he's ever made,” Lady Saxton said under her breath.

Turnbull ignored her. “And I was the one who initially bought the horse. I learned through an acquaintance of Ahearn Griffith's death. He ran Derryfield Farm in Kildare. The estate was selling off his whole lot of horses, and at quite reasonable prices. I sent an agent to scout his stock, and he recommended buying the colt.”

“And how could I not buy a share of a horse called the Donegal Dancer?” Doolittle turned to Eliza. “After all, your mum came from Donegal. And she loved to dance, too. Seemed like a sign, it did.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand.

“The Duchess spoke of the horse's sire and dam,” Higgins said. “I assume their bloodlines are impressive.”

“Lady Carlin was a champion in her own right. A blood bay like the Dancer, but without the star,” Sir Walter said. “And Calypso won a fair number of races himself in his day.”

“How many members are in the syndicate?” Jack asked.

“Six. No, wait. Five, now that Miss Price is gone,” Doolittle said.

“Jonathon was first, and he asked Miss Price. She brought in Saxton. I became an owner after watching a few of Dancer's practice runs.” The Duchess gestured at Doolittle. “Alfred joined us in March. The name was the Turnbull/Price Syndicate, but that wouldn't suffice once more of us joined. So we came up with Wrexham.”

“I was the last one to become a member,” Sir Walter added.

The Duchess smiled at him. “Since Sir Walter is Senior Steward of the Jockey Club, we asked him to act as our agent. He handles all the syndicate's legal and financial transactions.”

“You own a string of successful horses already, Your Ladyship,” Jack said. “Why join a syndicate?”

“The colt is as fine a horse as I've seen,” she said. “Fine enough that I tried to buy him outright, but the others refused. I had no choice but to join.”

Jack wrote in his notebook before looking up. “How are the prize winnings doled out to syndicate members?”

“We have a meeting either once a month or two weeks after a race,” Sir Walter said. “After all the costs have been totaled, each member receives his or her share of the winnings. Our next meeting takes place at the Henley Royal Regatta.”