Move Your Blooming Corpse (7 page)

“What do you mean by costs?” Jack asked.

“Trainer and jockey fees, transporting the horse to and from races, veterinarian and stabling costs, including a farrier, feed, and insurance.” Sir Walter held up his forefinger. “Plus track fees and the Jockey Club fees, of course. We also pay a percentage of the prize winnings to both the trainer and the jockey.”

“I'm surprised there's any money left after all that,” Eliza said.

The Duchess shrugged. “It's expensive owning a racehorse. Not an enterprise to be taken on alone, unless you have the capital to sustain it.”

Sir Walter nodded. “Indeed, yes. I've known more than one man who has been ruined by the Turf. Although we have taken steps to see that it shouldn't happen with our syndicate.”

“How so?”

“If a member does not pay his or her share of the monthly bills for the upkeep of the Donegal Dancer within ten weeks, the member's share in the horse is forfeit,” Sir Walter replied. “That share is then sold to a new owner. This prevents a member from getting too mired in debt.”

Turnbull pushed himself away from the table, his chair legs screeching on the wood floor. “Are we done here?”

At that moment, a stable hand barged into the room. “Excuse me, but Her Ladyship asked for news of the other races.”

Jack stuffed the notebook into his suit pocket. “Go ahead.”

No one seemed to react after hearing about the winner of the Coventry Stakes, Tetrarch, and the two horses who came in second and third. Brody's mount didn't even place. Considering what had happened, Higgins wasn't surprised. It was a marvel enough spectators still remained at the racetrack to care. Then again, few people outside this room knew about the murder in the stable.

The Duchess of Carbrey rose, prompting the men to scramble to their feet as well. “Is there anything further you require of us, Inspector?”

“Not at this time, Your Ladyship. I do appreciate everyone's cooperation in what has been a difficult afternoon.”

“More banal observations,” Lady Saxton murmured, and swept out of the room.

“I hope she remembers that her husband is still here,” Higgins said.

Jack shot him a weary look. Sir Walter gave his arm to the Duchess, and the pair left.

“Let's go, Rachel,” Turnbull ordered. His wife slowly got to her feet. When they walked past the detective, Turnbull deliberately bumped into him.

Higgins saw Jack fight to restrain himself from pushing back.

“Well, I'd best see if Rose has recovered,” Doolittle said. “I keep telling her to stick to gin. Champagne doesn't agree with her.”

Once he left, Eliza turned to Higgins. “Maybe if she didn't drink it by the bucketful.”

“So what do you think?” Higgins asked Jack.

“I don't know who would be worse to meet in a dark alley: Jonathon Turnbull or Lady Saxton.”

Eliza smoothed her wrinkled dress. “You can't expect her to be upset because her husband's mistress got killed.”

“Why not?” Jack said. “Rachel Turnbull certainly seemed upset.”

“Mrs. Turnbull seems a tad more sensitive than Lady Saxton.”

“Professor Moriarty would be more sensitive than that young woman.”

“I doubt the owners or their wives had anything to do with the murder.” Higgins frowned. “I think Hewitt is the logical choice.”

“You may be right, but we've only begun to sift through the evidence and question suspects. We did retrieve Hewitt's diary. The answers may be somewhere in that book.”

“What type of revolver was he waving around?”

“A Webley .38 caliber.” Jack pulled out a chair and sat. “Fully loaded, too.”

Eliza seemed puzzled. “If Hewitt did kill Diana, why not shoot her?”

“A gunshot would attract attention,” Jack said. “Even a madman might think twice before doing that. But the murder does appear premeditated. The victim was killed in a stall used as a spare tack room, which explains the pitchfork. No one would leave such a thing in a stall where a horse was stabled, for fear the animal might injure himself. If Longhurst hadn't been looking for his wife, it might have been hours before her body was found.”

Higgins felt crushed again by guilt. Who else but a madman would murder Diana in the stables right in the middle of Royal Ascot? “I blame myself for this. I should have tracked down a policeman the moment I saw that gun in his bag.”

“Even if you'd told me earlier, I doubt we'd have found Hewitt in this crowd.”

Higgins appreciated his kindness, but he didn't believe him.

“Can we change the subject for a moment? I've had enough of murder for one day,” Eliza said. Both men looked at her in surprise. “I hope you and Sybil still plan to brunch with us on Saturday. Mrs. Pearce will be most upset if you cancel again. She's cooking all your favorite foods. Besides, I've been waiting to meet your fiancée for weeks.”

“I'll try, Lizzie, but I'm in the middle of this new case. I barely sleep as it is. And once Miss Price's murder hits the papers, I won't have time to eat either.”

“You can spare an hour or two. I don't see how you dare marry that poor girl if you're going to leave her alone most of the time. You must find a way to mix murder and marriage.”

Higgins and Jack laughed.

“I've put away a few men who did just that, my girl,” Jack said.

She ruffled his hair. “You'll come, won't you?”

“I'll be there, and with the lovely Sybil, too.”

Eliza suddenly shivered.

“What's wrong?” Higgins asked.

“What sort of person runs a defenseless woman through with a pitchfork?” She looked at her cousin. “If Hewitt isn't guilty, you have to catch whoever did it, Jack. A monster like that is sure to kill again.”

 

FOUR

“Damnation, man! The correct pronunciation is ee-lab-or-ate, not a-lab-rat!”

“I'm sorry, Professor.”

“Start again from the beginning, Mr. Wallace.”

Higgins scowled at his pupil, who was the recent heir to an uncle's photographic supply company. Formerly a minor clerk, James Wallace needed to improve his speech and manners for his new elevated station in life. The young man once again pushed his wire-rimmed glasses farther up his nose. An annoying habit, Higgins thought. And the fellow was most unremarkable. Indeed, he was so average in height, features, and temperament, Wallace would make a fine plainclothes policeman. No one would notice him.

He oughtn't complain about teaching Wallace. But poor Eliza needed the patience of a saint as she struggled to correct his wife's screeching tones. Higgins closed his eyes and counted to twenty, trying to blot out the sound of the woman's voice coming from the next room.

“'ow many 'airs would a 'airbrush brush if a 'airbrush could brush 'ares.” Mrs. Wallace looked confused. “It don't make sense to me.”

“I shall light this candle for you to practice the aitch sound at the back of your throat, blowing air,” Eliza said. “Ha. Ha, ha, ha. There, do you hear it?”

“Aye, miss, I does!”

Higgins gripped a tuning fork until his knuckles whitened. The ambitious Ivy Wallace had married James a month after he'd come into his inheritance. While her speech was dreadful, she was clearly no fool. Before she met her husband, Ivy spent long hours working in a bottling factory. Higgins did admire the desire to improve herself; however, her atrocious accent made his eyes cross.

He rubbed his forehead with a heavy sigh. Higgins had slept badly last night, unable to banish the sight of Harold Hewitt being trampled. Far worse was finding Diana's lifeless body in that horse stall, along with the bloodstained pitchfork.

A quick glance at the mantel clock told Higgins the lesson was mercifully over. With a visible sigh of relief, he shooed Wallace into the foyer. Pickering arrived at that moment and brought in a hot breeze from the street. He set his hat on the rack by the door. When the young man caught sight of the Colonel, he automatically reached up to tug his forelock.

“No, no, no,” Higgins told Wallace. “You may not be his equal yet, but remember you own a business now. Act like it. And practice addressing your peers twice daily. Enunciate properly, or I shan't bother to waste another minute teaching you anything.”

“Thanks, Professor. My missus will help. She's a right corker.”

Higgins rolled his eyes upward. Thankfully, Eliza had also finished her lesson with Ivy Wallace. After the young couple left, Pickering followed Higgins into the laboratory, a newspaper tucked under one arm.

Eliza trailed after them and plopped down on the sofa. “I'm so happy we're done until Monday.”

“I say, Henry, you two usually take Saturday morning off,” Pickering said.

“We made an exception. Mr. and Mrs. Wallace have
much
to learn.”

When the mantel clock chimed eleven, Eliza jumped to her feet. “Blimey, I have to change my dress. Jack and his fiancée will be here any minute for brunch.”

“What the devil is wrong with what you have on?”

“It's a uniform in a way, much like your raggedy sweater.” At the sound of a loud knock on the front door, Eliza rushed out of the room. “Oh no, they're here already. Do try and be sociable for a change, Professor. Promise me, please.” She took the stairs two at a time.

Higgins rocked back and forth on his heels while he tapped the ashes from his pipe.

“Pick, would you say my sweater is raggedy?”

“Hardly, old chap.”

“It's comfortable. New enough, too.”

Higgins packed fresh tobacco into his pipe, wondering why women always complained about something. Even his exemplary mother did so on occasion. The rattling of a hansom cab and a motorcar's piercing horn on Wimpole Street, plus the housekeeper's firm voice, could be heard from the laboratory.

“Do come in, Inspector Shaw,” Mrs. Pearce said. “I shall ring for Miss Doolittle right away. Mr. Higgins and Colonel Pickering are in the drawing room.”

Higgins set his pipe on the mantel. A young woman entered the room ahead of Eliza's cousin. Jack quickly set about making introductions to his fiancée. Higgins noted that Sybil Chase wasn't beautiful, but her gray blue eyes, arched brows, and classic English roses-and-cream complexion gave her a striking appeal. And Higgins rather approved of her bow-shaped mouth, which now curved in a charming smile. Jack pumped the Colonel's hand as his gaze swept over the laboratory's stack of wax cylinders, gramophone, and bookshelves. Jack had been here so often, the room and its inhabitants were a familiar sight. Mrs. Pearce waited patiently until he remembered to hand over his trilby hat.

“Thank you for inviting us, Professor,” Sybil said.

“Oh, I didn't invite you. Eliza did. Mrs. Pearce, will you tell the rude girl that her guests are here?”

“She's upstairs, sir. I'm certain she will be down any minute.”

The Colonel pulled out a chair for Sybil and then sat on the sofa's far end. Jack took the armchair closest to his fiancée.

“I'm sorry we didn't see you at Ascot, Miss Chase.” Higgins didn't care at all whether she'd been to the racing event. He only wanted to hear more of her speech patterns to ascertain where she was born.

“I didn't feel it was proper to attend the race so soon after Miss Davison's funeral,” she said. “But Jack told me what happened during the Gold Cup. And of course, the newspapers speak of little else but Mr. Hewitt and poor Diana Price. My friends in the suffrage movement were quite shocked someone ran onto the racetrack again.”

“The police feared there might be a copycat,” Jack said. “But we expected it to be a woman, not a man. We haven't even determined if Harold Hewitt is a member of any suffrage group.”

“No one in the Women's Freedom League ever heard of him,” Sybil said, “but I've yet to ask anyone in the WSPU.”

From that brief exchange, Higgins deduced Sybil had been raised in Kingston-upon-Thames in southwest London. She might have attended some college, due to her precise enunciation, but resided now in South Kensington. Queen's Gate, perhaps near the new petrol station built for the incoming flux of motorcars. And he noticed that she wore her badge of loyalty to the suffrage movement with a green sash tied around her waist and lilac flowers adorning her straw hat.

Eliza entered the laboratory at that moment and rushed to greet their visitors. Higgins thought the two young women could be sisters. Both boasted dark, upswept hair, impertinent profiles, and an obvious fondness for white lace dresses.

“I'm so happy to meet you, Sybil. Jack brags about you all the time,” Eliza gushed. “Shall we go in to brunch? Mrs. Pearce said she's ready to serve.”

“Allow me, Miss Chase.” Pickering held out his arm to Sybil. She accepted with a delighted smile.

Jack escorted Eliza, leaving Higgins to trail after them like a spare tire in the boot. He frowned. Maybe he'd pinpointed the wrong end of Queen's Gate. Perhaps Miss Chase hailed from a flat south of Cromwell Road.

Once they were seated around the table, Eliza poured tea while the maids brought in full platters of bacon, eggs, and kippers.

Clearly not shy, Sybil began the conversation by regaling them with the tale of how she and Jack met at the police station when she was twenty-three. “There I was, dripping wet with a group of other Women's Freedom League members. It rained that hot August day. And the police took pleasure in dragging us through every puddle on the way to Scotland Yard. Our hems were a muddy mess. But all we did was block Prime Minister Asquith from getting into 10 Downing Street. If I'd known he was going to have us arrested, I would have hit him over the head with my picket sign.” She shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Jack laughed with the others. “That would have gotten you in worse trouble. The police figured you'd chain yourselves together if they didn't get you away from there.”