Move Your Blooming Corpse (17 page)

“I don't think so.” Eliza remembered all those delicious goodies in the hampers. “You know me, Jack. I ate and drank a little bit of everything.”

Freddy finally smiled. “A little?”

“Well, I was hungry.”

When she listed everything she'd eaten, Jack nodded. “That matches what everyone has told me so far. And dessert?”

That would be easy. Eliza never forgot a single sweet she had eaten. “Those tarts Freddy told you about. Tea cakes and sugared berries, of course. Then those lovely pineapple ices. Oh, dates stuffed with ginger and nuts, too. I think that's everything.”

Jack chuckled. “Sounds like more than enough.”

“And they had lots to drink,” Freddy said. “Champagne, claret, tea, aerated water.”

Eliza sighed at the memory. “And such wonderful lavender lemonade.”

“Think carefully. Did Jonathon Turnbull eat or drink anything that no one else did?”

Freddy and Eliza looked at each other. “No,” they said at the same time.

“He drank more tea than the rest of us,” Eliza added. “His own tea. Apparently that's what he always drinks, but he wasn't the only one. Freddy and I drank tea as well. That Patsy woman asked for tea, too. Lady Tansy wanted tea later, but by then Longhurst had started another fight and knocked the tea table over.”

Jack scowled. “Turnbull's death was first judged to be from natural causes. Unfortunately, the food from the picnic lunch was never brought to the Yard and tested.”

“It seems to me Turnbull and Diana Price were killed because of their affair,” Eliza said. “Which makes Longhurst the most likely suspect. He made quite a scene at the picnic, as everyone there can tell you.” Her eyes widened. “I just remembered that Longhurst refused to eat at the picnic. He wouldn't drink anything, either.”

“We've already had Longhurst here twice for questioning. Worse for him, since he doesn't have a convincing alibi for the time leading up to his wife's death at Ascot. Oh, he placed a bet on Tracery like she asked, but no one remembers seeing him after that.”

“There you are, then.” Freddy looked satisfied. “You have your killer.”

“Do we? Rachel Turnbull doesn't have a good alibi for Miss Price's death, either. And she was responsible for the food at the picnic.” Jack rose and walked over to the window. He stared out in the direction of the Thames. “Then there's the missing Harold Hewitt. Is it a coincidence that he escaped from the asylum the very day Turnbull was poisoned? And both Turnbull and Price were opposed to the suffrage movement. Leaves me to wonder if this is a murder of jealousy and passion, or a crime motivated by politics.”

Eliza thought a moment. “I vote for jealousy.”

Jack turned and gave her a knowing look. “Did you make that decision based on your conversation with Hewitt at Claybury Asylum?”

Her cheeks grew warm with embarrassment.

“You went to see that madman at the lunatic asylum?” Freddy sounded horrified. “What in the world were you thinking? You might have been killed.”

Sometimes Freddy was more melodramatic than her favorite cinema heroines. “The Professor believed we should have a talk with him, seeing as how he spoke with Hewitt at Ascot. I knew the Professor still felt guilty about what happened at the races, so I thought, what harm can there be in one little visit?”

Freddy looked speechless, but Jack was not. “Lizzie, you must have known I would learn about it the next time I saw Hewitt.”

“I hoped the asylum officials would forget to mention it.”

“Well, they didn't. In fact, they were pleased that his sister and the family solicitor paid a call on their patient for the first time.”

“He seemed to enjoy the conversation,” she said in a small voice. “Most of it, anyway.”

“I'd enjoy hearing the particulars of that conversation, too.” He flipped open his notebook.

After she was through relating the details, Jack continued to scribble. Eliza stared in silence at the large map of London on the wall, which was dotted with colored pins. Each one denoted a crime. The red pins indicated a murder. She noticed far too many of that color. She couldn't imagine having a job where every day revealed yet another butchered corpse. Trying to figure out who killed Turnbull and Diana Price was difficult enough. What must it be like to solve hundreds of such crimes? But she was proud of her cousin for doing just that.

“All right, then.” Jack put down his pencil. “I'll have a word with your Professor and see if he has anything to add. And I will tell him—as I am telling you now, Lizzie—I want no more interference in this case. These murders are not like the one this past spring. You and Higgins were in the thick of it then, and had reason to be involved.” He narrowed his eyes. “Even if it did almost get you killed.”

“Don't worry. I have no interest in tracking down any more killers.” Eliza stood and straightened her collar. “In fact, Freddy has promised to take me to the cinema this afternoon. We're going to see
The Lady and the Mouse
, starring Dorothy and Lillian Gish. They're sisters, you know. Usually I go to the cinema on Friday or Saturday, but Sybil and I have plans.”

“Yes, I have heard about those plans,” Jack said in disapproval.

“Why the stern face? Sybil wants to introduce me to her suffragette friends. She says there will be a few speeches, maybe by a Pankhurst. I've never been to a suffragette rally or parade. It should be interesting. Fun, too, I hope.”

“Fun? It will be damned dangerous.” Freddy tapped his walking stick on the floor. “My dear Eliza, I must put my foot down. Bad enough you run off to horse races where you might be trampled. Then you visit lunatic asylums to talk with madmen. Now you plan to march with suffragettes. You'll be throwing bricks at windows next.”

“Don't be daft,” Eliza said. “And I'm not marching. I only want to listen to what the ladies have to say. No one will know I'm there, I'll be so quiet.” She gave Jack her most innocent smile. “And with Sybil to act as my chaperone, too. Unless you don't trust your own fiancée to keep us out of trouble.”

“I do not trust either of you. But you're both bullheaded enough to do exactly what you want, no matter what I say.” Jack pointed at Freddy. “You have your hands full with this one. I don't know if you're up for it.”

Freddy bit his lip. “I don't know if I am either.”

“Don't get arrested at the rally. I can only bail Sybil out of jail so many times.”

Eliza laughed. “We'll be fine.” Of course, she had no intention of telling him about the female Bodyguard, or how she hoped to convince them to teach her ju-jitsu.

Jack kissed Eliza on the cheek. “Have fun at the cinema, but stay out of trouble at the rally.” He turned to her at the door. “Oh, and keep an eye on your dad as well.”

The sudden note of concern in Jack's voice made her pause. “Dad? Is something wrong? He's not ill, is he?”

“I'd like an extra pair of eyes looking out for him until this whole case is solved.”

“I don't understand.”

“Lizzie, aside from adultery and the suffrage movement, what else do Diana Price and Jonathon Turnbull have in common?”

Eliza thought a moment, then nearly smacked herself on the head. “Blimey, they both owned the Donegal Dancer! Why didn't I see that before?”

“Because the other connections are stronger, and more likely to be linked to their murders. However, I can't overlook anything. It's possible the murderer is killing off the racehorse owners, which makes your father a potential target. So watch out for him. I'd hate to learn the next murder victim is Uncle Alfred.”

By the time she left Scotland Yard with Freddy, Eliza's plans for the day had changed. Time enough to enjoy the cinema after her father was safe from harm. She had a murderer to track down.

 

TEN

Higgins hoped to spend a delicious afternoon listening to recordings sent by a colleague in South Africa. Although English was Higgins's main passion, the lexical influences of the Afrikaans language were fascinating. But two hours ago, Eliza had burst into his phonetics laboratory at Wimpole Street; she'd demanded he accompany her to White Flower Cottage, the Essex home of Sir Walter Fairweather. Since he'd dragged her off to the lunatic asylum, Higgins thought it churlish to refuse.

Although he complained during the entire train ride from London to the Burnham-on-Crouch station, Higgins looked forward to the adventure. Colonel Pickering, who had also been dragooned into this excursion, was not so eager.

“Dash it all, is this a wise idea?” Pickering asked as they drove in the car hired to take them to the cottage. “We are intruding upon the man's privacy.”

Eliza hung her head out the car window, enjoying the warm summer air and the verdant scenery. “That's why I asked you to ring him up before we left London. He invited us.”

“A phone call informing him that we would be in Essex an hour later to see his gardens is hardly an invitation. He was simply too polite to refuse.”

“Nonsense,” Higgins said. “Fairweather is obsessed with gardening. He probably revels in visitors who come to admire his nasturtiums and orchids.”

He didn't add that he and Eliza were curious to hear Sir Walter's opinion on the recent deaths of Price and Turnbull. Higgins was relieved that Eliza finally showed real interest in trying to solve these murders, and he had Jack Shaw to thank for that. Eliza had returned from her morning visit to Scotland Yard convinced her father's life was now in danger. He didn't agree—he still believed Hewitt was somehow behind the deaths—but if it prodded Eliza into helping him solve this mystery, so much the better.

“You have a perfect right to drop by for a visit, Colonel,” Eliza said. “After all, you're Sir Walter's friend.”

“We are acquaintances, not friends. I've met him a total of eight or nine times, usually at a lecture. Hardly a relationship that allows me to barge in on him with the pair of you in tow.”

Higgins and Eliza both laughed. “We'll behave,” she said. “Besides, I want to see White Flower Cottage. It sounds lovely.”

But when the car pulled into the long gravel drive, the two-story red house that awaited them looked nothing like a cottage. Eliza whistled. “Cor, it's a proper mansion. Why is it called a cottage?”

Pickering sighed. “My dear Eliza, if your father was the third Baronet of Horning and your mother a fifth cousin to the Swedish King, this would seem as humble as a cottage.”

When the motorcar rolled to a stop, Higgins jumped out to get a closer look. The attractive house, built in the Queen Anne style, boasted red brick with stone groins. A black iron balustrade ran up both sides of the sweeping stone staircase leading to the ebony black front door. Potted topiaries sat on every other step. Blue hydrangeas bordered the house, along with white and pink rhododendron. Petunias spilled over the second-floor window boxes. He only now realized the gravel drive was lined with white verbena, impatiens, and wild ginger. Higgins suspected the gardens at the back of the house were just as breathtaking.

“Seems like the work of Sir Edwin Lutyens,” Higgins said.

Pickering nodded, but Eliza gave him a curious look. “Sir Edwin is the most celebrated architect in Britain,” he explained. “If you have a fat bank account and want a country house, Sir Edwin is the man to call.” The front door swung open. “Our arrival has been noted.”

The balding butler on the front step bowed slightly. “If you will kindly follow me. Sir Walter will join you on the back terrace.”

On the way, they enjoyed a brief peek at White Flower Cottage's interior. Each elegant room was floored with terrazzo tiles and decorated with botanical wallpaper. Framed drawings of herbs and plants hung every three or four feet; tubs of small fruit trees and vases of fresh flowers were scattered about in such profusion, it resembled the orangery at Kew Gardens. Their heady fragrance permeated the air, making the cottage as perfumed as a harem boudoir.

Apparently Sir Walter also had a fondness for Staffordshire pottery, in particular porcelain horses. Every mantel or table displayed yet another china figure. Higgins was somewhat surprised at the graceful decor. He expected a more masculine look for an aging bachelor such as Fairweather. Then again, a man who spent most of his time surrounded by lush gardens had probably developed a taste for exaggerated beauty.

But even Higgins was struck speechless when they stepped onto the expansive flagstone terrace. Stretched before them in all directions were flower beds, ornamental trees, flowering shrubs, hedges, grasses, and topiaries. Off to the right, glass sparkled in the afternoon sun—one of Sir Walter's greenhouses. Water splashed from a nearby cherub statue, the centerpiece of a marble fountain; endless rings of Queen Anne's lace, phlox, and lilies of the valley circled its base. Tall stands of purple, white, and blue larkspur bordered the steps leading to the lawn, while beds of lilies in every possible color guarded the stone path to the topiary garden. From where they stood, Higgins could see several topiaries pruned to resemble racehorses.

“It's almost as big as Kew Gardens.” Eliza's voice was filled with wonder.

The day grew hotter by the minute. Higgins took off his hat and fanned himself. Thankfully, he had worn a lightweight Panama cloth suit, as had the Colonel. And he had Pickering to thank for his revamped summer wardrobe. After years on the Indian subcontinent, the Colonel was well versed in dressing for hot weather.

“I see now why Sir Walter retired early from the university,” Pickering said. “If I owned property like this, I doubt I would ever leave.”

The butler cleared his throat. He had allowed them a moment to appreciate the glorious vista, something he probably did for all first-time visitors. “Sir Walter is occupied with a business associate in the study. He will join you shortly.” The rather florid fellow gestured to a black wrought-iron table and chairs a few feet away. “If you will be seated, tea shall be served.”