Move Your Blooming Corpse (34 page)

“Trust you to do what?”

“I secretly sold him half my shares. This way, he not only earned a share of the purse as winning jockey, he also received a share meant for the horse's owners. And since I was the official agent for the racing syndicate, I handled all the paperwork and all the money.” He laughed. “Not one of the owners ever raised a single question about my transactions. Which confirmed my low opinion of their intelligence. We figured it was only a matter of time before we convinced the other owners to sell their shares.”

“Then why did Brody kill Diana Price?”

“The drunken fool wandered into the stables at the worst possible moment, at least for her. Brody was in a foul temper that day. The Dancer had just won another race. He feared I would cheat him out of his share. We had a rather heated discussion. I was trying to reassure him when Diana appeared.”

“Wait a minute.” Eliza held up her hand. “You murdered a woman because she learned Brody had a secret share in the Dancer? What a ridiculous reason to kill someone.”

“Oh no, we didn't kill her over that. Goodness, if that was all she overheard, I would have simply bribed her. Diana was greedy
and
gullible.” He took a deep breath. “No, Miss Doolittle. As I said, Brody and I were having a tense conversation, which led us to be indiscreet about private business matters which are not your concern. We didn't realize this foolish woman was listening until she burst in on us.”

She looked at him in growing horror. “So Brody decided to murder her?”

“Like all great riders, Brody has lightning-fast reflexes, along with a fierce instinct for survival. Such skills are excellent when fighting for a pole position in the Derby, but they don't always serve as well off the track.”

Eliza recalled what Jack had told her following the autopsy. “Diana suffered a blow to the head, but she was killed with a pitchfork. Why would Brody do both?”

Sir Walter crossed his legs. He seemed as bored as a theatergoer waiting for the curtain. “When Diana burst into the stall, she called us thieves—and at the top of her voice, too. Brody had to quickly shut her up, so he struck her. Despite his size, he's a powerful chap. The blow knocked her unconscious.”

Eliza glanced over at the two men by the entrance. One fellow seemed indifferent to Sir Walter's tale, the other vaguely amused.

“Things had gone too far by then,” Sir Walter continued. “We needed to act fast before someone walked by and discovered us, even though we were in the back of the stables. Without a word to me, he grabbed a pitchfork and stabbed her. A most unpleasant sight.” He paused. “I don't care for killing women. It's unsporting. But Diana did not give us much choice.”

A shout went up from the crowd. The horses were probably being led out onto the track. “Then Fortune smiled on us. The mad Mr. Hewitt ran out right afterward on the racetrack. And waving a loaded gun, too. Everyone—especially the police—turned to Hewitt as the murder suspect. That very night, Brody and I decided we had discovered the perfect way to acquire the Donegal Dancer for ourselves: murder.”

“But you could only blame Hewitt if the police released him, or if he escaped.” Eliza's mind raced. “You engineered that escape from the asylum, didn't you?”

Sir Walter beamed with pride. “I arranged for someone to pay two suffragettes who worked at Claybury to help Hewitt get away. After he ran out onto the track at Ascot with a suffragette flag in his pocket, Hewitt became a hero to many ladies in the movement. It wasn't difficult to find women willing to break the law to help him.”

Eliza heard the distant music of a band above the crowd's roar. The air smelled of dirt, horse manure, and perfume from a hundred ladies. Outside this billowing tent, Sandown Park was filled with excitement, shouts, and laughter. It seemed miles away.

She fought to fit the puzzle pieces together. “You wanted him free that day, just as you made sure Gordon Longhurst came to the picnic. Even the Duchess thought it was bad form for you to tell Longhurst publicly that he had no right to the horse's winnings. You could have done it at any other time. But you needed him at the picnic.”

“Please continue, Miss Doolittle. You're doing a splendid job.”

“You planned to poison Turnbull that day, and made certain Longhurst was there to take the fall. And because you arranged for Hewitt to escape hours earlier, the police now focused on Hewitt
and
him. It's why you gave Longhurst his Ascot purse at the stables on Saturday. You knew these two pigs were going to murder my father while he was there.”

Sir Walter nodded. “If only I'd recruited you into our little group.”

“As if I'd dirty my hands with the likes of you or your thugs.”

“You don't know nothing about us, girl,” one of the men replied. He swept off his hat and pointed it at her for emphasis. His hair, a bushy tangle of white and rust brown streaks, made him look like an angry badger. “We got more money than you'll ever live to see.”

His companion chuckled. “Especially now.”

Eliza clasped her hands in her lap to conceal their trembling. If they planned to kill her, what were they waiting for? If this continued much longer, Jack or one of his detectives would return. Then again, if these blighters wanted to be fools, the better for her. As soon as the Donegal Dancer's race finished, the other owners would make their way here, too.

She froze. The race! They were waiting for the race to begin, but why? The memory of both Emily Davison and Harold Hewitt being trampled flashed into her mind. Blimey, they wanted to push her in front of the racehorses. If so, they'd have to tie her up and drag her kicking and screaming through the crowd. Because she bloody well wasn't going to set foot on the track without one hell of a fight.

“Why so quiet, my dear?” Sir Walter's expression grew suspicious.

Eliza decided to keep him talking until she figured out how to escape. “Why not buy the Donegal Dancer from everyone? If you have as much money as your stooge implies.”

“The name is Keene.”

“As I said, if you're all so blooming rich, why not just buy the other owners out? Don't see the need for treating people like weeds in your garden.”

Sir Walter tapped her on the knee. “What an apt analogy, Miss Doolittle. I do indeed view them as weeds getting in the way. However, I did not start out this bloodthirsty. I had my eye on the Dancer since his foaling. I blame myself for waiting too long to buy him. By the time I realized he would be auctioned off, Turnbull had snapped up the colt.”

“Turnbull,” Keene said with contempt. “I wouldn't shed a tear over that one.”

Sir Walter nodded. “Exactly. It galled me to see such a worthless fellow become owner of the Dancer. I knew Turnbull was in debt. I planned to wait until his financial troubles worsened and then buy the horse from him. Next thing I knew, he'd sold a share of the horse to his mistress, then joined up with the Duchess, Saxton, and Alfred. After that, the whole Wrexham Racing Syndicate was born, and I scrambled to become part of it.”

“And decided to kill them all off, one by one,” Eliza said with disgust.

“Not at first. I did inquire about buying their shares. Everyone turned me down.”

Assuming she was as good as dead, Eliza was in no mood to placate this killer. “You play the gentleman scientist, but you're just a murderous dodger! A right rummy bastard is what you are. To think people call you ‘sir'! And what exactly makes that horse so special, anyway?”

“Since you've chosen to insult me, I do not believe I will tell you why.”

“Oh, bugger off. I don't even care.” But Eliza did care about getting out of this tent alive. Screaming would do little good. With the start of the race imminent, the din of the crowd grew almost deafening.

“You care about your father, however,” Sir Walter said. “I find that touching.”

Eliza's terror grew. Once they got rid of her, Fairweather and Brody would go after Dad again. She must stay alive long enough to tell the police about Sir Walter's ruthless plans.

“If you admire me so much, you'll leave him alone.”

“If things go as I suspect, Alfred will be so frightened that he will sell his shares straightaway. Just as Saxton has done.”

She looked around for a weapon. Her parasol had landed in a corner. Her gaze fell longingly on the bottles of champagne cooling in buckets. If only she could get her hands on one. “And what will frighten my father so much that he'd sell?”

Sir Walter looked rueful. “If I told you, then
you
would be frightened.”

Eliza's heart sank. “Fine. But how will you convince the Duchess to sell her shares if she's already turned you down?”

“Minerva has led a colorful life. Some episodes in her past are more colorful than others. But as unconventional as she is, I believe she will do anything to keep a few things hidden.”

Eliza tapped her foot, ready to jump out of her seat. “And Longhurst?”

“What about him? He poisoned me at the syndicate luncheon. And the police found the vial of poison in his pocket.”

“Except you planted it there. Must have been easy, too, seeing as how he sat right next to you the whole time. And then you brought along that ipecac syrup. Bloody convenient.”

Sir Walter laughed. “I must thank Professor Higgins for advising me to have it on hand the next time I met with the syndicate.” He shrugged. “Not that I took enough poison to do more than make me sick to my stomach. I was never in real danger.”

“But poor Gordon Longhurst is in danger now,” Eliza said.

“Indeed he is. I'm sure he'll have a date with the hangman before the year is out.”

Another man stepped into the tent. Without sparing a glance for her, he said to Sir Walter, “It's almost time.”

“Good. Tell Melling we'll get things started here.”

As his latest “racing associate” turned to go, Sir Walter fished around in his jacket pocket. The two other men watched the third fellow leave. It was now or never. Picking up her skirts so she wouldn't trip, Eliza darted around the table.

“We have no time for this.” Sir Walter pointed his walking stick. “Restrain her.”

Eliza grabbed a champagne bottle and threw it at the man with the striped hair. It hit him on the shoulder, and he howled. She grabbed another bottle while pushing on the tent wall with her other hand. Although staked to the ground, the structure tilted for a minute.

“Stupid chit!” The other fellow vaulted over the table.

She swung the bottle, but he grabbed her arm and twisted so hard she dropped it.

“Let go of me!”

“Keep her still,” Sir Walter ordered.

Suddenly both henchmen had tight hold of her. Kicking them had no effect. Eliza did manage one scream before they slammed her backward onto the banquet table. The blow knocked the wind out of her. As she struggled for breath, Keene pinched her nose shut. Eliza couldn't breathe at all now and gasped.

Sir Walter's face appeared above her. “Open wide, my dear.” He held up a vial.

Both men pinned her down while Sir Walter poured a sweet liquid into her mouth. She fought to spit it out, but he clamped her mouth shut with his hand. If only she could make herself choke—anything to prevent the liquid from going down her throat.

Her eyes welled with tears as she felt herself swallow. Held fast to the table, Eliza could only look up. Green and purple balloons floated above her. What a strangely festive sight for someone who had just been poisoned.

 

TWENTY-ONE

Eliza waited to die. She lay motionless on the table while the three men stared at her with worried faces. Was she in shock? Was the poison taking effect? When they realized she had stopped struggling, Sir Walter and his colleagues stepped back. Still she lay there, fighting for every shaky breath.

Why hadn't she followed Higgins's advice to Sir Walter? Since today's race included the syndicate members, she should have brought ipecac syrup herself. Not that they'd let her drink the antidote.

“It's done.” Sir Walter tucked the vial back into his suit coat pocket.

“You're a horrible man.” Her voice sounded weak.

He looked solemn. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Jack will find out the truth.” Eliza slowly pushed herself up onto her elbows. The white tablecloth beneath her was in wild disarray.

“No, he won't. As I said earlier, the Inspector is not as clever as you are.” When Sir Walter nodded, the two men helped her stand. In an oddly courteous gesture, Ingleby straightened Eliza's hat.

Relieved she remained upright even after they let go of her arms, Eliza blinked. “How soon before the poison kills me?”

“I chose a gentle poison for you, my dear,” Sir Walter said. “Death will not come for hours, and you'll feel no pain. But you will grow dizzy, disoriented. Your hearing and vision may be compromised. And this poison does cause paranoia. If you don't know what that means, be prepared for a surge of unreasonable fear.”

Eliza laughed bitterly. “Unreasonable fear? I've been held down and forced to drink poison. I think it's bloody reasonable to be afraid.”

“You're an extraordinary young woman. I truly regret having to do this.”

“I don't want to hear your regrets. Especially now.”

“Keene, do you have the flag?” Sir Walter asked.

The man with the striped hair held up a folded cloth. “Got it right here.”

“Good. Let's prepare her.”

Ingleby pulled her toward the tent entrance. Too shocked to resist, Eliza watched Keene hand the flag to Sir Walter, who unrolled it. It was the green, purple, and white flag of the WSPU.

Once again, the two men grabbed her arms. Sir Walter folded the cloth into a triangle. Wrapping the flag tightly about her waist, he took care to knot it twice. Eliza looked down in dismay. The flag covered half her skirt.