Move Your Blooming Corpse (13 page)

“She needs rescuing from the likes of you,” he snapped.

“Sybil, this is Jonathon Turnbull.”

“I am acquainted with Mr. Turnbull. Or at least the men he hires to break up our rallies.”

He snickered. “If women want to get involved in politics, they had best be prepared for a little roughhousing.”

“Really? I wasn't aware that men with clubs regularly invaded the halls of Parliament.”

“They might have to if females ever get the vote.”

Eliza held up her hand. “Let's not debate women's suffrage right now. I only wanted to ask about a rumor. The Professor and I just learned Harold Hewitt escaped.”

Turnbull looked shocked. “What the devil! That cannot be true.”

“I'm only repeating what the Duke of Waterbury told me.” Eliza turned to Sybil. “Since he heard it from suffragettes, I thought you might know more.”

Sybil took a deep breath. “Our organization leaders learned that Mr. Hewitt escaped shortly before dawn today.”

Turnbull whipped off his hat. “This is incompetence of the highest order. Are the police all drunkards and simpletons? How could they let that lunatic walk away? Everyone in Scotland Yard should be put in asylums themselves.”

“I don't know how you can blame Scotland Yard for Mr. Hewitt's escape,” Sybil said angrily. “Once committed to Claybury, he became the responsibility of the asylum officials. Or perhaps you believe the Metropolitan Police ought to stand guard at every mental hospital in the country!”

“They should certainly be guarding a man suspected of murder!” He looked disgusted. “That fanatic killed Miss Price. You're probably glad she's dead, aren't you? And don't pretend to be outraged. I know your leaders asked her to perform at one of your rallies. Diana naturally refused, and that put a target on her back.”

“Are you
quite
mad, Mr. Turnbull?”

“I am not mad, Miss Chase. But the man sent by your organization to kill her obviously is. And I wouldn't be at all surprised if the suffragettes are behind his escape.”

“But how would they get him out?” Eliza asked. “It would be most difficult for anyone to sneak a patient past the attendants.”

“I don't know how they did it. But these women are mad as hatters. Several of them are sure to be inmates there.”

“And what would we do with Mr. Hewitt once we set him free?” Sybil asked in an exasperated voice. “Have him speak at our public rallies? Send him to assassinate the Prime Minister? And men accuse
us
of being irrational and emotional. It might be best to give women the vote, and take it away from men.”

Eliza bit back a chuckle. “She has you there, mate.”

“You're both insufferable. I refuse to continue this absurd conversation.” Turnbull gave them a last scornful look before he stalked off.

Sybil held up one of the magazines. “Don't forget your copy of
The Suffragette
!” she shouted at his retreating figure.

Eliza laughed. “Garn, but you have more brass than that band playing by the river.”

“Because of men like him, we've formed a band of female bodyguards for protection.”

“Female bodyguards? I've never heard of such a thing.”

“Violence towards us is growing. The esteemed Mrs. Garrud has trained thirty women on how to use Indian clubs and the art of ju-jitsu. In our recent run-ins with the police, our Bodyguard came in quite handy.” Sybil leaned closer. “Don't tell Jack, but I almost joined them.”

Eliza looked at the petite young woman in surprise. Even with the suffragette sash across her dress, Sybil was the picture of a proper English lady. Closer inspection revealed a sunburnt nose and cheeks, as well as tousled brown curls coming loose from her chignon. She obviously did not spend hours each day fussing over fashion and face powder. Still, Sybil didn't seem robust enough to stand her ground against a burly policeman.

“Cor, but you might get hurt.”

“Don't worry. I decided against it, and not because of being manhandled by police. It would damage Jack's position at the Yard if his future wife was arrested for braining one of his men with an Indian club.” She winked. “If you like, I could teach you how to flip a brawny man over your shoulder without getting your skirt wrinkled.”

“What fun.” Eliza giggled at the thought of tossing Professor Higgins to the floor.

“I'll take you to our next rally. The Bodyguard are sure to attend.”

She glanced up. “Sybil, I think that gentleman by the lemonade vendor is Gordon Longhurst. Why in the world is Diana Price's husband at a boat race so soon after her death?”

“He looks very out of place,” Sybil said.

Indeed, Longhurst made a grim figure in his black suit, black gloves, black tie, and black hat. Eliza was surprised to see him in full mourning, something men rarely wore after the burial service. Because everyone else at the Henley Regatta sported bright summer colors or white linen, Longhurst seemed like an ominous raven amidst a flock of tropical birds.

He appeared oblivious to the curious stares directed his way. Instead, he gazed about as if searching for someone. The moment he spied Eliza, he hurried over.

“Thank goodness,” Longhurst said when he reached them. “I have been trying to find anyone connected to the Wrexham syndicate all morning.”

Eliza introduced Longhurst to Sybil, but he paid no attention to her.

“Miss Doolittle, Sir Walter sent a message last night inviting me to the luncheon meeting today. I was grateful to realize that neither I nor my poor wife had been forgotten. Diana may no longer be with us, but that is no reason to treat her as if she never existed. It comforts me that I can be here as Diana's representative.”

“Of course. But how can I help you?”

“Where are they meeting during the luncheon interval?”

Eliza pointed toward the Henley Bridge. “Walk past the fellow selling raspberry ices, then turn left at where the Hungarian band is playing. Then turn right at—”

“Can you take me there yourself?” He paused. “
Now
, if you would.”

Eliza shrugged at Sybil. “We'll speak about the rally later.”

As Sybil took off in the opposite direction, Eliza led Gordon Longhurst through the crowd. “Turnbull had best not say a single thing to me or I won't be able to control myself,” he muttered. “And the same goes for Saxton. At the funeral, he carried on like a figure from an Italian opera. I was mortified beyond belief. One nasty aside from either of them, and I fear we may come to blows.”

Eliza sighed. Higgins was right. This picnic might not be so carefree after all.

 

SEVEN

“What the devil is he doing here?” Lord Saxton muttered as he threw back another glass of claret. The Duchess of Carbrey sat on a cushioned bench beside him. Her expression seemed troubled.

“He's dressed like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.” Lady Tansy lounged on a pillow a few feet away. “All we need are some rattling chains.”

Eliza suspected everyone agreed with the Saxtons. When she arrived at the luncheon site with Longhurst, the syndicate members had looked as if she'd brought the Grim Reaper into their midst. The black-garbed widower made everyone uneasy. But not even the sad Mr. Longhurst could spoil Eliza's first fancy picnic.

Since the Saxtons had outfitted their Ascot private box and brought refreshments, it was now the Turnbulls who played host to the syndicate. Three of their servants—a maid, footman, and chauffeur—set up a lavish picnic. Tartan blankets were spread over the freshly mown grass, with large gold and navy pillows scattered on top of them. They'd provided benches for those who did not care to sit on the ground, but only the Duchess and Longhurst chose to use them. Everyone else sat or reclined on the blankets and pillows.

Wicker food hampers sat open in every corner, from which the servants pulled out an endless array of cold chicken pies, walnut and celery salad, Stilton cheeses, deviled turkey, curried eggs, potted pâtés, cucumber sandwiches, and more. Even better was the hamper of sweets. Eliza almost made herself ill from an excess of tea cakes, dates stuffed with ginger and nuts, pineapple ices, sugared berries, and tarts.

Claret, aerated water, lavender lemonade, and champagne quenched everyone's thirst. To keep the champagne chilled, bottles were wrapped in wet newspapers. A Primus stove heated water for tea beneath the nearby tree. But it seemed too warm a day for hot beverages, and only Jonathon Turnbull drank the tea that carried his family name. Despite the overcast sky, the air grew increasingly humid and still. A brief rain shower made everyone cry out. Once it stopped, the picnickers settled back to enjoy the lazy summer day.

At some point, Eliza exchanged happy looks with her father, who held a chicken pie in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. Rose leaned back against two pillows, her attention focused on her third pineapple ice. Eliza felt someone kiss the top of her head, and she looked up and gave Freddy her sunniest smile. With a contented sigh, she nestled against him.

Freddy had changed into an LRC blue and white striped blazer, which emphasized his dazzling blue eyes. But he still sported his white knee-length rowing shorts, allowing everyone a good look at his muscled legs. Lady Tansy, the Duchess, and Rachel Turnbull snuck appreciative glances his way. Even Dad looked like a proper swell in his straw boater, deep violet blazer, cream-colored trousers, and purple and green striped tie. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Rose, who wore a lilac dress boasting too many flounces.

This was the best luncheon Eliza had ever attended, and not only because of the food. To think she was an invited guest at the Henley Regatta! And not escorted by Professor Higgins or Colonel Pickering, either. She was especially proud that Dad and Freddy had invited her. Who would have dreamed her sweetheart or father had a legitimate reason to attend the Royal Ascot and the Henley Regatta.

And she couldn't imagine a prettier spot for a picnic. In every direction, she spied brightly colored blazers, picnickers laughing on the wide green lawn, brass bands, rose and blackberry bushes, regatta flags, and the countless punts, barges, canoes, and boats floating on the Thames. She sipped her lavender lemonade. Cor, it tasted better than champagne.

“I must say I envy you, Miss Doolittle.”

Eliza looked over in surprise at the Duchess. “Me? Whatever for?”

“You have the appetite of a dray horse, my girl,” she said with a laugh. “But you're as slim as the orchids Sir Walter grows in his greenhouse. If I ate a tenth of what you did for lunch, I'd be larger than my champion mares.”

Before Eliza could reply, her father chimed in. “My daughter gets it from me, she does. Doolittles don't run to fat. Glad I am of it now, seeing a feast like this.” He finished off his chicken pie with gusto, followed immediately by a loud belch.

“As I said, I envy you.” The Duchess raised a glass of claret in her direction. Eliza thought the older woman had a fine figure; her waist in the coral-hued gown was nearly as tiny as Lady Tansy's. Then again, the Duchess only nibbled at her food.

Eliza didn't explain that her slimness wasn't because of the Doolittle ancestors. Growing up, she often ate one meal a day, and a meager one at that. The year she turned eight, her father broke his leg and couldn't work at all. It was a bloody miracle they didn't starve. Now she was always hungry, especially for sweets, which she rarely got as a child. Poverty had left its mark on her; the result was a perennially slim figure. But years of gnawing hunger and desperation was a high price to pay for a wasp waist.

“I sympathize, Your Grace,” said Bomber Brody. He sat cross-legged between the pails of champagne and a small table holding a tea chest, pots of honey, sugar cubes, and lemons. “One tea cake can put me over the regulation weight and knock me out of a race.”

The dark-haired fellow was actually thinner than Eliza and taller than average for a jockey. She was a bit surprised Brody still raced, since he was well into his thirties. However, he looked younger than his years, with a raffish charm enhanced today by his emerald green blazer and white trousers. Certainly the buxom brunette he'd brought as his guest, a girl named Patsy, couldn't take her eyes off him.

“You can retire after our Dancer wins a few more times, Brody,” Eliza's father said. “With each race, the purse will grow. Your share as the winning jockey gets you closer to taking off those racing silks for good.”

Longhurst cleared his throat, and everyone turned in his direction. For the past hour he had not touched any of the food or drink at the luncheon, but only sat staring at the ground in silence. “Since the discussion has finally turned to racing, could we please get down to business? I believe this luncheon has gone on long enough.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Turnbull stood in front of a wide bramble bush, a teacup in his hand.

Turnbull's wife Rachel looked worried. “Jonathon, please.”

“Please what? This chap comes uninvited to our luncheon and then orders us about. The nerve of the fellow.”

“I invited him,” Sir Walter said sternly. “We have syndicate business to discuss, and it's fitting that he be here.”

“I'm not sure why,” the Duchess murmured. “This seems a bit odd.”

“As odd as Mr. Longhurst here.” Lord Saxton chuckled and sipped his glass of claret.

Eliza threw a nervous look at Freddy. The poor boy had only just met the syndicate members. He had no idea how unpleasant they could be.

“Please excuse us, Mr. Longhurst,” Rachel said in a quiet voice. “This picnic must seem rather frivolous considering your recent loss, but the business meeting was going to go forward regardless. My husband and I thought we should make it as pleasant as possible. Our staff shall remain at the site until the fireworks tonight, so you may stay as long as you like.”