Move Your Blooming Corpse (19 page)

“I'll never look at the flowers in Covent Garden the same way again,” Eliza said.

“Nonsense. Nothing is more exquisite than a flower. You must simply take care not to eat any of them, at least until you have consulted with me.” Sir Walter gave her a wink.

“You've confirmed what I told my friends earlier,” Higgins said as they approached the back terrace. “No one at the picnic possessed as much knowledge about plants and poisons as you, Sir Walter.”

The older gentleman smiled. “Does that mean you believe I murdered Mr. Turnbull?”

Higgins stood his ground. “Did you?”

“I say, Henry, what a deuced rude thing to ask,” Pickering protested.

But Sir Walter seemed amused. “I was not the only person at the regatta picnic who had a clinical knowledge of poisons and their chemical properties.”

Higgins and Eliza looked at each other in surprise. “Who?” she asked.

“Why, Gordon Longhurst, of course.”

“Longhurst?” Higgins asked in disbelief. “I knew his late father. He presided over one of the oldest firms on the London Stock Exchange. And I recall when his son joined the family business. Like his father, Gordon is a stockbroker and investment banker. What do bankers know of chemistry and poisons?”

“Probably nothing, but young men with medical degrees certainly do. Gordon Longhurst graduated with a medical degree from the University of Edinburgh.”

“Excuse me, Sir Walter, but Diana Price told us at Ascot that her husband was a runner when he was at Cambridge,” Eliza said. “You must be mistaken.”

“True. Longhurst graduated from Cambridge, but he started his medical studies at Edinburgh soon after. During my last year as professor there, Longhurst was in my Plant Pathology course. My best student, I might add, which is why I remember him. He was quite worried that his father would stop paying for his medical education. It seems Longhurst Senior had no wish for a doctor in the family.”

“If he graduated with a medical degree, then his father did pay for the rest of his schooling in Edinburgh,” Pickering said.

“Indeed. I happened to be at his graduation several years later to receive an award from the university. I assumed he went on to become a doctor, until I read in the papers about Gaiety Girl Diana Price marrying stockbroker Gordon Longhurst. This past spring, Turnbull brought Diana into the syndicate, but I didn't meet Longhurst again until Ascot. So much happened that day, we had no time for a real conversation.” He frowned. “Poor fellow. Such a waste of a fine scientific mind. Coupled with a disastrous marriage.”

“This doesn't look good for Mr. Longhurst,” murmured Eliza.

“Motive, opportunity, and an expert knowledge of poisons,” Higgins agreed. “If Jack doesn't know about Longhurst's medical background, we had best tell him.”

“If it was Longhurst, I would be most interested in learning how he poisoned Turnbull,” Sir Walter said. “I haven't been able to figure it out.”

Higgins put his hand on the older man's shoulder. “I was being quite serious before. The next time you meet with any racing syndicate members, be on your guard. Never wander off alone. And bring that ipecac syrup, just in case.”

“Don't see the need, Professor. As I said, who would want to kill me?”

“I'm sure Diana Price and Jonathon Turnbull thought the same thing,” Higgins said in a grim voice. “Now they're both lying dead in a graveyard.”

 

ELEVEN

Higgins would never understand the Doolittles. He'd known Eliza over a year, and every time she and her father met, they spent the time arguing. But after Jack warned that Alfred might be a potential murder victim, she'd become unbalanced in her display of filial devotion. Last evening Eliza had invited her dad to Wimpole Street for dinner in order to watch over him. To prove how worried she was, Eliza even included her stepmother in the invitation. A decision that bordered on madness.

His ears still rang from the awful racket during dinner. Pickering never made it past the soup course. Right before Mrs. Pearce brought in the lamb cutlets, the Colonel uttered an excuse about meeting someone at the club and fled, a napkin still clutched in his hand. Higgins wrote down a few Irish and Cockney curses he hadn't heard before, so the evening wasn't a total waste. But he was not prepared to spend another day guarding Alfred.

Salvation seemed to arrive at breakfast when a black-bordered card was delivered from Rachel Turnbull. She requested that both Eliza and Higgins call on her that afternoon. An intriguing prospect, since neither he nor Eliza had any idea what the widow of Jonathon Turnbull wished to discuss. But if Higgins thought he would be spared having to fret over Alfred Doolittle, he was sorely mistaken.

Although the Turnbull residence was in Knightsbridge's Rutland Gate, Eliza believed it made perfect sense to stop along the way at her father's house in Pimlico.

“Why not swing by Salisbury as well?” Higgins asked when they exited the tube station. “Fine day to see Stonehenge, don't you think?”

“Oh, it isn't
that
out of our way,” Eliza said. “We've got a good three hours before we have to meet Rachel. There's no reason we can't stop by and check on Dad.”

“If I must spend the next three hours with your family, start looking for some oleander or nightshade to eat. Because that would be a damned sight more enjoyable than listening to your Madame Defarge of a stepmother.”

Eliza climbed the porch steps of the house where Alfred and Rose now lived. She lifted the doorknocker shaped like a horse's head. “I don't know why you keep calling her that. You know her name is Rose Cleary Doolittle.”

“To me, she will always be Madame Defarge,” Higgins said with mock seriousness.

After Eliza knocked ten times, the door swung open at last. Higgins was surprised to see Rose Doolittle glaring at them. Alfred's three thousand pounds a year was more than enough to pay for a servant or two. Obviously Eliza felt the same.

“Why are you answering the door?” she asked. “What happened to the maid?”

“Upstairs putting out the blasted fire.” Rose looked like she was on fire herself, freckled cheeks aflame and red hair wildly askew from its pins.

“Fire?” Higgins cast an alarmed look at the upper floors. “Have you called the brigade?”

Rose smirked. “Now what would I be needing the fire brigade for? All they'd be good for is tramping over my new carpet, and soaking the drapes and coverlet in the bedroom.”

“Is the whole house on fire?” Eliza peered over Rose's shoulder, but she moved to block her view.

“Just the bedroom,” Rose said as if such things happened every day. “My brother's youngest was playing with a box of cigars and matches. The little devil wanted his morning smoke, but set the bed on fire instead.”

Eliza looked shocked. “You mean Danny? The boy's only eight.”

“What if he is? The child likes a cigar now and then, and if his dad and ma don't mind, it's no concern of yours.”

“If he keeps this up, it may be the fire department's business,” Higgins warned.

“Now see here, Rose,” Eliza said. “You've got about twenty relatives living here, some of them even younger than Danny. If there's any danger of the fire spreading, you have to get everyone out now. And if you don't, I'll call the brigade myself.”

Rose crossed her arms. “Don't you be telling me what to do in me own house.”

Eliza tried to push her aside, but the older woman was as immovable as a brick chimney. “Dad! Dad, it's Eliza! Are you all right?”

“Your dad ain't here right now. Now back off, or I'll be throwing your arse right into the street, I will!”

Since fisticuffs seemed imminent, Higgins took Eliza by the elbow to hold her back. “Mrs. Doolittle, is everyone in the bedroom safe?”

“'Course they are. I told ya, the maid went up there and put the fire out. But there's a right mess to clean up, and I don't have time to be wasting on the sorry likes of you.”

“Blooming witch,” Eliza said, her eyes flashing with anger. “Where is my father? I need to talk with him.”

“For the last time, he ain't here.” Rose looked down her nose at them and said airily, “He's at a business meeting.”

“With the Wrexham syndicate?” Higgins grew worried.

“Whenever Dad says he's going to a business meeting, that means he went to the pub.” She took another step toward Rose. “Which one is he at?”

Rose sniffed. “The Hand and Shears. Not that he'll be any happier to see you.”

“You're such a rude cow.”

Higgins pulled Eliza off the porch. “Time to go.”

“And you'd better keep those children in your house safe!” Eliza shouted as Higgins dragged her away. “Bad enough they're learning manners from you, like never taking a bath and eating biscuits with their feet!”

Rose slammed the door so hard, all the windows rattled.

By the time they reached the Hand and Shears in Smithfield, Higgins was in desperate need of a pint. By Jupiter, these Doolittles were exhausting. Eliza hadn't stopped railing against her stepmother since they left Pimlico. He prayed she'd lose her voice soon.

“I can't believe out of all the so-called stepmothers I've had, that's the one he finally marries,” she fumed. Higgins held open one of the curved pub doors. “I swear, I'd rather see him in prison than tied to the likes of her. It would be quieter in prison. And now that's he's got money, she'll never leave him. Oh, she has her claws in him now.”

“Eliza, cease this babbling or I shall throw you in front of a double-decker bus.”

When they entered the small pub, Higgins inhaled the delicious smell of fish and chips. Ale, too. A dartboard hung on a matchboard wall, and there seemed to be more than one bar area. Since it was noon, the pub was filled with people. At least a half dozen were women, but the ladies all sat at tables along the wall. He and Eliza pushed through the crowd and spied Alfred Doolittle with two men at the polished wooden bar.

When Doolittle saw them, he broke out in a wide grin. “Lizzie, my girl. What are you and the governor doing here?” He waved at them. “Come join us.”

His two companions looked like they had been drinking since dawn. One of them quietly sang the old sea shanty “Hanging Johnny” under his breath.

“The Professor and I can't stay.” Eliza pointed toward a small adjacent room with tables. “But we need to have a few words with you in private.”

Higgins was grateful when her father rose with a grunt. No doubt Alfred had downed a few pints already. He was in his shirtsleeves, with one suspender hanging off his shoulder. Plus his eyes looked red. However, he acted as clearheaded and sharp as ever.

“Can I be getting you a drink, governor?”

“I wouldn't mind a pint.” Higgins noticed that Eliza looked over at him with disapproval. “It promises to be a brutally long day.”

Doolittle waved at a barmaid who walked past, her hands filled with empty glass mugs. “Ellen, the Professor here will have a pint of Robinson's Old Tom.” He sat down at the table next to Eliza. “Now what brings the two of you to the Hand and Shears? I'm betting it's not for the fine ale and conversation.”

“Dad, I told you last night that Jack and I are worried about you. These murders may be connected to the Donegal Dancer. Every owner of the horse is in danger.”

“And what do you want me to do about it? Hide under the bed until Scotland Yard finds the killer?” He sipped his ale. “It's like I said yesterday at dinner. Diana and Turnbull were killed because they was fiddling around and didn't care who knew it. I'd bet a year's worth of pub bills that either Diana's husband or Turnbull's wife did them in. Let me tell you, if I got caught foolin' around, Rose would put a knife through me heart before I got past the front door.”

“I'm sure she would,” Eliza said in a grim voice. “However, it is possible Turnbull and Diana were murdered over the horse. You need to be extra careful.”

“I'm always careful. I didn't spend all those years in the East End without knowing how to look after myself.”

“Please stay home for a while. And don't let any strangers in the house.”

Doolittle slammed his glass down, splashing ale onto the table. “Are you daft? Every day another relative of Rose's comes knocking on my door, suitcase in one hand and a bawling child in the other. I tell you, there's no peace to be found in that fancy house I bought. See what money and respectability has done to me? Killed my free and easy ways. Now I got to take care of every Cleary that loses their job, and that's the whole lot of 'em! A sad day it is when a man is forced to become responsible for other people.”

Higgins took pity on Eliza. “Alfred, be careful whenever you're around any of the racing syndicate members.” The barmaid set down a glass of ale before him. “Since you probably won't see them until the Eclipse Stakes next week, you should be safe until then.”

“Oh, I'm seeing them all before that,” Doolittle said. “Tomorrow, in fact.”

“What do you mean?” Eliza asked. “It's not time for another syndicate meeting.”

“No, but we all talked after Turnbull's funeral and decided to check out the security measures at the Windsor farm what stables the Donegal Dancer. With the Eclipse Stakes set for next Friday, we can't risk any thieves making off with our colt.”

Eliza shook her head. “Absolutely not. You can't go to the farm tomorrow. It's too dangerous.”

“I'm going, Lizzie, and don't you be trying to stop me. There's never been a Doolittle born who can be talked out of doing a fool thing once they've set their mind to it.”

“Amen to that,” Higgins muttered.

“Can't you go to the farm on Sunday? If you go then, I can come along and keep an eye on things.”