Move Your Blooming Corpse (2 page)

“Alfie!”

“Better get hopping. Don't want the missus to be making a scene, now do we? She's already been in the champagne and we ain't even started to celebrate the Donegal Dancer's victory—which is as sure as coal dust in Newcastle.”

Doolittle stepped nimbly through the crowd, tipping his hat to every other person in the paddock. “I declare, the fellow must know more people here than the jockey Fred Archer,” Higgins said to Pickering. “Bold as a pirate, and charming into the bargain.”

“I wish he had discretion as well as charm. How could he join a racing syndicate with Saxton and Turnbull? Half of London won't accept Saxton into their homes, and the other half has barred Turnbull. I've made certain to sit in the back of the viewing box so as not to be seen.”

“At least you have Sir Walter for company.”

Sir Walter Fairweather was Senior Steward of the Jockey Club and an old acquaintance of the Colonel. He was also another person who owned a share of the Donegal Dancer.

“Thank heaven for Fairweather. At least he's a decent chap. But his only interests are horses and gardening. And I would have thought he had more sense than to get involved with men such as Saxton and Turnbull.” Despite the Colonel's scholarly honors and military exploits, he was still shocked by other people's bad behavior. His naïveté sometimes amazed Higgins.

“Pick, these people are part of the racing world, not the Cathedral Choir at Christ Church. Doolittle could never have acquired or maintained a racehorse on his own, so he went to people who had money and credit.”

“Bad credit, you mean.” Pickering frowned. “Doolittle's right about one thing. The next race is about to start, and Eliza expects us to watch it with her. But I do wish she hadn't placed so large a bet. She has five guineas on the Donegal Dancer.”

Higgins winced. “By George, the girl is mad. That's everything she's managed to save up. At this rate, she'll fall into debt before her father does.”

“I couldn't talk her out of it. Anyway, we'd best go. Your mother asked us to join her in the Royal Enclosure, but I already promised Eliza.”

“You go on ahead. I heard an interesting turn of phrase nearby that I want to jot down.”

“Very well. But if you don't make it on time, I will leave it to you to explain it to Eliza.” With a last warning look, Pickering made his way out of the sun-dappled paddock.

Once he left, Higgins sidled up to a bald fellow in a rumpled suit deep in conversation with one of the jockeys. He quickly wrote down their words. Too soon the pair walked off. As Higgins headed for Lord Saxton's private box, he spotted a tall, middle-aged man a few feet away. He was also writing in a small notebook. Could he be a fellow scholar?

“Excuse me, sir. Are you a student of languages?” Higgins asked.

The scribbler looked up, his eyes wide with alarm. “Are you speaking to me?”

“Yes.” Higgins held up his own notebook. “I wondered if you were copying down speech patterns as I was.”

The man quickly closed his leather-bound book. “Not that it is any of your concern, but I was recording my impressions of the day.”

“A journalist, then?” Higgins eyed the fellow's gray Norfolk jacket. While his suit was well made and expensive, it didn't compare to the morning coats and tailored suits of the wealthier racing fans. Higgins wished he had dressed more casually today as well. Against his better judgment, Higgins had worn formal dress to Ascot, something he rarely did. He couldn't wait to take off his blasted morning coat and top hat once he returned to Wimpole Street.

“Certainly not. Journalism is a dreadful profession.” His eyes shifted from side to side as if he expected someone to disapprove of him speaking with Higgins. “I always carry a diary and Bible with me. This way I can never forget God's teaching.” His voice lowered. “Or important occasions which should be commemorated.”

“I only come to hear people's speech patterns. I've no interest in horse racing.”

“Oh, I am not a fan of racing either.” He looked offended at the very idea. “It is a foolish and dangerous endeavor. Nor do I approve of the greedy, thoughtless people who come to watch. If there is a more despicable place than a racecourse, I have yet to find it.”

“If that's how you feel, it seems a fine waste of a train trip and an entrance ticket,” Higgins said. The man stared back at him with a mournful expression. Could there be anyone duller than a sanctimonious fellow with no sense of humor? “I haven't introduced myself. I'm Professor Henry Higgins.”

The man looked at Higgins's outstretched hand for an uncomfortable moment before giving it a brief shake. “Harold Hewitt.”

Higgins grinned. “We have the same initials. In fact, you seem to have a preponderance of ‘h's in your life, seeing how you come from Herefordshire. Even more remarkable, you also attended Harrow.”

He stiffened. “Whoever told you that?”

“It's my job to identify where a person comes from after hearing them speak. Your intonations reveal you to be a native of Herefordshire. And you pronounce ‘commemorated' as a student at Harrow would, or at least a student who was taught linguistics by Nigel Uppington.” Higgins cocked his head. “But I hear a bit of London in your speech, too. You currently live in the city. Perhaps the vicinity of Chelsea.”

Hewitt took a step back. “I find you rather presumptuous, Professor. If you will excuse me.” He bent down and opened a black satchel that sat at his feet. As Hewitt stuffed the diary into the bag, Higgins caught a quick glimpse of the contents.

This time, Higgins stepped back in alarm. Before he could think what to say, Hewitt gave him a curt nod and marched off, satchel in hand.

With growing unease, Higgins watched the man disappear among the noisy throng in the paddock. The next race was imminent, and the very air crackled with excitement. Higgins tried to catch sight of Hewitt again but failed. Everyone now pressed forward toward the track. He had little choice but to move with the crowd.

Better find a policeman or a racing official as soon as possible. But surrounded on all sides by excited racing fans, he couldn't glimpse a single police uniform among all the morning coats and feathered hats.

Someone grabbed his sleeve. “Here you are.”

Eliza Doolittle looked resplendent in a summer ensemble of palest yellow. When he and Pickering took her on as a student last year, the Colonel replaced her few ragged dresses with a wardrobe fit for a duchess. Higgins thought Pickering spent far too much money on ensuring that Eliza was the best-dressed woman in the room. Today was no different. Her stylish gown, covered in scalloped embroidery, was as delicate as fairy dust in contrast to the large belted bow at her waist. And Higgins couldn't help but marvel at her enormous hat crowned with gigantic yellow satin roses. Tilted at an exaggerated angle on her head, it blocked his view of anyone else in the paddock.

“Honestly, Professor, I can't believe you're still dawdling in the paddock. Not that I wouldn't mind staying here myself. I don't fancy some of my dad's partners or their wives. And I hate my own dad's wife. But if I have to suffer through their company, so should you.”

“I don't know why I should suffer.”

“You're the one responsible for getting my father the annuity. Without that, he'd be throwing back a pint in Whitechapel right now. And Rose wouldn't be wearing a wedding ring on her fat greedy finger.”

Higgins groaned. Once Eliza began to complain about her stepmother, there was no stopping her. “Isn't your cousin Jack here today? In an official capacity, I mean.” Jack Shaw was not only Eliza's cousin, he was a detective inspector at Scotland Yard.

“I saw him about an hour ago. He's worried about another incident like what happened at the Derby two weeks ago. There are police everywhere.”

“Where? Can you point them out?”

Eliza leaned on her parasol and scanned the crowd milling about them. “There are too many spectators in the paddock. I can't get a good view, especially with all these hats.”

“They're off!” someone yelled.

“Blimey! We can't miss the race!” Grabbing his arm, Eliza dragged Higgins through the pressing throng. She didn't let go until she'd pushed her way to a fenced-in area of the paddock. Aware of the grumbling at her intrusion, Eliza gave them her sunniest smile. “Please excuse me, but my father's horse is running in this race. Wish me luck.”

Several displaced gentlemen did just that. Higgins wasn't surprised. Although he was usually indifferent to feminine charm, most men considered Eliza a lovely young woman. And in her form-fitting yellow dress, eye-catching hat, and coiffed chestnut hair she seemed as ethereal as a woodland sprite. Of course, they hadn't heard the Cockney cabbage let loose with any of her favorite East End phrases.

“Here they come!”

Eliza leaned over the paddock fence. The summer breeze lifted up the long ribbons on her hat and set them sailing behind her. Higgins resigned himself to watching the race. He wouldn't be able to get a policeman's attention with all eyes on the horses thundering down the track.

The roar of the crowd grew with each passing minute. The only empty space in all of Ascot was the dirt track stretching ahead of the horses. Fans lined up ten deep along the course, and the stands were packed with people. Higgins squinted at the horses making the far turn, trying to spot a reddish-brown colt with a black mane and tail. The sun was so bright, he tipped his top hat over his eyes to see better. He was grateful for the Donegal Dancer's bold racing colors; the jockey's bright green jacket with purple sleeves made the pair easy to spot.

“C'mon, Bomber Brody! Give the Dancer his head!” Eliza jumped up and down.

Higgins heard the pounding of the hooves as the straining horses drew near.

Eliza let out a delighted scream. “He's pulling up to the lead! Do you see? Dancer is almost in first. Blimey!”

Higgins felt his heart race as the horses barreled down the course toward them. Maybe he should have put a guinea on the Donegal Dancer.

The crowd lunged against the railing. Higgins had to push a few people back or find himself squashed. He looked over to see if Eliza was unharmed. Good grief, she'd climbed onto the fence. Leaning over, Eliza pounded the railing with her parasol.

“Go, Dancer! Go faster, you bloody marvel!”

Higgins moved closer. “Watch your language, Eliza. Remember you're a lady.”

The din rose to deafening levels when the horses rounded the turn. Then the traditional Ascot bell rang for the final stretch.

“Ride, Bomber! Ride!” Eliza beat her parasol to shreds.

Even Higgins got caught up in the excitement as the horses thundered past. “Go, Dancer!”

Eliza leaned so far over, Higgins grabbed the large bow on her sash to keep her from falling. “Move that blooming horse, Bomber!” she yelled.

A frenzied moment later, the Donegal Dancer crossed the finish line a nose ahead of the black gelding. As the crowd roared, Eliza threw herself into his arms.

“I love that horse! He's faster than lightning, he is. And I love the races!”

Laughing, Higgins set her down. “Does this mean you'll be spending all your free time now at the racecourse, rather than the cinema?”

“Don't be daft. I put five guineas on that animal.” Eliza lifted her parasol. The silk was torn to pieces and the handle almost sheared in half. “Good thing, too. I'll need to use some of my winnings to buy a new parasol.” With a shrug, she tossed it aside.

When Higgins offered her his arm, she tucked in her hand with a delighted sigh. “Wasn't that the most wonderful thing you've ever seen? Dad must be dancing a jig right now.”

“And so he should. It seems your father knows something about horses after all. That, or he's damnably lucky. But now that the race is over, help me find a policeman.”

Eliza looked perplexed. “Whatever for?”

“Right before the race, I exchanged a few words with a man carrying a leather satchel. When he opened it up, I got a peek at the contents. And I didn't like what I saw.”

She stopped walking. “What was inside?”

“Books, a small flag.” Higgins frowned. “And a gun.”

 

TWO

“Someone should take that bottle away.” Eliza laughed as her gleeful father sprayed everyone with a magnum of champagne. “He'll drench the Prime Minister next.”

Wet stains now marked her expensive new dress, but she didn't mind. Such a glorious victory—and the money she won with her bet—was well worth a ruined French gown. And how lovely to be at the center of it all: the parade ring at Ascot. With the attention of the racing world focused on them, Eliza felt as thrilled as if she were the winning horse.

As for the victorious colt, the owners circled the Donegal Dancer. His damp neck wreathed with flowers, the racehorse's deep red coat gleamed like mahogany against the jet-black of his mane and tail. At some point Eliza kissed the horse's nose, a moment caught on film by a newspaper photographer. When more reporters crowded in, Eliza finally stepped back. She grabbed a glass of champagne and offered it to the jubilant jockey, who sat astride his winning mount.

“A toast to Bomber Brody!” she said, raising her own glass high.

How fortunate that one of the horse's owners was Maitland Louis Wyngarde, 12th Viscount of Saxton. Not only had Lord Saxton outfitted his private viewing box as if it were a salon, he had brought footmen to the race. Several of them now served champagne to the owners and their families. The rest of the crowd watched with envy.

Higgins refused the footman's offer of a champagne flute. “Eliza, you've danced with your father, kissed the horse, and asked a dozen bookmakers about the size of your winnings. Now please help me find a policeman so I can report the man with the gun.”