Move Your Blooming Corpse (26 page)

“You should not make excuses for these wastrels,” Pickering said with a stubborn expression. “I see no reason to speak ill of the dead. I will not bring up Turnbull's many vices, but Saxton is alive and well. The gentlemen at my club say he has gambled away over half his inheritance. That makes a man desperate.”

“My dear Colonel, rich men have been gambling to excess since before the time of Nero,” Mrs. Higgins said. “It is not a rare occupation among the wealthy.”

“Exactly,” Minerva said. “And it grieves me to see how much Maitland drinks. Have you noticed his yellowish pallor? A sure sign jaundice is setting in. He'll be thirty-one next month, but at this rate he won't live to see forty. Such a handsome, likable fellow, too.”

“I say, this is really too much.” Pickering got to his feet. “Since I fear this conversation will only agitate me further, I must take my leave.” Before Mrs. Higgins could ring for Daisy to show him out, the Colonel bowed over their hands and departed.

“Does Maitland owe him money?” Minerva asked in bewilderment.

Mrs. Higgins hesitated. “I do not wish to betray a confidence, but during my past conversations with the Colonel, he has mentioned a family member with a drinking problem. That time in his life left painful memories, and little tolerance for such behavior now.”

Higgins turned and stared at his mother. “The man has been living under my roof at Wimpole Street for over a year, and I have not heard a word about any of this. When are the two of you having these confessional tête-à-têtes?”

She raised a haughty eyebrow. “Whenever you are not around.”

He felt a bit nervous. Was there some sort of clandestine romance between his mother and friend going on behind his back?

“Unless Colonel Pickering's drunken relative is a secret member of the syndicate, I see no reason to jabber on about it. Nor do I see any purpose in suspecting Lord Saxton.” Minerva sat back with a sigh, one hand stroking her necklace's amber pendant. “I've known Maitland and his family for years. He is not a vicious brute like Jonathon Turnbull. The poor fellow wanted to be a painter and spent his youth in Paris. But the Bohemian
artiste
had to make his way home to become a viscount. I heard he drank at university and in France. From all accounts the drinking worsened when he returned to England.”

Higgins wished Eliza were here. He knew she would be unable to hide her scorn. All this pity expressed over a privileged young man who had to leave off painting in order to become even richer and more privileged.

“I find him an unlikely suspect as well,” Higgins said. “It seems obvious he cared deeply about Diana Price. I cannot see him murdering her.”

“Goodness, no. I'd never seen Maitland so enthralled with any of his other showgirls, although I never understood why. Diana may have been pretty, but she was such a stupid creature. I felt a bit sorry for Maitland, watching how he mooned after that golden-haired simpleton. And he spent a fortune buying her furs and jewels. At times, they reminded me of a drunken version of Samson and Delilah.”

Higgins whirled so fast, he nearly tripped over the Persian carpet. His mother looked at him in dismay. “Whatever is wrong, Henry?”

“That's the Bible story Hewitt quoted when Eliza and I visited him at Claybury Asylum. Hewitt read the entire story from the Book of Judges.”

Minerva snorted. “Anyone who peppers their conversation with Bible verses usually wants to justify some bad behavior they committed—or plan to.”

Higgins paced between the fireplace and piano. “Eliza was right. Hewitt tried to tell us what he'd seen at Ascot. And the Delilah he referred to was Diana Price.”

“Diana looked like a harlot at Ascot in that green sequin dress,” Minerva said.

“Hewitt could have been in the stables when Diana was killed. Brody and a groom found him there early that morning and threw him out. But what if he went back? Maybe he wanted to find a hiding place before the Gold Cup started. Hewitt probably saw Diana Price's murder.”

Mrs. Higgins sighed. “If so, he took the secret with him when he escaped.”

“That he did,” Higgins said in frustration.

“Leaving us with the question of who is responsible for killing off the syndicate members,” Minerva said. “We can cross Maitland off our list of suspects. Oh, he drinks and gambles, but he's a good man. I don't even fault him for his affairs. That wife of his is a chilly piece of business.”

Mrs. Higgins frowned. “I'd be chilly myself if I was married off to a drunkard ten years my senior. A drunkard with a ruinous gambling habit and a penchant for greedy loose women.”

“Fair enough. But the girl must warm up enough to give him an heir and a spare. After that, she can spend what's left of his money while enjoying dalliances with men younger and more sober than her husband.”

“We are getting off the point.” Higgins wondered what sort of colorful conversations women had in his absence. “Saxton is not a likely suspect. Doolittle certainly isn't one. That leaves Sir Walter and Gordon Longhurst.”

“Yes, and Longhurst has what he wanted,” Minerva replied. “Maitland promised to sell him his shares of the Donegal Dancer.”

“What better way to eventually own the horse outright than by killing off the syndicate members one by one.” Higgins paused. “Or scaring them into selling. Which is exactly what led Saxton to sell.”

Minerva narrowed her eyes. “We ought to look closer at Sir Walter. When I visited White Flower Cottage, I was struck by the size of his estate. He attributes it to the money left by his late father. If so, the third Baronet of Horning was remarkably generous to his younger sons.”

“I met the Baronet twenty years ago, along with his Swedish wife,” Mrs. Higgins said. “They both seemed kind and level-headed. It doesn't surprise me that Sir Walter's father made certain to provide for all his children, not merely the firstborn.”

“Besides, why would an aging botanist start killing people?” Higgins asked. “For one thing, Sir Walter is much too old for such an ambitious series of murders. The fellow is sixty-two. He's fit for little more than afternoon naps and pottering about the garden.”

His mother and Minerva both shot him withering glances.

He raised his hand. “My apologies, but Sir Walter is not in debt, and his interest in horse racing appears almost cerebral. His true passion seems to lie in gardening. Now if someone were threatening to destroy his orchids, I've little doubt he'd beat the wretch to death with a rake.”

“Or poison them,” Minerva said. “Inspector Shaw said the poison that killed Turnbull was botanical. Who better than a botanist to prepare such a poison?”

“A doctor.” Higgins informed both women about Gordon Longhurst's medical education in Edinburgh. “Therefore, two people in the syndicate have expert knowledge of poisons.”

Minerva bit her lip. “Actually, there are three.”

“Who's the third?”

“Rachel Turnbull.” She shook her head at his skeptical expression. “Henry, really, how can you look so surprised? I know Rachel invited the pair of you to visit her shortly after the funeral. I assumed you asked inappropriate questions as you do of anyone you run across. If so, you would have learned her grandparents were perfumers.”

“She did mention she spent some years in France, helping to create scents.” Higgins smacked his head. “Of course. She created scents from flowers and oils! She'd have to know a great deal about plants and flowers to do that, including which ones were poisonous.”

“Exactly.”

Mrs. Higgins rang for the maid. “I find it distasteful that either of you suspects the widowed Mrs. Turnbull.”

Higgins waited until after Daisy had removed the tea tray. “Mother, it makes sense. The first victim was her husband's mistress. The second was her philandering husband.”

“And the third murder attempt was directed at a former Cockney dustman,” Mrs. Higgins said sharply. “Where was the motive for her to kill him? Or have you forgotten that once her husband died, Rachel was no longer a legal owner of the Donegal Dancer? At least not according to the syndicate contract, which you have described to me in exhausting detail.”

Damnation. Higgins flung himself down on the nearest chair so hard, the legs creaked.

“If you break my Chippendale, I may be driven to murder as well,” Mrs. Higgins warned.

“Then Rachel Turnbull is not a suspect,” he said finally.

“Oh, I think she is.” Minerva wore an uneasy expression. “Since April, I have seen Gordon Longhurst and Rachel together in London. Three times.”

Startled, Higgins straightened up. “Where?”

“I spotted them at Harrods during the last week of April. They were at the glove counter and seemed most companionable. At the time, I assumed they'd run into each other accidentally. I was on the way to an appointment and never stopped to greet them. I didn't think much about it until I saw them a second time.”

“When was that?”

“Right before the Epsom Derby in June. I went with a friend to the National Portrait Gallery. There was an exhibit he was very keen to see.”

Higgins and his mother exchanged amused glances. It was common knowledge the sixty-year-old Minerva was romantically involved with an art gallery owner from America. Said to be both handsome and erudite, Ambrose Farrow was also her junior by nearly thirty years.

“So you saw Longhurst and Rachel at the museum?” Higgins asked.

“They were arm in arm. And pressed so close together, it left little room for daylight. This time I deliberately avoided them, but followed at a distance to satisfy my curiosity. I observed no clandestine kisses or furtive embraces. However, they seemed most content in each other's company.”

“Why shouldn't they be friends?” Mrs. Higgins protested. “After all, Rachel's husband was off rendezvousing with Longhurst's wife. I don't wonder they became allies.”

“You said you saw them three times.” Higgins leaned forward. He was interested in these sightings, even if his mother wasn't happy to hear about them. “When was the third time you saw them together?”

Minerva raised an eyebrow at him. “Yesterday morning.”

He hadn't expected that. “Where?”

“Hyde Park. I go riding there on Sunday mornings when I'm in London. My friend Mr. Farrow is a fine horseman, and we often ride together. Since there was a light rain yesterday, I knew there would be fewer pedestrians. That suited me. It meant I could gallop now and again without fear of running over any tourists gawking at the deer.”

“But you saw Rachel Turnbull and Longhurst?”

“Yes, from a distance at first. They were too far away for me to identify them. I did note that the woman was dressed entirely in mourning.”

“How do you know it was Rachel?” Mrs. Higgins asked.

“Mr. Farrow and I had ridden close to where the couple stood. But they were deep in conversation, and no doubt thought they enjoyed a private moment. Suddenly a deer darted from the shrubbery and ran across our path. We reined in the horses. Just as we were about to ride on again, the couple turned. I recognized Rachel instantly. Then the gentleman took off his hat, leaving no doubt it was Longhurst.”

Higgins held out his hands. “That's it?”

“No. They exchanged a most passionate kiss. Afterwards, they embraced, both of them oblivious to the rain or to any riders on the horse path.”

He let out a low whistle. “Rachel and Longhurst are lovers, then.”

“It would appear so,” Minerva said. “I would never have said anything, because I didn't see how it could be connected to the murders. After all, the two of them certainly deserve some happiness after their dreadful marriages.”

“That is the first thing you have said I agree with.” Although his mother wore a sand-colored lace dress, Higgins thought she only needed a white bench wig and scarlet robe to complete her impression of a stern judge. “Neither Rachel Turnbull nor Mr. Longhurst has ever had a word of gossip spread about them, except in connection with their morally bankrupt spouses. If they have found comfort in each other's arms, I applaud them.”

“Mother, they are murder suspects.”

“More than once, I have run across Rachel at a soiree or tea. And try as she might to conceal her bruises, I could see the marks left by that brute of a husband. And everyone in society knew he forced her to ride on a foxhunt when she was five months with child. I think he did it deliberately, knowing she might fall and lose the baby. Which she did.”

“No one blames her for wanting Jonathon dead,” Minerva said. “To be frank, if either of my husbands had treated me like that, I would have run them down with my fiercest stallion. And then dragged them behind me until the very flesh was scraped off their worthless bones.”

“Remind me to never get on your bad side,” Higgins muttered.

“If the law won't protect women, they'd best learn how to protect themselves,” she said with feeling. “It's why I have given so much of my time and money to the cause of women's suffrage. But the vote won't stop wives from being abused by their husbands. Not if they don't fight back, or publicly expose them.”

“Perhaps Rachel did fight back, along with the assistance of Gordon Longhurst,” Higgins said. “I know she is being hounded by creditors. If her financial situation is that dire, acquiring a champion racehorse might look like salvation.”

“I don't believe it.” His mother stared back at him.

“But someone involved with the syndicate is the murderer. Who, then?” Minerva asked.

His mother sighed. “Why not that Brody fellow? The jockey.”

Minerva shook her head. “Jockeys are barred from racing if they own a racehorse. No matter how many syndicate members die, Brody cannot own the Donegal Dancer. I doubt he cares. Brody won the St. Leger Stakes when he was only seventeen and became a racing hero at twenty with a stunning upset at the Derby. The prize money from his winning mounts has been considerable. I heard he recently bought a flat here in Chelsea. Quite a big one, too.”