Move Your Blooming Corpse (28 page)

Eliza's feet ached from hours of wandering through the store. And she worried Lady Tansy's cousin might prove as talkative. But Lord Ashmore was a quiet, soft-spoken gentleman. He fielded questions about his Army career, the Indian subcontinent, and Banfield Manor with a hint of nervousness, which Eliza found endearing. It proved he was as anxious about this meeting as Clara. While the others conversed, Eliza enjoyed a fine Darjeeling tea and lemon chicken cutlets over savory rice. Her flagging spirits revived when their waiter brought custard tarts with fresh raspberries for dessert.

“Does your family hail from Eynsford, perchance?” Lord Ashmore asked Clara. “It's a small village southeast of Swanley.”

“I-I'm afraid I don't know.”

“There was a Norman castle built there in 1088, but it was ransacked in the fourteenth century. The Ashmores are great lovers of history, you know. In fact, both my father and grandfather funded archaeological excavations in Asia Minor and India. We have quite an extensive antiquities collection at Banfield Manor. Perhaps you would like to see it one day.”

“I would be honored, Your Grace.” Clara batted her eyelashes at him.

He touched her hand. “Call me Richard, please. I'm not accustomed to any title save that of Captain. Until this moment, I didn't realize how much I missed England. My years in India caused me to forget how beautiful my countrywomen are.”

“Thank you, Your—Richard,” Clara said, blushing pinker.

“How is the Dowager Baroness?” Lady Tansy asked. “I haven't seen your mother at any London dinner parties or charity functions this season.”

“I assume Mother is fine. We take care not to spend too much time together.”

Lord Ashmore's terse answer and quick change of subject spoke volumes about possible family troubles. Eliza wondered if his mother had been shocked by the deaths of her older sons and had not yet recovered. Or was she disappointed that her youngest, and perhaps not her favorite, child would become the 5th Baron Ashmore?

“Tell me about your family, Miss Eynsford Hill.”

“Clara, please.” She giggled. “I have a mother and older brother.”

“Splendid. Tell me all about them, your home, your childhood, everything.”

Pleased by Lord Ashmore's manners and good nature, Eliza sensed Clara might be a perfect match for him. He seemed taken with her modern “small talk,” copied from Eliza, of course. Thank goodness he was a cut above the rest of the men Lady Tansy had thrown Clara's way. And he clearly wanted a wife.

Eliza hoped Clara allowed herself enough time to become acquainted with Lord Ashmore before doing anything rash. The girl so wanted a ring on her finger. Eliza must ask Mrs. Higgins what she knew about the Ashmore family. For the sake of Clara's future happiness, it wouldn't hurt to make a few discreet inquiries.

She was puzzled that Lord Ashmore seemed keen on marrying someone who might not measure up to his mother's aristocratic standards. He was young, attractive, and agreeable. Add his title to that, and it was a wonder half the debutantes in London weren't chasing after him. Yet he seemed genuinely delighted by Clara. Not that Clara wasn't a pretty young woman. But she had no dowry, and her family tree was bare of any titles or distinguished ancestors. The fact that Richard agreed to this meeting at all was astonishing. Why wasn't he pursuing the daughter of a fellow lord, or a rich American heiress?

Still, they seemed to hit it off. It touched Eliza's heart to see how after an hour's conversation, they already teased each other and laughed at the same silly jokes. This might be a match made in heaven, even if it was the sardonic Lady Tansy who engineered it.

He whispered something in Clara's ear, which sent her into a gale of giggles. Eliza finished her tea, while Lady Tansy turned sideways to greet a friend at the nearest table.

“Miss Doolittle? May I have a private word with you?”

Startled, Eliza looked up to see Gordon Longhurst. “Excuse me?”

“I've been following you all day.”

She drew back in alarm. “Why are you following me?”

“Please, I must speak with you. It's urgent.”

Lord Ashmore and Clara had fallen silent and sat listening. Lady Tansy looked uneasy. Eliza had misgivings as well, but she had questions for Mr. Longhurst, too. This might be the best time to get answers.

She stood. “I am not leaving this restaurant, Mr. Longhurst.”

“I am not asking you to. Join me at that table by the window.” Longhurst gently took her elbow. “Everyone will be able to see you there.”

After they walked to the window table, Eliza quickly sat down. Longhurst settled himself in the opposite chair. “Apparently you don't trust me.”

“Don't know why I should, given what happened to my father at the stables.”

“I had nothing to do with that.” Longhurst's voice grew as hard as steel. “I know your cousin is Detective Inspector Shaw. Perhaps you're not aware that he's been hounding me. Asking questions about my late wife, about the Henley Regatta picnic, and about the Donegal Dancer, too. Let me assure you I've done nothing wrong.”

“Then you have nothing to fear.”

“As if that means anything to a policeman. Did you know Shaw visited me where I work? Twice! And he questioned the other stockbrokers. Now they're treating me as if I'm a murderer. And I answered all his questions when I was at Scotland Yard. He had no right to ask my employer about my private life outside of work.”

Eliza couldn't think of anything to say that would reassure him. Especially since she suspected he might actually be the killer. She didn't blame Jack for snooping around after him.

“If he continues, I will lose my position. What will I do then?” Longhurst seemed oblivious of the restaurant patrons who glanced their way. She also grew uncomfortable with every nervous twitch and clench of his fists, his reddened cheeks, and his forceful tone.

“Surely it won't come to that.”

“I implore you, Miss Doolittle, make him stop!” Longhurst banged his hand on the table, upsetting a half-filled teacup. A pale stain spread over the linen. “The police have also been at Mrs. Turnbull's home. How can they trouble a new widow who is in mourning for her husband? It's an outrage, I tell you. Not only did Inspector Shaw barge into her home to interrogate her. He also demanded she report to his Scotland Yard office today.”

Eliza swallowed hard. “But why?”

“Don't you see? He's trying to catch her out about that damned fool picnic. Rachel—Mrs. Turnbull is such a gentle soul, a virtual angel. She wouldn't hurt a fly, much less kill two people.” Longhurst shook his head. “They're treating us both in a monstrous fashion, Miss Doolittle. I insist you have a word with Inspector Shaw.”

“I have no right to interfere in his investigation. And he wouldn't listen to me anyway.”

“You can broach the subject at least.”

“How do you know all this about Mrs. Turnbull? Like you said, she's been in seclusion as a widow. Did Rachel ask you to speak to me?”

“Of course not. But I've heard from mutual friends that Mrs. Turnbull is being most dreadfully harassed by the police. By your cousin, in fact.”

She took a deep breath. “And I have heard from mutual friends that you and Mrs. Turnbull share a special friendship. A romantic one, in fact. One friend even claims to have seen you embracing the widow in rather a familiar manner.”

Longhurst turned purple. “That is preposterous and untrue!”

He stood so quickly, the table overturned. Eliza jumped back as the teapot, sugar bowl, and creamer crashed to the floor. The ladies at the next table gasped when he stormed past them out of the Palm Court. The waiter rushed over.

“Madam, are you all right? I do apologize.”

“No need. The gentleman was rude, not you.”

When Eliza rejoined Clara, Lord Ashmore, and Lady Tansy, they stared at her with stunned expressions. “I say, Miss Doolittle,” Lord Ashmore said. “That man seemed a bit mad.”

“I agree.” Eliza pushed her teacup aside. She'd pay two quid for a glass of champagne right now. “And if Longhurst ends up in the asylum, I refuse to visit. I don't care what Higgins says. Once was quite enough.”

They looked even more bewildered, but Eliza didn't bother to explain. Her only concern was that Gordon Longhurst seemed as unhinged as Harold Hewitt. And perhaps—just perhaps—she should not have mentioned that he and Rachel had been seen embracing in public. She had spooked him for sure. Not a wise decision.

If Longhurst was the killer, he was now more dangerous than ever.

 

SEVENTEEN

“I hope murder isn't on the menu,” Higgins said as they exited the taxi. The blare of a dozen horns and the cries of a bus conductor greeted them. At half past twelve, the streets teemed with pedestrians, horse-drawn wagons, and motorcars.

“I wouldn't joke about something like that.” Eliza gave him a disapproving look. “My dad is still lying in a hospital bed, with a jaw so swollen he can barely swallow oatmeal.”

“I wasn't joking.” In fact, he looked upon the upcoming Wrexham Racing Syndicate luncheon with trepidation.

Such a pity, too. The lunch was being held at the Criterion, one of his favorite dining spots in London. Although the opulent restaurant and its adjacent theater sat in bustling Piccadilly Circus, the outside world slipped away the minute patrons stood beneath its fabled gold leaf ceiling. In addition, the Criterion had an excellent kitchen and a fine wine list. The only thing he had to worry about was another murder.

As they walked toward the entrance, a gleaming blue Daimler pulled up to the curb. Inside he glimpsed not only a uniformed chauffeur but the Duchess of Carbrey and the Saxtons. Higgins hurried Eliza through the doors of the Criterion. He had little patience with either Saxton. Conversation could wait until the appetizers had been served.

As soon as they were inside, Eliza pointed down the wide hallway. “There's Jack.”

Jack Shaw and his detectives marched ahead of them, a maître d' trailing in their wake. At least the police would keep a close eye on things this time. Only the brashest of killers would dare strike with four Scotland Yard detectives scrutinizing everyone's movements.

Eliza straightened her hat, a small white Tam o'Shanter with but a single black aigrette feather. She was dressed more conservatively than usual in a white and black houndstooth skirt and matching jacket. It gave her a brisk businesslike appearance. Higgins thought she was taking her responsibility as representative for her father quite seriously.

Sir Walter appeared from around the corner. “How glad I am to see you both. Almost everyone is here. Brody and Miss Wilkins are already upstairs, and I see the Duchess and the Saxtons dawdling outside. Mr. Longhurst was twenty minutes early.”

“The police are here, too,” Eliza said.

“Yes, I spoke with them. A shame your father is still recovering. He so enjoys the syndicate luncheons.” Sir Walter smoothed down his linen suit coat. “Excuse me while I greet the Duchess. I believe she's speaking with Lord Gosley. One of his horses won at Ascot. If I don't hurry them along, luncheon will never be served.”

After he left, Higgins nodded at the adjacent room. “That is the Long Bar. You're reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, so I trust you know what it's most famous for.”

Eliza had been quiet all morning, which worried him. But at the mention of Conan Doyle, her eyes sparkled. She peeked at the long polished bar as they passed, a wide grin on her face. “That's where Dr. Watson first heard about Sherlock Holmes. A friend of Watson's told him that an eccentric fellow was looking for a roommate.”

“Exactly.” Higgins beamed at her. Eliza was still his best pupil.

“I wish Watson and Holmes were here right now. We need someone's powers of deduction aside from our own.”

“I think we're doing rather well.”

Eliza smirked. “Really? Two people have been murdered, while someone tried to kill my father four days ago. Yet we haven't a clue who the blighter is.”

“After yesterday's encounter at the tearoom, I thought you had settled on Longhurst.”

“So I have, which means Rachel Turnbull is probably part of the murderous scheme, too. What we don't have is proof. That's why we need Sherlock Holmes to reason it out for us.”

As soon as they reached the second-floor dining rooms, Eliza hurried off without a backward glance. Higgins stared after her as she greeted Jack and his detectives. What was going on? He'd expected her to chatter his ears off on the taxi ride over, but she seemed lost in thought. At breakfast, Eliza ate in total silence, her attention focused on the latest issue of
The Suffragette
. Had she become an active member of the WSPU? He hated to sound as silly as Freddy, but was she about to start throwing bricks through windows or chain herself to No. 10 Downing Street?

When Higgins reached the luncheon table, he noticed that Gordon Longhurst avoided looking at either of them. Eliza sent him a cold stare, however. Higgins knew that if she could prove Longhurst was behind the attack on her father, a brawl might ensue during lunch.

To keep things calm, Higgins sat between them. Her resentment toward Longhurst might explain why she seemed so distracted. Eliza had never been inside the Criterion before. Normally she would have delighted in the sheer grandeur of the restaurant: the expansive mirrored walls and curved ceilings of golden mosaic, the marble floors, the neo-Byzantine arches studded with semiprecious stones. But she acted as if she sat in the Hand and Shears pub.

Brody's girlfriend plopped down across from them. “Ain't this a blooming lovely place?” she whispered in delight. “So happy Jimmy asked me along.” She reached over the water glasses. “I'm Patsy. Me and Miss Doolittle were at the picnic. And we met at the funeral.”