Move Your Blooming Corpse (12 page)

“Have a care, Miss Doolittle.”

“No,
you
have a care.” Her temper flared. “I make my own way in the world, and I don't need your good opinion or your help. But Clara is a fool thinking you're her friend. Instead, you're toying with her like a bored cat teases a mouse! Isn't it enough you were born with a title, and are a viscountess by marriage? Why humiliate the girl by raising her hopes and then parading these fools in front of her? For pity's sake, any barkeep in Spitalfields has better manners than most of these peacocks with a title. And that includes titled women.”

“You have no right to speak to me like that.” Lady Tansy's expression grew hard.

“I have every right. I'm fond of the Eynsford Hills. Don't think for one moment I'll just sit back while you hurt them. If you don't find a better class of gentleman for Clara, then leave off. Or I'll trot out some pretty lady for your husband to slobber over.”

Lady Tansy's mouth fell open. However, the Viscountess surprised her by bursting into laughter. “Now I understand how you caught a murderer at the Drury Lane, Miss Doolittle. You probably shamed the villain into confessing.”

“Not exactly,” Eliza muttered. “I had to use a sword.”

That sent Lady Tansy into another gale of laughter. “I'm sure you did.” She dabbed her eyes with a snow-white handkerchief. “You may be as impertinent as Becky Sharp, but I do respect an honest woman. Heaven knows, I've met very few of them.”

Eliza made a mental note to ask Colonel Pickering who Becky Sharp was.

With a last chuckle, Lady Tansy tucked her handkerchief back into her beaded purse. “I'd best find my husband before he drinks himself into a stupor. But you have my word I shall give a good deal of thought about Clara's next suitor, for your sake more than hers. Her expectations are abysmally low, but I would hate to disappoint you.”

The Viscountess of Saxton sailed off, the long pink streamers on her hat bouncing with each step.

“Blimey!” Eliza wondered if everyone with a title was balmy on the crumpet, except for the King. Then again, she'd never met His Majesty. He might be balmy, too.

*   *   *

Higgins wasn't certain if coming to the regatta had been wise. Of course, he enjoyed cheering on the sculls of Eton and Oxford; he usually spent a day or two at Henley every July. But enjoying riverside picnics and boat races seemed rather frivolous so soon after the events at Ascot.

Scotland Yard was no closer to solving Diana Price's murder. The visit to Claybury Asylum had left him with more questions than answers. Was Hewitt a cold-blooded killer? Of course, the man claimed to be unaware of Diana's death. But a patient in a mental asylum would never confess to murder, not if he had the slightest hope of walking free one day. And what was all that nonsense about evil in the stables? What did Hewitt see or hear?

What little interest Eliza had concerning the murder vanished after their asylum visit. She'd spent all her time either giving elocution lessons, shopping for regatta clothes, or running off with Clara and Lady Saxton. Was he the only person who still cared that a woman had been brutally murdered at Ascot? Then again, he'd caught a glimpse of Lord Saxton wearing a mourning armband earlier at the Phyllis Court club.

Higgins ought to crash the Wrexham Racing Syndicate's luncheon this afternoon. One of the owners might reveal some useful information about Hewitt or Diana Price. Unfortunately, he'd promised to join his mother and Pickering for lunch at the Remenham Club. That normally wouldn't stop him from canceling, but Mrs. Higgins had also invited the Duke and Duchess of Waterbury.

He would never admit that he had a soft spot for Lady Helen. But she had captivated him the moment he saw her eighteen years ago. An American heiress, Helen Marsh was only twenty-one when she arrived in England to marry the powerful duke. Higgins was scarcely much older when he was hired to rid Helen of her Boston accent. In the intervening years, he had become the most celebrated elocutionist in Europe, and she the most admired of the American heiresses who married into the aristocratic families of England. All these years later, Lady Helen still boasted a confident energy that put his fellow Englishwomen to shame.

A slender figure in blue and white suddenly came into view. He smiled. Not all English ladies were quite so decorous. Eliza Doolittle waved, and Mrs. Higgins waved back.

“It's Eliza,” his mother said. “I do hope she's decided to lunch with us after all.”

The party waited until Eliza hurried over. She looked quite nautical this morning in a white walking suit with blue stripes and a fashionable version of a white sailor cap. Pinned to the jaunty cap was the LRC's blue badge.

After introductions, Eliza cocked an inquisitive eye at Lady Helen. “The Colonel told me about a young heiress from America who studied with the Professor years ago. Was that you?”

“Indeed, Miss Doolittle.” Lady Helen smiled. “We have much in common, given your background. No doubt Boston vowels and Cockney idioms were equally difficult to eradicate. We should compare notes about our teacher, too.” She shot Higgins a mischievous look. “Does he still fling tuning forks about when he loses his temper?”

Eliza laughed. “I finally hid them.”

The Duke of Waterbury cleared his throat in disapproval at such informality. Higgins wished Helen had married a more affable blueblood. “I see you wear the colors and badge of the London Rowing Club, Miss Doolittle,” the Duke said.

“Yes, my young man is a team member. Freddy won't be racing in the finals, however. But he tells me Pinks is sure to beat that fellow rowing for the Tasmanians.”

Higgins turned to Eliza and silently mouthed “Your Grace.” He wanted to let her know she'd forgotten to use the correct honorifics when addressing a duke and duchess.

The Duke turned to Higgins. “What do you think of the LRC's chances, Professor?”

“Better than last year,
Your Grace
.” Higgins emphasized his title. But Eliza was busy admiring the organza ruffles on Lady Helen's pale blue dress. “There's a strong current today and little wind blowing off the Berks shore. It should favor Pinks, not McVilly.”

“Will you be joining us for lunch, my dear?” Mrs. Higgins asked Eliza.

“No, ma'am.” She tore her attention away from the Duchess's ensemble. “Dad's racing syndicate meets today, and Freddy and I plan to join them.” She smiled at the Duke and Duchess. “My father is an owner of the Donegal Dancer. He won at Ascot.”

“Give him my congratulations,” Lady Helen said in delight. “How grand to own a horse that wins at the Derby or Ascot. We have yet to manage it.”

“It was grand, but things got a bit muddy after the Gold Cup.”

“Yes, we saw that terrible man run out on the racecourse.” Lady Helen looked at her husband. “I believe the papers said his name was Harold Hewitt.”

“That was not the only unfortunate occurrence at Ascot,
Your Grace
.” This time Higgins elbowed Eliza in the ribs.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” She bit her lip. “Should I call both of you ‘Your Grace'?”

The Duke nodded, while Lady Helen replied, “Of course not.”

Higgins grinned at Eliza's puzzled expression. “Miss Doolittle's father is part of a racing syndicate. One of its members was killed in the stables that day.”

“Quite tragic,” the Colonel said. “She was so young.”

Eliza leaned closer. “Stabbed with a pitchfork.”

“Oh my!” Lady Helen paled. “The papers said that a music hall singer had been found dead at Ascot. We assumed she was murdered by this Harold Hewitt.”

“He seems the likeliest suspect,” Higgins said. “But not the only one.”

Mrs. Higgins cleared her throat. “This conversation is turning rather lurid, so I shall take my leave. Colonel, if you will please escort me to the club.”

After they departed, the Duke turned to Higgins. “Given the obvious danger this Harold Hewitt poses to society, how is it the Metropolitan Police failed to keep him in custody?”

Eliza's mouth fell open. “Hewitt is free?”

Higgins didn't like this news at all. “They released him from the asylum?”

“He escaped,” the Duke said. “I only learned about it an hour ago. Several suffragettes selling their tiresome magazine near the bandstand were discussing Hewitt's escape.”

Eliza and Higgins exchanged glances. She clearly shared his apprehension. “Jack will get in trouble for this,” she murmured.

“Who is Jack?” Lady Helen asked.

“My cousin. He's a detective inspector at Scotland Yard.” Eliza paused. “Your Grace.”

“We'd best go, my dear.” The Duke held out his arm for his wife. “I shall see you at the club, Professor.” He gave a brief nod. “Miss Doolittle.”

“Lovely meeting you, Miss Doolittle. And I quite like your hat.” Lady Helen held up a warning finger. “Now don't be late for lunch, Henry.”

After they left, Eliza whistled in surprise. “She calls you Henry? Aren't we on cozy terms with the upper crust. You'll be throwing back a pint with Queen Mary next.”

“Be quiet, you impertinent girl. I've known the Duke and Duchess for almost as long as you've been alive.” Higgins lowered his voice. “What do you think about Hewitt escaping?”

“He's a clever dodger. Bet he's on his way to Dover or some other city where he can take ship and flee England.”

“What if he doesn't intend to leave the country? He may kill someone else. After all, if he escaped, he must have murdered Diana. Maybe he
is
mad.”

“I don't think it's mad to escape. If I were locked away in a lunatic asylum, I'd bloody well try to get out, too.”

“He had no reason to escape. His family has influence. Jack told me the Hewitts were working to get him transferred to Hope End, the Herefordshire family estate. They arranged for a private nurse, which means he'd basically be a free man. So why escape? Especially if the police can't find enough evidence to arrest him for murder. It makes no sense. He's made himself look guilty.” He snapped his fingers. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless he saw who murdered Diana. If Hewitt witnessed the murder, he must be afraid the killer will come after him. That's why he's running for his life. Who knows what he'll do next?”

“Maybe he'll go somewhere like France or Canada. That lets Jack off the hook.”

“Damnation, Eliza. Whether or not it's Hewitt, a killer remains at large. And all you're worried about is your cousin's career.”

“Excuse me, but Jack is getting married. He can't lose his job. How can he support a family if he's out of work? Ask my dad. It's not easy.”

“I may as well be discussing this with the pigeons in Hyde Park.”

Eliza straightened her hat. “Go ahead, talk to the pigeons or those ducks over there. I have better things to do than listen to you natter about Hewitt again. Freddy is meeting me at the syndicate luncheon, and I don't want to be late.”

Higgins caught her by the elbow. “Promise me you'll be careful. One syndicate member has already been killed.”

She shook off his hand. “If you had seen Freddy in his rowing uniform, you'd realize he's well able to protect me. He's got the muscles of a circus man, he does.”

“Good grief.”

“And I'll be lunching at the Henley Regatta in full view of hundreds of people,” she said airily. “What in the world could possibly go wrong at a picnic?”

*   *   *

Although headed in the syndicate picnic's direction, Eliza first needed to find Sybil. If one suffragette at Henley knew about Hewitt, perhaps they all did. She'd run into Sybil every day of the regatta so far, but the packed crowds along the Berks shore seemed greater today. Probably due to the trophies being awarded that evening.

She should have asked that pompous duke which bandstand he was near when he overheard the suffragettes, but he seemed a right cold stick. At least his lovely green-eyed wife was all charm and warmth. And a woman had to be charming indeed for the Professor to act so polite in her presence. Eliza wondered if he'd been sweet on her all those years ago. Higgins couldn't have always acted such a rude old bachelor.

Eliza scanned the crowd. Most suffragettes who sold their weekly magazine wore white dresses with green and purple sashes. She caught sight of their colors on the other side of some boisterous men in Oxford blazers. Was it Sybil? If anyone knew the truth about Hewitt's escape, it was the fiancée of a Scotland Yard detective.

Hang good manners. Eliza cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Sybil! Sybil Chase! Sybil!”

“Are you looking for someone, Miss Doolittle?”

Jonathon Turnbull stood behind her, a boater shading his razor-sharp gaze. He struck quite the elegant figure in white linen pants, yellow and blue striped tie, and navy blazer with yellow piping. She was surprised by his jaunty air. Had he forgotten that the woman he professed to adore was recently murdered?

“I'm looking for a friend,” she said. “A suffragette.”

He tipped his hat to get a better look at her. “Why in the world would you associate with those unnatural creatures? Are you one of them? If so, prepare to be a withered old spinster.”

“I don't know where you get such silly ideas about suffragettes, Mr. Turnbull. Mrs. Pankhurst was a wife and mother, and our own Duchess of Carbrey has had two husbands. My friend Sybil is also engaged to be married.”

“I hear my name yet again.” Sybil appeared before them, her arms filled with magazines. “You were calling my name a moment ago, Eliza, am I right?”

“Of course.” She kissed the young woman on the cheek. “Sorry. For a second I felt like I was back at Covent Garden. But I had to find you before lunch.”

“Is everything all right?” Sybil shot Turnbull a suspicious look. “I hope this gentleman is not bothering you, Eliza. If so, I will gladly rescue you.”