Move Your Blooming Corpse (16 page)

“Hush. This is a church, not a pub.”

“Lord, hear our prayers and comfort us.”

“Hm. I believe our vicar is from Norfolk—Yarmouth, on the coast. One of the lesser streets,” he mused. “Although I'm not certain. Not until I hear a little more.”

“Renew our trust…”

The vicar's strong voice echoed into the high rafters, drowning out the clacking noise from Lady Saxton. Visibly bored, she played with her long rope of pearls, back and forth, back and forth.
Snickety-snick
. Higgins was tempted to throttle her with them.

“Strengthen our faith that Jonathon Michael Turnbull and all who have died in the love of Christ will share in his resurrection…”

“It's rather comical.” Higgins chuckled. “The man pronounces ‘share' like ‘shah,' as if he's talking about a Persian king. That definitely places him from Norfolk.”

“… blessed us all with the gift of earthly life. He has given to our brother Jonathon his span of thirty-six years and gifts of character…”

Higgins snorted so loud that everyone, especially the syndicate owners, turned to stare. “I wasn't aware Turnbull had any character.”

His whispered remark started a flood of murmurs from the other attendees. Higgins strained to hear what everyone was saying. It seemed a combination of gossip about Turnbull interspersed with heated talk about the Irish Home Rule Bill passing once again in the House of Commons.

“I hear Turnbull often visited opium dens—”

“The Prime Minister opposes it, as he ought. You know the House of Lords will be bound to cut it down. There will never be a free Ireland.”

“Didn't he own a brothel in Spitalfields? I believe he kept it for his gambling cronies and business partners' exclusive use.”

“It's passed the Commons before and never made it further.”

“Turnbull was no gentleman, no matter how popular his tea is.”

“Look what you started,” Eliza hissed. “Your mother warned me you couldn't behave.”

Higgins fiddled with a loose button on his jacket. “Did you know this is the only church in London with chained books? The Homilies of 1683 are here, plus two volumes of the Book of Martyrs.”

“You'll be the next martyr if you don't keep quiet,” she muttered.

“The 1717 Vinegar Bible is also one of the chained books, and clearly you must have read how thieves tried to make off with it during Victoria's reign. Ouch!”

Everyone turned in his direction again. Cursing under his breath, Higgins rubbed his left forearm, which stung like the devil. Eliza shot him a satisfied grin and stuck her hatpin back into place.

“That was bloody uncalled for.”

“I warned you.”

“The service is over.” Freddy looked worried they might start to argue in earnest.

The mourners noisily got to their feet. As the church organist played “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” pallbearers carried the white lily-draped wooden casket up the aisle. Rachel followed, her arms linked with the elderly women's. The other family relatives trailed behind. The rest of the congregation exited through the doors in time to watch the pallbearers lift the casket into the hearse. Five black horses waited in their caparisoned purple and gold harness. The lead horse had a postilion rider in a formal black coat, a black cap, and purple breeches.

Higgins saw no evidence of damp cheeks nor heard sobs from anyone. A sorry epitaph for Jonathon Turnbull. Not even Rachel seemed upset by her husband's death, although he'd given the poor woman little reason to mourn his passing. Pickering had related a bit of Turnbull's background. The tea merchant had avoided marriage until his family insisted he take a wife, if only to stop the scandalous gossip surrounding him. But Higgins wondered what made the titled Rachel agree to marry someone like Turnbull. Perhaps the Duchess of Carbrey knew more about the match. Minerva was privy to every scandal and shameful secret of the British upper class.

The hearse ambled its way toward the street while church bells tolled a mournful dirge. Rachel and the older matrons headed to a closed carriage behind the hearse, but Jack Shaw stopped them. Meanwhile Higgins walked over to the Duchess, Eliza and Freddy close behind.

The older woman greeted him with a kiss on his cheek. “You rogue. I heard you prattling in there like a rude schoolboy bored at his lessons. Although Turnbull certainly didn't deserve much respect, alive or dead. Still, that's no reason to hurt Rachel's feelings. She's suffered enough, mostly while she was married to that scoundrel.”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about,” Higgins began.

“Beg pardon, Your Grace.” Jack Shaw suddenly appeared at Higgins's elbow. “I've asked the syndicate members to meet in the garden. I need you to join us as well, Professor.” He nodded at Eliza and Freddy. “And the two of you.”

Jack herded them toward the group gathered by the ironwork fence. Rachel stood between the two older ladies who'd flanked her at the funeral service. Higgins planted himself beside Sir Walter and the Duchess. Lord Saxton immediately started complaining to his indifferent wife. Brody and his lady friend stood near Alfred and Rose Doolittle; Rose was fussing with the stuffed bird on her hat.

Eliza looked at her father. “Dad, did Gordon Longhurst have a funeral service for his wife?” Higgins leaned closer to eavesdrop.

“That he did, but it was very hush-hush and private. Me and the little woman would've paid our respects since Diana was a syndicate member. But we didn't hear a thing about it till it was all over.”

“The headlines were full of Diana's murder at the time,” Higgins added while Jack conferred with his detectives. “I imagine Longhurst wanted to avoid more publicity.”

Jack rejoined them. “Some news has come to light that all of you should know. Especially since the newspapers have gotten hold of it and will be publishing these revelations later today.”

They all stared at each other in alarm. “Jack, what in the world has happened?” Eliza asked.

He turned to Rachel Turnbull. “I am sorry for what I have to tell you, but we received a preliminary report from the coroner. Your husband did not suffer a heart attack after all.” Jack paused. “He was murdered.”

The group let out a collective gasp. Rachel grew even paler. The two older women on either side pressed close to her, as if fearful she might faint.

“Every syndicate member who attended both Ascot and the Regatta is therefore a suspect, as is Harold Hewitt,” Jack continued. “I need all of you to prepare a list of where you were during both events. Please include anyone who can support your alibis.”

“This is preposterous!” Sir Walter sputtered in protest. “I'm a Senior Steward at Ascot. It's impossible to recall everyone I saw or every spot I visited during my time there.”

Jack threw him a stern look. “I expect everyone's full cooperation. Half of you may come to Scotland Yard later today for questioning. The rest of you I expect to see tomorrow. Of course, I will call on Mrs. Turnbull at a more convenient time, and extend that same courtesy to you, Your Grace.”

The Duchess raised her eyebrow at him. “I am perfectly capable of coming to Scotland Yard in person, young man. No need to treat me like a feeble-minded dowager.”

He nodded. “Very well, Your Grace. But I intend to question everyone who was at the Henley Regatta picnic as soon as possible.”

“Are you going to tell us what he did die from?” Saxton demanded. “Or is that going to remain another mystery Scotland Yard can't solve?”

“Yes, how was my husband murdered?” Rachel Turnbull asked in a quiet but steady voice. Higgins found her composure admirable.

“We're still waiting for several more test results from the coroner. But the toxicologist is certain about his conclusions.” Jack's expression was grim. “Jonathon Turnbull was poisoned.”

 

NINE

Walking along the Victoria Embankment, Eliza and Freddy had only a short way to go to reach Scotland Yard. She wasn't looking forward to the visit. Far too many hours were spent in the red granite building this past spring trying to clear Higgins of murder. And from the glum expression Freddy wore, he obviously felt the same. The only time he'd been to Scotland Yard was after they stumbled upon a murder victim.

“Don't know why your cousin couldn't take our statements at the funeral,” Freddy said when they walked inside. “It's a damnable nuisance ordering us to come here.”

“Turnbull's death is official police business. Jack can't be seen treating family members differently than anyone else.” Eliza stopped at the front desk.

The sergeant on duty checked their names off a list, then handed her a slip of paper. “Third floor, miss.” He turned his attention to the ledger book in front of him.

Once they got to the third floor, Eliza looked over the common room. Each desk held a detective hunched over paperwork, some with a nervous person sitting across from him. Phones rang from every corner, and everyone seemed to be talking at once. She knew that the adjacent corridor led to several holding cells where suspects and witnesses were interrogated. Eliza's memory of her own experience still gave her chills.

“Here we go, then.” Eliza pushed through a swinging gate that led to Jack's office.

Before they could get too close, a policeman barred their way. He gestured for the paper she held and scanned it. After giving them a suspicious look, he rapped on the glass of the closed office door. A muffled voice answered, and the policeman stuck his head inside to say something. Security had been heightened since she was last here.

“The Inspector says you can go in,” the policeman said.

Once she entered, Jack gave her a great bear hug.

“Is that your new guard dog out there?” Eliza and Freddy sat down in the chairs directly in front of a large cherrywood desk. “He seemed fierce.”

Jack plopped down in his own chair with a sigh. “New regulations. Two PCs were found murdered within a mile of the Yard. And we have no end of bomb threats by the suffragettes, though Sybil swears not from any woman she knows. We had another bomb threat just this morning. The Commissioner feels extra protection is in order.” He shrugged. “Don't know why he's feeling nervous all of a sudden. Danger's always been part of a policeman's job. When construction workers were putting up this place in '88, they found the dismembered body of a woman. Still haven't solved that one.”

Freddy's face turned a bit green. “I say, I don't know how you fellows spend your days hunting down villains.”

“If we didn't, Londoners would be running for their lives every time they left the house.” Jack rearranged the files and pencils on his polished desk, although it was the picture of neatness and order. “Let's get down to why I asked you both here. I questioned the Duchess yesterday, along with Sir Walter and Brody. I also spoke with the jockey's lady friend.” He glanced down at his notebook. “A Miss Patsy Wilkins from Putney. I interviewed the Saxtons about an hour ago, and your father and Rose should be here before teatime.”

“I don't know what we can say about the picnic you haven't already heard,” Eliza said. “As for what was served for lunch—assuming that's how Jonathon Turnbull was poisoned—it would be the Turnbull servants and Rachel who could best tell you.”

“I plan to visit Mrs. Turnbull as soon as possible. Not that I'm removing her from my list of suspects. But if she is innocent, I'd hate to upset her further.”

Eliza nodded. “She has one of the best motives, though I hate to say it.”

“Jealousy is a powerful motive, one shared by Gordon Longhurst. Of course, Lady Saxton's husband also cheated, but I can't see that young lady committing a crime of passion. She seems to possess the steely nerves of a cat burglar.”

Freddy leaned forward, his gloved hands clasped over an ivory walking stick. “Are you certain Mr. Turnbull was poisoned? It looked like he suffered a heart attack that day at the regatta. He wasn't able to say much, but he did complain of chest pains.”

“Freddy's right, Jack. And according to the Duchess, Turnbull appeared ill at least an hour before he died.”

“Poisons can kill instantly or take a long time to shut down the body. Sometimes weeks.”

Freddy bolted upright with a stricken look. “Maybe we were poisoned. Eliza, we might be dead by the end of the day.”

“Jack means a poison can take time to act if it's given on a steady basis.” She patted his hand. “The costermongers at Covent Garden put out strychnine every week to kill the rats.”

“I'm sure you're fine, young man,” Jack said. “Our chemists have determined that the poison was botanical in nature, although they have not yet identified the exact plant.”

She thought back to the scene of the picnic. “There were lots of flowers and bushes everywhere at Henley. And we sat right under a big tree. Don't know what kind, though.”

“My detectives examined the site. It was a hawthorn tree. And hawthorn tree berries are poisonous.”

“Maybe some of the berries accidentally fell into the food, or got mixed up with the sugared berries that were served. The Turnbulls brought strawberries and raspberries.”

“They served tarts as well,” Freddy added. “Most were lemon, but I saw at least a half-dozen raspberry tarts.”

“The hawthorn tree isn't the only possible culprit,” Jack said. “That bramble hedge near the tree also has poisonous berries.”

“Blimey,” Eliza said. “I'm such a city creature. Good thing I was never taken to the country when I was a child. I'd have eaten every poisonous berry in sight.”

“Since no one else at the picnic became ill, it is likely Turnbull was the sole target. He could have been poisoned after the lunch, perhaps by something he consumed that afternoon. He died a good six hours after all of you had eaten, and the day was warm. He would have had no problem finding something to drink at the many venues at Henley. If someone followed him, the murderer may have waited for the best opportunity to administer the poison.” Jack raised his eyebrows. “Unless Turnbull ate or drank something at the picnic which no one else did.”