Move Your Blooming Corpse (20 page)

Higgins's curiosity was piqued. “Where exactly are you going tomorrow? Really, Eliza, if you are putting the cinema ahead of your father's safety—”

“Don't be ridiculous. I promised Sybil to attend a suffragette rally with her.”

Alfred groaned. “Girl, you better not be chaining yourself to no fences tomorrow.”

“I'm not going to chain myself. Lord, you're as bad as Freddy. I promised Sybil I'd be there, and it will be a perfect time to ask the suffragettes about Harold Hewitt and Turnbull. As well as Diana Price.” She gave Higgins a cynical look. “They certainly wouldn't open up to you. Besides, I also want to learn some ju-jitsu moves from the Bodyguard.”

“What?” Higgins thought he must have misheard that last part.

“Never mind.” Eliza turned back to her father. “Dad, can you reschedule the visit to the stables for Sunday?”

Doolittle burped. “Nope.”

She drummed her fingers on the table for a minute. “All right, then. The only solution is for the Professor to go to the stables with you tomorrow. He'll keep an eye on things.”

“I beg your pardon,” Higgins said.

Doolittle grinned. “If the governor wants to come to the stables, it's fine by me. We leave at eight.”

“I'm glad that's settled,” Eliza said in obvious satisfaction.

Higgins grabbed the glass of ale in front of him and drank it straight down.

*   *   *

Eliza hoped she was dressed appropriately for their visit to the widowed Mrs. Turnbull. She'd first donned the same black ensemble she had worn to the funeral two days ago, but decided it might be presumptuous. After all, she wasn't a family member or even a friend. She finally settled on a printed silk dress of dove gray, devoid enough of color, and bordered in black silk with a summer neckline of gray and black flowers.

“You should have put on an armband,” she whispered to Higgins as they stood on the front steps of the Turnbull residence. A large black funeral wreath hung on the door.

“Whatever for?” Higgins idly scanned the long row of white stucco houses in one of Knightsbridge's finest neighborhoods. The trees in the park across the street afforded welcome shade from the July sun, as did the elegant colonnaded porch of the Turnbull mansion.

“To show proper respect for the dead,” Eliza replied. “And if not for Turnbull, then out of consideration for his widow.”

“I haven't even been formally introduced to Rachel Turnbull. And I couldn't give a hang that her husband is dead. Besides, I think you're looking mournful enough for the two of us.” He raised an eyebrow at her black-feathered hat. “The hat is a bit much, and a gray parasol would have sufficed. Not a black one.”

Before Eliza could fret about her outfit, a tall maid in a black uniform opened the paneled door. A moment later, she ushered them into the drawing room.

Rachel stood at a writing desk by the window. She greeted them with a smile. “Miss Doolittle and Professor Higgins, how kind of you to accept my sudden invitation. Please sit down.” She gestured toward a gold brocade divan. “We'll have tea, Lucy.” The maid curtsied before scurrying away.

The sunlight streaming through the tall windows showed that Turnbull's widow looked quite rested, almost rejuvenated. Indeed, the plain-featured Rachel looked rather attractive today. Her black silk dress enhanced her creamy complexion. And for the first time, Rachel wore her wheat-colored hair piled fashionably atop her head, a few curls spilling around her ears. The new hairstyle combined with her dress's high gauze neckline made her appear swanlike.

“No doubt you were both surprised to receive my message this morning.” She sat across from them in a maroon velvet chair. “As you know, it is not customary for the recently bereaved to receive guests other than close family for the first few months.”

Before she could continue, the phone on the writing desk rang. With a murmured apology, Rachel answered it. She stood facing the window while she spoke, her voice too low for Eliza to hear any of the conversation.

The interruption gave Eliza and Higgins time to examine the drawing room. Considering the late Jonathon Turnbull's domineering personality, Eliza wasn't surprised by its masculine decor, maroon walls, and dark wood trim. Although crystal vases of white roses were placed in every corner, the room felt oppressive. A towering grandfather clock loomed over them. Eliza was grateful the thick velvet draperies had been pulled back to let in light. The room needed all the fresh air it could get, what with the cloying scent of those funeral roses.

“Please forgive the interruption.” Rachel sat back down with a sigh. “Turnbull relatives I have never heard from before are now eager to make themselves known. I should hire a secretary to handle the calls and letters, along with all the legal matters forced upon me.” She smiled. “As I was saying, you must be curious why I asked you here.”

“I'm glad you did,” Eliza said. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your husband's death. I would have spoken to you at the funeral, but I didn't want to bother you or the family.”

“It is I who should have spoken to you earlier. After all, you were the only person with Jonathon when he died. My dear Miss Doolittle, I want to thank you for trying to help my husband, and for seeing to it that he wasn't alone at the end.”

“I only wish Freddy and I had found him sooner. We might have been able to save him. If there is anything the Professor and I can do, you have only to ask.”

“Please tell me exactly what happened. I need to know how Jonathon died. Was he able to speak at all? Did he have a message, either for me or anyone else?”

Eliza took a deep breath before describing the final minutes of Jonathon Turnbull's life. Rachel listened intently. But at no point did she seem close to tears.

“I see,” she said in a soft voice. “No message, then.”

“I'm sorry,” Eliza added. “But the poor man was in a bad way when we found him. It's a wonder he could speak at all.”

Rachel glanced at Higgins, who had already been silent for longer than Eliza expected. “Professor, you must be wondering why I wanted to see you as well.”

Higgins shrugged. “I do admit to a little curiosity, Mrs. Turnbull. I wasn't with Eliza when your husband died. And the only time I ever met him was at Ascot.”

“Lady Saxton told me that you suspect Harold Hewitt murdered both my husband and Diana Price. I would like to know why you think Hewitt is responsible. Many people believe it was Mr. Longhurst.”

Eliza wasn't surprised when Higgins eagerly complied. He'd been convinced since Ascot that Hewitt was the murderer. The Professor described his conversation with Hewitt at the racecourse and their subsequent visit to Claybury.

“But what was his motive for the murders?” Rachel asked when he was done.

“It appears Mr. Hewitt championed women's suffrage,” Eliza said.

“Ah, I see,” Rachel said. “And my husband did not. In fact, he was an outspoken opponent. My sister Ruth was most offended by Jonathon's efforts to derail their movement. I think she was even more upset with me for not being able to restrain him. But no one could control Jonathon.” She sighed. “Least of all, a woman.”

“My cousin's fiancée is a member of the Women's Freedom League,” Eliza said. “Their leaders were insulted when Diana refused to sing at their rally. She made things worse by giving an interview in the paper in which she mocked the women.”

“I heard no end of that from Ruth. Of course, she also had a grievance against Miss Price for other reasons.” Rachel's smile was bitter. “After all, it is common knowledge that my husband and Diana were lovers. Another situation I could do nothing about.”

“We heard your sister threw a hammer at Diana Price,” Higgins said.

“Ruth is impulsive, but I can't fault her loyalty. Or her courage.”

They were again interrupted, this time by the maid carrying in a silver tea tray. Everyone waited until tea had been poured and biscuits offered. Once the maid left, Eliza turned her attention back to Rachel.

“If Mr. Hewitt did murder your husband, how was he able to poison him at the regatta picnic? I watched the servants unload the hampers from the cars and set everything up. When would a stranger have had the opportunity to poison anything there?”

“I do not believe Jonathon was poisoned by anything he ate or drank at the picnic. After all, each of the luncheon guests sampled everything.”

“Except for Gordon Longhurst,” Eliza reminded her.

“True, but I don't think Mr. Longhurst came to the picnic with the intention of harming anyone. He wanted his share of the winnings, and only grew upset when he learned it was not forthcoming. I find it unlikely he had poison hidden on his person for just such an occasion.”

Higgins agreed. “It's possible your husband was poisoned between the end of the luncheon and the award ceremony. He might have been followed.”

“I'd like to believe that is what happened. After all, Mr. Hewitt is not only a madman but a total stranger. If he didn't do it, the murderer of my husband and Miss Price is someone we all know.” Rachel shuddered. “That is a chilling thought.”

“Did you see Mr. Turnbull with anyone suspicious after the luncheon interval?” Higgins asked. “A man you didn't recognize, perhaps?”

“I spent the rest of the day with friends at the Leander Club. I never saw Jonathon again after the picnic.” She paused. “Not alive, that is.”

“Then the crucial thing is to discover what your husband was doing during that time.”

“Oh, I know what he was doing, Miss Doolittle.” Rachel wore an unhappy expression. “He was placing bets on the races. Jonathon wagered on everything from horses to parliamentary elections. I am ashamed to confess that he gambled away nearly everything his father left him.”

“A person who is a heavy gambler takes great risks,” Higgins said. “And if he doesn't honor his bets, there's usually an angry man or two willing to make him pay.”

Rachel took a long sip of tea before answering. “Jonathon was not a kind man, nor a cautious one. I have no doubt his enemies were legion and their grievances justified.”

“Forgive me if this is a rude question, but why did you marry Mr. Turnbull?” Eliza asked. “Your husband had a dreadful reputation long before he met you. Were you unaware of it?”

Rachel stared down at her teacup, as if the answer lay swirling in its steaming surface. “I had no choice in the matter, Miss Doolittle. Our respective families wanted the marriage. Although the Turnbulls were the wealthiest of merchants, they craved a titled lady to add to their bloodline. And my father was weary of marrying off five daughters. He never forgave my sister Ruth for choosing a vicar.”

“Becoming the wife of a vicar hardly seems scandalous,” Higgins said with a grin.

“But she married for love, and to a common churchman besides. Father never spoke to her again. Afterwards, his matchmaking efforts became quite ruthless. By the time he got around to me, he only cared about the bank account of my groom, not his character.”

Eliza marveled at these highborn ladies who appeared to have been sold by their families to the highest bidder. As poor as the Doolittles were, they were above that sort of thing in the East End. And as hard as her life was, Eliza learned how to fend for herself—no thanks to any man.

“Your father must have known of Jonathon Turnbull's reputation when the marriage was arranged,” Higgins said. “I am not one for society gossip, but even I was aware of the stories circulating about your late husband for many years.”

Rachel looked weary. “Certainly Father knew, but I was never informed. I spent much of my girlhood in France, and heard none of these rumors.”

Higgins snapped his fingers. “I thought I detected a French cadence in your speech. You lived in the region of Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur. The town of Grasse?”

The young widow seemed impressed. “Correct. My mother's family is from Grasse. My grandparents worked in the perfumery business, and I spent several years with them. I wish I had been allowed to remain there. Grand-père and Grand-mère taught me how to create scents by using the flowers and oils of the region. But Father had other plans for me.”

“I can't believe your father married you off to a man notorious for his violent behavior, especially towards women,” Higgins said with disgust.

“From a parental standpoint, it seemed a beneficial arrangement. The Turnbull tea merchants got a baron's daughter to add to their family tree, and the Sturbridges disposed of the last of their unwelcome daughters. A fine deal all around.” While Rachel twisted her wedding band, her voice hardened. “Except for the bride and groom.”

“Then Mr. Turnbull did not want to marry either?” Eliza asked.

“Heavens, no.” She looked aghast. “Jonathon viewed the match as a prison sentence. What need did he have of a wife, when so many loose women were at his beck and call? And the idea of children filled him with horror. When I suffered a miscarriage, I thought it was a tragedy. I could not have another, you see. But looking back, I realize it was a blessing. Children would only have been additional targets for his cruelty.”

Higgins and Eliza exchanged looks. They must be thinking the same thing. Rachel had excellent reasons for wanting her husband dead.

“Given the state of your marriage, Mrs. Turnbull, no one would blame you for not grieving over your husband,” Higgins said.

She set her teacup back on the tray with a clatter. “What you actually want to know is if I had anything to do with his murder. After all, I planned the whole picnic lunch. But do you really believe I raced to the stables and stabbed Diana with a pitchfork? The very idea of such a gruesome death is abhorrent to me.”

“Mrs. Turnbull, we don't mean to be rude or unfeeling,” Eliza replied. “But the police are looking for motives in the deaths of your husband and Diana. And you and Mr. Longhurst were both betrayed by your spouses.”