Move Your Blooming Corpse (23 page)

“If not, I'll use these ju-jitsu techniques on whatever blighter causes him harm. And the Professor had best keep my dad safe. Or I'll flip
him
all the way to Dover.”

 

THIRTEEN

By the time Higgins jumped out of the cab at Bay Willow Stables, he felt like he'd completed a journey on the Orient Express. The Doolittles seemed to possess more energy than the monkeys at the London Zoo. Eliza's father had not stopped talking during the entire train trip from London, except to knock back a few sips from his brandy flask. How in the world could the older man look fresh as a daisy after such a long journey? He had entertained Higgins nonstop on the train, cracking jokes, telling stories, charming the ladies with a wink and a lift of his hat. Even on the cab ride over, Alfred kept chattering. Higgins understood now why he was so successful as a speaker for the Moral Reform League. Doolittle's talents had clearly been wasted as a navvy and dustman in London's East End for too long.

Still, Higgins did not take his duties lightly. It wasn't only Eliza who worried about what might occur during their visit to Bay Willow Stables. If a murder took place each time the syndicate members met, then Higgins would do everything possible to protect Eliza's father.

At least the setting was enjoyable. Higgins gazed about with approval. The horse farm looked green and refreshed from a light morning rain. The grass beyond the fences sparkled in the sunshine, although the July heat would soon change that. He breathed fresh air deep into his lungs.

“Couldn't ask for better weather, ain't that right?” Doolittle asked.

Higgins watched the grooms brush or wash down the horses, while stableboys raked hay into piles. He and Doolittle strolled down the lane toward the paddock. Thank goodness Rose Doolittle had decided not to tag along today. She planned to torture the store assistants on Oxford Street with her presence instead. Doolittle seemed as relieved as Higgins by her decision.

“Come along then, governor. Sir Walter has some fine horseflesh for us to inspect today. Maybe I can get the Wrexham syndicate to buy another future champion like our Dancer.”

“Good lord, not another horse!” Higgins feared Alfred would be up to his ears in debt within the year. And the fellow seemed to forget that most horses did not win every race.

The Duchess of Carbrey stood in the stable yard conversing with Lord Saxton and Brody. A few feet away, Gordon Longhurst fidgeted and scowled, hands in his pockets. Eliza had told Higgins how Longhurst came to Henley dressed in full mourning. Thankfully, the widower chose a gray summer suit today.

“Good morning,” Sir Walter sang out as they approached. He was dressed nattily in jodhpurs, a light jacket, and shiny brown boots. When Doolittle and Higgins joined them, he shook their hands. “Good to see you, Alfred.”

Doolittle puffed out his chest. “Did you hire the guards like I suggested?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Glad to hear it. We don't want no bloody horse thieves stealing our colt.”

“It's good to see you too, Professor,” the Duchess said. “What a perfect day to be out in the countryside.”

Higgins tipped his hat to her. “Indeed it is, Your Grace.”

Saxton eyed Higgins with displeasure. “Who invited you? You're not part of the syndicate.”

“Neither am I,” Longhurst said before Higgins could respond. “But Sir Walter insisted I come. I only hope it was not to suffer more abuse. I had enough of that at the regatta.”

“Water under the bridge, old chap.” Sir Walter clapped him on the back. “We're glad you decided to come. To be truthful, Lord Saxton and I have been feeling a bit guilty over what happened. We hope the Duchess and Mr. Doolittle will agree with us.”

“About what?” Longhurst asked. “You already said you refuse to sign over Diana's share of the Donegal Dancer to me.”

Sir Walter sighed. “I'm afraid the ownership rules in the contract are set in stone. But I found a way to get around that clause. After all, your wife was not killed until
after
the horse won at Ascot. So it would be perfectly legal—and proper—to award Diana's share of the prize money to her husband. That is, if Alfred and the Duchess agree to it.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Doolittle said. “And sporting, too.”

“I have no problem with this.” The Duchess sent Longhurst a polite smile.

Longhurst stood speechless, as if he didn't believe it. Sir Walter pulled an envelope from his inner coat pocket. “I kept your wife's share in her account until we could decide the matter. Come now, Gordon, you mustn't harbor hard feelings. It was quite a shock to all of us.”

When he didn't move to take the envelope, Sir Walter stepped closer to him. “As the agent for the Wrexham syndicate, I am pleased to act on their behalf and offer you this check for Diana's share of the Ascot purse. It's rather a nice amount, enough to invest in a horse of your own. If you're interested, I can recommend a few here at Bay Willow.”

Longhurst snatched the envelope, quickly peeked inside, then stuffed it into his own coat. “I'll think about it. Death taxes are very dear, as you know.”

“Of course.” Sir Walter hesitated. “I'm afraid there's a bit of bad news to share. It appears we hired the guards just in time, Alfred. Last night, around three in the morning, thieves broke into the stable—”

“What's this?” Doolittle huffed in outrage.

“If our horse has been stolen, I'll whip every last man who works at this stable!” Saxton's face flushed with anger.

Sir Walter held up his hand. “Please, let me finish. The Donegal Dancer is safe and unharmed. The fellows we just hired prevented any trouble.”

The Duchess snapped open her parasol. “Hiring the guards was well worth the expense, then. How fortuitous that Alfred suggested it.”

“Indeed yes.” Sir Walter wiped his damp brow with a handkerchief and replaced his hat. “Shall we tour the stables? There's a two-year-old filly I'd like you all to see.”

Higgins followed the others toward a traditional block of three long outbuildings with a croft roof. Inside, their footsteps echoed on the tile floor; dim sunlight streamed through high windows. He noted the neat tack room and admired the gleaming harness and saddles. The group strolled on to inspect the stalls with the usual half-doors and mounted rails, already mucked out and filled with clean straw. The horses inside looked well groomed. They peeked into one stall that held a glorious black stallion, but he charged the half-gate and they quickly moved on. The Duchess soon made friends with a much gentler horse that nickered and eagerly succumbed to her stroking his nose.

“What a magnificent darling,” she crooned. “I'm sorry I don't have a lump of sugar.”

“That's Jester, one of the four-year-olds. He's fast as a bullet on the final stretch.” Sir Walter polished a brass nameplate fixed on the door with his sleeve.

When the group headed outside, Higgins trailed after them. In the distance stood a brick building plus several cattle barns. Sir Walter herded them next to the paddock to watch the grooms exercise the horses. Higgins wished he were back at Wimpole Street with the morning paper and a cup of tea. Fresh air and exercise were fine in small doses, but this had already grown tedious.

The Duchess fell into step beside him. “This horse-thief ring seems quite bold.”

“They've probably stolen more horses than anyone knows. Wonder what they do with the ones they can't ransom.”

“Most likely they're sold to America, Canada, or South America.” She smiled at Higgins's questioning look. “Remember the Jersey Act was signed earlier this year. It was designed to prevent horses from outside Britain from being registered in the Stud Book.”

“Ah, yes.” Higgins guided her around a pile of fresh horse dung. “The specter of all those unregistered American horses tainting the bloodlines of our English breeding stock. If you ask me, the only thing that should matter is how fast the blasted animal can run.”

“I don't agree. The Act protects the British racehorse and increases their value as well. Not that there isn't deceit in English racing circles. Whenever there's gambling involved, there's corruption. Look at Turnbull and Saxton. Throwing away half their fortunes on a race or a boxing match. Idiots.”

They halted at the paddock gate, where Alfred Doolittle admired a filly prancing on the oval track. She was a spirited chestnut beauty with a white blaze and one full white stocking on her left back leg. While everyone watched, a groom led the horse toward the group, stroking her until she stood quiet. Doolittle paced back and forth, his excitement clear.

“Larkspur, did you say?” he asked. “How did they come up with that name?”

“Her dam is Lark, and the sire is Hotspur.”

“That makes sense,” Brody said with a laugh. “I'd love to ride her.”

“She'll be a winner, you can tell that by her long legs.” Sir Walter gestured to the groom, who led Larkspur around and back again. “By the way, the men I hired to protect the Dancer are Melling, Keene, Ingleby, and Owens.” He pointed to the groom. “Samuel recommended them.”

“How d'ye do?” Doolittle wrung the groom's hand so hard he nearly spooked the horse. “We're interested in this little filly. She's a real looker.”

“Aye, sir. Now't kin hold a candle to that yan.”

Higgins perked up at the young man's dialect. He hadn't been through northwest England since he was a boy on holiday, heading for Lake Windermere. Aunt Mary lived near Shrewsbury, and they'd taken the train north from there. In fact, he'd first been inspired to study dialects by listening to residents in the area. Even Oxfordians sounded different from Londoners.

Sir Walter waved over the two other burly men who led the Donegal Dancer after his workout. A sheen of sweat marked the Dancer's blood-bay coat. One man rubbed the colt down while the steward introduced them as Melling and Keene, two of the guards they'd hired.

“Owens and Ingleby take the night shift. So Melling and Keene weren't here when the thieves tried to break in.”

“If we had been, we would have caught them blighters for certain,” one of the men said.

Higgins was struck by the fellow's thick hair streaked with brown and white. And his Manchester accent was almost as thick as his hair.

The steward frowned. “That's enough, Keene. The gentlemen didn't ask for your opinion.” He turned to the groom. “Samuel was here last night. Tell everyone what happened.”

Doffing his cap, the groom launched into his story. Higgins sensed most of the syndicate members didn't understand half of what he said, given his heavy dialect. Thankful he hadn't forgotten to grab a fresh notebook when he left home, Higgins quickly wrote down every word.

“An' once t'were mizzlin, we heard scrapping t' the back. Owens gaes ou' an' around, while us kept waitin' t' see. Scared me half t' death when th' boyos let out that skrike, from when Owens caught 'em clarten and flailed his kebbie! I near lowped out of me skin. They nashed off an' Ingleby chessed 'em—wha ya de'yan, mon?” Samuel stared at Higgins.

He glanced up from his notebook. “I'm an expert in phonetics. Go on, don't mind me.”

“Us nivver 'eard of owt like fan-et-ekes.”

“By your speech alone, I can place you in Cumbria. Not as far east as Sedbergh, nor as far west as Kendal. I'd say, perhaps Old Hutton. Yes, I thought so.” He gave a cheerful nod at Samuel's shocked expression. “Is Kirkby Lonsdale still there, farther to the south?”

“Aye, 'tis. Whis'tha agin?”

“Professor Henry Higgins of Wimpole Street, London.”

The groom inched backward without another word. A second, younger groom brought Larkspur closer. While the others discussed the filly's prospects. Higgins closed his notebook and stuffed it away with his pencil. Too bad he'd scared off the groom. He could have listened to Samuel all day. Perhaps he could catch the young man unawares later this morning.

“I recommend bidding on Larkspur before someone else does,” Sir Walter said.

Lord Saxton appeared doubtful. “I'm not sure we're ready for another big investment so soon after buying the Dancer.”

“If the others are not interested, I shall buy her myself,” the Duchess announced.

“What about that horse we saw back in the stables? The fine black one?” Doolittle asked.

“The Black Baron?” Sir Walter shook his head. “I wouldn't put money down on that two-year-old. During transport, the train he was riding on had an accident. The horse has been wild ever since. The rescue and his injuries have made him fearful of people. A horse never forgets, you know. Anyone who approaches him needs to know how to handle an overly skittish horse.”

“He looked like he had good lines, though.”

“That he does, Alfred. You have a good eye for horseflesh.”

The Duchess frowned. “I'd stay away from a colt like that. Too unpredictable. And the training costs would be high. Surely there are other horses here who are as suitable as Larkspur.”

Sir Walter gave her a slight bow. “Of course, Your Grace. Follow me.”

Higgins noticed a young stableboy hand a note to Doolittle. Eliza's father scanned it, then shambled over to Sir Walter before the group moved on.

“The missus is on the telephone. I'll catch up with you in a moment.”

Higgins started to follow Doolittle, but someone tugged his sleeve from behind. He turned to see Brody. The jockey squinted in the bright sunshine.

“Professor Higgins? I'm sorry to bring this up, but I have an important question. I hear you're friends with that Scotland Yard detective. Inspector Shaw.”

“I am. What about it?”

“Well, I answered all his questions after the regatta. Then he called me in again with my lady friend. Now Patsy's worried to death she's in trouble. I wish I hadn't taken her to the picnic. We weren't even there when your Miss Doolittle found Turnbull—”