Move Your Blooming Corpse (30 page)

She and Higgins looked toward the head of the table. Sir Walter set down his glass with a trembling hand. He leaned back in puzzlement. “I'm feeling a bit short of breath.”

Eliza jumped to her feet. “Jack, something's wrong!”

As Jack and his detectives rushed to Sir Walter's side, Higgins looked down at his glass of port. “Damnation.”

Her own heart nearly stopped. “You don't think the wine was poisoned, do you?”

Sir Walter's face broke out in a sweat and he gulped for air.

She grabbed Higgins by the shoulders. “Can you breathe? Do you feel sick?”

He looked grim. “I feel fine, at least for now.”

“Thank heaven we didn't drink the port.” Lady Tansy pushed back from the table. Her husband did likewise.

Eliza's heart sank when Sir Walter began wheezing. She noticed that Longhurst suffered no such symptoms, but he looked as fearful as Higgins.

“Get an ambulance,” Jack barked at one of the waiters. The man knocked over a serving trolley in his haste, and the clatter of falling dishes rang through the dining room. The other diners now scrambled to their feet. Some craned their necks to get a better look; others gathered gloves and parasols to make a hasty retreat.

Once he'd loosened Sir Walter's cravat, Jack pointed at the people who now streamed out of the dining room. “Whitfield and Bryce, see that no one leaves the restaurant.” The two detectives hurried off.

Sir Walter started to choke. Eliza clapped a hand over her mouth. This was like experiencing Turnbull's awful death once again. “Who else drank the port?” she asked.

“Not me.” Brody stared in horror across the table.

“Me neither,” Patsy added with a whimper.

The Duchess shook her head. Eliza crouched beside Higgins, who sat motionless in his chair. “That means only you, Sir Walter, and Longhurst drank the port. We'll take you to the hospital, too. If he drank more than you, your symptoms might start later.”

Higgins took a deep breath. “A wise assumption.”

His fatalistic calm frightened her even more. “When we get there, the doctors are sure to have an antidote.”

That finally roused him. “Yes, an antidote.” He jumped to his feet. His chair fell backward. “Sir Walter, did you do what I asked? Did you bring that syrup you told us about?”

But he was strangling for air, doubled over and on the verge of collapse. Jack supported him on one side while a terrified Longhurst held him on the other. When Sir Walter's face turned purple, Eliza let out a dismayed cry. How could this happen in front of everyone, including the police? What sort of monster were they dealing with? Again, she looked at Longhurst. If he was the killer, he was a fiendishly deceptive one. While frightened, he appeared determined to help Sir Walter.

Higgins now rushed over to where the older gentleman struggled for life. “Did you bring that bloody ipecac syrup? Sir Walter, did you bring it?”

The dying man leaned back with a shudder and gestured with his hand.

Eliza pointed. “Look in his suit jacket! Hurry!”

Both Higgins and Jack searched frantically through his pockets. With a muttered oath, Higgins pulled out a small glass vial from Sir Walter's vest. Eliza could barely breathe. Higgins fought to uncork the tiny stopper while Sir Walter gestured toward his mouth.

“Thank heaven he brought an antidote,” the Duchess said as if talking to herself. “He is sure to be all right. He
must
be all right.”

But Eliza wasn't certain of anything. Would the syrup be enough? Jack leaned Sir Walter back in his chair. The poor old man fought for every labored breath. Please make this work, Eliza prayed. Higgins's hand shook, but he managed to pour the liquid down Sir Walter's throat.

The entire dining room grew hushed as everyone waited to see what happened next. Eliza had no idea how long they all waited, frozen like statues. The only sound was Sir Walter's ragged breathing. Then the fellow coughed and threw himself forward. She had never seen anyone be so violently ill before. Surely that was a good sign. It meant the poison was leaving his body before it could do more harm.

Jack seemed to think so as well. He ordered the waiters to bring fresh linen napkins, and he and Higgins spread them over the table and the front of Sir Walter's shirt.

“How did he know to bring the antidote?” Jack asked Higgins.

Since Higgins seemed shaken, Eliza answered for him. “The Professor told him to when we visited Sir Walter at his home. We talked about poisons. And he mentioned that ipecac syrup might have saved Jonathon Turnbull if he had taken it in time. The Professor advised him to bring the syrup whenever the syndicate met.”

She was relieved to see Sir Walter's face return to a normal hue, no longer purple. And his breathing had quieted. But Eliza remained worried about Higgins. “Jack, we have to get the Professor and Longhurst to a doctor as quickly as possible. They drank the port, too, and we don't know when it will take effect.”

Jack brushed the hair out of Sir Walter's face. “As soon as the ambulance gets here, all three men will be taken to hospital. How do you both feel?”

Higgins tried to smile. “Irritated that I ever developed a taste for port.”

“And you, Mr. Longhurst?”

“Unsteady, and a bit ill.” Longhurst's legs seemed to give out on him, and he collapsed onto a chair. “But I don't know if I'm sick from poison, or from fear.”

Jack sighed. “We'll find out soon enough. Meanwhile we need to discover who brought the poison to the Criterion.” He snapped his fingers at the three remaining detectives, who circled the table. “Search everyone's pockets, handbags, their hats, their umbrellas. Even their shoes.”

“This is absurd.” Lady Tansy frowned as one of the detectives unpinned her lofty hat.

“No, this is a crime scene,” Jack said in a low threatening voice. “And I advise all of you to cooperate. Not doing so will be most unpleasant.”

Eliza gladly handed over her pocketbook and hat. She slipped off her shoes as well. When he was done searching her, the detective moved on to Longhurst, who got to his feet with an audible sigh. A minute later, the detective cleared his throat.

“Sir, I think I've found something in this gentleman's outside jacket pocket.” The policeman held up a small amber glass bottle.

Longhurst stared at the bottle in disbelief and tried to grab it. Another detective hurried over and pinned his arms behind him.

“Let me go!” Longhurst fought to wriggle out of the policeman's grip.

So Longhurst
was
the murderer. Eliza was filled with outraged horror at what this dreadful man had done. Higgins stared at Longhurst in obvious disgust.

Jack took the bottle and brought it close to the window. After he sniffed the stopper, Jack held it up to the light. “Half of the contents are still in the bottle. We can test it to make certain it's poison.” He walked back to where Longhurst struggled with the detectives.

“This is madness.” Longhurst looked desperate to free himself. “I poisoned no one. That bottle is not mine, I swear it!”

“Then how did it get in your pocket?” Eliza asked coolly.

“Yes, explain that, you damn murderer!” Lord Saxton's face reddened with rage.

“I don't know how in hell it got in my pocket,” Longhurst spat back. “Most likely one of you put it there. You're all a pack of liars and scoundrels!”

Jack gestured to another detective, who pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “And you appear to be much worse than a liar and a scoundrel, Mr. Longhurst. I am placing you under arrest for the attempted murder of Sir Walter Fairweather, and the murder of Jonathon Turnbull. You will be taken immediately to Scotland Yard.”

“But you can't do that!” Longhurst cried out when the handcuffs snapped onto his wrists. “I'm innocent. And I drank the port, too! I must go to the hospital with Professor Higgins. I'll die if you don't give me the antidote.”

“He's right,” Eliza said. “Besides, if he dies, you'll never learn the truth.”

Jack smiled for the first time since the Criterion luncheon began. “Don't worry, Lizzie. I won't let him die. If he is the murderer, we'll show him more mercy and justice than he ever showed his victims.”

“I hate the lot of you.” Tears of anger sprang to Longhurst's eyes. “Everyone in the syndicate has always treated me like dirt. Now one of you is framing me for murder. I hope each of you suffers the horrors of the damned. And that includes your filthy Donegal Dancer!”

The Duchess of Carbrey whacked him over the head with her parasol. “Say what you like about the members of the syndicate, sir,” she said. “But I'll poison you myself if you ever say an unkind word about our magnificent horse.”

 

EIGHTEEN

Eliza and Higgins wound their way around the crowd at Sandown Park. Luckily the early afternoon had not turned beastly hot—yet. She missed her father. And he so wanted to be here for the Donegal Dancer's race at the Eclipse Stakes. Alfred Doolittle would be buying drinks for his colleagues and friends, and predicting another stunning win for the Dancer. Instead, he was still recovering in the hospital. Poor Dad. He even got dressed early this morning, determined to attend the race. Despite his loud protests, the staff marched him back into bed.

As for Higgins, he had remained at the London hospital only a few hours following the Criterion lunch. Although he was given an antidote, neither he nor Longhurst seemed to have been poisoned. Now Higgins and Eliza could relax and enjoy the Dancer's next win.

Eliza's excitement matched everyone else's at Sandown, but she also sensed a growing uneasiness. Given the tragedies that occurred at both the Derby and Ascot, she probably wasn't the only person who was worried. What if something shocking happened here, too? Higgins waved at Detective Jeremy, who stood guard near the stable entrance. The policeman's grim expression didn't change. With Longhurst safely in custody, Eliza wondered at the strong police presence. Did they fear an attempt by the horse thieves who remained at large? Or were they concerned about another demonstration by the suffragettes?

She nudged Higgins. “I see two more detectives. Jack has them out in full force.”

“I doubt there will be trouble. Not with the number of policemen we've seen.”

“Ah, but you were wrong about the syndicate luncheon,” she said. “Murder
was
on the menu despite Scotland Yard's presence. If Longhurst had an accomplice, another attempt may be made here.”

Higgins groaned. “Don't bring up Rachel Turnbull again. I don't think she was his accomplice. And if that woman is a murderer, I'll eat my hat.”

She looked at his crumpled fedora. Unlike his rare appearance in formal dress at Ascot, Higgins wore his usual street clothes today. “Your betting form would be easier to digest.”

“Don't look now, but you may be the one with indigestion. Here comes Clara.”

Clara sauntered toward them with her new beau. She looked quite smart in a white linen skirt, white blouse, and a vest of marine blue. Her golden hair was piled beneath a blue straw hat, tipped at a fashionable angle, with a curled feather. Eliza suspected Clara's mother had borrowed money to buy such an expensive outfit. But the new dress wasn't responsible for Clara's smug expression, like a bird with a fat worm. Although Lord Richard Ashmore wasn't fat or wriggly, Clara obviously believed she'd caught him. The girl gazed at him with an air of ownership.

Eliza forced a polite smile when the couple drew near. She had already regaled Higgins with details about the shopping trip to Selfridges. While he found Longhurst's behavior quite telling, he had no interest in Clara's latest suitor. Eliza wished he did share her concern over the silly girl. Since she met Lord Ashmore, Clara had spent virtually every waking moment in his company. And she clung so possessively to the man's arm, Eliza was amazed he didn't wince from pain. But he seemed smitten, too. The couple were oblivious to everyone around them, which included Freddy and his mother. Behind them strolled the Duchess of Carbrey, accompanied by a younger gentleman Eliza didn't recognize.

When the group reached them, she introduced Lord Ashmore to Higgins, who shook the man's hand without much interest. Eliza had asked, but neither he nor his mother knew anything of the Ashmore family except for their enviable reputation for collecting antiquities.

The Duchess of Carbrey introduced her friend Ambrose Farrow with obvious pride. “We hope the Donegal Dancer wins today, but it may be a tough go.”

“Especially with Belmont's Tracery in the field, and Louvois as well,” Farrow said.

Eliza nodded. “Tracery would have won the Ascot Gold Cup.”

“Such a shame.” Farrow smoothed down his dark blond mustache. Eliza thought him an attractive fellow, and most impeccably dressed. She wondered if Higgins could place his American accent. Though the man looked no more than thirty, the Duchess cast flirtatious glances his way, which he returned. “Are you certain you don't want to see if the tent is ready, my dear?”

“No need. I've hosted events at Sandown before. My servants are well aware of how I like things arranged.” She turned to Eliza and Higgins. “You may want to stop by, however, even though we won't be serving luncheon until after the race. Look for the white tent with the green and violet pennants. You won't be able to miss it.”

The couple walked off through the excited crowd. Long after they had disappeared, Eliza could still glimpse the bobbing green feathers that towered above the Duchess's wide hat.

“I invited Mother to come today, Eliza,” Clara said. “I hope you don't mind if she sits in the Duchess's viewing box with the other owners.”

“Of course not.” She smiled at Mrs. Eynsford Hill, who looked grateful. “And you and Lord Ashmore must join us, too.”