Move Your Blooming Corpse (25 page)

“It's my fault, too,” Eliza said with a bitter sigh. “I should have been there.”

Her dad moaned once more, then mumbled something. It sounded like “Help, help me.” She couldn't be certain because Rose drowned his words out with her caterwauling and clutched his arm, which made him groan louder.

“He's dyin'! Listen to him,” Rose cried out. “Oh, Alfie, don't you be leavin' me.”

The Duchess cleared her throat. “Perhaps one of these gentlemen could escort you home, Mrs. Doolittle.”

“And why should I be doin' that? Me husband was nearly murdered!”

Sir Walter glanced around at the other syndicate members. “It makes no sense. I can't see why any of us would want to lock poor Alfred into a stall with that wild colt.”

“Maybe one of the grooms,” Jack said, “or the stableboy. I ordered the local constable to question Toby and the entire Bay Willow staff.”

“Toby is twelve or thirteen, for heaven's sake. No more than a mere boy.”

Jack continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. “Toby said he found the note on a table in the tack room, Sir Walter. It was sealed and addressed to Alfred Doolittle. The telephone box is nowhere near the Black Baron, however. Someone must have intercepted him and dragged him to the stall.”

Eliza scrutinized the members of the syndicate, looking for any sign of guilt or nervousness. Unfortunately, all of them looked equally miserable.

“Professor, did anyone leave the group after Doolittle did?” Jack asked.

“No. We were all by the paddock fence watching the horses or conversing. None of us suspected any trouble until we heard the commotion from the stables.”

Jack turned to Sir Walter. “What about the owner of Bay Willow?”

“Mr. Rowling is well respected, and he hires only the best men to work at his farms.”

“Rose,” a voice croaked. Eliza turned around to see her stepmother smothering her father's face with kisses. He looked over at his daughter. “L-Liza, izzat you?”

Eliza rushed to kneel on the other side of the bed. “Yes, Dad, it's me.”

“Alfie, what happened at the stables today?” Rose asked. “Tell us who did this!”

Her father opened the one eye that wasn't swathed beneath the gauze bandages and then squinted. “Wha-wha 'appened?”

“Don't you remember, Dad?” Eliza said. “They found you in the stall with the Black Baron. The wild stallion, the one they warned you to stay away from.”

He glanced around in obvious confusion at the group gathered about the bed. Eliza motioned them to step back, while Rose continued to weep and clutch at her husband's hand. She wanted to kick her stepmother, who now crawled onto the narrow bed. She'd smother the poor man if she crept any closer.

A nursing matron ran over. “Give him air, Mrs. Doolittle, please. And you must not get into bed with him. Your husband suffered multiple bruises and several fractures. Every time you touch him, you only cause him pain.” With a firm hand, the matron grabbed Rose by the collar and pulled her away. “Must you all be here? The patient needs to rest.”

“We'll only be a few minutes more,” Jack said. “Uncle Alfred, what do you remember after receiving the note about the telephone call?”

Eliza clasped her father's other hand. “Take your time, Dad. Think hard.”

“I-I followed the boy. To the stable.”

When he licked his dry lips, Eliza jumped up to fetch him a glass of water. The matron had beaten her to it, however. She motioned everyone aside, helped lift her patient, and then held the glass to his mouth. He sipped a few times, then closed his eyes and fell back.

“M'all right,” Alfred mumbled. “Now. Thass be'er. The boy left me at the door. I walked inside. A bit dim, it was. An' then I fell. Flat on me face.”

“Did you trip?” Jack held a hand up to prevent anyone else from speaking.

“I don't remember. Nothin' else, till I woke up here.”

“He's got a lump the size of a plum on the back of his skull,” the matron said.

Jack reached a hand behind his uncle's head. “I think someone knocked you out, then dragged you into the Black Baron's stall.”

“It seems clear the blasted attack on Alfred is connected to Turnbull's and Diana Price's murders,” Higgins said. “Not even I believe this has anything to do with Harold Hewitt or women's suffrage any longer.”

Jack nodded. “It does appear the Dancer's owners are being killed off one by one.”

Eliza noticed how the syndicate members took a step back from each other, as if worried one of them might be murdered at any moment.

“But why?” the Duchess asked. “Because of the Donegal Dancer?”

“Open your eyes,” Eliza said with exasperation. “Of course it's about the Dancer. Someone wants the horse all to themselves. And I believe Harold Hewitt saw or heard something in the Ascot stable. When we visited him at the asylum, he kept saying we were blind, that there was evil and lies there. Perhaps that's why his family arranged for his escape. They thought he was in danger, too.”

“We don't know his family was involved, Lizzie.”

Eliza whirled on her cousin. “If the police had done their job properly, they'd have found out what Hewitt knew before he escaped. Maybe then Dad wouldn't be lying here in pain.”

Jack backed away, surprised by her outburst.

“These murders are not about cheating spouses or a woman's right to vote,” she went on. “They're about greed, pure and simple. And it's all connected to the Donegal Dancer.”

“This means one of us is the culprit.” Saxton shot Gordon Longhurst a suspicious look. “Alfred's attack so unsettled me today that I sold my share in the Dancer to Longhurst a few hours ago. He's been hounding us for money since his wife's death. This latest incident has given him exactly what he wanted.”

“Are you saying I'm the murderer?” Longhurst's face flushed dark red, from his neck to the roots of his hair. “That's ridiculous, and a damned lie!”

“You do seem the obvious choice.”

He launched himself at Saxton, but Higgins managed to grab him by the upper arm. Jack quickly squeezed himself between the two men. This latest outburst brought the matron rushing over once more.

“I have had quite enough of this. I insist you all leave the ward.”

“I am sorry, but we're almost done here.” Jack flashed his official badge.

With an offended sniff, she walked off to tend to a patient begging for laudanum.

“Jack, if the killer hired a man to do his dirty work at the stable, he could waltz in here at any time. Dad's still not safe.” Eliza gently stroked her father's forehead.

“I shall have him immediately transferred to a private room,” the Duchess said with a kind smile. “And I will arrange for round-the-clock nurses to care for him. Sister Eleanor is an old friend of mine, as is the hospital superintendent.”

The matron marched over once more with a tall older gentleman. “Dr. Plummer, they've been nothing but trouble the whole time they've been here. They must leave.”

“I'm afraid Matron is right.” With a forbidding expression, Plummer herded the Wrexham syndicate members away from the bed. “Mr. Doolittle needs to rest.”

Higgins followed the others down the aisle. Several patients sighed loudly in relief when Dr. Plummer shut the door after them.

With a weary look at Eliza, Jack pulled Rose off her husband's bed. Ignoring her earsplitting sobs, he dragged her out of the ward. “Uncle Alfred will be fine, no need to worry. You can visit again tomorrow.”

“How do I know he'll be safe?” Rose wailed.

“If the Duchess promised, then it's sterling.”

Once the others left, Eliza knelt by the bed. The staff was busy with a feverish patient at the ward's other end. She gently placed a hand on her father's arm, trying not to startle him. She smiled when he opened his eyes. “Dad. I've a favor to ask.”

“Not a good time,” he said with effort, “to be granting a favor, lass.”

“It's important or I wouldn't ask. I need you to sell me part of your share of the Donegal Dancer. The killer won't expect another new owner. It might frighten him into taking a risk that exposes him. We have to find out who did this to you before anything worse happens.”

He sighed. “Seems dangerous, girl, but I'm hurtin' too bad to argue.”

“Good. I'll have the papers drawn up for you to sign—”

His snores resumed rattling the ward. Eliza kissed his cheek. She'd stay on guard until they moved him to a private room. No one would harm her father again. She was done waiting for Scotland Yard to do their job. By becoming a part owner of the Donegal Dancer, Eliza had made herself a target.

That might be the only way to draw out the killer.

 

FIFTEEN

“I love when the Bohemians scandalize everyone,” the Duchess of Carbrey announced. “Say what you will about Mr. Diaghilev and his company, they know how to set the ladies to fanning themselves. After the uproar that ensued at the Paris premiere, I made certain to buy a ticket for their London performances.” She pointed at her ensemble. “I even ordered an outfit inspired by Mr. Bakst's costumes for
The Firebird
.”

Higgins now understood why the Duchess sported a burnt orange satin dress decorated with reddish-gold birds. To complete the dramatic effect, a gold turban covered her hair.

Mrs. Higgins sipped her tea. “Jemima Hobbes saw the production in Paris. She said she didn't understand a thing the dancers were doing onstage. And she despised the music. Who was the composer again? Some Russian fellow.”

“Igor Stravinsky,” Higgins said.

When he had asked his mother yesterday to host an impromptu tea at her Chelsea flat, he didn't expect them to converse for an hour about a Hungarian operetta called
The Marriage Market.
Now the conversation had moved on to Vaslav Nijinsky's shocking choreography for
The Rite of Spring
. Following the riot at its Paris premiere, the Ballets Russes had brought the production to London for four performances.

“Mr. Stravinsky's music sounded positively savage.” The Duchess gave a delighted shudder. “Of course, we must remember the Russians are an uncivilized race. Not a decent painter among them, and their novels are far too long. Still, I haven't spent such an enjoyable evening at the Drury Lane in years. Then again, I missed all the excitement in May. I heard it was an extraordinary production of
Hamlet
.”

Higgins sighed with relief. Once talk moved on to the Shakespearean fiasco when Eliza caught a killer, it wouldn't take much to nudge the conversation to the most recent murders. “Yes, it was the most entertaining
Hamlet
I had ever seen.”

“Certainly unique,” his mother added. “A pity you were in Bath, Minerva.”

The older woman looked disappointed. “Oh, were you all there? Even you, Colonel?”

Pickering finished his tea sandwich before answering. “Of course. And the Drury Lane will not see another one like it again.” He paused. “Thank goodness.”

“I am glad you brought up that production, Minerva.” Because Higgins and his family had known the Duchess of Carbrey for decades, they were on a first-name basis when in the privacy of their homes. “Eliza and I had been on the trail of a murderer for weeks. We were fortunate the crime-solving stars aligned that night. I am hoping they do so again.”

She cocked her head at him. “So it is not the theater you wish to discuss, but murder.”

“Given what happened to poor Alfred, the discussion is long past due.”

“I agree. How shocking to make such an attempt in broad daylight with all of us nearby. We are dealing with a criminal whose boldness is matched only by his madness.” Minerva frowned, which was the only time any wrinkles could be discerned on the sixty-year-old duchess.

Although she was never regarded as a great beauty, Minerva's intelligence and humor had dazzled many men since she was a girl. London society was shocked when the 6th Duke of Carbrey married the Baron of Sefton's daughter. But the Duke was an astute man who valued Minerva's wit and vivacity over a pretty face and empty conversation. He remained devoted to her until his death. She inspired an equal amount of devotion in her second husband, a wealthy business owner and racehorse breeder twenty years her junior. And the redoubtable duchess had not lacked for male company since his death nine years ago.

“I am glad you mention the madness of these acts,” Higgins said. “That is why I believed Harold Hewitt was behind the murders. But we'd be fools to think that now.”

“Then you agree with Miss Doolittle. A syndicate member is the killer.”

“Exactly. All of you were together at Ascot, Henley, and at the horse farm. Because of the crowds at the races and the regatta, an outsider could have done the deed there. But damned few of us were at the horse farm on Saturday.” Restless, Higgins walked over to the windows overlooking the second-floor terrace. The rain streaming down the glass obscured his view of the flowerpots outside, as well as the river Thames below. “The murderer was among us that day. And that narrows the list of suspects by a considerable margin.”

Pickering cleared his throat. “Racing attracts desperate characters, and two disreputable men were part of the racing syndicate. One is gone. The other remains.”

“What? You mean Lord Saxton?” Minerva let out an amused guffaw. “Don't be absurd.”

“The Colonel never trusted either man,” Higgins said.

Minerva rolled her eyes. “I don't trust most people I meet in the course of the day. That doesn't mean they're killers. Good heavens, I know both fellows gambled away their fortunes like drunken sailors on a sinking ship. In fact, Turnbull Tea was run so atrociously, I've heard rumors the bank will soon take it over. But stupidity is not the same as murder.”