Move Your Blooming Corpse (10 page)

“A hobble skirt?” She frowned. “A girl can barely walk in those awful things. One skirt fits tighter than a vise from my calves clear up to my waist. Makes me feel like a blooming mummy.”

“Perfect.” He snapped his fingers. “Wear that skirt.”

“I can't breathe in it!”

“Even better. I need you to drip with disdain and hyperbolic haughtiness, Eliza.”

“I don't need a tight skirt to do that.”

“Yes, you do. You'll seem the most snobbish and useless of ladies. If I am to obfuscate the staff, I need a human smoke screen. So hobble yourself, Eliza. Pull out your tallest hat, your most expensive parasol, your costliest opera gloves.” He bounded over to the bedroom door. “And be quick about it. I want to be at the asylum before lunch.”

Eliza stared after him. If Higgins continued acting like this, the asylum doctors would never let him leave.

*   *   *

The closer to the asylum, the more imposing its complex of buildings appeared. Higgins had heard the grounds were extensive, so he hired a car to drive them from Wimpole Street to Claybury. Eliza could manage only the tiniest of steps. Having a driver deposit them at the main building saved time. Otherwise it might have taken an hour for her to walk from the front gate to the asylum's entrance.

It still took ten minutes for Eliza to mince her way to the reception area, and an additional five minutes to arrive at the Medical Superintendent's office. A solidly built man of middle years, the doctor wore a guarded expression. His navy blue suit was pressed as sharp as a razor, and he held himself like the guards outside Whitehall. Higgins also noticed he never took his eyes off Eliza, who moved as gracefully, and as slowly, as a swan caught in the rushes.

Higgins was quite pleased with her costume. She resembled a young countess in a pink hobble skirt, short jacket, and parasol. Eliza's gloves matched the white lace blouse that covered her long neck. Even longer was the brim of her pink flowered hat. It tilted vertically at such an angle, it added nearly two feet to her height. Thank heaven for the tall doorways at Claybury.

The Superintendent gestured to the two chairs near his desk. “Please sit down.”

The men had to wait for Eliza. Her skirt fit like a second skin, and she could only descend by inches. With grim determination, she tightened her grip on the parasol handle for balance and lowered herself like someone sinking into a tub of boiling water. When she finally sat, Eliza threw Higgins a victorious look.

“I am Dr. Phillip Cullen, Medical Superintendent at Claybury.” He glanced at the note his secretary had given him. “And you are Miss Elizabeth Hewitt and Mr. Henry Jones?”

Higgins nodded. “This is Mr. Hewitt's youngest sister, and I am the family solicitor.”

“How do you do?” Eliza drawled in an exaggerated tone she hadn't used since he and Pickering were training her to speak like a lady.

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “We were not notified of your visit. As you may know, Mr. Hewitt was transferred here this past Monday. The hospital near Ascot deemed him well enough for the transfer, and he suffered no ill effects. But physical resilience is not the same thing as mental capability. If you came to inquire about his release, I must advise against it.”

“And why, pray tell, do you make such a statement?” Eliza enunciated each word as if it would be her last.

“Because your brother is not in his right mind, Miss Hewitt. He suffers from a number of mental disorders. Although he does experience moments of rational thought, he is easily confused and distracted. I'm afraid he may not recognize you at all.”

Higgins almost crowed with delight. This would be easier than he thought. “Have you had to restrain my client?”

The doctor shook his head. “We rarely resort to physical restraint. Claybury is no ordinary institution, Mr. Jones. In fact, we were among the first asylums to include our own medical research building on mental illness. We were the first asylum to switch from gas to electricity.”

“And why would electricity matter to a mental patient?” Eliza looked down her nose at him. “Unless you plan to give them a little shock now and again.”

Higgins hurriedly cleared his throat. “What Miss Hewitt means is that she hopes her brother is receiving the best care possible.”

“He could be in no finer hands. Not only is Claybury the best asylum in the Greater London area, it is the best in Britain. Currently we have two thousand patients in residence, most of whom enjoy considerable freedom within our walls and grounds.” A note of pride crept into his voice. “Claybury contains fifty acres of woodland and ninety-five acres of open parkland. Many of the residents are allowed to walk about the gardens or sit by the ponds. I can't think of anything we lack.”

Eliza sniffed. “Do you have a zoo?”

He looked startled. “Why, no.”

She sat back. “There you are.”

Higgins bit back a grin. Eliza was overplaying her part, and it was time to get her out of this office. “We've traveled a long way, Superintendent. Could we see Mr. Hewitt now?”

“Of course. He has been quite tractable since his arrival. Because he is a suspect in a murder case, the police have requested he be under observation at all times.” Cullen smiled. “We explained that every resident in an asylum is always under observation.”

“Have the police been here often?” Higgins asked.

“A Scotland Yard detective inspector visited Mr. Hewitt twice.”

Eliza straightened. “Is he here now?”

“No, he visited earlier today. About half past seven.”

Turning to Higgins, she said in her most elongated vowels, “As my aunt used to say, ain't that a stroke of luck.”

“All right, then. I think we're done here.” Higgins rose to his feet. “Thank you for speaking with us, Superintendent.”

Cullen walked around the desk, and the two men shook hands. They watched as Eliza took a deep breath and began the laborious process of getting out of her chair. Higgins wanted to applaud when she finally stood up.

“One of our attendants will escort you to Mr. Hewitt.” Cullen glanced at the wall clock. “Ten o'clock, so he should be in the chapel. Mr. Hewitt prays at this time.”

When they reached the reception area, Cullen signaled a stocky young man in a white uniform. “Stevens will take you to Mr. Hewitt. Oh, and as you walk through the building, please take note of the carved wood paneling and stained glass windows. As I said, there aren't many asylums that are so beautiful as ours.”

“You have convinced me, Dr. Cullen,” Eliza said with a gracious nod. “If I ever become a lunatic, I shall ask to be taken here straightaway.”

*   *   *

Since Hewitt was not in the chapel, the recreation hall, or even his private cell, Higgins feared the patients weren't as closely observed as Dr. Cullen claimed. And Eliza moved so slowly, it took almost an hour before the erstwhile Mr. Hewitt was discovered in one of the Day Rooms. Apparently he had been reading there since breakfast and barely looked up from his Bible as they approached.

Stevens tapped Hewitt on the shoulder. “Your sister and solicitor have come to visit you.”

Hewitt gave them a quick, incurious glance before he resumed reading.

“He likes his Bible, he does,” the attendant said. “Maybe if you just sit here nice and quiet, he'll look up and say a few words.” He gestured to the settees and armchairs scattered about, all of them padded in leather or carpet. “You'll have a bit of privacy. Everyone else is in the recreation hall or with the doctors. Have a nice chat, and don't worry. I'll be right by the door to keep an eye on things.”

Higgins and Eliza waited until Stevens sat down in a bentwood chair by the entrance. He was far enough away that any conversation would not be overheard.

“Mr. Hewitt,” Eliza said in a soft voice. “May we speak with you?”

No response. Hewitt sat in the middle of a green leather sofa, but Higgins thought the man might grow nervous if they sat next to him. He grabbed a nearby settee and dragged it over. After Higgins sat down, he gestured for Eliza to sit. She sighed and once again made her descent.

“Do you remember me?” Higgins asked. “We spoke at Ascot.”

“The man with the notebook,” Hewitt said, his eyes still fixed on the Bible.

Eliza and Higgins exchanged excited looks. “Yes, that was me.”

“Best not write in your book here.” Hewitt kept his eyes on the Bible. “They'll take it from you.”

“We heard the police have your diary now,” Higgins said.

Hewitt's jaw tightened. “They had no right. The diary belongs to me. My thoughts were in the diary. They stole my thoughts.” He finally raised his head. “It's unforgivable.”

“Perhaps we can persuade the police to return it to you.” Eliza ignored Higgins, who shook his head. “They might once they're done with it. I mean, once the case is solved.” She made a face at Higgins. “Why are you looking at me that way? I bet I'll convince Jack to give it back to him.”

Higgins turned to Hewitt. “Please ignore her. That skirt makes all the blood rush to her head.”

“But why should I ignore my sister?” Hewitt smirked. “Except my real sister is old enough to be this young lady's mother. A shame no one has informed the staff here.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Who are you besides a pretty girl? Do you wish me ill?”

“Oh no, we've come to find out what really happened at Ascot.”

“What is there to tell? I ran in front of the horses. And I waved a flag that stands for a righteous cause. I hoped to draw attention to that cause.”

“You also waved a gun,” Higgins said.

“That, too, was meant to draw attention.”

“But didn't you realize you'd be trampled like that poor woman at the Epsom Derby?” Eliza said. “You're lucky to be alive.”

He took a shuddering breath. “Yes, the Lord spared me. I don't know why He did not spare Miss Davison. Perhaps He wanted her as one of His angels. In my eyes, she had long been an angel for truth and courage.”

“Was Emily Davison a friend of yours?” Eliza asked.

“Only in spirit. I regret I never exchanged a word with her, though I heard her speak once. And I had the sad honor of attending the funeral.” He gave Eliza a penetrating look. “Were you at her funeral?”

She shook her head.

“Of course not. You're a pretty girl. Pretty girls only know how to be pretty. They care about pretty things and pretty people. They have no use for serious ideas, or serious men like me.” He sounded dejected.

“That's not true, Mr. Hewitt. I know plenty of pretty girls who care about such things, and plenty of ugly ones who are as dumb as brick.”

Higgins held up his hand. “Before this pretty girl compels me to throw a brick at her head, I want to ask you a few questions about Ascot.”

“What is there to say? I went to Ascot to protest injustice. Injustice perpetrated by the complacent, the greedy, the fearful and ungodly. I knew I would suffer for it, perhaps even die.”

“But you weren't the only one on the racetrack,” Eliza said. “You might have crippled one of the horses. Or even killed a jockey.”

Hewitt sighed. “It was never my intention to injure the horses or the jockeys. I hoped they would see me and stop in time. But the horses were upon me so quickly. They ran faster than I thought possible.”

“Of course they ran fast,” Eliza said, clearly exasperated. “They're racehorses, you silly natters.”

Higgins shot her a warning look. “Mr. Hewitt, are all your activities on that day recorded in the diary now in Scotland Yard's possession?”

He looked amused. “I fear I did not have the opportunity to record anything after I was trampled by the horses.”

“You don't talk as if you were mad.” Higgins regarded him for a long moment. “In fact, you appear quite rational.”

Hewitt stared back. “‘I am but mad north-north-west.'”

“
Hamlet
!” Eliza cried in delight. “Act two, scene two. Do you know, I memorized the whole play last month right before we went to see it at the theater.”

“‘When the wind is southerly—'”

Eliza finished for him. “‘I know a hawk from a handsaw'!”

“Don't you dare start quoting with him,” Higgins grumbled. “If I have to hear you recite one more line from that play, I'm going to beg Stevens to stick me in a padded cell.”

“Don't you see? He's only pretending to be mad.”

“Unlike a certain Cockney girl who grows more unhinged by the minute.”

“Do you know John Dryden, pretty girl?” Hewitt asked.

She glanced at Higgins. “Have I met him at one of your mother's teas?”

“Given that he was a seventeenth-century poet, Eliza, that seems unlikely.”

“So your name is Eliza, not Elizabeth?” Hewitt sounded triumphant.

“How blooming stupid.” She smacked Higgins on the shoulder. “Why don't you tell him that we both teach phonetics at 27A Wimpole Street? And that Colonel Pickering lives with us.”

Higgins groaned. “I don't have to now.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Blimey.”

“Mr. Dryden was a playwright as well as a poet, Eliza.” Hewitt closed his eyes. “‘There is a pleasure sure in being mad, which none but madmen know.'” He opened his eyes and stared at them, as if waiting for a reaction.

“Not only pleasure, but safety,” Higgins said wryly. “Mr. Hewitt, did you see who killed Diana Price?”

No emotion registered on Hewitt's face. “I do not know who Diana Price is.”

“She was a singer in the theater,” Eliza said. “But she started out as a Gaiety Girl, like one of those pretty girls you mention. You can't be a Gaiety Girl unless you're pretty. Diana Price was rather famous. I'm surprised you don't know her.”

“The theater is nearly as foul with corruption as the racecourse. I haven't been to the theater since I was a boy.”