Move Your Blooming Corpse (24 page)

“She is not my Miss Doolittle. Eliza is a fellow elocution teacher.”

Brody shrugged. “Sorry, I meant no harm. But ever since Inspector Shaw told Patsy that Turnbull was poisoned, she refuses to eat. And he keeps hounding us about what happened.”

“Did he specifically say you and your lady friend are suspects?”

“Oh, no. He just keeps asking us to remember if anyone besides the Turnbull servants went around the picnic hampers. The Inspector drove Patsy to tears.”

Higgins began to follow the group now returning to the paddock. “No one else became ill from eating or drinking, so Patsy can gorge herself from dawn to dusk if she likes. And she has nothing to worry about from Inspector Shaw. Your lady friend is a most unlikely suspect.”

“I tried to tell her that,” Brody said. “Patsy's a bit nervous about everything, though. Whenever I'm scheduled to ride, she has nightmares that I fell and broke a leg—”

Higgins looked toward the stables. “What's that noise?”

Loud frenzied squeals rose from the nearest stable building. Higgins and the jockey broke into a run, but Sir Walter, Saxton, and Gordon Longhurst beat them there. The Duchess hurried behind them. Once they were inside the stable, Higgins rushed toward the stalls and the horse's cries. Now that he was so close, Higgins also heard faint moans. Peering through the bars atop the half-door, he saw the wild horse known as the Black Baron. His wide eyes rolled and his nostrils flared. Ears flattened, the colt reared and stamped, tail arched over his back.

“Bloody hell!” Higgins saw Alfred Doolittle lying motionless on the straw. Everyone crowded against the half-gate. Their cries joined that of Higgins.

He tugged and pulled at the latch. “It won't budge!”

“Someone get that horse under control, for God's sake!” Saxton said. “Where are the trainers and grooms?”

Brody rushed into the next stall while Higgins kicked the locked gate in frustration. He turned to Longhurst. “Find someone who can unlock this. We must get Doolittle out of there!”

Longhurst disappeared. Higgins now saw that Brody had grabbed a halter and climbed the adjoining stall's side. The jockey leaned over the bars and tried to slip it onto the Black Baron's head. The colt reared and stamped perilously close to Doolittle's still and bloodied body. Brody managed to get half of the harness over the animal's ears, only to watch it fall to the straw below the flailing hooves. Samuel and Longhurst suddenly appeared behind Higgins. With practiced ease, the young groom unlatched the complicated lock.

“Divn't do that, mon, ye canna calm him! Gae back wi' ye.”

Brody jumped down from the wall and joined Longhurst in the aisle. The groom made soothing sounds and slowly opened the gate. Samuel stepped over Alfred Doolittle's body, one arm raised to protect his head. The Black Baron reared once more and then stood, trembling and sweating, pawing the ground with his ears back. Higgins and Sir Walter dragged Doolittle out of the stall to safety before Samuel backed out and closed the gate.

“Is'tha kaylied then, ya daft horse?”

“Is he dead?” the Duchess asked, one hand on her throat.

Higgins knelt down and felt for a pulse. “No, thank God.”

He detected a flutter in the injured man's neck and saw the slow rise and fall of his chest. Higgins cursed himself. Doolittle looked terrible. Bright blood coated his head and face and stained his clothing. Tearing off his jacket, Higgins rolled it into a pillow and nestled it under Alfred's head. Guilt and anger welled up in him. How the devil had this happened? Eliza's father knew this horse was dangerous.

“Fetch a doctor,” Sir Walter ordered Samuel.

“Who was the stableboy that brought the note to Alfred?” Higgins asked.

“Toby.” Sir Walter glanced around, as if the boy would materialize out of thin air. “You, Melling! Search for Toby. Don't stand there gaping. Go fetch him!”

The man bolted, his boots clattering on the tile.

The Duchess seemed close to tears. “Why ever did Doolittle go into the Black Baron's stall?”

Higgins had stanched most of the blood from a deep cut on Doolittle's head, but the bleeding had not stopped. A head injury was always serious. He knew that from listening to his father's stories of medical emergencies. Higgins dreaded to think how Eliza would react to this dire situation, especially if Alfred never revived.

Longhurst slammed a fist against the railings. “This can't be another accident.”

“If he dies, only three members of the syndicate remain. Well, I've had enough.” Saxton whirled to face Gordon Longhurst. “If you're still interested in owning a share of the Dancer, I'll sell. I'm not going to be stabbed, poisoned,
or
trampled to death over some damn horse!”

“Really, Maitland, stop fretting about your own skin,” the Duchess chided. “We have Alfred to worry about. Where's the nearest hospital, Walter?”

“We'll have him transported there as soon as possible. And Saxton, I must caution you against such a hasty decision. It may be exactly what it appears—an accident.”

“This was no accident,” he shot back. “Alfred went off to take a phone call. How did he end up in a stall with a wild horse? No, someone is knocking off the syndicate members one by one, and by heaven I won't be next. I repeat my offer, Longhurst. If you want my share in the Dancer, let's shake on it.”

A heartsick Higgins looked up to see Longhurst and Lord Saxton shake hands. Higgins agreed with Saxton. Someone had tried to kill Alfred. But because of the attack, Gordon Longhurst had gotten what he wanted: a share of the Donegal Dancer.

Although not a religious man, Higgins prayed Alfred survived. If not, he would blame himself even more than he did over Hewitt and Diana Price. And what would he tell Eliza? He was supposed to guard her father, who now lay bloody and broken on the stable floor.

Whether Alfred lived or died, Higgins feared he would be the next one killed. Only this time Eliza would land the deadly blow.

 

FOURTEEN

A last sunbeam from the high window brightened her father's wan face. Eliza fought back tears at how helpless the old man looked. It was a blooming miracle he was still alive. Then again, he had more energy than someone half his age. But not even a prize boxer could hope to survive a round with a rampaging horse. Somehow Alfred Doolittle had.

At the sound of another loud moan, Eliza looked up. She was in the men's ward of the King Edward VII Hospital. All around her were patients who groaned or snored in their sleep; one played solitaire on a tray, his cards slapping in rhythm. Eliza loathed the odors in the room: antiseptic, sulfur, and laundry soap. They cleaned continuously here. She watched as yet another staff member, known as a “scrubber,” entered the ward with a mop and bucket. A headache pounded inside her skull. Eliza rubbed the bridge of her nose, wishing it away.

Her bum also ached after sitting for hours. Taking pity on her, the nurse had placed a wooden chair by Alfred Doolittle's bed. While Eliza appreciated the matron's reassuring words and her promise to watch over Dad all night, she didn't intend to leave his side.

It would take at least that long to control her anger so she wouldn't kill the Professor on sight. She knew Higgins too well. While Dad was being attacked by the horse, he was probably jotting down a stableboy's new slang words. Bleeding idiot. As if a new turn of phrase were worth more than her father's life. More fool her for trusting Higgins to keep Dad safe.

The unconscious Alfred moved, exposing the bruises on his bare shoulder. Eliza tucked the sheet and blanket over him and sat back. Of course, she was as guilty as Higgins. To think she'd been at the suffragette rally while all this was going on at the stables! She'd been enjoying lunch at the Palladium and playing about with ju-jitsu lessons. She was no better than the Professor. Instead, she should have been at Bay Willow Stables with her father.

Eliza felt ill again, remembering how Mrs. Pearce had told her the news as soon as she returned to Wimpole Street. She nearly passed out from shock at learning her father was lying close to death in hospital. Eliza somehow found her way to Paddington station and boarded a train to Windsor. She wept all the way, wondering how something so terrible had happened. And she still didn't know much. The police had detained everyone at the stables for questioning.

“Dad?” She leaned forward when he murmured in his sleep.

Even unconscious, her father kept raising a hand in a jerky motion, as if warding off a blow. He seemed so weak lying there in his narrow bed. And where was that blooming idiot he married? On second thought, she hoped Rose Doolittle wouldn't show up. Her wails would disturb every last patient in the hospital.

Rubbing her arms, Eliza paced around the bed. The doctor had explained that her father was found unconscious in a locked stall—a stall with a wild horse. Dad was brash, but not even he was fool enough to get close to a crazed beast. Someone had locked him in! Who was evil enough to trap him there? It had to be a syndicate member. But which one?

Gloomy dusk deepened the shadows in the ward. Her father shifted in his sleep. Eliza turned at the sound of clattering footsteps. Her stepmother's shrill voice echoed from the hall outside the ward. “I'm looking for Alfred Doolittle! Where is he? Where's me poor husband?”

“Please, ma'am, you must calm down.”

“Get out of the way.” Rose fought past a nurse and rushed to Alfred's bedside. She let out a shriek that could have been heard in France. “Oh, blessed Jaysus! He's dyin'! Poor Alfie, all swaddled like a blooming corpse!”

Eliza stamped her foot. “Don't say such a thing. He's not going to die.”

Rose ignored her. “I'm too young to be a widow! We ain't been wed a year yet.” She threw herself down on the bedside chair and wailed like a banshee.

“Hush,” Eliza hissed. “The other patients here are trying to rest.”

“How can you be so heartless? Your da's lyin' there, half dead if not all dead—”

“He's not dead!”

The matron hurried from the ward's opposite end. “Ladies, please. You must keep your voices down. You're disturbing the other gentlemen in the ward.”

“They look bloody fine compared to my Alfie.” Rose sniffled into a handkerchief. “Any minute, he'll be tellin' a joke to St. Peter at the pearly gates. And who's to blame for all this, I'm askin' ya? It was her!” She jabbed a finger at Eliza.

“Why blame me? I didn't talk him into buying a racehorse.”

“D'ye think I did? All that money what come from lectures, it swelled Alfie's head. And how did he get it? Because you been keeping those fancy gents warm on Wimpole Street!”

“Ah-ah-oh-ow! That's a lie, you old cow! I'm a good girl, I am. Not like you. When all that money come in, you forced Dad to marry you.”

Rose shrieked louder. The matron tried her best to hush the woman, but soon gave up and marched away in defeat. Eliza sighed with relief when she spied Higgins, Sir Walter, the Duchess of Carbrey, Lord Saxton, and Brody enter the ward. She was surprised to see Gordon Longhurst among them. Eliza struggled to control her temper. This wasn't the place to have a dustup with Higgins. But it would be difficult to wait until they got back home.

Hands on her hips, Eliza stared at Higgins. “All right, Professor. You've got five minutes before I start punching you. Tell me what 'appened. I mean, happened.”

He looked more miserable than she had ever seen him. And so he should. “Eliza, you must know how sorry I am.”

“Sorry, are you!” Rose huffed in disgust. “What was me husband doing in a stall with a bleeding crazy horse? Was it some kind of daft game you gents were playing?”

“This was no game.” A somber Jack Shaw joined the group at the foot of the bed. “Your husband was told there was a phone call from you, madam. He went off to the stable office to speak with you. No one suspected anything until the horse set up a racket. When everyone got there, Alfred was already unconscious.”

“Alfred must have wanted a closer look at the Black Baron,” Sir Walter added. “I don't know why he went into the stall. I warned him to stay away from that horse.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? The latch was fastened from the outside.” Higgins seemed as angry and frustrated as Eliza. “He'd been locked in. Alfred couldn't escape.”

Rose knocked over the chair in her haste to stand. “Someone locked him in, on purpose?”

“Of course someone locked him in,” Saxton said. “The same scoundrel who killed Diana and Turnbull. Who else could it have been?”

“We've not had time to investigate this latest incident,” Jack said. “So we don't know exactly what transpired. But it seems the same person is behind the deaths and the attack today.”

“It had to be a trap!” Rose yelled so loud, Eliza winced. “Set by some fiendish murderer! You said Alfie went off because I rang him up. But I never called. I was shopping, I was. Didn't know what was goin' on till I got home and the maid sent me here.”

Eliza didn't care what Rose prattled on about. Instead, she stood toe-to-toe with Higgins. He focused on his feet, too ashamed to meet her gaze. “Why weren't you with Dad when he went to the stables? You promised to watch over him.”

He finally looked at her with a guilt-stricken expression. “When your father slipped off, I started to follow him. But Brody stopped me. He had questions about the investigation.”

“That I did, Miss Doolittle.” Brody looked grim. “The Professor meant to go after your dad, but I held him up with my fool questions. I apologize. It's my fault.”

Higgins hung his head again. “No, it's my fault. My fault and no one else's that Alfred was almost killed. And I'm sorrier than I can say, Eliza. I don't expect you to ever forgive me.”