Move Your Blooming Corpse (29 page)

Higgins shook her hand. “I remember.”

“Hope I'm dressed fancy enough.” She smoothed her butter yellow dress.

“You look fine,” Higgins assured her. Eliza loved fashion, and he expected her to comment on Patsy's dress and velour hat. Instead, Eliza threw caustic glances at Longhurst.

“The Duchess is here.” Brody suddenly appeared behind Patsy's chair.

Everyone looked over as Sir Walter escorted the Duchess to the table. Thankfully, she appeared less Bohemian this afternoon in a beaded blue outfit. The Saxtons, however, looked like dress mannequins from the windows at Selfridges. They had donned nearly identical outfits; he sported a white shirt, jacket, and pants, while his wife wore an ivory skirt and bolero with her white blouse. Higgins had never seen Lady Saxton look so jubilant. And the two-foot-high white plumes on her hat bobbed with every movement.

The reason for her joy became evident once she reached the table. Lady Saxton stood before them, both hands clasped on her parasol's carved ivory handle. “This is the last meeting of the Wrexham Racing Syndicate that either Maitland or I shall ever have to attend.” With a victorious smile, she sat in the chair Lord Saxton drew out for her. “I insist on drinking the first glass of champagne to celebrate.”

Her husband sat down beside her with a glum expression. Higgins suspected Saxton would buy another horse as soon as possible, albeit one without murderers involved.

As agent for the syndicate, Sir Walter took his place at the head of the table. Gordon Longhurst sat directly to his right, the Duchess to his left. Brody sat at the other end of the table. He winked at Patsy, and she squeezed his hand in reply. Higgins wondered why the jockey was here. Then again, everyone probably wondered the same about him.

Once all the guests were seated, Sir Walter tapped a spoon against his water glass for attention. “The recent unhappy events at the Bay Willow Stables have prompted this meeting. Normally the syndicate would not meet until after the upcoming Eclipse Stakes, but much has happened over the past few days.”

“Far too much, in my opinion,” the Duchess said.

“Agreed. I spoke with the hospital this morning, and am happy to report that Alfred is recovering nicely. He may be released as early as next week.”

“Has there been any further news about who attacked him?” Saxton asked.

Sir Walter pointed to the detectives who ringed the table. “As you can see, Scotland Yard will be joining us this afternoon. Inspector, perhaps you would like to say something.”

Jack walked over. “We have questioned everyone who was at the stables that morning, including some of you. At this time, Mr. Doolittle cannot remember the attack. We hope his memory improves and he will give us a piece of crucial information.”

“Which means you don't know anything more than you did on Saturday,” Saxton said with obvious contempt.

Jack's expression grew steely. “I know enough to realize that someone at the stables that day was responsible. Until the culprit—or culprits—are found, everyone remains a suspect.”

Lord Saxton swore under his breath. His wife leaned over and whispered, “Ignore him. He's just a policeman.”

Higgins bit back a chuckle when Eliza shot an icy glare at Lady Saxton.

“Not only are you suspects, you are all possible murder victims,” Jack continued. “That is why my men and I are here this afternoon. If another attempt is made to kill one of you, at least it won't take the police long to respond.” Jack tipped his hat. “Enjoy your lunch.”

“Yes, well. Ahem. Thank you, Inspector.” Sir Walter took a deep breath. “Before we proceed, Mr. Brody will relay some pertinent news about future breeding opportunities for the Donegal Dancer.”

After giving a self-conscious tug to his navy blazer, Brody droned on for five minutes regarding recent offers to breed their horse with various prize mares. Higgins heard Eliza's stomach growl. He was more than ready for lunch, too. And Lord Saxton looked most unhappy that Sir Walter hadn't yet asked the waiters to uncork the champagne.

At long last Brody sat down. Sir Walter stood again. “No doubt everyone is aware that Lord Saxton sold his shares of the Donegal Dancer this past Saturday to Mr. Longhurst. My solicitor drew up the proper papers, and both men signed them yesterday. I have the original documents with me for anyone who cares to inspect them. I also made copies for each of the owners.” He held up a sheaf of legal documents.

At a nod from Sir Walter, one of the waiters lifted a magnum of champagne from an ice bucket. “Let us toast the arrival of a new member of the syndicate, as well as bid farewell to one of our original owners.” Sir Walter lifted his full glass.

After the rest of the glasses had been filled, even Higgins took a few appreciative sips. It was an excellent vintage, although he preferred a good port.

Still holding his champagne flute, Sir Walter smiled at Eliza and Higgins. “A pity Alfred could not be here. With the Eclipse Stakes only two days away, he would be feverish with anticipation. Obviously he could not attend, nor his wife, who is staying by his side in hospital. But his daughter Eliza is here today to represent him. Given the alarming outcome of recent syndicate meetings, she has brought along Professor Higgins for moral support.”

Eliza set her glass down. “I am here not only to represent my father's interests,” she said. “I am also representing my own.”

Curious, Higgins watched her reach for her handbag, a larger one than she normally carried.

After Eliza withdrew several papers, she stood. “I have decided it is too dangerous for my father to remain the only Doolittle in the Wrexham Racing Syndicate. If another attempt is made on an owner of the Donegal Dancer, then by heaven, we need more members.”

“What in blazes are you talking about?” Higgins asked.

“The more targets, the harder they are to hit.” Eliza shook the papers at Sir Walter. “I am the latest syndicate target. My father sold me part of his shares in the racehorse.”

Startled cries rose up from everyone at the table.

“My dear girl, you didn't!” The Duchess looked aghast.

Saxton's wife sighed. “You ninny. Now you'll have to wear those awful colors.”

“Are you out of your mind, Lizzie?” In an instant, Jack appeared at her elbow. Without asking, he grabbed her papers and scanned them.

What had the impulsive girl done? Higgins groaned. Eliza wasn't there at the stables to see how close her father came to dying. She didn't seem to understand that whoever was behind these attacks was utterly ruthless. And she had just offered herself up as a sacrificial victim.

“What a foolish thing for you to do.” Higgins joined Jack in examining the documents.

“Not as foolish as waiting for this devil to make another attempt on my father's life.” Eliza lifted her chin in defiance. “And I don't care what any of you think. I am now a part owner of the Donegal Dancer. I had papers drawn up by Sibley & Moffett, and the lawyers and I visited Dad in hospital on Monday so he could sign them.”

“Sibley & Moffett?” Higgins shook his head in frustration. “You not only went behind my back to do this, you used my family's solicitors?”

She shrugged. “I had to use somebody. Anyway, the papers are all in order. Everything has been witnessed and the money transferred.”

Higgins cursed under his breath. Damnation, Eliza had bought the shares with all her winnings from Ascot. Once again, she had bet everything she owned. If Eliza kept this up, she'd be back to selling violets at Covent Garden by the time she was twenty-five.

Sir Walter looked as concerned as Higgins and Jack. “If I may see the documents.”

Handing them over, Eliza sat down once more and ignored both Jack and Higgins.

“You've put a blooming bull's-eye on your back, girl,” Jack whispered in her ear.

“Better me than Dad. And if you solve these murders, none of us will have to worry anymore, now will we?”

Jack swore under his breath. With a last furious look at his cousin, he stomped back to rejoin his detectives near the mirrored wall.

Higgins leaned over her shoulder to say something, but Eliza put up a hand. “Not a word, Professor. Not a single word. All I asked you to do was keep an eye on my father, but he almost got trampled to death because you were talking, as usual. So I am done listening to what you or Jack have to say.”

He felt cut to the heart, especially since her accusation was true.

“It appears Miss Doolittle's papers are in order.” Sir Walter folded them and returned them to her. “Therefore, the Wrexham Racing Syndicate now has two new members.” He lifted his champagne flute. “To Miss Eliza Doolittle, the latest owner of the Donegal Dancer.”

Higgins refused to join in the toast. Eliza was not only the latest fool to own that blasted racehorse, she could very well be the next murder victim.

*   *   *

Eliza was pleased. Things had gone better than planned. As expected, Jack and Higgins carried on for a bit, but it could have been worse. It might be wise, however, if she spent all her free time with Freddy until the Eclipse Stakes. Otherwise, Higgins and Jack would lecture her nonstop.

She had worried for days about their reaction after learning she was now a syndicate member. Although she wasn't good at keeping secrets, this one was too important to divulge. Those papers had to be legal and signed before she breathed a word of it to anyone. Of course she had put herself in danger. But it was the right thing to do. If Higgins and Jack were this upset, imagine how disturbed the killer must be now that another owner stood between him and the Donegal Dancer!

For the hundredth time, she wondered if Longhurst was the murderer. When she announced the news, she made sure to catch his reaction. He seemed surprised and upset. Then again, so did everyone else. Especially Higgins.

Clearly she had unsettled the Professor. He barely touched his lunch, odd since he was always going on about how much he loved the Criterion's food. For her part, she quite enjoyed the pickled oysters, Norwegian anchovies, oxtail consommé, and fillets of beef. She'd eaten two servings of the boiled new potatoes, and almost asked for a second of the plover on toast and cress salad. Now and then she worried a bit of poison might have been included on the menu. But Jack and his detectives shadowed the waiters, inspecting every single dish they served. Four more detectives reportedly stood guard in the Criterion kitchens. How in the world could the food be poisoned under such scrutiny?

When dessert was served, Eliza debated between the iced pudding, apricot fritters, or raspberry nut shortcake. Perhaps a little of all three.

As she savored her first delicious bite of shortcake, Higgins muttered, “You're eating more than all the syndicate members at this table, Eliza. If any of this food is poisoned, you will be the first one to drop dead.”

“If there's poison in this cake, it's the best blooming poison I've ever tasted.”

“I do not find that amusing.”

“When would this food have been tampered with?” she asked, enjoying her next forkful. Quite rude to talk with her mouth full, but Higgins spent half his life being ill-mannered. “The police have done everything but peel the potatoes.”

“At least stop drinking any more tea,” he whispered in her ear. “Remember how much tea you said Turnbull drank at the picnic.”

“A lot of us drank tea that day.” This cake was heavenly. Eliza wondered whether the nuts it contained were pecans or almonds.

Higgins grumbled. “Why you don't weigh fifteen stone, I will never understand.”

“If you spent twenty years on the edge of starvation, you'd be able to eat as much, too.” Pushing aside her empty cake plate, she reached for a fritter. “Instead, you've been well fed and pampered like a prize poodle your entire life. I wonder you don't have two chins and a belly to go with it. You
are
rather fond of blancmange.”

“I must have been thinking with the brains of a poodle the day I agreed to teach such an insolent cabbage leaf.” Higgins took a sip of his port.

Across from her, Patsy seemed to be enjoying the desserts as much as Eliza. “I don't know if I've ever tasted anything so lovely as these fritters.”

Brody looked up from his dessert bowl with a grin. “Wait till you taste the pudding.”

“No wonder gluttony is one of the seven vices,” Higgins said. “And a damn dull vice at that.” He finished off his glass.

Eliza stiffened when Longhurst spoke. “Would you care for some more port, Professor? Sir Walter and I have been drinking far too much of it, I'm afraid.” He held up the bottle that had been placed in front of him.

She was glad Higgins sat between her and Longhurst. If she knew for certain he had harmed her father, that bottle of port would have been smashed across his nose.

“Please do,” Sir Walter said. “Mr. Longhurst has filled my glass three times. I really must stop drinking before I need help getting to a taxi.”

Longhurst poured more port into Higgins's glass. Eliza wondered why the waiters didn't do that, until she noticed they were replenishing the platters of shortcake and fritters.

Higgins lifted his glass toward Sir Walter. “Superb tawny port. It's been aged in wood at least twenty years.”

“Trust the Criterion to keep such a fine cellar.” The older gentleman sipped from his glass, as did Longhurst. “You can taste the nuttiness, and the discernible scent of butterscotch.”

Higgins nodded after his next taste. “Usually I prefer a good vintage port that has been aged two years, but this has a satisfying mellowness.”

“Blimey, keep your knickers on,” Eliza muttered. “It's only wine.”

“Perhaps we should extol the artistry of fritters instead.”

“Drunkard.”

“Glutton.”

“Are you all right, Sir Walter?” Longhurst asked in alarm.