Move Your Blooming Corpse (33 page)

Eliza shook her head. “But Lucy swore her mistress is at the track selling the magazine alongside her sister Ruth. Higgins is looking for her. He wanted me to find you straightaway, and send you and your detectives after him.”

Jack seemed troubled. “I hoped we could relax with Longhurst in custody. But if Rachel Turnbull is at the Eclipse Stakes so soon after her husband's murder, I have to ask myself why. The answer makes me uneasy.”

Eliza noticed three policemen examining the hampers in the tent. “Are you checking the luncheon food for anything suspicious?”

“I'm taking no chances. My men and I have been through every basket, bottle, and champagne bucket in here. All the food is either safe in unopened cans or boxed up and taped shut. And the champagne is sealed.”

“Blimey, I forgot the most important thing.” Eliza leaned forward. “Lucy told me that one of the pots of honey spilled at the regatta picnic. When she cleaned it up, a drop got on her finger and she licked the honey off. Lucy swears she never ate or drank a single other thing from the picnic except that tiny bit of honey. She felt quite ill afterwards.”

“I never thought about the honey.”

“Higgins remembered right off what Sir Walter said when we visited his gardens. That even the nectar from poisonous plants is dangerous. Isn't that right?”

“Yes, indeed,” Sir Walter said eagerly. “The ancient Greeks killed people by using the nectar from poisonous flowers. They often baked it into honey cakes. An ingenious method of poisoning. If more people at the picnic had asked for honey in their tea, half the syndicate members might be dead by now.”

“I think the murderer knew very well who used honey and who didn't,” Eliza said. “The same person who organized the picnic and planned the menu.”

“Rachel Turnbull.” Jack nodded. “It makes sense.”

“And now she shows up at the Eclipse Stakes! Jack, I'm certain she's going to do something during the race. We must get to her first.”

“Right, then. Both you and Sir Walter are to remain here.” Jack waved for his detectives to head outside. “I'm hoping it's not too late to find Rachel. When I do, I'm putting her under arrest. Meanwhile, promise me you'll stay inside this tent. You too, Sir Walter.”

“See here, Inspector. The Donegal Dancer's race is due to start in less than thirty minutes.” Sir Walter rose to his feet. “I have no intention of staying here.”

“Neither do I,” Eliza protested. “We want to watch the race from the Duchess's box. I'd rather put up with Freddy lecturing me than miss the race altogether.”

“Both of you will stay in this tent until I tell you otherwise. The Duchess's servants are right outside the entrance, which is where they shall remain with instructions that neither of you is to leave.” Jack sounded grim. “When I find more of my detectives, I'll send them here. But I can't allow Rachel Turnbull to walk about free during this race. And I have no time to worry about you. Now do I have your word that you'll stay here?”

Eliza shrugged, while Sir Walter muttered, “Damned presumptuous, I must say.”

“Presumptuous, but wise. The pair of you can afford to miss one race. Or perhaps you have forgotten that someone tried to poison you only two days ago, Sir Walter.”

He seemed abashed by that. “Very well, Inspector. I shall do as you ask.”

Jack wagged his finger at Eliza. “And keep an eye on her, too. I should send Freddy to join you as punishment.” Before he lifted up the tent flap, he turned back. “Even though we've checked all the food, don't eat or drink anything until I get back.”

“Not bloody likely,” she said under her breath.

After her cousin left, Eliza turned to Sir Walter. “How long should we wait before we head for the Duchess's box? I vote ten minutes.”

“I suggest fifteen.” He grinned. “Just to be safe.”

*   *   *

Starting with Diana's murder, Higgins had been wrong every step of the way. For too long he'd been convinced Harold Hewitt was the prime suspect. Then he let Alfred Doolittle out of his sight at the Bay Willow Stables. Next he encountered the recently widowed Rachel Turnbull at a horse race. But instead of heading for the nearest detective, he stupidly confronted her. A brilliant move, one worthy of the nonsensical Freddy Eynsford Hill.

Now he'd made Rachel so nervous, she had vanished like a magician's rabbit. And the Donegal Dancer's race was due to start soon. Thankfully, he was a phonetics specialist and not a policeman. They would have had his badge three times over by now.

The crowd pressed about Higgins. He looked in vain for a glimpse of a dull black gown. With so many people milling around, he only caught a blur of movement here, a glimpse of something black there. Whenever he got a better look, the black was invariably a gentleman's top hat. Perhaps he should make his way over to the Duchess's luncheon tent. Eliza was most likely there by now, along with Jack.

Unfortunately, he was on the wrong side of the racetrack. Higgins gazed in frustration at the huge white tent in the distance. A purple and green pennant waved from one of its poles. He should have tried to get there ten minutes ago. The crowd grew larger by the moment, and police were beginning to keep people back. They'd never let him cross the track until after the race.

Even worse, he didn't recognize a single detective. It was like Ascot all over again, and look how that turned out. Higgins cursed under his breath. No, he refused to let another person be murdered during a race without doing all he could to prevent it. Damn it, Higgins would run across the track and reach that tent, no matter what.

“There he is!” a woman cried. “He's the man chasing after Rachel!”

Alarmed, Higgins spun about. Four women, all sporting WSPU banners across their chests, pushed their way through the crowd toward him. One was Rachel's sister Ruth, whose angry expression seemed worthy of a marauding Viking.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Please, I must speak with Mrs. Turnbull again. If not, the police will get to her first.”

The women surrounded him in a half-circle. “I wouldn't doubt you already set the police on her,” Ruth said in disgust. “My poor sister finally decides to support our cause in public, and you tell the police to arrest her.”

“No, no! But I do need to speak with her before the police do, or they will arrest her.”

Ruth glared at him. “I knew it. The police plan to haul her off to prison. They'll make a big show of arresting the widow of a man who openly worked to undermine the WSPU.”

“And you're no doubt her dead husband's friend,” another lady accused him. “That means you're up to no good.”

A small woman dressed in men's clothes clapped her hands. “He wants to get us all arrested, he does. We can't let him do that, ladies!”

As if they had choreographed it, the four women lunged toward him. At the same moment, Higgins bolted in the opposite direction.

“Wait!” Ruth shouted. “Come back here, you coward!”

Higgins had no intention of stopping. As he shoved through the crowd, he glanced over his shoulder at the pursuing women. What did one call a band of angry suffragettes? He ran through the names of collective groups: a gaggle of geese, a pack of wolves, a leap of leopards.

Another quick look told Higgins he was being chased by a storm of suffragettes. And he'd better run fast before he got struck by their “lightning”—or their fists.

*   *   *

“I think we've waited long enough.” Eliza traced designs with the tip of her parasol on the sandy ground. The white silk walls of the tent billowed softly about her.

“Hold on, let me take a look.” Sir Walter stepped outside. A few moments later, he returned. “I'd wait a bit longer to be certain the Inspector is nowhere around.”

“If we don't leave soon, we'll miss the Donegal Dancer.”

“Never fear, Miss Doolittle. I promise that neither of us will miss that race.” He sat once more at the table. “And I trust
our
horse will win again today. You must be excited. This is your very first race as an owner.”

“Absolutely. But I feel terrible Dad will miss it. At least the doctors say he'll be released from the hospital soon.”

“How remarkable that Alfred is still alive. Not many men would survive a frightened horse stamping on them.”

“My father's tough, believe me.”

“He does seem strong as a bull for a man his age. And luckier than most.”

“If he'd been lucky, he never would've been attacked in the first place.” Eliza tapped her parasol on the ground. “I wonder how Gordon Longhurst pulled it off at the horse farm. He and Rachel are obviously responsible for poisoning you and Jonathon Turnbull. I wonder if the poison you drank was the same one used at Henley.”

He shook his head. “No. The poison I drank at the Criterion was tasteless. But the honey at the regatta would have tasted bitter.”

“Why?”

“Blame the flower nectar. In this case, rhododendrons.”

Eliza sat up straighter. “I don't remember Jack saying what sort of plant had poisoned Jonathon Turnbull. How do you know it was rhododendron?”

Sir Walter shot her an apologetic look. “Because it came from a hive in my garden.”

Had she heard wrong? “What? From your garden? I don't understand.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I think you do.”

Eliza got to her feet. “If the poison came from your hives, then you killed Turnbull.”

His smile chilled her. “It appears so.”

“But
you
were poisoned two days ago.” Once the answer dawned on her, she gripped her parasol in the middle, realizing she could wield it as a weapon. “Unless you poisoned yourself. Deliberately. That way the police would never view you as a suspect.”

“There. See how easily you figured it out. You're quite intelligent, and far more clever than Inspector Shaw. How fortunate that I am more clever than either of you.”

“Not too clever for me, mate!”

Eliza swung her parasol at his head. He ducked, however, and her blow only knocked off his hat. She raced toward the entrance. But she never got more than a foot outside. Two husky men, neither resembling any of the Duchess's servants, blocked her way. Grabbing her by the arms, the men marched Eliza back to her chair and literally flung her down.

“Who are these blighters? And where are the servants that should be right outside?”

“I informed the servants a few moments ago that the Duchess wanted them to enjoy the upcoming race. Therefore they had permission to leave the tent area in order to find a choice viewing spot along the track.” Sir Walter sniffed at the white carnation in his lapel. “They won't be back until the race is over, my dear.”

“But Jack told them to stay here!”

“And I told them they could leave. Please remember I am a close friend of their mistress, and also boast a knighthood. Whatever I say carries a lot more weight with a servant than an order from an underpaid policeman.”

She pointed at the men now planted before the tent entrance. Both wore brown suits and crushed felt hats. “Who are they?”

“My racing associates. I have quite a few.”

Worried, Eliza wondered how soon Jack would return. Could she fling herself at the tent wall and bring it all down? Would any of these men allow her to get to her feet again?

“Are you going to kill me, then?” She refused to show fear, although her stomach was doing sickening flip-flops.

“Of course I am not going to kill you.” Sir Walter clucked in disapproval. “I am a man of my word, and I have already promised that you will see the race.”

“I don't like this,” Eliza said in a low voice. “What's your game?”

“My game is horses. Their ownership, their breeding, their races. I love them even more than I love my gardens.”

“Apparently you love one horse enough to kill for him. That's what this is all about. To gain complete ownership of the Donegal Dancer.”

Sir Walter looked over at the two fellows. “This is why men should oppose women's suffrage. Most ladies are far more intelligent than gentlemen. If we allow them the vote, the fairer sex may end up ruling the world one day. Not just Parliament.”

“Look, I'll sell you my blooming shares of the horse if you want,” Eliza said.

“No need for that, my girl.”

“But you tried to kill my father for his shares.”

“Not me.” He lifted his silver-tipped walking stick at the two men. “Mr. Keene and Mr. Ingleby are responsible for that.”

“On your orders, most likely.”

“Of course. I am, as they say, running the show.”

Rage built inside Eliza. Sir Walter had just admitted he ordered her father's murder. “And you poisoned Jonathon Turnbull, too.”

He winked. “I have already confessed to being involved in that trivial matter.”

“Trivial?” Eliza wanted to kick him in the head. “And you killed Diana Price.”

“I most certainly did not.” He sounded offended. “We have the short-tempered Mr. Brody to thank for that one.”

“Brody?” This was too much to take in. Exactly how many people were involved with these murders? “What reason did Brody have for killing Diana?”

“Purely a business decision.” He cocked his head, as if considering how much to reveal. “Mr. Brody and I have been partners for five years.”

Eliza was confused. “Partners? Because he races some of your horses?”

“
Our
horses. While Brody has made a great deal of money as a jockey, he felt humiliated at being banned from owning a racehorse. When I realized how deep his bitterness ran, I offered to buy horses in both my name and a name we created for him to use. The arrangement worked well. In the case of the Donegal Dancer, however, I could not concoct a false owner according to the syndicate contract. Brody had to trust me.”