Move Your Blooming Corpse

by D. E. Ireland

  “Honestly, Professor, I can’t believe you’re still dawdling in the paddock. Not that I wouldn’t mind staying here myself. I don’t fancy some of my dad’s partners or their wives. And I hate my own dad’s wife. But if I have to suffer through their company, so should you.”

  “I don’t know why I should suffer.”

  “You’re the one responsible for getting my father the annuity. Without that, he’d be throwing back a pint in Whitechapel right now. And Rose wouldn’t be wearing a wedding ring on her fat greedy finger.”

  Higgins groaned. Once Eliza began to complain about her stepmother, there was no stopping her. “Isn’t your cousin Jack here today? In an official capacity, I mean.” Jack Shaw was not only Eliza’s cousin, he was a detective inspector at Scotland Yard.

  “I saw him about an hour ago. He’s worried about another incident like what happened at the Derby two weeks ago. There are police everywhere.”

  “Where? Can you point them out?”

  Eliza leaned on her parasol and scanned the crowd milling about them. “There are too many spectators in the paddock. I can’t get a good view, especially with all these hats.”

  “They’re off!” someone yelled.

  “Blimey! We can’t miss the race!” Grabbing his arm, Eliza dragged Higgins through the pressing throng. She didn’t let go until she’d pushed her way to a fenced-in area of the paddock. Aware of the grumbling at her intrusion, Eliza gave them her sunniest smile. “Please excuse me, but my father’s horse is running in this race. Wish me luck.”

  Several displaced gentlemen did just that. Higgins wasn’t surprised. Although he was usually indifferent to feminine charm, most men considered Eliza a lovely young woman. And in her form-fitting yellow dress, eye-catching hat, and coiffed chestnut hair she seemed as ethereal as a woodland sprite. Of course, they hadn’t heard the Cockney cabbage let loose with any of her favorite East End phrases.

  “Here they come!”

  Eliza leaned over the paddock fence. The summer breeze lifted up the long ribbons on her hat and set them sailing behind her. Higgins resigned himself to watching the race. He wouldn’t be able to get a policeman’s attention with all eyes on the horses thundering down the track.

  The roar of the crowd grew with each passing minute. The only empty space in all of Ascot was the dirt track stretching ahead of the horses. Fans lined up ten deep along the course, and the stands were packed with people. Higgins squinted at the horses making the far turn, trying to spot a reddish-brown colt with a black mane and tail. The sun was so bright, he tipped his top hat over his eyes to see better. He was grateful for the Donegal Dancer’s bold racing colors; the jockey’s bright green jacket with purple sleeves made the pair easy to spot.

  “C’mon, Bomber Brody! Give the Dancer his head!” Eliza jumped up and down.

  Higgins heard the pounding of the hooves as the straining horses drew near.

  Eliza let out a delighted scream. “He’s pulling up to the lead! Do you see? Dancer is almost in first. Blimey!”

  Higgins felt his heart race as the horses barreled down the course toward them. Maybe he should have put a guinea on the Donegal Dancer.

  The crowd lunged against the railing. Higgins had to push a few people back or find himself squashed. He looked over to see if Eliza was unharmed. Good grief, she’d climbed onto the fence. Leaning over, Eliza pounded the railing with her parasol.

  “Go, Dancer! Go faster, you bloody marvel!”

  Higgins moved closer. “Watch your language, Eliza. Remember you’re a lady.”

  The din rose to deafening levels when the horses rounded the turn. Then the traditional Ascot bell rang for the final stretch.

  “Ride, Bomber! Ride!” Eliza beat her parasol to shreds.

  Even Higgins got caught up in the excitement as the horses thundered past. “Go, Dancer!”

  Eliza leaned so far over, Higgins grabbed the large bow on her sash to keep her from falling. “Move that blooming horse, Bomber!” she yelled.

  A frenzied moment later, the Donegal Dancer crossed the finish line a nose ahead of the black gelding. As the crowd roared, Eliza threw herself into his arms.

  “I love that horse! He’s faster than lightning, he is. And I love the races!”

  Laughing, Higgins set her down. “Does this mean you’ll be spending all your free time now at the racecourse, rather than the cinema?”

  “Don’t be daft. I put five guineas on that animal.” Eliza lifted her parasol. The silk was torn to pieces and the handle almost sheared in half. “Good thing, too. I’ll need to use some of my winnings to buy a new parasol.” With a shrug, she tossed it aside.

  When Higgins offered her his arm, she tucked in her hand with a delighted sigh. “Wasn’t that the most wonderful thing you’ve ever seen? Dad must be dancing a jig right now.”

  “And so he should. It seems your father knows something about horses after all. That, or he’s damnably lucky. But now that the race is over, help me find a policeman.”

  Eliza looked perplexed. “Whatever for?”

  “Right before the race, I exchanged a few words with a man carrying a leather satchel. When he opened it up, I got a peek at the contents. And I didn’t like what I saw.”

  She stopped walking. “What was inside?”

  “Books, a small flag.” Higgins frowned. “And a gun.”

  TWO

  “Someone should take that bottle away.” Eliza laughed as her gleeful father sprayed everyone with a magnum of champagne. “He’ll drench the Prime Minister next.”

  Wet stains now marked her expensive new dress, but she didn’t mind. Such a glorious victory—and the money she won with her bet—was well worth a ruined French gown. And how lovely to be at the center of it all: the parade ring at Ascot. With the attention of the racing world focused on them, Eliza felt as thrilled as if she were the winning horse.

  As for the victorious colt, the owners circled the Donegal Dancer. His damp neck wreathed with flowers, the racehorse’s deep red coat gleamed like mahogany against the jet-black of his mane and tail. At some point Eliza kissed the horse’s nose, a moment caught on film by a newspaper photographer. When more reporters crowded in, Eliza finally stepped back. She grabbed a glass of champagne and offered it to the jubilant jockey, who sat astride his winning mount.

  “A toast to Bomber Brody!” she said, raising her own glass high.

  How fortunate that one of the horse’s owners was Maitland Louis Wyngarde, 12th Viscount of Saxton. Not only had Lord Saxton outfitted his private viewing box as if it were a salon, he had brought footmen to the race. Several of them now served champagne to the owners and their families. The rest of the crowd watched with envy.

  Higgins refused the footman’s offer of a champagne flute. “Eliza, you’ve danced with your father, kissed the horse, and asked a dozen bookmakers about the size of your winnings. Now please help me find a policeman so I can report the man with the gun.”

  “Very well,” she grumbled, although she knew Higgins was right. Eliza had promised to stay only a minute at the celebration, but she got caught up in the wild joy of it all. Heaven help her, she even found herself embracing Rose Doolittle. With luck, both of them would forget that as soon as possible.

  With a sigh, Eliza turned away. “I think you’re worrying about nothing. This Harold Hewitt fellow probably carries a gun because he works here. Dad says when horses are severely injured, they put them down with a gun.”

  “Hewitt doesn’t work here.” Higgins sounded impatient. “He told me he didn’t even like horse racing. I’m telling you, there’s a suspicious man walking around the racecourse with a gun in his bag.”

  Luckily they hadn’t gone more than thirty yards when Eliza spied a portly man lighting a cigar. “See that fellow in the brown suit and bowler? I think he’s one of the Scotland Yard detectives who were at Drury Lane last month. I remember thinking he looked like a bulldog. What was his name again?” She snapped her fingers. “Detective Jeremy.”r />
  She and Higgins hurried over to the detective. Although he seemed wary when Higgins and Eliza first approached, he soon recognized her from the eventful night at the theater. He listened intently while Higgins explained his encounter with Harold Hewitt.

  Detective Jeremy puffed on his cigar as though mulling the story over. “Did he threaten you with the gun, Professor?”

  “I don’t think he realized I’d seen it. I only caught a glimpse before he closed the satchel.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t a gun that you saw.”

  Higgins threw him a jaundiced look. “There aren’t many things that look like a revolver.”

  The detective blew a smoke ring before replying. “You and Miss Doolittle solved a murder last month. And you both received a great deal of attention from the press. Maybe you enjoyed the experience so much that you are now seeing suspicious things where none exist.”

  “He thinks you’re barmy, Professor,” Eliza said with a smile.

  “No, he thinks I’m a liar. Or worse, some sensation seeker that actually enjoyed the circus we went through last month in the papers.”

  Eliza heard the anger in Higgins’s voice and hoped he would keep his temper in check. “Detective Jeremy, as you may remember, Inspector Shaw is my cousin, and he will vouch for our characters. I know Jack is on duty at the racecourse today. Please let him know about Mr. Hewitt. Ask him to meet us at Lord Saxton’s private box.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Miss Doolittle, but there’s a reason so many police are at Ascot. We don’t want a repeat of the incident at the Derby two weeks ago.”

  Although Eliza had not attended the race at Epsom, she knew the incident he referred to was the death of Emily Davison. Determined to bring attention to the suffrage cause, the political activist ran in front of the King’s horse Anmer on his way to the finish line. She suffered fatal injuries and died four days later. Thousands had attended her funeral this past weekend in London. Feelings were running dangerously high on both sides.

  “We’re keeping a close eye on any woman who looks like a suffragette,” Detective Jeremy continued. “Dozens have been turned away at the gate. And any suffragette already here will not be allowed to get within ten feet of the racecourse. Or the King.”

  She was puzzled. “How can you tell which woman is a suffragette?”

  He cast an appreciative gaze over her figure. “For one, they’re not likely to be dressed as you are, miss.”

  Eliza took offense at his comment, but held her tongue.

  “Why keep an eye out only for women, Detective?” Higgins asked. “Many men also believe the fairer sex should have the vote. This Harold Hewitt fellow may be one of them.”

  For the first time, the detective looked concerned. “You could be right. Let me put the word out about the man, and I’ll track down Inspector Shaw.” He removed a notepad from his jacket pocket. “Can you describe what this Hewitt looks like again?”

  Higgins reached for his own notebook and tore out a page. “I’ve already written it down.”

  Once the detective left, Eliza turned to Higgins. “You can stop worrying now. So let’s have one more look at the Dancer before we head to Lord Saxton’s private box. The Colonel will wonder what became of us.”

  When they found themselves once again among the raucous owners, Higgins shook his head. “They’ve turned the place into one of Dante’s Circles of Hell. I should ask the police to arrest a few of them. Starting with your father.”

  “You’re just angry you didn’t place a bet on his horse.” Eliza waved to her dad, who was singing “Whisky in the Jar” to an embarrassed racing official. “Next time don’t be so cheap.”

  “Next time a Cockney flower girl asks me for speech lessons, I’ll charge for them.”

  She laughed. “Good luck finding another flower girl who can win a bet for you. A bet that paid you far more than what my lessons cost.”

  “You impudent, ungrateful turnip. I’ve a mind to—”

  Eliza stepped on Higgins’s foot to quiet him as Lord Saxton headed in their direction. Although Colonel Pickering disapproved of the man, she found him gregarious, friendly, and attractive. The Viscount was tall and athletically built, with dark red hair and a ready smile for everyone, commoner or lord.

  “Congratulations, sir,” she said.

  He winked at her, his eyes glassy. “Damn fine race, Miss Doolittle. Run by a damn fine colt.” Saxton paused as if seeing her for the first time, although they’d been introduced three hours ago. “Damn fine filly, too.” His smile turned into a leer, and Eliza’s cheeks grew hot.

  She heard Higgins clear his throat. Saxton ignored him and picked up Eliza’s gloved hand. Turning her palm up, he kissed it. Before she could react, he leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. As she stood speechless, he strode off toward his jockey.

  “A shame Freddy wasn’t here to see that,” Higgins said in mock outrage. “Your excitable swain would have challenged Saxton to a duel—and been beaten to a pulp right afterward.” He let out a dramatic sigh. “But then who knew you would turn out to be the temptress of Ascot.”

  Eliza rolled her eyes. “It’s not hard to tempt a drunk man.”

  “I do apologize for my husband’s behavior,” a woman said.

  Startled, Eliza turned to see Lady Hortense Saxton, a willowy brunette with alabaster skin and an entitled air about her. Like Rose Doolittle, the young viscountess was dressed in the horse’s racing colors, but she looked far more elegant. The tulle skirt of her promenade suit was the requisite green, but above the satin cummerbund, she wore a cream-colored blouse of flowing chiffon. Even her hat was tasteful—a small green toque with but a single purple feather. Despite her conservative outfit, there was no mistaking Her Ladyship’s station in life. An emerald brooch as big as a plum was pinned to her green cummerbund, and Eliza was close enough to see that the shiny handle of her green silk parasol was real gold.

  “It’s quite all right,” Eliza said. “Perfectly understandable to kiss and embrace everyone after winning. I accidentally kissed a reporter when I first got here.”

  “The horse, too,” Higgins added.

  Lady Saxton ignored him. “Still, my husband barely knows you. I am sorry we haven’t had the opportunity to speak before now. Maitland invited so many people to sit in our box, it’s as crowded as the Hippodrome. I wouldn’t be surprised if a street sweeper showed up. But if I remember correctly, you are Mr. Doolittle’s daughter Eliza.”

  “I am. And this is Professor Henry Higgins.”

  After a brief tip of his hat, he turned away with a bored expression.

  “The Professor and I teach phonetics and elocution, although I was his student only last year,” Eliza said with pride.

  “You seem to be in the papers with some regularity. I am fully aware of your remarkable transformation from Covent Garden flower girl to lady.” Eliza heard the amused condescension in Lady Saxton’s voice. “And certainly all of London read about your droll exploits last month at the Drury Lane Theatre.”

  “There was this murder, you see. And the Professor and I were—”

  Lady Saxton shook her head. “Spare me the details, Miss Doolittle, and send my regards to the Eynsford Hills. I hoped Clara would attend the race today. She may have told you that we attended finishing school in London together, although I was two years ahead of her. Such a pity she isn’t here.”

  “Clara wanted to come, but her mother insisted she and Freddy attend a family wedding in Brighton.” No need to tell her that Clara was so furious at missing Ascot, she ripped the dress her mother had bought for the occasion.

  “I heard you and Clara are friends,” Lady Saxton said. “My cousin Isabel knows Mr. Eynsford Hill. He confided that he was engaged to you. If so, I extend my congratulations.”

  Eliza didn’t know how to explain that both statements were untrue. For while she enjoyed Clara’s company, an hour spent with the girl could seem like a day. And Freddy must stop telling people they were
engaged. It was too soon for them to be making marriage plans. Eliza was only twenty. Of course, according to Clara, Lady Saxton was the same age as Eliza, which meant she married the Viscount when she was eighteen. Eliza couldn’t imagine marrying anyone at that age, not even one of her favorite cinema stars.

  “Freddy and I are not engaged. We’ve only been courting since March.”

  Lady Saxton shrugged. “I married Lord Saxton six weeks after we were introduced. How unfortunate that Clara has never had a proper ‘coming out.’ I know it’s 1913, and everyone is going on about how times have changed. But if a girl hasn’t been presented at Court, she may as well resign herself to marrying a bank clerk.” She smiled and suddenly looked like the girl of twenty she really was. “I should introduce Clara to several suitable gentlemen. Maybe I can get Clara married off to a man with a title. A proper one, too, not some penurious knight.”

  Eliza smiled back. “Clara would be thrilled.” Indeed, Clara wanted nothing more out of life than to marry a rich man. The girl would marry Jack the Ripper himself if he had a title.

  Like a sudden strong breeze, Lord Saxton threw himself into their midst. Unsteady on his feet, he spilled champagne out of the glasses he held in each hand. He offered them to the women. Eliza shook her head, and the Viscountess pushed the other one away. With a careless laugh, Saxton drained both glasses before tossing them to the ground. Broken glass scattered. Eliza shook a few shards from her skirts.

  “It seems we have outstayed our welcome,” he announced. “I’ve been told by three different racing officials to leave the parade ring immediately. The Gold Cup race is due to start, and they want us to clear out before the next winner is led in.”

  “I don’t blame them,” Lady Saxton said, her dark eyes flashing anger. Even though she was at least a decade younger than her husband, Eliza thought she seemed the older of the two. Certainly she was far more sober.

  “I agree with Lady Saxton,” Eliza said. “We should leave.”

  “Lady Saxton?” He shook his finger at Eliza. “Why so formal? After all, your father and I own the Donegal Dancer. That makes us family, a racing family. I insist you call me Maitland and I’ll call you Eliza.”