“I would gladly have remained unmarried and free of household duties, but I met Jack. Then again, he’s far more enlightened and intelligent than most men.” She blushed. “Handsome, too, which is why I’m looking forward to our wedding in August. I’m also lucky he agrees with my views on women’s rights.”
“You can still support the cause by writing articles,” Jack said, “as long as you don’t get arrested again.”
“Arrested? Suffrage sounds too much like suffering to me.” Clara sipped her tea. “I’ll take marriage and an adoring husband over voting rights any day.”
Eliza was tempted to mention Lady Tansy’s unhappiness with her unfaithful drunkard of a husband. Then again, why dash Clara’s hopes? All young women had romantic dreams. Harsh reality would eventually intrude. Meanwhile, if Lady Tansy wanted to set her up with a rich gentleman, so be it. Eliza had her hands full fending off Freddy.
Thankfully, Sybil changed the subject back to Harold Hewitt. “I don’t understand why he carried a suffrage flag onto the track.”
Jack shrugged. “He wrote in his diary about attending Miss Besant’s lecture. But who can say why? Hewitt seems to be a confused and unstable man.”
“He must be,” Pickering said. “I’ll never forget seeing Tracery run the poor fellow down. How remarkable he wasn’t killed.”
“Several suffragettes witnessed Emily Davison’s death.” Sybil lowered her gaze. “It wasn’t suicide. She had a return railway ticket and planned to help her sister in France care for her new baby. Emily felt strong in her views, though.”
“At Ascot, people booed when Hewitt was carried off the track,” Eliza said. “Especially since he carried that flag.”
“We often encounter hostility. One suffragette at the Derby was chased and beaten by a mob. She would have been killed if not for a railway porter who hid her at the Epsom train station. The police didn’t help at all.”
“For good reason,” Jack said. “They were outnumbered. People were downright livid after they lost their bets on Anmer.”
“Rotten luck,” Colonel Pickering said. “Like losing out on seeing Tracery beat Prince Palatine. Lost a guinea or two myself.”
Jack drew a photograph from his coat pocket and handed it to Sybil. “I meant to show you this earlier. Do you recognize this man? From a suffrage meeting or the funeral?”
She studied the photograph. “He seems familiar.”
“It’s Harold Hewitt. We had the newspaper print blown up using the magic lantern, but it’s a bit grainy in quality.”
“Did you find any connection between Hewitt and Diana Price?” Eliza asked Jack.
“We’re still looking into that.”
“Since she was a former Gaiety Girl, there are all sorts of stories circulating now about her,” Pickering said. “I heard Lord Cavendish drank champagne out of her slipper during a party at the Griffin Club. Shortly after, she married that Longhurst chap.”
Sybil tapped an index finger on her teacup’s rim. “The WSPU asked her to sing at the suffrage rally once, but she refused. She actually laughed in Christabel Pankhurst’s face. That didn’t endear her to anyone. The actress Lena Ashwell did a dramatic reading instead. Good thing, too. She’s far more sympathetic to the cause.”
“I read in the Times that Miss Price was quite vocal about how ridiculous the suffragettes are, smashing windows and the like,” Eliza said. “It seems she once gave an interview to the paper about her opposition to them.”
“She was right.” Clara lifted her chin in defiance. “They’re silly women.”
Ignoring Clara’s careless remark, Sybil turned to the others. “I wonder if Mr. Hewitt read that article in the newspaper. If he was so obsessed about Miss Davison’s death, that might have tipped him over the edge.”
Jack shrugged. “We can’t prove that without questioning him.”
Eliza wasn’t convinced. The conversation then split into two. Higgins, Pickering, Jack, and Sybil discussed the latest suffragette violence, while Eliza focused on Clara’s and Freddy’s plans for the summer season.
“You’ll come watch me at the next rowing practice, won’t you?” he asked Eliza. “I’m so worried the club will throw me off the team. I missed twice due to that blasted wedding, but if you and Clara come, they wouldn’t dare. Will you wear our colors? You’d look wonderful in blue and white stripes.”
“Of course.” She squeezed his hand.
“Practice isn’t much fun. It’s bound to be hot, and there’s no shade.”
“We’ll bring parasols.” Eliza caught the drift of conversation between Jack and Higgins and shot them a quick question. “By the way, how is Mr. Hewitt?”
“Doing quite well, even though a surgeon at the Royal Victoria Nursing Home removed a piece of bone from the base of his skull,” Jack said. “It seems his injuries were not life threatening. We’ll question him once the doctors allow it.”
“And arrest him to stand trial for murder,” Higgins said with satisfaction.
“I only hope our fingerprint expert finds something on the pitchfork’s handle. Otherwise, we won’t be able to prove Hewitt used it.”
Pickering nodded. “How do they go about checking for prints?”
Jack leaned forward eagerly to explain. Eliza could see that Sybil was enchanted with him. That pleased her. They would be a good match. She wanted Jack to be happy and hoped Sybil would be, too, given the many hours his bride would spend waiting for him to come home.
“The latest magnifying glasses have become indispensable in our work,” Jack said. “Especially since Sir Edward Henry’s system proved more reliable a decade ago.”
Higgins and Pickering asked other questions, but Eliza grew bored with all this talk of murder, fingerprints, and women’s suffrage.
“—no question he has a long-standing aversion to suffragettes.”
“Who’s this?” Eliza asked Sybil.
“Jonathon Turnbull. He’s quite a character.”
“I met him at Ascot. He’s one of the Donegal Dancer’s owners. I hated him on sight. Why do you think he’s a character?”
“He’s one of the strongest opponents to women’s suffrage,” Sybil explained. “Mr. Turnbull hires thugs to cause trouble at our events.”
“How do you know so much about him?” Eliza asked.
“I’m friends with Ruth Lowell, who used to be a Women’s Freedom League member. She quit after her marriage to Reverend Henry Lowell, but over the last few years she became involved with the WSPU. The militant faction.”
“Militant? Has she been arrested?”
“Many times. Earlier this year, Ruth was arrested for destruction of property after the suffragettes smashed shop windows. She carried a ball-peen hammer, but claimed she hadn’t meant to throw it.”
Colonel Pickering clucked his disapproval. “Did it hit anyone?”
“Diana Price.”
Eliza and Higgins looked at each other in surprise. “That’s interesting,” he said.
Sybil sighed. “I suspect Ruth knew that Diana was in the shop, but she won’t admit it. Anyway, Ruth threw the hammer and hit her in the shoulder. It was only a glancing blow, but Diana swore she aimed for her face.”
“Blimey,” Eliza said. “Do you think Ruth meant to hit her?”
“I do. And not only because of Diana’s opposition to the cause.” Sybil glanced at Jack. “We haven’t had much of a chance to talk since before Ascot, or else I would have told you about Ruth and what she did to Diana.”
Jack looked puzzled. “Why should I care about Ruth Lowell?”
“Because Ruth is Rachel Turnbull’s sister.”
FIVE
Eliza fanned the latest fashion magazines in a half-circle on her bedroom carpet. With the Henley Regatta the following week, she had to go clothes shopping. She needed two more outfits for the regatta; as Freddy’s sweetheart, it was her duty to wear the blue and white colors of the London Rowing Club. How dreadful if they’d been the green and purple raci
ng silks of her father’s horse.
Last week she had bought a white lawn blouse and slim blue walking skirt from Selfridges. During that same visit to the Oxford Street department store, she’d also purchased the loveliest white cotton dress trimmed in a blue silk that matched the LRC blue perfectly. However, that still left two more outfits to assemble for the four-day event. Her straw hat with the blue organza band would match everything. Still, she could afford to buy another. How wonderful being able to purchase a fancy wardrobe with her own money. For too long Eliza had depended on the generosity of Colonel Pickering, who looked on her as a daughter. But since this past spring, her teaching fees, coupled with her winnings at Ascot, had allowed Eliza to buy her own wardrobe.
She flipped open the July issue of Vogue. Yes, a new hat was a good idea. After all, she didn’t want to embarrass Freddy in front of his rowing club. Maybe she should pay a visit to Harrods, too. Luckily there was no matchmaking scheduled for Clara today.
Lord Saxton’s wife had kept her promise about finding a suitable husband for her old schoolmate. In the past week, Clara had taken tea with the Saxtons five times in order to meet yet another eligible bachelor. Eliza was not happy when she and Clara’s mother were also invited. The conversation was dull, and the bachelors even duller.
Thank heaven the Saxtons planned to attend something called a gymkhana at the Ranelagh Club. And it was also Friday. She never scheduled lessons on Friday since she loved to attend the cinema. The whole day was free to spend more of her glorious Ascot guineas.
Someone knocked on her bedroom door. “Eliza, are you decent?” Professor Higgins said in an impatient voice.
“Decent enough for the likes of you.”
The door flew open. Eliza was startled at the sight of Higgins wearing a neatly pressed gray suit and magenta silk tie—a far cry from his usual attire of rumpled sweaters, faded tweed jackets, and trousers with coins in their pockets.
“And where would you be going so dressed up?”
“To the asylum.” He gave her a sly grin. “And you’re coming with me. So you’d best put on something more ostentatious than that plain brown dress.”
She sat back on her heels. “I am not going to any asylum. But don’t let me upset your plans. If anyone deserves to spend time in an insane asylum, it’s you.”
“Very funny.” He pointed at the fashion magazines. “Put on something that resembles the silly ladies in those illustrations. The fancier and sillier, the better.”
“I told you, I’m not going off to any asylum. And if either of us were stupid enough to do so, why would we need to get dressed up? Did you get an invite to a cotillion they’re throwing for all the crazy people?” She chuckled.
“I only wish they gave out invitations to the asylum. It would be easier to get inside.” Higgins threw himself down on the cushioned window seat. “Especially since your cousin refuses to let me visit Harold Hewitt. That’s where we’re going, by the way. Claybury Asylum in Middlesex.”
Eliza put down the copy of Vogue and picked up The Delineator. “I’m not going to Middlesex or the asylum. I am off to Harrods for a day of shopping. Whiteleys too.”
“You already have more dresses than Marie Antoinette. We could open a dress shop with the contents of this room alone, let alone the trunks stored in the spare bedroom. No, you and I must go to Claybury Asylum today. The hospital in Ascot transferred Hewitt to Claybury four days ago. According to Jack, he’s already recovered from the surgery. And there’s talk that Hewitt’s family want to transfer him to Herefordshire.”
She shrugged. “Let them. I don’t see how it’s any of our business.”
“Oh, you don’t? Why, you supercilious little monkey.”
“If you want a favor, you may want to leave off calling me names.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “Whenever I must involve a woman in any enterprise, I find myself forced to flatter and toady and make myself sick with self-disgust.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining when I saved your toadying self from being thrown into prison for murder.”
“You will never let me forget that.”
Eliza kept her attention on the magazine. “You’re right. I won’t. And since I saved you from being arrested only a few weeks ago, it’s no use pretending you’ve forgotten.” She finally looked up at him. “If you’re done with this latest tantrum, please leave my room. I need to change. Although this dress is not brown, it’s ecru. And it costs more than the sorry contents of your entire wardrobe.”
“Eliza, I am going to the asylum with or without you. But it would make things easier if you accompanied me.”
She studied him. “I know you think you could have prevented both Diana Price’s murder and Hewitt’s running out on the racetrack. But even if you’d told the police about the gun hours earlier, Jack said it probably would have made no difference.”
“Perhaps. But I need to talk to Hewitt. If he did murder Diana, I bear part of the responsibility for her death.”
“Rachel’s sister might have killed her. At brunch Sybil said Ruth threw a hammer at Diana. If she is the murderer, you have no reason to feel guilty.”
“I spoke with Jack last night while you were out with Freddy. Ruth Lowell was leading a WSPU parade past Westminster on the day of Diana’s murder, and there are over a hundred witnesses to confirm it. No, it’s Hewitt who seems mad enough to kill someone.” Higgins seemed uncharacteristically earnest. This meant a lot to him.
She slapped the magazine down on the floor. “Why do I have to go with you?”
“Because I rang up the asylum and asked about their visitation rules. Only doctors, police, or relatives are permitted to see the residents.” The hint of a smile appeared on his face. “But solicitors may also visit if accompanied by a family member.”
“Let me guess. I shall pose as Hewitt’s relative, while you play family solicitor.”
“Exactly. You always were my cleverest pupil.”
“If Jack hears about this, he won’t be happy.”
“Then let’s not tell him.” Higgins sprang to his feet. “Now hurry and put on the most pretentious outfit you own, Eliza. Pick one of those dresses that are so tight, you move like a Chinese woman with bound feet. Those make me howl with laughter.”
“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.”
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