Higgins pointed at several enormous pots on the terrace. “There you are.”
“I say, once we’ve taken the garden tour, what do the two of you plan on asking Sir Walter?” Pickering pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “I hope you don’t think he had anything to do with poisoning Jonathon Turnbull.”
“Who else at the picnic had more knowledge of plants and poisons than Sir Walter?” Higgins asked, only half joking.
Pickering looked grim. “I will be most offended if you accuse our host of murder.”
“He doesn’t have a motive, Professor,” Eliza said in a stage whisper. “At least not one that I can figure out. Unless Sir Walter wants the Donegal Dancer all to himself. But according to my dad, he already owns three horses. And Sir Walter has no gambling debts. He doesn’t even bet heavily. Why would he start killing people over a horse?”
While Sir Walter had no apparent motive, that didn’t mean there wasn’t one yet to discover. Higgins had to admit the man wasn’t an obvious suspect. Neither was the Duchess. That left the Saxtons, Gordon Longhurst, and Rachel Turnbull. Along with the missing Harold Hewitt.
“Can we agree that someone at the Henley Regatta poisoned Jonathon Turnbull?”
Eliza looked exasperated. “Over a thousand people were there, so that doesn’t help us.”
“The murderer is someone with a connection to both Turnbull and Diana Price. And that person was at Ascot and Henley.”
“Maybe it’s you.” Eliza chuckled.
Higgins’s sarcastic reply was cut short when the butler brought out a large lacquered tray. With practiced ease, he quickly set down several glasses, a beaded pitcher of lavender lemonade, a platter of watercress sandwiches, and a silver bowl of fresh strawberries.
For the next few minutes, they quietly enjoyed the refreshments. Higgins hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until he filled his glass for the third time.
Eliza raised an eyebrow. “If Sir Walter poisoned the lemonade, you’re in trouble. You’ve drunk over half the pitcher, Professor.”
“Perhaps he has a death wish,” Pickering added with a smile. “I know there’s a family wedding next month he is loath to attend. I wouldn’t be surprised if our Henry has chosen suicide over matrimony.”
Higgins drained his glass in a show of defiance. “Now that I know the topic of poison is cause for merriment, I shall bring it up at the next stultifying dinner party. We’ll begin the appetizer course with a joke about arsenic, then move on to soup and strychnine.”
“Talk of poisons on such an exquisite day. Whatever prompted such a subject?” Sir Walter Fairweather strode onto the terrace.
Pickering and Higgins rose to shake his hand. Sir Walter inclined his head at Eliza, who stood as well. He smiled at them.
“I was most pleased to receive your call today, Colonel. I have long wanted to give you a tour of my gardens. And how delightful that you brought Miss Doolittle and Professor Higgins. Like myself, they have seen one too many dead bodies this past month. My flowers may help to banish such sordid memories.”
They all made proper replies about the terrible murders, and how they hoped the victims’ respective spouses were bearing up well. Sir Walter looked younger than his sixty-two years and more relaxed than he had at Ascot and the funeral, where he’d dressed conservatively and worn a serious expression. His white Dundreary sideburns and mustache emphasized the deep blue of his eyes. And today his figure looked almost boyish in his summer suit and straw boater.
Sir Walter seemed to read Higgins’s thoughts. “Yes, I cut a different figure here in my gardens. Although visiting my horses at the Windsor farm is almost as relaxing.”
“Could you give us a tour, Sir Walter?” Eliza opened her parasol and set it twirling on her shoulder. “The flowers look magnificent.”
“And so they are.” Sir Walter offered Eliza his arm before the pair descended the terrace steps. Pickering and Higgins followed close behind.
Halfway through the tour, Higgins wondered if the gardens might really be as large as those at Kew. It felt like they’d been walking for miles, although Sir Walter assured them his gardens only covered six acres. They explored every inch of it from the three greenhouses to the small man-made lake. Eliza couldn’t stop oohing and aahing at each of the topiaries—the rabbit-shaped privet was her clear favorite—and even Pickering lingered before several elaborate plant sculptures. As for Higgins, Sir Walter’s replication of an Elizabethan garden most impressed him. He also enjoyed the tropical greenhouse, beehives, and elegantly designed Poplar Walk.
The entire estate seemed perfect: kitchen gardens, herb gardens, spring bulb gardens, vegetable gardens, and separate gardens devoted to particular colors. Not surprisingly, the beds devoted to white flowers took precedence. Moon gardens, Sir Walter called them, and Eliza was enthralled by his description of how the white flowers glowed in the moonlight.
At first, Higgins suspected Eliza’s excited interest was feigned. Then he recalled how she once told him that walking through Covent Garden’s flower market each morning was the happiest part of the day. No doubt those flowers were the only natural beauty a poor Cockney girl ever enjoyed. He hoped one day Eliza had a country house and flower gardens of her own. With luck, she wouldn’t be sharing it with the simple-minded Freddy.
By the time they headed back to the house, Higgins had slung his jacket over one arm. Pickering was visibly perspiring, but Eliza and Sir Walter seemed untouched by the heat. In fact, Eliza resembled a moving part of the garden herself in a celery green skirt and blouse and a wide-brimmed straw hat with white flowers. He certainly envied the lacy sun parasol she held above her head.
“You’ve done a remarkable job here, Sir Walter,” Higgins said.
“Thank you, Professor. I consider it a labor of love. One of the reasons I retired at the age of fifty was my father’s death. As a younger son, I didn’t expect to inherit the baronetcy, but I did receive enough to buy this property.” Pride and pleasure mingled in Sir Walter’s words. “The past thirteen years have been devoted to White Flower Cottage. Being a retired botanist with such gardens and greenhouses at my disposal allows me to continue my research.”
“What exactly were you knighted for, Sir Walter?” Eliza asked.
“For my work in mycology. Specifically my discovery in the role that fungi play in lichen symbioses.”
Higgins smiled when Eliza remained silent after that answer. “I’m curious where your interest in horses came from.”
“Possibly the Swedish side of the family. My mother, Charlotte Andersson, was a distant cousin of the King. Several relatives raised Swedish half-blood horses for the Royal Mews, too.”
“Are you saying the love of horseflesh is inherited?” Pickering asked with a chuckle.
“Perhaps, but I spend most of my time in the world of plants. Things grow slowly in my quiet gardens. Sometimes a man needs excitement and like-minded people. Racehorses move quicker than vines and give me a welcome infusion of energy.”
“Money, too. At least if you win,” Higgins said. He and Pickering moved to stand under a shady oak.
“I’ve been lucky since I bought my first horse. But I don’t lose my head when it comes to betting. There’s no need to resort to desperate wagers. One of my prize fillies had a winning season that netted me seven thousand quid.”
Eliza whistled. “That’s a lot of money. A gambler might be willing to kill for a sum like that. Or a horse that good.”
“Perhaps you’re thinking someone was even poisoned?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “And over the Donegal Dancer, no less.”
“Why not? Two of the horse’s owners have been murdered.”
“It’s a bit premature to start killing people for the Donegal Dancer. The season isn’t half over. Yes, the Dancer has won all his races so far, but that’s no guarantee he’ll win another. And without an exceptional record at the track, a horse isn’t worth much when it comes to breeding or stud fees. Why get rid of the
owners of a horse that may lose before October? Best to wait before taking such lethal measures.”
“But Diana Price was killed at Ascot,” Eliza said. “And Turnbull was poisoned. Why?”
Sir Walter sighed. “As we all know, they both engaged in scandalous behavior. I may be a lifelong bachelor, but I know that betrayal in love often turns deadly. I only wish I’d been with you when Turnbull was dying. I might have ascertained how he was poisoned, or administered an antidote.”
“What sort of antidote could you have given him?” Pickering asked.
“In many cases, people ingesting poison can be saved if they are forced to empty their stomach. A speedy dose of syrup of ipecac acts as an effective emetic.” He looked unhappy. “Of course, one doesn’t normally carry such things around.”
“I advise you to start doing that. Especially anytime the syndicate members are together,” Higgins said. “You may look amused by the suggestion, Sir Walter, but two owners have already been murdered. I would not be surprised if there is a third attempt.”
“I would be stunned if someone else was killed, Professor. As an old bachelor whose only passions are gardening and horses, what jealous spouse would come after me? Now if I was going to be killed over a horse, it would make more sense to target me due to one of the three other horses I own by myself. One is enjoying a splendid season.” He shrugged. “But the Dancer has not yet proved himself, like I said.”
“Hewitt,” Higgins said. “It must be Hewitt who is behind the murders.”
“But how did he manage to poison Turnbull at the regatta?” Pickering asked.
“Jack said the tree by the picnic area was a hawthorn. A hawthorn tree has poisonous berries.” Eliza looked inquiringly at Sir Walter. “The bramble bush also had poisonous berries. If someone wanted to kill Turnbull, he could have used either.”
Sir Walter seemed amused. “First, the tree and the hedge at the picnic site were hawthorns. That genus can be grown as both.”
“But they are poisonous, aren’t they?” Eliza persisted.
“It’s true the seeds contain cyanide. But the berries themselves are perfectly acceptable due to their high pectin count. Hawthorn berries are sometimes used in jelly. And I ate both the lemon and the raspberry tarts, as did you, Miss Doolittle. I think we can both agree that neither of those tarts had seeds in them. I don’t see how the poison was derived from the hawthorn tree or the hedge.”
Higgins saw that Eliza looked as frustrated as he felt. “Did either of you notice any other flowers or plants around the picnic area that could have been used as a poison?”
Sir Walter laughed. “Oh my, I sometimes forget most people are not botanists. Every garden harbors an arsenal of poisons.” He pointed at a flower bed to his left. “Those pink, lavender, and yellow flowers are foxglove, which contains digitoxin. Any part of the plant will produce convulsions, stomach distress, and cardiac arrest. Growing around the fountain are lilies of the valley. They suppress the nervous system, blur vision, and alter heart rate.”
He marched along the stone path. The others scrambled after him. “Now here’s a lethal specimen: the oleander. A single leaf would be enough to kill. Merely inhaling the smoke from one of its burning branches could make you ill. In fact, eating anything made from the nectar of oleanders, rhododendrons, and azalea can be fatal.”
Sir Walter next pointed at a herbaceous plant. “If you want to avoid poisonous berries, Miss Doolittle, those from Atropa belladonna are the most dangerous. That’s why it is known as deadly nightshade.” He nodded toward another plant. “Avoid picking the seed pods of Helleborus niger, commonly called Christmas Rose. The sap can cause paralysis and burning.”
Higgins noticed how Eliza took care to keep her skirt from brushing against any leaves or flowers while Sir Walter described the deadly inhabitants of his garden.
“These little purple flowers are periwinkle. They cause stomach difficulties and heart palpitations. If you nibbled on the larkspur by the terrace, you’d grow weak, nauseous, and possibly die from an irregular pulse. Over there is the English yew, which has killed so many people, it’s known as the graveyard tree.”
He lovingly brushed a hydrangea bush when he passed. “Hydrangea, iris, daylilies: all toxic. The Caribbean manchineel tree causes rashes and skin irritation if you simply stand beneath one that drips in the rain. And eating its fruit will close up your throat within minutes.”
Eliza now huddled beneath her parasol, as if expecting an aerial assault by an elm or ash tree at any moment.
Sir Walter seemed unstoppable. “Be wary of more than flowers. Never eat the leaves of a rhubarb plant. It impairs breathing, violently upsets the stomach, and might lead to death. Take care to cook your elderberries. Like hawthorn seeds, elderberries contain cyanide. And I haven’t begun to warn you about the wide array of deadly mushrooms.”
Higgins held up his hands. “We surrender, Sir Walter. You have convinced us that a typical English garden is best explored with great care and an expert botanist in tow.”
“I’ll never look at the flowers in Covent Garden the same way again,” Eliza said.
“Nonsense. Nothing is more exquisite than a flower. You must simply take care not to eat any of them, at least until you have consulted with me.” Sir Walter gave her a wink.
“You’ve confirmed what I told my friends earlier,” Higgins said as they approached the back terrace. “No one at the picnic possessed as much knowledge about plants and poisons as you, Sir Walter.”
The older gentleman smiled. “Does that mean you believe I murdered Mr. Turnbull?”
Higgins stood his ground. “Did you?”
“I say, Henry, what a deuced rude thing to ask,” Pickering protested.
But Sir Walter seemed amused. “I was not the only person at the regatta picnic who had a clinical knowledge of poisons and their chemical properties.”
Higgins and Eliza looked at each other in surprise. “Who?” she asked.
“Why, Gordon Longhurst, of course.”
“Longhurst?” Higgins asked in disbelief. “I knew his late father. He presided over one of the oldest firms on the London Stock Exchange. And I recall when his son joined the family business. Like his father, Gordon is a stockbroker and investment banker. What do bankers know of chemistry and poisons?”
“Probably nothing, but young men with medical degrees certainly do. Gordon Longhurst graduated with a medical degree from the University of Edinburgh.”
“Excuse me, Sir Walter, but Diana Price told us at Ascot that her husband was a runner when he was at Cambridge,” Eliza said. “You must be mistaken.”
“True. Longhurst graduated from Cambridge, but he started his medical studies at Edinburgh soon after. During my last year as professor there, Longhurst was in my Plant Pathology course. My best student, I might add, which is why I remember him. He was quite worried that his father would stop paying for his medical education. It seems Longhurst Senior had no wish for a doctor in the family.”
“If he graduated with a medical degree, then his father did pay for the rest of his schooling in Edinburgh,” Pickering said.
“Indeed. I happened to be at his graduation several years later to receive an award from the university. I assumed he went on to become a doctor, until I read in the papers about Gaiety Girl Diana Price marrying stockbroker Gordon Longhurst. This past spring, Turnbull brought Diana into the syndicate, but I didn’t meet Longhurst again until Ascot. So much happened that day, we had no time for a real conversation.” He frowned. “Poor fellow. Such a waste of a fine scientific mind. Coupled with a disastrous marriage.”
“This doesn’t look good for Mr. Longhurst,” murmured Eliza.
“Motive, opportunity, and an expert knowledge of poisons,” Higgins agreed. “If Jack doesn’t know about Longhurst’s medical background, we had best tell him.”
“If it was Longhurst, I would be most interested in learning how he poisoned Turnbull,” Sir Walter said. “I haven’t been ab
le to figure it out.”
Higgins put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I was being quite serious before. The next time you meet with any racing syndicate members, be on your guard. Never wander off alone. And bring that ipecac syrup, just in case.”
“Don’t see the need, Professor. As I said, who would want to kill me?”
“I’m sure Diana Price and Jonathon Turnbull thought the same thing,” Higgins said in a grim voice. “Now they’re both lying dead in a graveyard.”
ELEVEN
Higgins would never understand the Doolittles. He’d known Eliza over a year, and every time she and her father met, they spent the time arguing. But after Jack warned that Alfred might be a potential murder victim, she’d become unbalanced in her display of filial devotion. Last evening Eliza had invited her dad to Wimpole Street for dinner in order to watch over him. To prove how worried she was, Eliza even included her stepmother in the invitation. A decision that bordered on madness.
His ears still rang from the awful racket during dinner. Pickering never made it past the soup course. Right before Mrs. Pearce brought in the lamb cutlets, the Colonel uttered an excuse about meeting someone at the club and fled, a napkin still clutched in his hand. Higgins wrote down a few Irish and Cockney curses he hadn’t heard before, so the evening wasn’t a total waste. But he was not prepared to spend another day guarding Alfred.
Salvation seemed to arrive at breakfast when a black-bordered card was delivered from Rachel Turnbull. She requested that both Eliza and Higgins call on her that afternoon. An intriguing prospect, since neither he nor Eliza had any idea what the widow of Jonathon Turnbull wished to discuss. But if Higgins thought he would be spared having to fret over Alfred Doolittle, he was sorely mistaken.
Although the Turnbull residence was in Knightsbridge’s Rutland Gate, Eliza believed it made perfect sense to stop along the way at her father’s house in Pimlico.
“Why not swing by Salisbury as well?” Higgins asked when they exited the tube station. “Fine day to see Stonehenge, don’t you think?”
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