“I spent the rest of the day with friends at the Leander Club. I never saw Jonathon again after the picnic.” She paused. “Not alive, that is.”
“Then the crucial thing is to discover what your husband was doing during that time.”
“Oh, I know what he was doing, Miss Doolittle.” Rachel wore an unhappy expression. “He was placing bets on the races. Jonathon wagered on everything from horses to parliamentary elections. I am ashamed to confess that he gambled away nearly everything his father left him.”
“A person who is a heavy gambler takes great risks,” Higgins said. “And if he doesn’t honor his bets, there’s usually an angry man or two willing to make him pay.”
Rachel took a long sip of tea before answering. “Jonathon was not a kind man, nor a cautious one. I have no doubt his enemies were legion and their grievances justified.”
“Forgive me if this is a rude question, but why did you marry Mr. Turnbull?” Eliza asked. “Your husband had a dreadful reputation long before he met you. Were you unaware of it?”
Rachel stared down at her teacup, as if the answer lay swirling in its steaming surface. “I had no choice in the matter, Miss Doolittle. Our respective families wanted the marriage. Although the Turnbulls were the wealthiest of merchants, they craved a titled lady to add to their bloodline. And my father was weary of marrying off five daughters. He never forgave my sister Ruth for choosing a vicar.”
“Becoming the wife of a vicar hardly seems scandalous,” Higgins said with a grin.
“But she married for love, and to a common churchman besides. Father never spoke to her again. Afterwards, his matchmaking efforts became quite ruthless. By the time he got around to me, he only cared about the bank account of my groom, not his character.”
Eliza marveled at these highborn ladies who appeared to have been sold by their families to the highest bidder. As poor as the Doolittles were, they were above that sort of thing in the East End. And as hard as her life was, Eliza learned how to fend for herself—no thanks to any man.
“Your father must have known of Jonathon Turnbull’s reputation when the marriage was arranged,” Higgins said. “I am not one for society gossip, but even I was aware of the stories circulating about your late husband for many years.”
Rachel looked weary. “Certainly Father knew, but I was never informed. I spent much of my girlhood in France, and heard none of these rumors.”
Higgins snapped his fingers. “I thought I detected a French cadence in your speech. You lived in the region of Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur. The town of Grasse?”
The young widow seemed impressed. “Correct. My mother’s family is from Grasse. My grandparents worked in the perfumery business, and I spent several years with them. I wish I had been allowed to remain there. Grand-père and Grand-mère taught me how to create scents by using the flowers and oils of the region. But Father had other plans for me.”
“I can’t believe your father married you off to a man notorious for his violent behavior, especially towards women,” Higgins said with disgust.
“From a parental standpoint, it seemed a beneficial arrangement. The Turnbull tea merchants got a baron’s daughter to add to their family tree, and the Sturbridges disposed of the last of their unwelcome daughters. A fine deal all around.” While Rachel twisted her wedding band, her voice hardened. “Except for the bride and groom.”
“Then Mr. Turnbull did not want to marry either?” Eliza asked.
“Heavens, no.” She looked aghast. “Jonathon viewed the match as a prison sentence. What need did he have of a wife, when so many loose women were at his beck and call? And the idea of children filled him with horror. When I suffered a miscarriage, I thought it was a tragedy. I could not have another, you see. But looking back, I realize it was a blessing. Children would only have been additional targets for his cruelty.”
Higgins and Eliza exchanged looks. They must be thinking the same thing. Rachel had excellent reasons for wanting her husband dead.
“Given the state of your marriage, Mrs. Turnbull, no one would blame you for not grieving over your husband,” Higgins said.
She set her teacup back on the tray with a clatter. “What you actually want to know is if I had anything to do with his murder. After all, I planned the whole picnic lunch. But do you really believe I raced to the stables and stabbed Diana with a pitchfork? The very idea of such a gruesome death is abhorrent to me.”
“Mrs. Turnbull, we don’t mean to be rude or unfeeling,” Eliza replied. “But the police are looking for motives in the deaths of your husband and Diana. And you and Mr. Longhurst were both betrayed by your spouses.”
“You cannot compare me with that poor man. He was in love with his wife.”
“And you no longer loved your husband?” Higgins asked.
“I thought I was clear. Jonathon and I never loved each other. At best, we were civil in public. And after the miscarriage, we were little more than enemies.” Rachel looked at them as if they were idiot children. “I forget I am dealing with a middle-aged bachelor and a girl of twenty. What do either of you know of marriage, especially an unhappy one?”
“We know enough to realize people may kill to escape such a marriage.”
“And why would I do that, Miss Doolittle? What do you think I have gained by my husband’s death? Yes, Jonathon was a cruel man, but is it less cruel to find myself his widow?”
Puzzled, Eliza glanced at Higgins. “I don’t understand.”
“While my husband lived, he knew how to fight off his creditors. Now they are literally baying at the door. I have spent every hour since his death fending off attempts by either his relatives or his bankers to wrest control of Turnbull Tea away from me.” Rachel clasped her trembling hands. “If I lose it, how will I live? Jonathon’s gambling debts are so onerous, it seems I must sell off every property, including this house. Where can I possibly go? My father would see me starve before he would help me.”
Eliza was moved by Rachel’s sudden show of vulnerability. “There’s your sister. I’m sure she would help you. Or your grandparents in France.”
“My grandparents are dead. And their perfumery business is now owned by others. As for Ruth, she doesn’t deserve to have a penniless sister thrust upon her.”
Higgins put down his teacup. “I know several influential bankers in the City. Your financial situation may not be as dire as you believe. Allow me to arrange a few meetings. It’s possible your husband’s debts may be discharged without the estate being totally lost.”
For the first time, tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank you, Professor. I am only grateful that racehorse is no longer my concern. Jonathon borrowed heavily to buy the Donegal Dancer, a rash decision on his part. One of many.” She took a ragged breath. “This has been a trying week. Perhaps a part of me is grieving for my husband, despite our history. After all, Jonathon and I were forced into this marriage. Maybe both of us should be pitied.”
Eliza got to her feet and gestured for Higgins to do likewise. “I’m sorry if we upset you, Mrs. Turnbull. It was not our intention. Like you, we only wish to discover the truth about these deaths. Two people have already been killed, and I’m worried there might be another.”
Rachel dabbed at her eyes. “I will have no peace until I know who is responsible for Jonathon’s death. Perhaps Harold Hewitt is guilty, Professor.”
“Perhaps,” Higgins said. “Anyone clever enough to escape from Claybury Asylum and remain undetected is clever enough to have committed these murders.”
“I shall ask Inspector Shaw about Mr. Hewitt when he arrives,” Rachel said.
“Inspector Shaw is coming here today?” Eliza asked in alarm.
“I expect him at any moment. He called this morning to ask if he might visit me after tea. It seems he has questions regarding the regatta picnic. At least he had the good manners to wait until after the funeral.”
“We must be going, Mrs. Turnbull.”
Eliza rushed out of the
drawing room before Rachel could ring for the maid. Higgins and Rachel quickly followed her into the foyer. Jack would not be happy to discover that she and Higgins had questioned the widow before he did.
“Miss Doolittle, are you by any chance wearing Fleurs de Juillet?” Rachel took a step closer and sniffed. “I thought I smelled that scent in the drawing room, but the funeral bouquets overpowered it. Ah yes, I recognize the bergamot and lavender, along with an undertone of lily of the valley. It must be Fleurs de Juillet.”
“It is,” Eliza said proudly. “My young man gave it to me last week. He said it was the perfect time to wear the perfume because it’s called Flowers of July.”
Rachel smiled. “And so it is. I helped create that fragrance over ten years ago. But most of the credit should go to my grandmother, Madame Aubertin. She was a truly gifted perfumier.” She gave her an unexpected hug. “You have reminded me of my dear Grand-mère. I thank you for that, Miss Doolittle.”
Somewhat abashed, Eliza stepped onto the front porch with Higgins. “May I ask you one last question, Mrs. Turnbull? Seeing how you speak French and all.”
“Of course.” Rachel waited at the entrance to her Knightsbridge mansion.
“I have a friend that keeps calling my stepmother Madame Defarge.”
Rachel seemed concerned. “If a friend calls your stepmother that, it is not meant as a compliment.”
“Eliza, really,” Higgins muttered. “There’s no need to bring this up now.”
She ignored him. “Why? Who is Madame Defarge?”
“Madame Defarge is a disagreeable character from A Tale of Two Cities, a famous novel by Charles Dickens. She’s bloodthirsty, vengeful, unjust, and violent. A most dreadful villainess. I’d hate to think your stepmother resembled her in any way.”
Eliza gave a dramatic sigh. “Actually, she sounds just like her.”
TWELVE
Eliza ran up the steps from the underground station. How dreadful if she was late and missed all the fun at the upcoming rally. Dodging the tube crowds below street level on Saturday morning was never easy, but today the congestion seemed even worse. She literally battled her way around a group returning from Tower Hill. Oblivious to anyone else, they chattered about the crown jewels and the executioner’s block.
Near the bronze statue of the Duke of Wellington on horseback, she scanned the milling pedestrians. Sybil’s early morning telegram had instructed Eliza to meet her here. Jack’s fiancée was nowhere in sight among the dozens of suffragettes. Dressed in white and wearing sashes of green and violet, they flocked about the stone steps of the Royal Exchange. Several held crudely lettered signs with VOTES FOR WOMEN and SUPPORT SUFFRAGE painted on them. Two ladies waved a cotton banner that said FREE PANKHURST.
“Eliza! Over here!” Sybil waved from across Threadneedle Street. She wore a bottle green walking suit, quite dark for a warm summer day, but a sprig of white and violet flowers decorated her jaunty boater.
Eliza hurried over to join her at the Bank of England’s balustrade. Although impressed by the Bank’s imposing six stories and massive pillar columns, she’d heard that a ghost called Sarah haunted the grounds. Eliza reminded herself to return another day when politics didn’t demand so much of her attention. After all, ghosts were just as interesting as votes for women.
“I thought there’d be a huge number of suffragettes,” Eliza said.
“This is a small demonstration,” Sybil replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “We know the police will show up, since Lloyd George is supposed to arrive by eleven o’clock. Ladies have been posted on every block to give the signal once he’s spotted.”
“David Lloyd George, the politician?”
“The Chancellor of the Exchequer himself. Excuse me, I must speak with Mrs. Garrud.”
Sybil rushed across the street. Eliza’s excitement grew as she recalled how Sybil had told her Edith Garrud was secretly training female bodyguards in ju-jitsu to protect the WSPU’s leaders and speakers. A pity Eliza hadn’t had a few lessons when she lived in the East End. Ju-jitsu might have come in handy when pickpockets tried to nick her meager earnings.
“Everything’s ready, but we’d better keep our distance,” Sybil said when she returned.
“What about Mrs. Pankhurst’s daughter?”
“Which one? Christabel fled to Paris to escape imprisonment. And Sylvia doesn’t approve of our tactical use of violence. Look, there’s Annie Kenney in disguise.” She pointed to a slight man who wore a shabby suit, scuffed brogans, and a flat cap. “Annie looks quite nice as a young man, don’t you think? The police never suspect, either. She uses the disguise to avoid being arrested and force-fed in prison again.”
“Who was the woman you spoke with a few minutes ago? The one wearing dark purple. No taller than five feet, I’d say.”
“That’s Edith Garrud. She and her husband teach at the Palladium on Argyll Street.” Sybil waved at Annie Kenney, who had lifted her cap in a signal. “I believe Lloyd George’s automobile has been spotted. Watch carefully, Eliza. You’ll see the suffragettes in action.”
Loud chants rose up from the Royal Exchange, along with shouts of “Votes for women!” and “Free Pankhurst!” The women in white with their suffragette ribbons, signs, and banners began to march in formation. One woman climbed the building’s steps and hushed them.
“There’s Flora Drummond,” Sybil told Eliza. “We call her ‘The General.’”
“Ladies, we are at war!” Flora’s ringing voice carried across Threadneedle Street. “The government has instituted the Cat and Mouse Act, a cruel punishment for voicing our opinions! We have been beaten, assaulted, dipped in horse ponds—”
“You deserve it!” A man who shouted near the bronze statue was immediately drowned out by women chanting, “Down with Parliament!”
“Yes, we’ve smashed windows and set fire to buildings,” Flora Drummond went on, “but we have no other recourse! How else are we to bring attention to our noble cause? If damage occurs to certain politicians’ property, then they ought to listen instead of fighting us!”
Sybil chuckled. “She’s referring to Lloyd George’s new house, which was mysteriously vandalized during construction. Of course, Jack agrees with Sylvia Pankhurst. He believes militant violence hurts the movement. But the politicians leave us little choice. And despite fears that Miss Davison’s funeral would cause rioting, the event was peaceful. We know how to honor one of our own.”
“It’s too bad Harold Hewitt made things worse for the suffragettes with his stunt at Ascot,” Eliza said. “A pity the Queen isn’t a supporter. People might listen to royalty.”
“That will never happen. For now, we must be content with a few ladies of the gentry, like Lady Constance Lytton and Lady Astor.”
Eliza half listened to Flora Drummond’s speech, since she’d read a handbill relating the cause’s history and recent events. Annie Kenney climbed the steps and stood near Flora, and the suffragettes chanted whenever she paused. Eliza caught sight of groups of men in suits and trilby hats by Wellington’s statue. A few of them wore rough coats and caps, patched trousers, and soiled collarless shirts. Flora raised her voice when their angry voices grew louder.
“I can attest to inhumane treatment in Holloway Prison!” she shouted over the men. “Women warders held down my arms and legs while a doctor forced a tube down my nose and throat. I could not breathe—”
“You deserved it, ya silly tomrig!”
Men cursed or yelled, “Women belong in the kitchen,” but Flora ignored them. Their taunts and catcalls only mounted after the suffragettes began marching again, largely in an effort to prevent any men from breaking through their line.
“Give women the moat, I say,” one ruffian shouted. “Drown ’em!”
“Here now, shove off.” A tall man in work clothes pushed the heckler back. “Those women fed me family during the strike. Go on, find a job and be useful.”
“My job right now is to take you out, you bloody sod!” He
punched the worker in the face and laughed in triumph.
The two men fell to wrestling, kicking, and biting, egged on by the ruffian’s friends. A group of policemen swarmed up from the underground station but didn’t bother to break up the fight. Instead, they made a beeline for the suffragettes. Outraged, Eliza was about to join the marchers when she spied a long, sleek automobile inching its way from Queen Victoria Street. She caught a fleeting glimpse of the man sitting in back, no doubt Chancellor Lloyd George by his high forehead and thick mustache. Eliza recognized him from a recent newspaper caricature.
The politician raised his fist at the women, who yelled back; many suffragettes now pulled out objects from their pockets or bags. The police formed a protective ring around the vehicle. That didn’t stop the women from chucking rotten tomatoes, vegetables, and fruit at Lloyd George’s car. The spoiled vegetables splattered both the vehicle and the policemen, who ducked and cursed.
Sybil held Eliza back from joining the melee. “Jack was right. It’s gotten dangerous, and neither of us wants to be arrested.”
The air was filled with whistle blasts, men’s shouts, and women’s screams; the chooga-chooga of the automobile’s horn only added to the chaos. More policemen rushed into the street and grabbed the ladies roughly by the arm or waist. Screams, horn honks, and whistles mingled with the din on the streets. Suffragettes surged in every direction, trying to escape the police in close pursuit. Eliza ducked at a deafening crash overhead. She looked up to see a broken window in the Bank of England’s broad facade. Luckily no shards of glass rained down on their heads.
“Blimey, that scared me half to death!”
Sybil pulled her around the corner. “None of our women threw that rock, but we’ll get the blame. No doubt those hecklers did it. Better clear off while we can.”
Eliza looked back to see tiny Mrs. Garrud flip a policeman who’d flailed his billy club at the marchers. Holding Eliza’s arm in an iron grip, Sybil tugged her across the street. Along the way, they dodged two men who tried to block them. Eliza jumped aside, then nearly fell as the other man tripped her. Sybil gave the man such a shove, he went flying. Hand in hand, Eliza and Sybil sprinted to safety.
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