Move Your Blooming Corpse

by D. E. Ireland

  Annie Kenney and Flora Drummond joined them, both panting for breath. Several angry bobbies chased after the two WSPU leaders; Eliza kicked the kneecap of the one who grabbed Flora’s arm. With a howl, the policeman let go. Flora ran, followed by Annie, whose flat cap fell off, letting her long hair stream behind her. Sybil and Eliza raced in the opposite direction to the nearest alley, headed up to Threadneedle Street, then ducked over to Old Broad Street.

  Out of breath, Eliza finally stopped. She’d run so fast she had a stitch in her side.

  Sybil gasped for air, too. “Oh, good show, Eliza!”

  “If Jack ever learns about this, he won’t be happy. Where to now?”

  “The nearest underground station.” Sybil glanced around at the pedestrians on the street, the carriages, carts, and double-decker buses. “Where are we?”

  “I know this area. Follow me.” Eliza linked arms with her and hurried to catch the nearest bus. Once they climbed the curved stairway to the top, she plunked their fare into the box and sank onto a narrow seat. “That was a bit more excitement than I bargained for.”

  “Rallies bring out the worst types, I’m afraid,” Sybil said. “We certainly didn’t expect so many policemen to show up. At least they didn’t arrest Annie or Flora.”

  “Thank goodness Mrs. Garrud escaped.” Eliza smiled when she spotted the tiny woman sitting up ahead. The suffragette turned to nod at her. “She’s a blooming wonder, she is.”

  All three women got off the bus at Liverpool Street. Eliza and Sybil followed Edith Garrud to the underground station. They kept a discreet distance from her so as not to attract notice. Luckily her dark purple outfit and straw boater helped distinguish her from the other ladies in their dresses of summery pastels. After they’d purchased tickets at the platform, Sybil introduced them.

  “Eliza is my fiancé’s cousin, Mrs. Garrud.”

  “I saw how you handled yourself, Miss Doolittle,” Edith said with an admiring glance. “You would make an ideal ju-jitsu candidate for our Bodyguard.”

  Surprised speechless, Eliza smiled in delight.

  Sybil laughed. “Jack would fly into an unholy temper if she did.”

  “Let him,” Edith said with a wave of her hand. “But I’m serious. Miss Doolittle, I can teach you to flip a six-foot bobby who outweighs you by ten stone.”

  “I saw you,” Eliza blurted. “I never would have guessed a woman your size could do such a thing.”

  “My small height is an advantage. Men never expect defeat, yet what they don’t realize is that they defeat themselves. Ju-jitsu is not about overpowering, but using your opponent’s strength against him.”

  The underground train whooshed and then rattled to a stop. The women scuttled inside before the doors shut. An older businessman rose to his feet and offered Eliza his seat. She motioned to a dour-faced matron in shabby black to sit instead. With a weary sigh, the woman sat. Muttering under his breath, the businessman moved farther along in the moving car.

  “That ain’t no gent,” the matron said as she cradled a heavy basket in her lap. “But I thanks you, miss. You have proper menners, giving a poor woman a chance to tek a load off. Been up since t’ree this morning, and me with old shoes what pinch me toes till they bleed.”

  “You’re welcome.” Eliza recalled her own sore feet after long hours of standing at Covent Garden or the Opera, selling flowers. She would have slipped the woman a few pence but didn’t have less than a fiver. Such a large sum might insult her.

  Looking around, she noticed several other women who wore white or gray with the suffragette colors. One held a rubber mallet, which reminded her of Rachel’s sister.

  “Sybil, what else can you tell me about Rachel Turnbull’s sister?” Eliza asked.

  “Mrs. Lowell? She’s been involved with the WSPU far longer than I have.”

  Edith Garrud shifted as the train swerved. “Ruth has a devil of a temper.”

  “Yes. Remember when she threw a hammer at Diana Price? Of course, that wasn’t a political gesture. She was angry at Diana for cheating with her sister’s husband,” Sybil said. “I can’t say I’m sorry Jonathon Turnbull is dead. He was no friend to the movement. But now that he’s gone, I’m sure some other wealthy man will hire hooligans to break up our rallies.”

  “And bribe the police,” Edith added.

  The train screeched to a stop. Passengers surged out of the doors and double the number surged inside, making further discussion impossible. At Oxford Circus station, Eliza led the way out of the train and up the steps. She blinked in the bright sunshine, her stomach rumbling.

  Sybil smiled. “We’ll soon have lunch at the Palladium with the other suffragettes.”

  Eliza stared at a fish and chips stand, her mouth watering from the smell of fresh-fried cod and potatoes wrapped in newspaper cones. Sybil pulled her away, however, and quickly guided her down Oxford to Argyll Street. From there, it was less than a block to the Palladium.

  Relieved she’d made it to the theater without fainting from hunger, Eliza followed Sybil and Edith into the Palladium. Sandwiched into a row of white stone buildings, it looked oddly similar to the Royal Exchange, except on a smaller scale. Once inside the lush vestibule, they joined women wearing the suffragette colors. The chatter seemed deafening.

  “Did you see that big brute, the one who pushed me to the curb?” one woman asked, and shook her dirty skirts. “I should have kicked him where it hurts.”

  “He punched me on the arm,” another said. She rubbed her shoulder. “It hurts so bad, I’ll have a bruise for a month. Don’t know how I’ll be lifting boxes next week at the shop.”

  Flora Drummond appeared out of nowhere and stopped to chat with Sybil. While the two women conversed, Eliza admired the Palladium’s colored marble flooring, rose-hued granite walls, and gold-painted columns. She loved theaters, especially if they showed moving pictures.

  A line began to form. Eliza followed the others to a room where she prayed there would be food. She wanted to clap her hands when she saw the spread that awaited the suffragettes: teapots, trays of ham, toasted cheese and roast beef sandwiches, scones and thick jams, large china bowls of clotted cream, tea cakes, and cookies.

  “Cor, look at all this!”

  Sybil laughed. “The Palladium manager, Mr. Gulliver, is a supporter of our cause.”

  “He sets a lovely table, too.”

  “We have friends in many places. Like at Ascot. The police did not want us to hand out our latest edition of The Suffragette. But Lord Churchill gave his approval.”

  Annie Kenney joined them. “That’s surprising, since he doesn’t believe women should vote. In fact, he’s the reason I was arrested up in Manchester.”

  “The politicians will come around to our way of thinking before long.”

  “Let’s hope we aren’t long in the tooth when it happens,” Edith said. “Or in the grave.”

  The others all laughed. Meanwhile Eliza filled her plate with two sandwiches, two scones, and a thick slice of seed cake during the discussion. One of the suffragettes, taller than the others, nibbled on a slice of toasted cheese. Her dark hair was swept back on either side of a heart-shaped face, and she had a pleasingly plump figure. Eliza recognized her as the maid at the Henley Regatta picnic. She hadn’t spoken to the girl, as the servant was busy following Rachel Turnbull’s instructions all afternoon. But it was definitely the Turnbulls’ maid.

  Eliza approached the young girl. “Excuse me. I’m Eliza Doolittle, and my father is a member of the Wrexham Racing Syndicate. I saw you yesterday when we took tea with Mrs. Turnbull. And you were at the Henley Regatta picnic. It was dreadful what happened that day.”

  “That was terrible, wasn’t it?” The maid introduced herself as Lucy and dropped her voice to a whisper. “But I don’t think Mrs. Turnbull is all that upset. Not that I blame her. Master Turnbull was a hard man.”

  “I’m sure you know he was poisoned.”

  She sighed. “Been in all the papers,
it has. Don’t know how it happened, though. I was serving that day. Looked to me like everyone tasted a little bit of everything. So how did the gentleman get poisoned?”

  “I have no idea. Did the other servants eat or drink anything at the picnic that afternoon, or feel ill afterwards?”

  “Oh, we aren’t allowed to eat the food meant for guests,” Lucy said quickly. “Mrs. Turnbull would be most upset if we did. That could get a servant dismissed.”

  “Eliza, come and meet Mr. Garrud,” Sybil called out. “He’s agreed to teach you.”

  Although she was eager for a ju-jitsu lesson, Eliza regretted losing the chance to learn more from Lucy. She excused herself and followed Sybil down the sloping aisle of the theater auditorium. The warm red plush seats and ornate tasseled hangings in the private boxes were breathtaking, along with the white and gold trim. The stage was bare. Its wooden boards echoed with the swift movements of two men fighting. She hesitated. The men seemed quite aggressive as they attacked each other with long sticks and well-placed kicks.

  “Come along, then.” Sybil led the way up the narrow side stairs, skirting the orchestra pit, and into the stage wings. Edith Garrud met them. One of the men, who sported a tapering mustache turned up on each end, groaned after a vicious kick to the ribs.

  Edith clapped her hands. “Your time is up, gentlemen!”

  The man with the mustache bowed to his opponent. The younger, clean-shaven man bowed lower as if in deference, then departed. Edith’s husband turned to the ladies. “What you’ve just seen is a demonstration of bartitsu, which is a combination of ju-jitsu techniques, kickboxing, and stick fighting. My wife and I instruct men, women, and children in the art.”

  “You also appeared in a film, didn’t you?” Sybil asked Edith.

  “Yes, back in ’07. We perform in exhibitions all over London. And Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used bartitsu when Sherlock Holmes grappled with Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls. Sir Arthur was most intrigued after we showed him the technique.”

  Sybil looked impressed. “I didn’t know. I shall have to reread that story.”

  Eliza made a note to read it as well. She’d only recently begun to read Sherlock Holmes and was in the middle of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Edith went on to explain what happened at the rally today near the Royal Exchange. William Garrud grew somber at the news, especially when she described how the police targeted the suffragettes.

  “To keep us from getting hurt in the future, both Eliza and I would like to learn ju-jitsu,” Sybil said. “I may even pass these moves on to my fiancé. He’s been in more than a few fights with criminals. Jack might sustain fewer injuries if he knew the techniques.”

  “He would indeed,” Edith said. “Now let’s get started. And fear not for your clothes, ladies. You won’t get more than a speck of dust on them.”

  Without warning, William rushed his wife. Edith calmly twisted her husband’s arms and threw him to one side. He sprawled on the stage at her feet. Rising quickly, he rushed her from behind; she bent forward and tossed him over her shoulder. After William landed on the wooden boards with a grunt, he tried another frontal attack. Edith crouched, rolled him over her head, and sent him flying.

  “The trick, ladies, is to utilize the opponent’s own momentum and energy. It saves you from expending your own,” Edith explained. “Now, Miss Doolittle. Are you ready to try it?”

  Eliza felt uncertain. “I wouldn’t know how to start.”

  “We’ll go slow, we promise,” William said with a wink.

  He approached her with caution. Eliza gave a nervous laugh, which spoiled her focus, and William easily overpowered her. “Most women show surprise at an attack since they don’t expect it,” he said with a wry smile. “But you can learn to be prepared in any situation.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He spun about and grabbed Sybil around the waist. She shrieked. “You see? Women need to be aware of the ever present threat of danger.”

  Sybil nodded. “I understand, Mr. Garrud. Please, try again.”

  “Slowly, and I’ll show you how to grasp his forearms.” Edith advised Sybil how to brace her feet, bend a certain way, and then push so that William rolled over her back.

  He landed on his feet and then rushed Eliza. Although she didn’t expect him to attack her, she threw the heavier man over her shoulder. He landed on his back with a grunt. William quickly twisted and launched himself at Eliza. She leaned over, elbowed him in the groin, and stood when he fell backward on the stage.

  Eliza grinned from ear to ear. “How’s that?”

  “A bit inventive,” William gasped out, still on the boards.

  “If an opponent approaches from the side, you can also pinch him near the kidneys,” Edith said. “That will take him down, too. You’re a fast learner, Miss Doolittle.”

  “Please, it’s Eliza.”

  “Eliza, then. Let’s try again.”

  Edith, Sybil, and Eliza practiced for another hour. A cluster of women had gathered in the auditorium, clapping whenever they subdued William and groaning if they failed. Eliza’s confidence grew each time she succeeded.

  “It’s a shame you can’t act as Bodyguards,” Edith said.

  “I don’t think we’re ready for that,” Eliza said with regret.

  Edith smiled. “But you will be ready the next time the police get rough with either of you. Just remember the skills we’ve taught today. They could save your life.”

  After Eliza and Sybil thanked the Garruds, they fetched their hats and gloves and headed outside. The afternoon sun beat down, and the summer heat shimmered in the air.

  “That was fun, wasn’t it? I can’t wait to demonstrate those techniques to Jack.”

  “I hope he’s made progress in these murders,” Eliza said. “And it would help if we knew where Hewitt escaped to.”

  “Do you really think Hewitt’s the murderer?”

  “No. But the Professor does. Of course, none of us knows anything for certain. But two syndicate members have been killed, and I don’t want the third victim to be my dad. That’s why I told Higgins to watch over him today. They’re visiting the stables where the Donegal Dancer is kept.” She frowned. “The other syndicate members will be there as well.”

  Sybil patted her arm. “I’m sure your father will be fine.”

  “If not, I’ll use these ju-jitsu techniques on whatever blighter causes him harm. And the Professor had best keep my dad safe. Or I’ll flip him all the way to Dover.”

  THIRTEEN

  By the time Higgins jumped out of the cab at Bay Willow Stables, he felt like he’d completed a journey on the Orient Express. The Doolittles seemed to possess more energy than the monkeys at the London Zoo. Eliza’s father had not stopped talking during the entire train trip from London, except to knock back a few sips from his brandy flask. How in the world could the older man look fresh as a daisy after such a long journey? He had entertained Higgins nonstop on the train, cracking jokes, telling stories, charming the ladies with a wink and a lift of his hat. Even on the cab ride over, Alfred kept chattering. Higgins understood now why he was so successful as a speaker for the Moral Reform League. Doolittle’s talents had clearly been wasted as a navvy and dustman in London’s East End for too long.

  Still, Higgins did not take his duties lightly. It wasn’t only Eliza who worried about what might occur during their visit to Bay Willow Stables. If a murder took place each time the syndicate members met, then Higgins would do everything possible to protect Eliza’s father.

  At least the setting was enjoyable. Higgins gazed about with approval. The horse farm looked green and refreshed from a light morning rain. The grass beyond the fences sparkled in the sunshine, although the July heat would soon change that. He breathed fresh air deep into his lungs.

  “Couldn’t ask for better weather, ain’t that right?” Doolittle asked.

  Higgins watched the grooms brush or wash down the horses, while stableboys raked hay into pile
s. He and Doolittle strolled down the lane toward the paddock. Thank goodness Rose Doolittle had decided not to tag along today. She planned to torture the store assistants on Oxford Street with her presence instead. Doolittle seemed as relieved as Higgins by her decision.

  “Come along then, governor. Sir Walter has some fine horseflesh for us to inspect today. Maybe I can get the Wrexham syndicate to buy another future champion like our Dancer.”

  “Good lord, not another horse!” Higgins feared Alfred would be up to his ears in debt within the year. And the fellow seemed to forget that most horses did not win every race.

  The Duchess of Carbrey stood in the stable yard conversing with Lord Saxton and Brody. A few feet away, Gordon Longhurst fidgeted and scowled, hands in his pockets. Eliza had told Higgins how Longhurst came to Henley dressed in full mourning. Thankfully, the widower chose a gray summer suit today.

  “Good morning,” Sir Walter sang out as they approached. He was dressed nattily in jodhpurs, a light jacket, and shiny brown boots. When Doolittle and Higgins joined them, he shook their hands. “Good to see you, Alfred.”

  Doolittle puffed out his chest. “Did you hire the guards like I suggested?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Glad to hear it. We don’t want no bloody horse thieves stealing our colt.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Professor,” the Duchess said. “What a perfect day to be out in the countryside.”

  Higgins tipped his hat to her. “Indeed it is, Your Grace.”

  Saxton eyed Higgins with displeasure. “Who invited you? You’re not part of the syndicate.”

  “Neither am I,” Longhurst said before Higgins could respond. “But Sir Walter insisted I come. I only hope it was not to suffer more abuse. I had enough of that at the regatta.”

  “Water under the bridge, old chap.” Sir Walter clapped him on the back. “We’re glad you decided to come. To be truthful, Lord Saxton and I have been feeling a bit guilty over what happened. We hope the Duchess and Mr. Doolittle will agree with us.”