The mournful tolling of the bells above St Martin-in-the-Fields seemed to mock Higgins. He wasn’t sorrowful at all, nor was he alone in his lack of grief. Among the gathering of mourners in the church, no one wept except for his niece. And he wasn’t certain if it was a tear Beatrice dabbed at with her handkerchief, or a bit of face powder fallen into her eye. Winterbottom’s relatives seemed unmoved, while Higgins’s family looked more mortified than anything else. It was bad taste to have the bridegroom blown up at the wedding.
With a groan, Higgins scratched the sticking plaster on his jawline. It itched abominably. A shard of glass from the automobile’s explosion had left a jagged wound, the worst of his injuries. The doctor didn’t believe it would scar, although Higgins doubted that.
They’d been damnably lucky though. The Café Royal’s canopy shielded them from the larger pieces of flying metal thrown by the explosion. Eliza suffered a few cuts and scratches, but was otherwise unhurt. It was Higgins and Beatrice who took the brunt of the scattered debris. His niece suffered a deep gash on her left arm, requiring stiches and a cotton sling. And none of them could hear properly until the following day. Higgins still felt stiff and sore from the nasty tumble he took when the explosion knocked him down. Who knew when his lower back would stop sending jolts of pain up his spine whenever he bent over?
The last four days had been hell. Everyone, including his family, were stunned by Winterbottom’s murder. How could such a thing happen in the heart of London? Piccadilly Circus, no less. And yet it had. Watching the car explode was a shocking sight, especially because it killed a man about to leave on his honeymoon. Higgins despised Winterbottom, but not enough to wish such a death on him. On the other hand, Higgins believed the tragedy saved Beatrice from a worse fate. She was far better off as the widow of Clyde Winterbottom, rather than his wife.
After the service, Higgins and Eliza filed out of the church. Motorcars, trucks, and buses filled Trafalgar Square, their engines so noisy he couldn’t hear himself think. No surprise since his hearing was not fully restored. Being midday, the sun beat down without mercy, and several women snapped open black parasols. He tore off his black armband and stuffed it into his pocket.
“How horrible for your niece,” Eliza said as members of his family, dressed in mourning, headed for waiting motorcars.
“At least Beatrice can now say she was officially married. When the shock has worn off, she may be grateful it was only for a few hours.” Higgins watched the black Rolls Royce carrying his niece drive away. “As a widow, she’ll have far more freedom than she would if her husband had lived. He would have made her life a misery.”
“Who knows how much more misery Luther North will cause before he’s caught?”
Higgins shared Eliza’s concern. The explosion had resulted in complete chaos. Guests ran out of the Café Royal screaming. As the only police detectives there, Jack and Colin had their hands full trying to restore order. Small wonder Luther escaped in the ensuing furor. At least the papers had alerted the public about the manhunt for Luther North. Higgins had no time to do anything about it. He had spent the past four days convalescing, while Eliza divided her time between him and Pickering. Neither had the chance to meet with Jack, although they’d glimpsed the detective this past hour in a back pew of the church.
“Luther must have planted the bomb while everyone was at the wedding breakfast,” Higgins said. “He had more than enough opportunity, especially since Winterbottom’s car was parked around the corner. And the weather helped. Passersby were only concerned about getting out of the rain. In his uniform, people would have assumed Luther was the Winterbottom chauffeur.”
“But how would he know how to make a bomb?” Eliza asked.
“As a naval engineer, Luther no doubt had experience transporting gunpowder and cordite. The Royal Navy has suffered several explosive mishaps during the shipment of such material.”
“It reminds me of the assassination attempt on the Viceroy last December.” Lady Winifred Ossler joined them. Her navy suit matched a wide-brimmed straw hat topped with a huge ecru lace bow. A diamond heart pendant on a silver chain hung from her neck. “Lord Hardinge suffered serious injuries, although his wife and Lord Curzon were unharmed.”
“Was it a motorcar explosion like this one?” Eliza asked.
“Oh, no. Something far more exotic. They were riding an elephant in New Delhi. Someone threw a bomb into the howdah, which is the saddle. I witnessed what happened along with my husband. It was appalling. His servant was killed outright.”
“Why would someone want to kill Lord Hardinge?” Higgins wondered.
“The natives disagreed with Hardinge’s decision to transfer the capital from Calcutta to New Delhi. They still haven’t found the man who threw the bomb. Sadly, it’s rather easy to concoct one. I watched the soldiers garrisoned at Mafeking put together explosive devices.”
Higgins exchanged pointed glances with Eliza. He knew both of them were thinking the same thing: Did Lady Winifred have the expertise to make a bomb?
As if confirming their suspicions, Winifred continued, “One could probably make a bomb at home if the materials were available. I’m sure that’s how the suffragettes acquire their bombs, or so my husband believes.”
“The suffragettes I know would never do such a thing!”
“There are extreme factions within every political movement, Miss Doolittle. When political feelings run high, violence is often the response.”
“Politics isn’t the only thing that leads to violence,” Higgins remarked. “The murders of Farrow, Winterbottom, and Miss Palmer had nothing to do with politics.”
“Don’t forget that Beatrice would have been killed had the car exploded two minutes later.” Eliza shuddered. “At least Winterbottom didn’t suffer.”
“Poor man. And poor Beatrice, having her wedding day end so disastrously. I’m grateful now she wasn’t in love with Winterbottom. She would be far more upset if she had been.” Lady Winifred opened her parasol. “I need some fresh air. Shall we take a turn about the square?”
“Excellent idea.” Higgins took Eliza’s elbow, then held out his other arm to Lady Winifred. “I’m wondering about my niece’s financial situation. My mother said Winterbottom recently bought a house for them in Notting Hill.”
Lady Winifred nodded. “Oh yes, Clyde negotiated an impressive marriage settlement when he became engaged to Beatrice. So impressive that he was able to afford the Notting Hill house, the roadster, and a number of costly furnishings. All of which your niece will now enjoy, along with his nest egg from the museum and the monies from his various insurance policies. Winterbottom was a man who liked to plan ahead.”
“I hate to seem coldblooded,” Higgins said, “but Beatrice is now able to run her own household and enjoy more independence that she ever has before.”
“Absolutely. Don’t be surprised if a more lively Beatrice emerges from that prim chrysalis she’s been hiding herself in all these years.” Lady Winifred’s eyes sparkled. “I know of a gentleman who might suit your niece perfectly. He teaches entomology at Durham University and is no more than thirty-one. Much closer to Beatrice in age. And he’s a widower, which gives them something in common.”
“I don’t think this is the right time to talk about Beatrice’s next marriage.” Eliza didn’t hide her disapproval. “Her husband was just blown to bits. It doesn’t seem proper.”
“Never fear. I shall begin my matchmaking at the appropriate moment.”
Higgins guided them towards the splashing fountains in the square. “I’m less interested in Beatrice’s future suitor than why someone planted a bomb in Winterbottom’s roadster.”
“I’m grateful the bomb wasn’t placed in my car as well,” Lady Winifred said. “After all, it was my depraved chauffeur who was the murderer.”
“It seems obvious the murders are connected to the Temple of Parvati,” Eliza said. “Luther killed Pearl because he thought she knew where the temple treasure was hidden. And I bet Winterbottom knew where it was as well. That’s why Pearl said not to trust him.”
Lady Winifred arched an eyebrow. “If the pieces are as splendid as those in Ashmore’s collection, the person who finds it will be a rich man. Providing they know who to sell it to.”
“A pity you can’t act as the agent.” Higgins winked at her.
“I’d be happy to. Although I don’t know when I’d find the time. Since arriving in England last year, I’ve been curating our own art collection. To be honest, Sir Ian and I have been overzealous in our acquisitions. It’s been a financial strain, and rather embarrassing.”
Higgins noticed the slight flush to her cheeks. “No need to feel embarrassed. I know of a duke currently selling off whole chunks of his estate, including the family silver.”
“Oh, I’ve no reason to complain. We’ve merely sold some figurines and a few statues. No precious gems or jewelry. I couldn’t bear to part with my jewels.” She stroked her diamond heart pendant. “Although I did sell the British Museum a gold diadem that Sir Ian acquired ten years ago from a maharaja in the Vale of Kashmir.”
“Good afternoon, everyone.” Jack Shaw tipped his hat as he approached.
“I noticed you speaking with Sir Charles right after the funeral,” Eliza said when he joined them. “Glad I was to see you, too. You’ve made yourself scarce since the wedding.”
“I’ve been swamped with work. But I had questions for several funeral guests and thought it easier to come to the service.” He nodded at Lady Winifred. “I hope you don’t mind, ma’am, but I have questions for you, too.”
“Ask away, Inspector.”
“Do you recall anything Luther North may have said or did while he was in your employ that would suggest he harbored a grudge against Clyde Winterbottom?”
Lady Winifred let out an exasperated sigh. “You asked me that right after the explosion. And a detective was sent to my home the following day with the same question. I must give the same answer. He never said a word about Winterbottom. I didn’t have the slightest idea he even knew him. Please remember the man worked for me less than a week.”
“But you did know Clyde Winterbottom?”
“As I told the police, I met him last year while negotiating to sell artwork to the British Museum. I also introduced him to Professor Higgins’s niece.”
Higgins thought Jack looked far too unhappy. “Why all the questions about Luther? You have proof he murdered Pearl Palmer. And I don’t think anyone but Luther rigged that bomb. You should be running the brute to ground, not interrogating funeral guests.”
“I’ve done the next best thing. I hauled in Billy and his cronies from the docks. Now that Luther’s prints on the stiletto prove he killed Pearl, they’re changing their stories. Most of them confessed they hadn’t been anywhere near him. But Billy says he did see Luther running away from the spot where Pearl’s body was found.”
“Coward,” Eliza spat. “He’s almost as bad as Luther, protecting him like that.”
“Don’t be too hard on Billy. Luther threatened to hurt his mum. And one of the other dockworkers actually saw what happened. This eyewitness swears Luther chased Pearl down in the fog. The girl tried to keep him away with that knife Bessie Grainger gave her. But Luther ended up stabbing her, then tossed her body into the Thames.”
“He’s a monster, he is. Too bad he wasn’t blown up like Mr. Winterbottom.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll catch him,” Jack reassured her. “And it’s almost certain he’ll hang for Miss Palmer’s murder. Not to mention the bombing of Winterbottom’s car.” He adjusted his hat to keep the sun out of his eyes. “It appears Luther is killing people to get his share of that stolen treasure Ambrose Farrow hid away. With Pearl dead, the only other person with any connection to the Indian treasure was Winterbottom.” He paused. “Except Lord Ashmore.”
“Wait a moment!” Lady Winifred snapped her fingers. “There was something suspicious, now that I recall. Luther drove me to Claridge’s on two occasions. Both times he passed by the British Museum, which is not on the way at all. He must have been hoping to catch sight of Winterbottom. I don’t know why he simply didn’t walk into the museum.”
“Maybe Luther wanted to confront him when no one was around,” Eliza suggested.
“But if he hadn’t confronted him yet, it makes no sense to blow the fellow up.” Higgins thought a moment. “If Luther didn’t kill Farrow and Winterbottom, who did?”
Jack shrugged. “I’ll make sure to ask him when we bring him to the Yard in handcuffs. But Luther looks like our man. We know he killed Pearl, and he was at Farrow’s wedding. Eliza told me that he came into the church to give her the fan she’d forgotten in the car. It would have been simple for him to poison the bridal cog sitting out in the church vestibule. He walked right by it. And he certainly had the knowledge to rig a bomb. That still leaves us with the person who shot me and Pickering.” He looked over at Eliza. “Sorry, Lizzie, but I have a bad feeling the next murder attempt will take place at the Ashmore wedding. If this is about the temple treasure, Clara’s groom will be the biggest target. After all, the baron owns most of the treasure.”
“I can’t bear to think what might happen at Clara’s wedding. What if she or Richard are killed? Or Freddy?” She put her hand over her mouth in horror at the thought.
“No one is going to die at the wedding,” Higgins said. “We’ll make certain of that.”
“It’s the Curse of the Cobra,” Eliza declared. “It’s all coming true. Everyone connected to the temple treasure is being killed.”
“In Bengal and Mysore the natives put great store in that curse.” Lady Winifred’s smile turned sheepish. “I’m superstitious myself. Whenever I need good fortune to smile on an endeavor, I take care to wear jewelry in the shape of images said to bring protection.”
Jack seemed exasperated. “We’re dealing with a murderer, not some silly curse.”
“None of us believe there’s an actual curse,” Higgins said. “But someone could be using this curse to frighten those who do believe in it. The killer may want to scare them enough to give up the treasure, or keep them away from it.”
“Aside from Luther, who wants the treasure that much?” Winifred asked.
“Taral Misra, for one. In fact, he gave me a list of the things from Lord Ashmore’s collection that he most wants returned to his people. I have the list in my pocketbook.” Eliza looked down at her empty hands. “Crikey, I left my pocketbook at the church. I hope someone hasn’t nicked it. I’ll be right back.”
After Eliza left, Lady Winifred added her own colorful details about the Curse of the Cobra which she picked up during her many years in India. Bloody hell, but Higgins was tired of weddings, murders, and Indian treasures. In fact, he was beginning to think there was a curse. Only in this one, the victim died from frustration.
The heels of Eliza’s calfskin pumps clacked so loudly on the tiled floor of the church, she slowed down in hopes of making less noise. Several people sat in the pews near the altar. One fellow sat closer to the exit, his head bowed. She didn’t need to see his red hair and beard to recognize Thaddeus Smith. He obviously hadn’t left the church since he finished playing a mournful dirge after the reverend’s eulogy.
He seemed to be praying and Eliza didn’t want to disturb him. She tried to tiptoe, but the click-clack-clickety-clack of her shoes echoed towards the rounded arches above her head. Eliza halted and scanned the empty pews around her. Where had she and Higgins sat? After a moment, she spotted her small black pocketbook on the very pew where Thaddeus Smith sat.
Eliza cleared her throat. The organist looked up at her, startled. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I left my pocketbook.” She pointed at the black leather purse half hidden by a hymn book.
He walked to the middle of the pew, picked it up, and handed it to her. “I saw it when I sat down. I assumed someone would return for it.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated. “Is something wrong, Mr. Smith? You seem troubled.”
“My troubles are minor compared to Mr. Winterbottom’s widow.”
Eliza impulsively sat down in the pew. Smith did likewise. “I hope everything is well between you and Her Grace.”
“Our friendship is as harmonious as ever. She has worked prodigiously this past month on my behalf. My debut here at St Martin-in-the-Fields last week went quite well, but I hoped to gain further recognition at the two society weddings I played at. A number of influential people were in attendance.” He looked over at her. “As you know, both functions ended tragically.”
“You’ll have other opportunities. I’ve been told you’re to be the organist at the Baron of Ashmore’s wedding. I’m a friend of the bride, so I’ll be there. I bet lots more lords and ladies turn up for that wedding than they did for Mr. Winterbottom’s.”
He leaned back against the wooden pew, his gaze on the altar. “It’s not merely aristocrats whose attention I seek. Are you aware the music critic from the Times was at Her Grace’s wedding? I was supposed to play at her home following the wedding breakfast.”
“I thought you played wonderfully during the ceremony. I’m sure he remembers.”
His laugh sounded hollow. “I doubt he remembers anything other than Farrow jilting his bride. Followed by the groom being poisoned to death.”
Eliza thought he was being rather selfish. Who worried about such things when people were being murdered? “I also enjoyed your music at the Café Royal. Professor Higgins learned the music played by the quintet was a composition of yours. Truly lovely, it was.”
“Thank you. You’re probably the only wedding guest who remembers that. A pity because the conductor of the London Symphony Orchestra was there. And I am quite certain the only thing he spoke about the next day was the car explosion.” He shook his head. “And I so wanted him to listen – and remember! – the piece of music I composed for the wedding quintet.”
“Don’t give up hope. After people stop gossiping about the murders, they’re sure to mention the music at some point. Along with the name ‘Thaddeus Smith.’ You mustn’t become discouraged.”
“I’ve worked so hard to succeed,” he said sadly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, yes I would. I used to sell flowers in the street. If not for Professor Higgins, I’d still be there. Poor as a church mouse, and twice as hungry.”
“Then it’s true what I heard about you being a Cockney barrow girl.”
“And I’ve heard your family was once in service to the Ashmores. You’ve risen far, too. Although I imagine you had to fight every step of the way to become a society organist.”
He nodded. “I’ll be returning to Banfield Manor for that wedding you mentioned. Been years since I’ve seen the place. My grandparents and great-grandparents worked on the Ashmore estates in Kent and Surrey. And my parents worked at Banfield. It wasn’t enough for my father, though. He dreamed of owning his own farm.”
“Is that why your family moved to South Africa?”
“Yes, but we lost the farm after the war with the Boers. My dad felt like a failure. He was lucky the Ashmores hired him again, this time as groundskeeper. But he was never the same. Sometimes I think he died of regret, not a heart attack.”
“Then you lived at Banfield Manor when you returned from Africa?”
He made a face. “Certainly not. Those in service are not permitted to have their children running underfoot. My brother Philip was sent to live with an aunt and uncle in Yorkshire.”
“And you? Where were you sent?”
“I would have gone with Philip, except I had an aptitude for music. We had an old piano in Africa, left from some previous tenant of our farm. I taught myself how to play. My proud mother bragged about me to the Ashmores, and I performed for them one afternoon. The old baron seemed especially impressed. Next thing I knew I was being packed off to boarding school and given a first-rate musical education.”
“How generous of the baron. He must have been quite the music lover.”
“Indeed. He paid for my schooling. Although I did earn a scholarship to the Royal College of Music after Cambridge. Since then, I’ve found steady work as a church organist. Of course, I compose music, too. For string and flute, an occasional brass piece, piano concerti.”
“Did Lord Ashmore pay for your brother’s education, too?”
A shadow fell across Smith’s face. “Philip had no talent for music, nor much for academics either. He was good with numbers, which landed him a position as a clerk.”
Although she knew his brother died in prison, Eliza wondered if Smith would admit it. “Where is your brother now?”
“He’s dead,” Smith replied after a long pause. “Philip took a different path than I did. It was a blessing our parents had already passed on.”
She should take her leave. Higgins was probably wondering what had happened to her. Eliza also feared she’d made Thaddeus Smith sadder than he was when she entered the church.
“I must go,” she said, taking a firm grip on her pocketbook. “But we shall see each other next week at the Ashmore wedding.” A thought struck her. “My friend is marrying the new baron, and he seems most kind and generous. I realize now that he has inherited such generosity from his father. Is his son like the old baron?”
“Not really. His father had reddish hair, and the new baron is blond like his mother.”
“But are their personalities alike?”
Smith turned his full attention on her. “Why in the world are you so interested in the Ashmores?”
“I told you. My friend Clara is to marry Lord Ashmore. She hasn’t known him long at all, and I hate to think he has a dark side that Clara hasn’t glimpsed yet.”
“No need to worry on that account. The new baron seems as affable and generous as his father. But he may be like his father in other ways.” His expression turned hard. “The old baron had a eye for the ladies. Few females escaped his wandering eye, especially if they were pretty.”
Eliza didn’t like the sound of this. “Have you heard any rumors about the present Baron Ashmore? Does he have a taste for showgirls? Is he keeping a mistress?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea about his romantic history. To be honest, I know very little about him. He’s much younger than his two brothers. If you had asked me about them, I could tell you a story or two. I was only a year older than Edward, the heir. And three years older than the second son, Robert. For a time, we all were at Cambridge together.”
“Were they like their father?”
He smirked. “They were like the rest of their kind: arrogant, uncaring, cruel. Neither of them possessed a drop of intelligence or talent. Typical sons of a rich and powerful man. They enjoyed a life of tremendous privilege, but had done nothing to deserve it. Which didn’t stop them from treating students of lower status like dirt.”
“Is that how they treated you?”
“Oh, yes. And not just me. I wasn’t the only young man the old baron sponsored. If Lord Ashmore learned of a bright, enterprising boy born in unfortunate circumstances, he often arranged for proper schooling or an apprenticeship. I think his sons were rather jealous of all of us.” A mirthless smile appeared on his face. “They weren’t the only ones. Mr. Winterbottom and I were students at Cambridge together as well. His attitude towards me was just as insufferable.”
This made Eliza sit up. “I had no idea you knew Clyde Winterbottom.”
“We’re the same age. Both of us were at Magdalene College at Cambridge. It’s only natural our paths would have crossed.”
“Apparently they crossed enough to make you dislike him.”
“Winterbottom resented that my musical abilities garnered so much praise and attention. Since he couldn’t compete in that field, he did what snakes like him do: cheat and lie. There was a musical competition held that year, and Winterbottom stole my composition.”
She gasped. “The lying dodger. Did he try to pass it off as his own?”
“Not even he was that arrogant. But he knew how much the Ashmore sons resented me, so he gave it to the oldest boy. It was Edward who claimed it as his own. The fool dabbled in music off and on, so it wasn’t a total shock when he entered it that year. Not surprisingly, he won.” Smith sounded bitter. “I went to the fellow in charge of the competition and told him the truth. He believed me. But the university had no wish to accuse the Baron of Ashmore’s son of cheating. Not when the baron gave lavish donations each year. And how could I bring such a scandalous charge myself? Lord Ashmore had paid for my entire education.”
“Then Edward Ashmore won the competition with music stolen from you.” Eliza touched his shoulder. “That must have been hard.”
“It was my final year at Cambridge. Winning the music prize would have been quite a feather in my cap.” He took a deep breath. “I was pleased when I heard Edward died in a car accident years later. And just as happy when his brother passed away.”
Eliza got to her feet. “No doubt Mr. Winterbottom’s death did not grieve you either.”
Smith laughed. “Don’t look so worried. I had nothing to do with any of their deaths. But I’m happy they’re all in the grave. A pity they lived as long as they did.”
At that moment, she was grateful they weren’t alone in the church. The organist had a reason to want Clyde Winterbottom dead. And he bore a grudge against the Ashmore family. Even worse, he might blame Jack for sending his brother to prison.
“I must leave, Mr. Smith. The Professor is waiting for me.” After nodding a farewell, she hurried up the church aisle. About to step outside, Eliza realized she’d left one of her gloves behind in the pew.
This time she wasn’t going back for it.