Move Your Blooming Corpse by D. E. Ireland Page A

we’ve come to find out what really happened at Ascot.”
    â€œWhat is there to tell? I ran in front of the horses. And I waved a flag that stands for a righteous cause. I hoped to draw attention to that cause.”
    â€œYou also waved a gun,” Higgins said.
    â€œThat, too, was meant to draw attention.”
    â€œBut didn’t you realize you’d be trampled like that poor woman at the Epsom Derby?” Eliza said. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
    He took a shuddering breath. “Yes, the Lord spared me. I don’t know why He did not spare Miss Davison. Perhaps He wanted her as one of His angels. In my eyes, she had long been an angel for truth and courage.”
    â€œWas Emily Davison a friend of yours?” Eliza asked.
    â€œOnly in spirit. I regret I never exchanged a word with her, though I heard her speak once. And I had the sad honor of attending the funeral.” He gave Eliza a penetrating look. “Were you at her funeral?”
    She shook her head.
    â€œOf course not. You’re a pretty girl. Pretty girls only know how to be pretty. They care about pretty things and pretty people. They have no use for serious ideas, or serious men like me.” He sounded dejected.
    â€œThat’s not true, Mr. Hewitt. I know plenty of pretty girls who care about such things, and plenty of ugly ones who are as dumb as brick.”
    Higgins held up his hand. “Before this pretty girl compels me to throw a brick at her head, I want to ask you a few questions about Ascot.”
    â€œWhat is there to say? I went to Ascot to protest injustice. Injustice perpetrated by the complacent, the greedy, the fearful and ungodly. I knew I would suffer for it, perhaps even die.”
    â€œBut you weren’t the only one on the racetrack,” Eliza said. “You might have crippled one of the horses. Or even killed a jockey.”
    Hewitt sighed. “It was never my intention to injure the horses or the jockeys. I hoped they would see me and stop in time. But the horses were upon me so quickly. They ran faster than I thought possible.”
    â€œOf course they ran fast,” Eliza said, clearly exasperated. “They’re racehorses, you silly natters.”
    Higgins shot her a warning look. “Mr. Hewitt, are all your activities on that day recorded in the diary now in Scotland Yard’s possession?”
    He looked amused. “I fear I did not have the opportunity to record anything after I was trampled by the horses.”
    â€œYou don’t talk as if you were mad.” Higgins regarded him for a long moment. “In fact, you appear quite rational.”
    Hewitt stared back. “‘I am but mad north-north-west.’”
    â€œ Hamlet !” Eliza cried in delight. “Act two, scene two. Do you know, I memorized the whole play last month right before we went to see it at the theater.”
    â€œâ€˜When the wind is southerly—’”
    Eliza finished for him. “‘I know a hawk from a handsaw’!”
    â€œDon’t you dare start quoting with him,” Higgins grumbled. “If I have to hear you recite one more line from that play, I’m going to beg Stevens to stick me in a padded cell.”
    â€œDon’t you see? He’s only pretending to be mad.”
    â€œUnlike a certain Cockney girl who grows more unhinged by the minute.”
    â€œDo you know John Dryden, pretty girl?” Hewitt asked.
    She glanced at Higgins. “Have I met him at one of your mother’s teas?”
    â€œGiven that he was a seventeenth-century poet, Eliza, that seems unlikely.”
    â€œSo your name is Eliza, not Elizabeth?” Hewitt sounded triumphant.
    â€œHow blooming stupid.” She smacked Higgins on the shoulder. “Why don’t you tell him that we both teach phonetics at 27A Wimpole Street? And that Colonel Pickering lives with us.”
    Higgins groaned. “I don’t have to