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Move Your Blooming Corpse: An Eliza Doolittle & Henry Higgins Mystery
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Move Your Blooming Corpse: An Eliza Doolittle & Henry Higgins Mystery

4.7 3
by D. E. Ireland
 

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In the second book from talented writing team D.E. Ireland, famous literary characters Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins once again come to life as a hilarious investigative team. Move Your Blooming Corpse explores the Edwardian racing world and the fascinating characters who people it, from jockeys to duchesses, in this delightful traditional mystery that

Overview

In the second book from talented writing team D.E. Ireland, famous literary characters Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins once again come to life as a hilarious investigative team. Move Your Blooming Corpse explores the Edwardian racing world and the fascinating characters who people it, from jockeys to duchesses, in this delightful traditional mystery that will appeal to fans of British mysteries.

Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins are at the posh Royal Ascot, the biggest horse racing event of the season. Eliza's father is the new co-owner of a champion racehorse, and Eliza and Henry are excited to cheer the Donegal Dancer on to victory. However, their idyllic outing takes a serious turn when a victim is trampled during the Gold Cup race and someone is found murdered in the stables.

With time running out before the upcoming Eclipse Stakes, she and Higgins investigate jealous spouses, suffragettes and the colorful co-owners of the Donegal Dancer. But can they outrace the murderer, or will there be another blooming corpse at the finish line?

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
07/06/2015
This sequel to 2014’s Wouldn’t It Be Deadly from the pseudonymous Ireland (Meg Mims and Sharon Pisacreta) suffers from the absence of any real conflict. The relationship between Eliza Doolittle, who has already succeeded in consistently passing as a member of the upper set, and Professor Higgins lacks tension; Eliza’s love-interest remains colorless; and even her father, Alfred, has become respectable. At the Royal Ascot in 1913, the eccentric Harold Hewitt runs onto the racetrack and is trampled. Higgins, who spoke with Hewitt earlier (and identified him as a Harrow graduate by his accent), saw Hewitt carrying a case with a gun. Oddly, the professor first watches a race before notifying the police of this potential threat. Though Hewitt survives his injuries, Diana Price, a horse owner impaled with a pitchfork, does not. Eliza is refreshingly not relegated to the sidekick role, but fails to impress as an investigator. Agent: John Talbot, Talbot Fortune Agency. (Sept.)
From the Publisher

"The snappy pace and fun banter keep the story moving, while details about the suffragette movement, horse racing, fashion, and foods of the Edwardian era add plenty of appealing color, as does the quirky supporting cast."—Booklist

“They’re off to the races! D.E. Ireland has set Eliza Doolittle and Professor Higgins on a delightful romp set in the sophisticated world of British horseracing. The horses aren’t the only ones getting a workout. Eliza and the Professor can hardly keep up with the members of a racing syndicate, a bunch of passionate suffragettes, and Eliza’s own family. When people around them start dying, Eliza and the professor find themselves drawn into the investigation to protect those closest to them.” —Victoria Thompson, bestselling author of Murder on Amsterdam Avenue

“This debut novel is adorable and should appeal to fans of the characters as well as those who appreciate a fun-filled romp through early 20th century London. The characters lend themselves well to the muddle of a technology-free criminal investigation, and there are several laugh-out-loud moments. All the dead people truly had it coming...this is an enjoyable read with great series potential.” —RT Book Reviews (four stars) on Wouldn't It Be Deadly

“A madcap, intricate mystery combines with rich historical detail, a hilarious ending, and, most of all, the author's fine re-creation of the delightful cast from My Fair Lady. Broadway fans looking for something new will enjoy this treat.” —Booklist on Wouldn't It Be Deadly

“Set in London in 1913, this tongue-in-cheek series kickoff from the pseudonymous Ireland picks up where the musical My Fair Lady left off.” —Publishers Weekly on Wouldn't It Be Deadly

“A charming teaming of Eliza, Professor Higgins, and Major Pickering make for an engaging light historical mystery.” —Library Journal on Wouldn't It Be Deadly

“I could have read all night! A delightful homage to these beloved characters--putting this classic duo in the midst of a murder is terrifically clever and authentically charming. Loverly.” —Agatha and Anthony Award-winning author Hank Phillippi Ryan on Wouldn't It Be Deadly

“Oh so lovverly to meet up again with Henry and Eliza in this ingenious mystery. All the beloved characters are here, neck deep in murder and mayhem, and the London setting is a delight. Suspects and red herrings abound on the way to a denouement that's laugh-out-loud hilarious. I hope Wouldn't It Be Deadly is the first of many.” —Catriona McPherson, Agatha, Lefty and Macavity Award-winning author of the Dandy Gilver series on Wouldn't It Be Deadly

national bestselling author of The Darling Dahlias Susan Wittig Albert

The charming and feisty Eliza Doolittle, the masterful Henry Higgins, a Hungarian upstart, a Sanskrit scholar--all are brought together in an intriguing plot. D.E. Ireland gives us a fascinating look into a bygone world.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781250049360
Publisher:
St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
09/22/2015
Series:
Eliza Doolittle & Henry Higgins Mystery Series , #2
Pages:
320
Sales rank:
545,631
Product dimensions:
5.60(w) x 8.40(h) x 1.20(d)

Read an Excerpt

Move Your Blooming Corpse


By D. E. Ireland

St. Martins Press

Copyright © 2015 D. E. Ireland
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-5036-1


CHAPTER 1

ROYAL ASCOT — JUNE 1913

A high-pitched scream pierced the air. Startled, Professor Henry Higgins looked up from his notebook. He saw only horses, jockeys, and a sea of outlandish hats. It was the third day of Ascot Week, and all of British society was in attendance, including the King and Queen. Half of London seemed to be crammed into the paddock where owners admired their horses while trainers gave last-minute instruction to nervous jockeys. As it was Ladies Day, hordes of titled women also milled about, vying to see who sported the most eye-catching ensemble and towering hat.

One of those ladies let out another shriek. "This is insufferable," she said to her female companions as a stableboy led a magnificent black gelding past them. "How dare they allow a horse in here. The beast will trample us all!"

Higgins wrote in his notebook, Fifty-year-old matron born in northeast Scotland. Currently resides in Hampshire.

She shook her sky-blue parasol at the animal. "I insist this horse be removed!"

"Hush, woman," Higgins said. "You're in the paddock at Ascot Races, not Selfridges department store. The horse has far more right to be here than you do."

"How dare you speak to me in such a fashion." She pointed her parasol in his direction.

"And have a care how you wave that lace weapon," Higgins continued. "At last year's Ascot, some actress stabbed General Owen Williams in the cheek with her parasol. Injured the poor chap simply because she took fright at a horse. The addlebrained ninny."

"Of all the nerve," the lady said as her friends crowded about. "I cannot believe the ruffians they allow into the paddock."

"Oh, I suspect you've known a few ruffians in your time, madam." Higgins smiled. "Especially during your girlhood in Aberdeen."

The woman's mouth fell open.

"But several dozen years in East Hampshire have concealed much of your Scottish past. In fact, you spent your adolescence in the market town of Petersfield or its near environs." This pronouncement caused her to visibly blanch.

"Do you know that gentleman, Lady Marjorie?" a white-haired friend asked.

"I certainly do not." Lady Marjorie snapped open her parasol. "And he is no gentleman. More likely a sordid reporter spying for some penny daily."

"Hardly that, madam. I am Henry Higgins, professor of phonetics and elocution. It is no boast to say that I can place a person within six miles of his birthplace after hearing a few sentences out of his — or her — mouth. And I can place a Londoner within a street or two."

"Ridiculous." The white-haired friend shot him her haughtiest look. "You'll be performing circus tricks next, no doubt."

"And you, madam, have spent all of your life in London, much of it in Notting Hill." Higgins thought a moment. "Pinehurst Court, I believe."

She gasped. The matrons looked at him as if he had just lifted their skirts.

"We have had quite enough of your insufferable rudeness," Lady Marjorie said as she turned to go. "And I must say, that four-legged beast was preferable to a knave such as you."

Higgins tipped his hat at the departing women.

"Really, Henry, I believe there is enough entertainment today at Ascot without you baiting the ladies." His friend and colleague Colonel Pickering stood behind him, looking quite formal in his finest gray morning coat and silk top hat. He gestured at Higgins's notebook with a silver-tipped walking stick. "And you might stop writing down speech patterns long enough to watch a race or two."

"I've seen two races today, each lasting three minutes. You can hardly expect me to spend the afternoon conversing about horses and hats, which is all anyone here wants to talk about. Besides, I don't want to converse, I want to listen. During one casual stroll, I can eavesdrop on dissolute earls or bookmakers from South London. Imagine the possibilities for recording regional dialects."

"Hey, governor, why ain't you in the stands?" a familiar voice called out to them.

Higgins nodded toward the man now pushing his way through the crowded paddock. "You see, even Cockney dustmen are here."

Of course, Alfred Doolittle was no longer a dustman. After Higgins took on his daughter Eliza last year as a pupil, Alfred had come to 27A Wimpole Street hoping to shake down Higgins for a few quid. Instead of being insulted by Doolittle's blatant appeal for money, Higgins was amused by the older fellow's brash manner and colorful eloquence. As a lark, he mentioned the dustman to American millionaire Ezra D. Wannafeller. The last thing Higgins expected was that Wannafeller would offer Doolittle an annuity of three thousand pounds if he agreed to lecture for his Moral Reform League. Soon after, Alfred Doolittle left the squalor of the East End behind. He was a respectable member of the middle class now, with a wife, a house in Pimlico, and — most incredibly — an Irish racehorse.

"What'cha two gents doing in the paddock?" Alfred said when he reached them. "I convinced my Viscount to open up his private box for us owners and our friends. No reason to stay here. He's put magnums of champagne chilling in buckets by every seat, he has."

"Champagne gives me indigestion, and the Colonel has misgivings about sharing the largesse of your Viscount," Higgins said.

Pickering frowned. "Of all the people I might ask to share ownership of a racehorse with, Saxton would be last on my list."

"Does this mean you prefer Turnbull's company?" Higgins asked in surprise. Jonathon Turnbull was yet another man who owned a share in Doolittle's racehorse.

"Good grief, I'd forgotten about him." Pickering shook his head. "My word, Doolittle, you chose two of the most scurrilous chaps in London society as partners."

"And lucky I was to get them." Doolittle adjusted his brushed top hat. Dressed even finer than Colonel Pickering, he sported a black morning coat, sharply pressed striped trousers, a black waistcoat, white gloves, and a green Ascot tie. His Oxford dress boots fairly gleamed in the June sunlight. No doubt Doolittle's Savile Row tailor bills were impressive.

Higgins thought it time for a change of subject. "I trust you have been to the stables to see the Donegal Dancer. Does the jockey seem confident of victory?"

"Aye, Professor. Not only do I have the most fleet-footed colt to ever come from the Emerald Isle, there's not a jockey better than Bomber Brody to ride him. A word of advice: get an Irishman to ride an Irish horse. The horses know the difference, they do." Doolittle had acquired the racehorse only three months ago, but acted as if he were on the Board of Stewards at the Jockey Club. "Anyway, gents, the next race begins in fifteen minutes. You don't want to be watching the most important race by jostling for a place along the track."

"The King might disagree," Pickering said. "Prince Palatine defends his title in the Gold Cup, and it's no secret His Majesty favors last year's champion. But Tracery may nose him out."

"His Majesty is wrong to think the Gold Cup is the race to watch. He ain't seen my Donegal Dancer fly down the course, now has he? Aye, and when he does, I wager he'll want to buy my beauty. But none of us will sell a single hair on his fetlock."

"That horse has a bewildering number of owners," Higgins said. "I hardly think another one will matter."

"I swear, I'd like as sell my darlin' Rose rather than surrender that sweet colt."

"Alfie! The race is starting soon!" The aforementioned Rose waved from the other side of the paddock. Doolittle's wife looked as fancy as he did, and in their racing colors besides. Higgins's eyes popped at her shamrock green dress and tricorn hat festooned with purple berries. When this was combined with her brassy red hair, Rose made quite the colorful figure.

Doolittle sighed. "Wish you gents would give a few lessons to my Rose. After all, it only took the two of you a few months to turn Eliza into a proper lady. Makes me proud to see her parading about Ascot like a blooming snob. I don't mind telling you, Rose could do with a little polishing."

Higgins shrugged. "Your wife seems to be doing fine at her first Ascot."

"Let's go, Alfie!" Rose yelled again. "Get your arse over here."

"Perhaps a little polishing might be in order," Higgins added.

"I'd best get moving." Doolittle gave an exaggerated sniff to the sprig of violets in his lapel. "She don't like to be kept waiting. And you two should get to our private box before the fun begins. Eliza is already there, eating every tea cake in sight. But I'm right offended she didn't wear the Donegal Dancer's racing colors. The least my daughter could do for her old dad is wear the green and purple of our silks."

Higgins cast another look at the vividly arrayed Rose Doolittle. No reason to tell the man that Eliza was appalled at the idea of putting together a tasteful outfit in green and purple.

"Alfie!"

"Better get hopping. Don't want the missus to be making a scene, now do we? She's already been in the champagne and we ain't even started to celebrate the Donegal Dancer's victory — which is as sure as coal dust in Newcastle."

Doolittle stepped nimbly through the crowd, tipping his hat to every other person in the paddock. "I declare, the fellow must know more people here than the jockey Fred Archer," Higgins said to Pickering. "Bold as a pirate, and charming into the bargain."

"I wish he had discretion as well as charm. How could he join a racing syndicate with Saxton and Turnbull? Half of London won't accept Saxton into their homes, and the other half has barred Turnbull. I've made certain to sit in the back of the viewing box so as not to be seen."

"At least you have Sir Walter for company."

Sir Walter Fairweather was Senior Steward of the Jockey Club and an old acquaintance of the Colonel. He was also another person who owned a share of the Donegal Dancer.

"Thank heaven for Fairweather. At least he's a decent chap. But his only interests are horses and gardening. And I would have thought he had more sense than to get involved with men such as Saxton and Turnbull." Despite the Colonel's scholarly honors and military exploits, he was still shocked by other people's bad behavior. His naïveté sometimes amazed Higgins.

"Pick, these people are part of the racing world, not the Cathedral Choir at Christ Church. Doolittle could never have acquired or maintained a racehorse on his own, so he went to people who had money and credit."

"Bad credit, you mean." Pickering frowned. "Doolittle's right about one thing. The next race is about to start, and Eliza expects us to watch it with her. But I do wish she hadn't placed so large a bet. She has five guineas on the Donegal Dancer."

Higgins winced. "By George, the girl is mad. That's everything she's managed to save up. At this rate, she'll fall into debt before her father does."

"I couldn't talk her out of it. Anyway, we'd best go. Your mother asked us to join her in the Royal Enclosure, but I already promised Eliza."

"You go on ahead. I heard an interesting turn of phrase nearby that I want to jot down."

"Very well. But if you don't make it on time, I will leave it to you to explain it to Eliza." With a last warning look, Pickering made his way out of the sun-dappled paddock.

Once he left, Higgins sidled up to a bald fellow in a rumpled suit deep in conversation with one of the jockeys. He quickly wrote down their words. Too soon the pair walked off. As Higgins headed for Lord Saxton's private box, he spotted a tall, middle-aged man a few feet away. He was also writing in a small notebook. Could he be a fellow scholar?

"Excuse me, sir. Are you a student of languages?" Higgins asked.

The scribbler looked up, his eyes wide with alarm. "Are you speaking to me?"

"Yes." Higgins held up his own notebook. "I wondered if you were copying down speech patterns as I was."

The man quickly closed his leather-bound book. "Not that it is any of your concern, but I was recording my impressions of the day."

"A journalist, then?" Higgins eyed the fellow's gray Norfolk jacket. While his suit was well made and expensive, it didn't compare to the morning coats and tailored suits of the wealthier racing fans. Higgins wished he had dressed more casually today as well. Against his better judgment, Higgins had worn formal dress to Ascot, something he rarely did. He couldn't wait to take off his blasted morning coat and top hat once he returned to Wimpole Street.

"Certainly not. Journalism is a dreadful profession." His eyes shifted from side to side as if he expected someone to disapprove of him speaking with Higgins. "I always carry a diary and Bible with me. This way I can never forget God's teaching." His voice lowered. "Or important occasions which should be commemorated."

"I only come to hear people's speech patterns. I've no interest in horse racing."

"Oh, I am not a fan of racing either." He looked offended at the very idea. "It is a foolish and dangerous endeavor. Nor do I approve of the greedy, thoughtless people who come to watch. If there is a more despicable place than a racecourse, I have yet to find it."

"If that's how you feel, it seems a fine waste of a train trip and an entrance ticket," Higgins said. The man stared back at him with a mournful expression. Could there be anyone duller than a sanctimonious fellow with no sense of humor? "I haven't introduced myself. I'm Professor Henry Higgins."

The man looked at Higgins's outstretched hand for an uncomfortable moment before giving it a brief shake. "Harold Hewitt."

Higgins grinned. "We have the same initials. In fact, you seem to have a preponderance of 'h's in your life, seeing how you come from Herefordshire. Even more remarkable, you also attended Harrow."

He stiffened. "Whoever told you that?"

"It's my job to identify where a person comes from after hearing them speak. Your intonations reveal you to be a native of Herefordshire. And you pronounce 'commemorated' as a student at Harrow would, or at least a student who was taught linguistics by Nigel Uppington." Higgins cocked his head. "But I hear a bit of London in your speech, too. You currently live in the city. Perhaps the vicinity of Chelsea."

Hewitt took a step back. "I find you rather presumptuous, Professor. If you will excuse me." He bent down and opened a black satchel that sat at his feet. As Hewitt stuffed the diary into the bag, Higgins caught a quick glimpse of the contents.

This time, Higgins stepped back in alarm. Before he could think what to say, Hewitt gave him a curt nod and marched off, satchel in hand.

With growing unease, Higgins watched the man disappear among the noisy throng in the paddock. The next race was imminent, and the very air crackled with excitement. Higgins tried to catch sight of Hewitt again but failed. Everyone now pressed forward toward the track. He had little choice but to move with the crowd.

Better find a policeman or a racing official as soon as possible. But surrounded on all sides by excited racing fans, he couldn't glimpse a single police uniform among all the morning coats and feathered hats.

Someone grabbed his sleeve. "Here you are."

Eliza Doolittle looked resplendent in a summer ensemble of palest yellow. When he and Pickering took her on as a student last year, the Colonel replaced her few ragged dresses with a wardrobe fit for a duchess. Higgins thought Pickering spent far too much money on ensuring that Eliza was the best-dressed woman in the room. Today was no different. Her stylish gown, covered in scalloped embroidery, was as delicate as fairy dust in contrast to the large belted bow at her waist. And Higgins couldn't help but marvel at her enormous hat crowned with gigantic yellow satin roses. Tilted at an exaggerated angle on her head, it blocked his view of anyone else in the paddock.

"Honestly, Professor, I can't believe you're still dawdling in the paddock. Not that I wouldn't mind staying here myself. I don't fancy some of my dad's partners or their wives. And I hate my own dad's wife. But if I have to suffer through their company, so should you."

"I don't know why I should suffer."

"You're the one responsible for getting my father the annuity. Without that, he'd be throwing back a pint in Whitechapel right now. And Rose wouldn't be wearing a wedding ring on her fat greedy finger."


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Move Your Blooming Corpse by D. E. Ireland. Copyright © 2015 D. E. Ireland. Excerpted by permission of St. Martins Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

D. E. IRELAND is a writing team of two Michigan authors who met as undergraduates in an anthropology class and have remained friends ever since. Both are married to computer geeks, and each has one beautiful and brilliant daughter. Lifelong book lovers and history buffs, they have authored several novels on their own.

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Move Your Blooming Corpse: An Eliza Doolittle & Henry Higgins Mystery 4.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 3 reviews.
nhr3bookcrazyNR More than 1 year ago
The second in the series. You didn't HAVE to read the first book (although I did) - because the authors did a great job of making references back to what had happened several months earlier without making any of those details necessary to the new story. I loved the incorporation of the suffrage into the storyline, as well as the horse racing world. I love that Eliza is so feisty - and Professor Higgins is ... well, Higgins. Totally enjoy these books! I just hope there will be another book in the series in the not-too-distant future.
Dollycas More than 1 year ago
Dollycas’s Thoughts I was chomping at the bit waiting for this book to come out. (A little horse humor ) But I really was excited to read this. I loved the first book in and the series. My Fair Lady is one of my all time favorite movies, in fact the whole thing played in my head before I started reading so Eliza and Higgins voices were very present in my mind which got me off and running at the starting gate. (too much, sorry.) As you can tell the story revolves around horse racing and things were “loverly” until people starting dying. Then Eliza and Higgins were right in the thick of things much to dear Freddie’s dismay. These characters are so superb, I love them all, even the guilty ones. They go above and beyond the movie and my expectations. They jump right off the page. The dialogue is absolutely delightful. The exchanges between Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins are so blooming funny. This author team has whipped up quite a mystery too. We go behind the scenes of horse ownership and racing and we also travel to a few suffragette rallies and Eliza gains a new skill. It comes in quite handy too and she and Henry come down the stretch to catch a killer. (sorry, I just can’t help myself.) There were a few pretty suspenseful moments that made by heart race pretty quickly. As with the first book once I started reading I just couldn’t stop and I was sad that it ended. A marvelous read! Completely captivating! Another one that will be on my Best Reads list for 2015. I will barely be holding my horses until next year for the next installment to the fantastic series. (o.k. I’ll stop now.)
Carstairs38 More than 1 year ago
These Pages Will Move Quickly Earlier this year, I rediscovered the characters of Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle as detectives thanks to the wonderful writing team of D. E. Ireland. I was looking forward to their next adventure in Move Your Blooming Corpse. I’m thrilled to say that it is another winner. This book opens in June of 1913 and finds Eliza and Higgins at the Royal Ascot for a full day of racing. They are there to support Eliza’s father who has just bought a share of a race horse. Between races, Higgins sees a strange man, Harold Hewitt, with a gun hidden in his bag. Before he can find a policeman to report it to, Hewitt runs onto the track, getting trample by a horse and disrupting a race. The bigger surprise is when a woman is found murdered in a horse stall after that race. While the police think that Hewitt is a suffragette reenacting a stunt done the previous month to gain attention for the cause, Higgins is certain that the man was up to something else. In fact, Higgins thinks he could have prevented the murder in the stable if only he had reported Hewitt sooner. Dragging Eliza along, Higgins begins to investigate. But when another murder takes place, Eliza begins to realize that the murders could hit close to home. Will Eliza and Henry be able to solve the crime before disaster strikes again? The book definitely starts out strongly with mysterious events happening from the very first chapter. Eliza is a bit reluctant to start investigating early on, but once she jumps on board as well, the pace really picks up and I had a hard time putting the book down until the page turning climax. The pieces of the puzzle come together in a logical manner and the mystery is absolutely wonderful. The first book had a lot of nods and homages to Pygmalion and My Fair Lady. Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t seen either play in several years, but I didn’t find as many of them here. However, that’s not a bad thing because it means the writers are making these characters their own, and to sustain a long running series, they will have to do that. I’m all in favor of this being a long running series, too. I could definitely see character growth in the main cast, most of it for the better. (Really, I’m with Eliza and would love to knock some sense into the Eynsford-Hills.) Even so, those who love these characters from the plays will certainly recognize them. The new characters were well developed and interesting as well, and I enjoyed getting to know them, too. I wouldn’t complain if one or two of them had cameos (or larger roles) in future books, in fact. The historical details of the book are wonderful, and I found myself getting lost in another time and place as I read. The campaign to give women the right to vote was definitely a part of that historical feel, and I liked seeing that fight first hand. There is a fun sense of humor in this book as well. While there isn’t a laugh on every page, I found myself grinning and chuckling multiple times as I read through the story. D. E. Ireland has turned these classic characters into their own so effortlessly, it almost makes me wonder why no one has done it before. If you are a fan of Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins, or just historical mysteries in general, you need to pick up Move Your Blooming Corpse.