by Jim Eldridge
‘I find it fascinating to hear about the new technologies,’ observed Abigail. ‘Especially from the people who practise them professionally.’
‘I confess that I switched off halfway through the journey,’ grunted Daniel. ‘He could have been talking about potatoes as far as I was concerned.’
‘Actually, he was,’ chuckled Abigail. ‘Or, rather, vegetables that were misshapen enough to resemble something different. A carrot that looked like a three-legged dog. A potato that looked like Oliver Cromwell.’
Burbage appeared from the infirmary and bounded down the steps.
‘Yes, the attendant I’d hoped is on duty in the mortuary. Karl Marston. Wonderful man, and a great student of the art of photography.’
Two of them, groaned Daniel silently. Still, providing we get a good image of the dead woman, it will have been worth it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The mortuary smelt as mortuaries always smelt to Daniel: of decaying flesh mixed with the odour of disinfectant. He noticed a small bowl of vinegar on a table by the entrance, and he dipped his fingers into it and wiped it just below his nostrils, then gestured for Abigail to do the same.
She recoiled as she inhaled the strong of the vinegar.
‘It still helps to mask the smell,’ murmured Daniel to her.
‘I’ve experienced dead bodies before,’ she reminded him primly. ‘In Egypt …’
‘In Egypt I expect it was in the open air. Here, it’s enclosed, so there’s no movement of air to help dissipate the odour.’ He looked at the mortuary table, where the attendant, Karl, had laid a body covered by a white sheet. Neither Karl nor Burbage seemed bothered by the strong smell of decaying flesh. Burbage was already busy, unpacking his cases of photographic equipment.
‘The body begins to decay between twenty-four and seventy-two hours after death,’ continued Daniel. ‘The internal organs start to decompose. Usually, by the end of five days, the body bloats because of the gases being created in the abdomen, and after a week the flesh turns from green to red as the blood decomposes.’
‘You certainly know how to sweet-talk a woman,’ said Abigail rather acidly.
‘Just explaining,’ said Daniel. He went to Karl and offered him the letter of authority from Steggles.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Marston,’ he said. ‘My name’s Daniel Wilson and this is Abigail Fenton. We’re investigators hired by the museum to look into the deaths of the two women found there. We’ve come to get a photograph of the young lady, and while we’re here to look at the other victim. The one without a face.’
‘You are a doctor?’ asked Karl, after reading the letter and handing it back to Daniel.
‘No, but I’m a former detective with the Metropolitan police, so I’m very familiar with examining bodies in mortuaries.’ When he saw the wary look the attendant gave to Abigail, Daniel added, ‘Miss Fenton is a graduate from Cambridge University, who also has had a great deal of experience with dead bodies. Perhaps we could examine the cadaver while Mr Burbage sets up his equipment. It looks as if it could take him some time, and we really only wish to see the wound that killed her.’
Karl nodded and led the way to the table. Burbage had erected a kind of small chair on the mortuary table, directly above where the head was hidden beneath the sheet. The seat of the chair had a hole in it, and Burbage was putting his bulky camera into place on the chair, with the long lens aimed downwards through the hole.
Karl peeled the sheet away from the dead woman’s head, down as far as her shoulders. Once the young woman had been attractive, high cheekbones, long auburn hair, but now her face was absolutely white, mottled green, red and black as her flesh decayed.
‘We won’t be able to keep her here much longer,’ said Karl. ‘If she had family who’d paid for an undertaker, she’d have been embalmed. As it is, it looks like she’s set for a pauper’s grave.’
‘That’s why we’re hoping the photograph Mr Burbage takes of her may lead to us finding out who she is and getting any relatives she may have to come forward.’
‘They’d better do it fast,’ said Karl. ‘Once she starts to fall apart, there won’t be much left.’
‘May we look at the wound that killed her?’ asked Daniel. ‘It was through the heart, I believe.’
‘I can only show you the exit wound,’ said Karl, peeling the sheet down further, exposing the young woman’s breasts. ‘If I try to turn her over she might start to erupt. All the blood’s sunk.’
Her body was indeed death white, and her flesh – like that of her face – beginning to change colour to green and a purplish red, with black spots appearing. Beneath her left breast was the wound like a mouth, the skin puckered and wrinkled around the opening.
‘The entry wound in her back was bigger,’ said Karl. ‘At the front was where the pointed tip came out.’
‘It must have been a long-bladed weapon,’ said Daniel.
‘And about two inches wide, to judge by the entry wound.’ Karl nodded.
‘Not a usual knife, then,’ said Daniel. ‘A sword? A bayonet?’
‘It would need to be something like that, with a firm and strong blade,’ agreed Karl.
‘Have you finished examining her?’ asked Burbage. ‘I’m ready to take the pictures.’
Daniel nodded, and Karl pulled the sheet back up to the woman’s shoulders, leaving her face exposed.
Burbage climbed on to a small set of steps he’d brought to enable him to operate the camera poised above the dead woman’s head.
‘Perhaps while Mr Burbage is taking his photographs, we could view the other body?’ asked Daniel.
Karl shot a wary look towards Abigail.
‘She’s not a pretty sight,’ he said cautiously.
‘I have seen dead bodies before,’ Abigail assured him. ‘Including bodies where the flesh has been removed.’
Karl nodded and led them towards another room.
‘Those bodies you mention were thousands of years old,’ Daniel murmured to Abigail as they followed the attendant. ‘This one will be recent. And rotting.’
‘I will steel myself,’ said Abigail.
When Karl peeled back the sheet from the second body, they saw she was still clothed.
‘She only came in this morning,’ explained Karl. ‘We’ve got to wait until the doctor arrives before we undress her.’
Daniel saw that, despite her air of confidence, Abigail’s mouth tightened at the sight of the damage to the dead woman’s head. It was as Arkwright had described; a blade had been used to slice off the skin and the flesh from the forehead down to the chin. With no eyelids or lips, the pair of eyes and the teeth gaped at them grotesquely.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ muttered Abigail. ‘I’ll leave you to take a longer look.’
She headed back to the other room, where Burbage was in the process of taking his photographs. A few moments later, Daniel joined her.
‘Not much more to see,’ he said. ‘A slightly broad-bladed weapon, by the look of it. If it was the same weapon used to kill the other woman, and it seems the most likely, unless there were two killers, then I’d say a sword or a bayonet.’
‘Bringing us back to the army,’ said Abigail.
‘It’s just a guess,’ said Daniel. ‘Though the blade of a sword stick would be easier to conceal if used in a place like the museum.’
‘A sword stick,’ mused Abigail thoughtfully. ‘To all intents and purposes, a simple walking stick, but concealing a long, sharp blade. I met a few men who carried such a weapon on some of the digs I was on in the Middle East. They were mostly ex-military types. And former officers, rather than ordinary soldiers.’
‘Yes, that’s my experience as well. But we need to be careful about getting fixated on the idea that it is to do with the army. This is just our first day on the case. We don’t know it’s a military-style blade that was used here. There are plenty of agricultural implements with long blades.’
‘Which would be extremely noticeable in
a museum surrounding,’ pointed out Abigail.
Burbage joined them.
‘All done,’ he announced. ‘We can pack up and go.’ He turned to the attendant, and Daniel noticed a flash of silver as the photographer slipped a coin into the mortuary attendant’s palm.
‘Thank you, Karl,’ he said. ‘The museum is eternally grateful, as always.’
On their journey back to the museum, Burbage was unusually silent, his face thoughtful.
‘A remarkably pretty girl,’ he said after a lengthy silence.
‘Yes, she was,’ said Abigail.
‘What makes people do such dreadful things?’ asked the photographer, his voice angry.
‘That’s what we’re hoping to find out,’ said Daniel. ‘Which is why the photographs you’ve taken are so important.’
‘I’ll develop them this evening and get them to you first thing tomorrow morning. May I deliver them to you at your hotel? I assume it’s the Mayflower, that’s where the museum usually put their guests.’
‘Yes, it is, and that would be fine. We’ll be able to get an early start on delivering them to the Manchester Guardian.’
‘Ah, a wonderful publication!’ Burbage beamed. ‘I do quite a bit of work for them, you know. And the wonderful thing is, they pay on time!’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Daniel and Abigail were at breakfast in the hotel restaurant the following morning when Charles Burbage arrived, beaming proudly and holding a bulky package.
‘All done!’ he announced, dropping onto a vacant chair at their table. ‘And, though I say it myself, the images are excellent!’
He pushed the package across the table to them. Daniel opened it and took out the pictures, which he and Abigail studied.
‘You’ve done a wonderful job,’ said Daniel admiringly. ‘You’ve almost made her look as if she’s alive.’
‘Almost?!’ echoed Burbage indignantly.
‘You did say the camera never lies,’ Abigail reminded him. ‘Would you care for some tea or coffee?’
‘Indeed, I would!’ Burbage beamed. ‘And possibly some kippers? The kippers here at the Mayflower are superb!’
The woman at the reception desk of the offices of the Manchester Guardian greeted them with a friendly smile.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘We’d like to place an advertisement,’ said Daniel. ‘We’re hoping it might be able to get into today’s afternoon edition.’
He produced one of the photographs that Burbage had printed and passed it across the desk to the woman, along with the caption to accompany it: Do you recognise this woman? If so, please contact Daniel Wilson at the Mayflower Hotel.
The wording had been a major cause of discussion between them.
‘If we say contact Daniel Wilson or Abigail Fenton at the Mayflower Hotel, it will raise questions at the hotel where we are registered as Mr and Mrs Wilson.’
‘Which we only did to avoid being forced to take two separate rooms because the hotel is so stiff-necked about its so-called standards of morality,’ said Abigail indignantly.
‘Yes, but if as a result of this someone arrives at the Mayflower and asks to see Miss Abigail Fenton …’
‘I have already lost my own name in the hotel register, but at least that is a private document and not for public consumption,’ said Abigail. ‘People at the museum, and in the world of archaeology, know me as Abigail Fenton, not as Abigail Wilson, or Mrs Daniel Wilson.’
‘You told Mr Steggles that we are going to be married.’
‘But we are not married yet,’ said Abigail firmly.
In the end, a compromise was achieved. Only Daniel’s name would be used for any enquiries at the Mayflower Hotel. ‘Because if I’m not there but you are, the hotel staff will be sure to contact you,’ said Daniel.
The receptionist studied the photograph thoughtfully, then she said, ‘I recognise her.’
‘You do?’ said Abigail.
‘She came in here at the start of last week. She said she wanted to talk to someone about the army here in Manchester. I suggested she talk to one of the reporters.’ She frowned, thinking hard, then her face brightened as she said, ‘It was Mr Bickerstaff! William Bickerstaff!’
Daniel and Abigail exchanged looks. Bickerstaff was the reporter that Steggles had mentioned to them, and given a clean bill of health to as far as reliability and trust were concerned.
‘Did she talk to him?’
‘She did indeed,’ said the receptionist. ‘I sent a message in to him, and he came out and talked to her here in reception.’
‘Is it possible to speak to Mr Bickerstaff?’ asked Daniel.
‘I believe he’s here,’ said the receptionist. She wrote a brief note on a slip of paper, then called a messenger over. ‘Would you take this to Mr Bickerstaff, please?’
The messenger took the slip of paper, nodded, then disappeared through a pair of double doors to one side of the reception desk.
The receptionist gestured at the photograph and the accompanying wording.
‘Do you still want to put this in, or do you want to wait until you’ve seen Mr Bickerstaff?’
‘If he’s able to identify her for us, the advertisement may not be necessary. But we’ll leave it with you, just in case, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course.’
A young man wearing a tweed jacket over a rumpled shirt appeared through the double doors and looked enquiringly at the receptionist.
‘You wanted me, Mrs Parks?’
‘You remember that young woman who came in last week?’ She offered him the photograph, which he looked at thoughtfully. ‘She wanted to find out something about the army.’
Bickerstaff studied the photograph, his brow creased in a thoughtful frown.
‘I see so many people,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘Yes, you do,’ said the receptionist. ‘A young Irish woman. You remarked on her afterwards, said you wished you could help her.’
Bickerstaff frowned as he studied the photograph more intently, then his face cleared. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘I remember her now. She wanted to know about the army. I suggested she try the barracks. She said she’d been there and they’d sent her away. I asked her what she wanted to know, but she was evasive. In the end I suggested she try the museum. They have some information about the local army regiments there.’
‘Was she local?’
‘I don’t think so, otherwise she’d have known about the museum. And – as Mrs Parks said – she had an Irish accent, but then so do many people in Manchester.’
‘But she knew about the barracks?’
‘Everyone knows the barracks. All she had to do was ask.’ He looked again at the photograph. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid she is.’
‘How did she die?’
Daniel and Abigail exchanged hesitant looks, then Daniel said, ‘I’m afraid we’ve been asked to keep that information out of the newspapers for the moment.’
Bickerstaff studied the photograph more intently, then said, ‘I’m guessing this is the young woman who was stabbed to death at the museum last Thursday.’
‘Stabbed!’ came the horrified gasp from the receptionist. ‘Murdered?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Abigail.
‘Perhaps it might be better if we continue this in a less public area,’ suggested Bickerstaff.
‘Yes, I agree,’ said Daniel. ‘Before we do, did she tell you her name? Or anything about herself?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said Bickerstaff.
‘In that case, Mrs Parks,’ said Daniel, turning back to the receptionist, ‘perhaps you’d proceed with the advertisement.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Mrs Parks, still shaken by the revelation but doing her best to regain her composure.
Abigail smiled her thanks at the receptionist, then she and Daniel followed Bickerstaff through the double doors into the depths of the newspa
per building. Inside, a very large room was a hive of activity, people at desks – mostly men, Abigail observed – writing feverishly or studying papers and letters. There was a strong smell of ink in the air, and the room echoed with calls and shouts, barked questions and loud retorts for answers.
‘What’s your interest in this young woman?’ asked Bickerstaff.
‘We’ve been asked to look into the case,’ explained Daniel. ‘We’re private enquiry agents …’
‘Daniel Wilson!’ burst out Bickerstaff, with a delighted shout of recognition. ‘I knew your face looked familiar! Abberline and the Ripper investigation!’ He turned to Abigail and said, ‘So you must be Abigail Fenton. Egyptologist and archaeologist extraordinaire!’ He chuckled and added, ‘We may be at the far reaches of the country, but we do get the stories from the south. The murders at the Ashmolean in Oxford, the Fitzwilliam in Cambridge, and the British Museum. And now here! How wonderful!’
He cast a look around the room and looked at them apologetically.
‘I’m afraid a newspaper office is not a place for quiet conversation,’ he said ruefully. He gestured towards a nearby door. ‘This is our library where we keep our back copies. If you can put up with finding somewhere to sit among the piles of paper in there, it will be quieter.’
They found themselves in a tiny room with the walls packed with shelves containing piles of old newspapers. There was one chair in the room.
‘If you’d take the chair, Miss Fenton, Mr Wilson and I will make do with the crates that contain the oldest editions of the paper. The Guardian goes back to 1821, you know.’ As they settled themselves down, he said, ‘As I said, I’m afraid I didn’t find out her name, or anything about her.’
‘But you knew a young woman had been stabbed to death at the museum,’ said Abigail.
‘I’m a newspaper reporter,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘It’s my job to keep in touch with what’s happening in this city. I was at the police station checking on something else, when someone came in and said there’d been a dead body found at the museum. I tried to go with the police, but they put me off.’ He grinned. ‘The powers that be at the local police force think we’re rabble-rousers stirring up the populace, so they’re not exactly helpful to us.’