Murder at the Manchester Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Or so that Haworth could get his name known,’ retorted Bickerstaff. ‘On profits made on the backs of the poor.’

  ‘Hardly,’ responded Abigail coolly. ‘Outside of the archaeological world, although the name Flinders Petrie may appear in the pages of the national newspapers, very few know of the role people like Mr Haworth, or his financial partner Henry Martyn Kennard, play in subsidising Petrie’s expeditions.’ Daniel took the opportunity to shoot their pre-planned meaningful look at Abigail, and she rose to her feet. ‘My apologies, Mr Bickerstaff, but I’ve suddenly remembered that I’d promised to see Mr Hawkins at the museum today.’ She smiled at Daniel. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  With that, she left.

  Bickerstaff sat glowering at the door. ‘She’s wrong, you know,’ he grumbled. ‘Yes, there may be some mill owners who aren’t as bad as the others, but they make their money through the misery of the masses.’ He got to his feet. ‘I suppose I’d better be off as well,’ he said. ‘I hope what I’ve given you may be of use.’

  ‘It certainly adds to our store of information,’ said Daniel. ‘Actually, if you have a moment …’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bickerstaff, and he sat down again. ‘Anything I can do.’

  ‘The thing is, something’s come up that puzzles me, and I hope you might be able to enlighten me.’

  ‘If I can, it will be my pleasure.’

  ‘The day before Kathleen was killed, you went to see her at the house in Ancoats where she was staying.’

  Bickerstaff frowned, puzzled, then shook his head. ‘No. Not me.’

  ‘According to one of the daughters of the family she was staying with, you asked her about Kathleen, told her you’d met Kathleen at the offices of the Guardian the day before. She said you gave her your card with your name on it, William Bickerstaff. She said you also told her your name and asked her to give the card to Kathleen.’

  ‘No,’ said Bickerstaff, more firmly this time. ‘If she told you that, she’s lying.’

  ‘How would she know your name?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘Unless someone was impersonating me.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Again, I have no idea,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘Except that some of my articles have upset certain powerful people. Possibly they’re trying to blacken my character, in the same way that Inspector Grimley tried to do at the police station.’ He stood up. ‘I can assure you, Mr Wilson, that I made no call of any sort to any house in Ancoats to enquire about Kathleen Donlan. I met her at the office of the newspaper on the Tuesday before she was killed, exactly as I told you before, but that’s all.’ He stood up. ‘Now, if there’s nothing more, I need to get back to the office.’

  Brigadier Wentworth sat at his desk checking through the duty rota sheets and regretting as he had so often of late that his days on active duty were long behind him. What was he now but a pen-pusher, an office clerk. A glorified one, admittedly, with the power to order men into battle, to be able to tell them to do this or do that. But the truth was that it was the lower-ranked officers who ran things. He could give a command to someone like RSM Bulstrode, and Bulstrode would carry it out because he was a loyal soldier whose first duty was to his commanding officer. No, amended Wentworth, Bulstrode’s first duty would always be to the reputation of the regiment; the officer in command came second to that. And if Bulstrode, or another officer of the same ilk, felt that the officer in command was acting against the reputation of the regiment, then any order given to him would be ignored, although at the same time creating the illusion that it had been carried out.

  He wondered if it had been him thinking about the RSM that had suddenly conjured his appearance up, because there was a brisk rap at his door, which he recognised as Bulstrode’s.

  ‘Enter!’ he called.

  The door opened and the RSM marched in.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Mr Bleasdale’s here and he asks if you’ve got a moment to spare for him.’

  Wentworth gave a silent prayer for the arrival of one of his oldest friends. Anything as an excuse for putting aside the paperwork, and a visit from Hector Bleasdale was always a pleasure.

  ‘Of course! Show him in, Sergeant Major!’

  Bulstrode stepped back out into the corridor and stood smartly to attention as Hector Bleasdale walked past him into the brigadier’s office.

  ‘Hector!’ Wentworth beamed. ‘Take a seat!’

  As Bleasdale settled himself down on the chair, Wentworth pulled open the top drawer of his desk.

  ‘Fancy a small one?’ he enquired. Then he chuckled. ‘Not too small, of course.’

  ‘Thank you, Cedric. Yes, please,’ said Bleasdale.

  Wentworth took out a bottle of brandy and two glasses, filled them and passed one to the military historian.

  ‘So, business or social?’ the brigadier asked, noticing the rather worried expression on his friend’s face. ‘Anything happening that I ought to know about?’

  ‘Yes, I believe there is,’ said Bleasdale. ‘I had a visit this morning from a Daniel Wilson. He’s a detective from London, and he came to ask me about Peterloo.’

  ‘Peterloo? Specifically?’

  ‘In his letter asking to meet me he said he wanted to find out about the Manchester units from eighty years ago. I assumed he would be asking about Waterloo. But when he arrived he asked me for details of what happened at Peterloo. I don’t know what he’s stirring up, but I thought I’d better let you know about his visit.’

  ‘Did he say why he was interested in Peterloo?’

  ‘He said it was to do with the murder of some young woman at the Manchester Museum.’ He looked at Wentworth. ‘Apparently she was stabbed to death there last week.’

  ‘And what has that got to do with Peterloo?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Bleasdale. ‘I really can’t see a connection between the two. Peterloo was almost eighty years ago. This woman wouldn’t have even been born. I doubt if her parents were even born when it happened. And apparently she was Irish. We’ve had Irish troopers in the Manchester units, just as we’ve had Scots and Welsh.’ He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know what this chap Wilson’s after. But the fact is, he used to be a very high-powered detective with the Metropolitan police. I don’t know if you remember the Jack the Ripper case in London some seven years or so ago.’

  Wentworth nodded. He decided not to tell his old friend that he’d already heard about Wilson from RSM Bulstrode; by not interrupting him he might be able to glean what Wilson was really after.

  ‘Wilson was part of Inspector Abberline’s team, and highly respected. He said he was looking into this girl’s murder, but why bring Peterloo into it? I thought you ought to know. Do you think he knows anything?’

  Wentworth hesitated, then he said, ‘Highly unlikely. But I’ll certainly take steps.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bleasdale, adding quickly, ‘Not that I need to know, of course. He also asked a question that struck me as odd. He wanted to know which officers might carry a bayonet in a scabbard as a matter of routine when dressed in civilian clothes.’

  ‘Why on earth would he want to know that?’ asked Wentworth.

  Bleasdale gave a shrug. ‘I can only guess he must have heard something. Some sort of gossip.’ He shook his head. ‘It struck me as an odd thing to say.’

  ‘It was indeed. But I do thank you, Hector. Your coming here with this is very much appreciated.’

  ‘There’s one other thing this Wilson chap mentioned,’ said Bleasdale. ‘The exhibition you’re planning at the museum.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Wentworth guardedly.

  ‘Yes, he said that Bernard Steggles asked him if he’d mention it to me for when I saw you, because he says he hasn’t heard any more from you.’

  ‘No,’ said Wentworth. ‘I’m holding off on it for the moment.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bleasdale. ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity to promote the regiment and t
he barracks.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Wentworth. ‘Think about it, Hector. The museum, and Steggles in particular, have hired this chap Wilson to look into the unfortunate death of the young woman who was killed there. But he seems to be fixed on what happened at Peterloo, which wasn’t exactly the army’s best hour. So I’m asking myself, what’s this Wilson’s motive? Does he have an axe to grind about the army, and if so, how will that affect the museum’s portrayal of us?’

  ‘I thought he came across as very reasonable,’ said Bleasdale.

  ‘But he was still nosing around about Peterloo,’ pressed Wentworth. ‘Something which is best forgotten about. Who’s to say he won’t influence Steggles in some way. Prejudice.’ He shook his head. ‘My feeling is that we want the exhibition to go ahead, obviously, and it will. But let’s wait until this Wilson chap is out of the way, so that we can determine the style and tone of it.’

  ‘Well, if you think that’s best, Cedric,’ said Bleasdale, although Wentworth could tell he wasn’t happy about the decision. ‘So, will you write and tell Steggles that, or shall I, as he’s written to me?’

  ‘Neither, I think,’ said the brigadier. ‘No sense in putting something in writing that this chap Wilson could use against us. Let it lie in abeyance for the moment.’

  Bleasdale sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. But it seems a pity.’

  ‘It’s about protecting the regiment’s good name,’ said Wentworth. ‘That’s always the most important thing.’

  The two old friends then turned to cosier topics: old friends, army stories and reminiscences, and by the time Bleasdale left Wentworth’s office, half the bottle of brandy was gone.

  There was a short pause after Bleasdale’s departure before RSM Bulstrode’s familiar rat-tat sounded on the door.

  ‘Enter!’ called the brigadier.

  Bulstrode marched in. ‘I just saw Mr Bleasdale leave, sir,’ he said. ‘It might not be my place to say it, sir, but he did seem to be very concerned when he arrived and asked to see you. If it was of a personal nature, sir, then of course I do not wish to know. But if it concerned the regiment …’

  ‘In a way, it does,’ said Wentworth. ‘But I’m not sure how. It appears that London detective you talked about paid a visit to Hector Bleasdale.’

  ‘Daniel Wilson, sir?’

  ‘That’s the man. He was after details of what happened at Peterloo.’

  Bulstrode frowned. ‘Did he say why, sir?’

  ‘No. I remember you said he was here before.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. I informed you at the time. He was asking after a young woman who he claimed had called here.’

  ‘But she hadn’t?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The brigadier frowned. ‘This chap Wilson seems to be very persistent.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We just have to hope whatever he’s doing won’t impinge on the regiment.’

  RSM Bulstrode looked suddenly very grim, and very determined. ‘I’m sure it won’t, sir. In fact, I’ll make sure it doesn’t.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Major,’ said the brigadier.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Abigail had waited in the hotel lobby until she saw Bickerstaff appear from the private sitting room and leave the hotel, before looking for Daniel.

  ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Was he angry with you?’

  ‘He was angry at the accusation,’ replied Daniel. ‘He denied that he went to the house, or spoke to Breda about Kathleen. He also denied leaving his card with her. He claims that someone must have impersonated him in an attempt to smear his character.’

  ‘But who would want to do that?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘According to Bickerstaff, lots of people. Prominent and powerful citizens who’ve been upset by the tone of his newspaper articles.’

  ‘Breda was very definite in her story,’ said Abigail firmly. ‘A toff called William Bickerstaff.’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out the truth, and that’s to ask Breda to take a look at Bickerstaff and tell us if that was the man she met,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Abigail. ‘Tomorrow I’ll go to Ancoats and ask Breda to come with me to the offices of the Guardian. I feel she trusts me. Once there, I’ll ask to see Bickerstaff in the reception area. I’ll make up some question to get him talking. Possibly compliment him on his article, which should have appeared by the morning. I’m sure he’ll be happy to talk about that. I’ll place Breda somewhere she can see him and hear him.’

  ‘A good plan.’ He looked at her with a puzzled frown. ‘The big question it raises, if it turns out it wasn’t Bickerstaff who called, is: who was it? And why?’

  ‘You don’t agree that it may have been done to smear Bickerstaff’s reputation?’

  ‘I can’t see that a visit like that would damage him, except for the fact that shortly afterwards the young woman was stabbed to death.’

  ‘So someone was doing it prior to killing her, to implicate him in her murder?’

  ‘That’s what it seems like to me,’ said Daniel. ‘But we’ll soon find out once Breda’s said if it was him who called at the house, or not.’

  The following morning they picked up a copy of the Manchester Guardian at reception and took it in to breakfast. Abigail scanned it for Bickerstaff’s story, while Daniel studied the menu.

  ‘I fancy boiled eggs this morning,’ he announced.

  ‘I rather fancy you’ll also want to give Mr Bickerstaff a telling-off,’ said Abigail.

  She handed him the newspaper, folded so that he could read the article. As Daniel read it, his face showed his anger.

  ‘He lied!’ he said.

  ‘He did,’ agreed Abigail.

  The article had changed from the copy Bickerstaff had handed to Daniel and Abigail, and which Daniel had passed to Bernard Steggles. That copy had simply given the bare facts, but in this version Bickerstaff had added more about Daniel and Abigail, referring to their previous successes as investigators at the Fitzwilliam and Ashmolean Museums, along with the British Museum, for which Bickerstaff had dubbed them the ‘Museum Mystery Detectives’. He also spent two paragraphs highlighting Daniel’s career with Inspector Abberline at Scotland Yard, and Abigail’s continuing career as ‘an internationally renowned archaeologist and Egyptologist’. It was the paragraphs at the end that aroused Daniel’s anger. Despite his promise to Steggles to keep the tone non-political, the final section was a rant at the police and at the mill owners, describing them as cogs in a wheel of mutual corruption aimed at suppressing the poor and getting rich on their misery.

  ‘He lied!’ repeated Daniel. ‘He promised there’d be nothing in any way political! He betrayed our trust and that of Mr Steggles.’

  ‘We now know that he’s duplicitous, underhanded and a brazen liar, who will say one thing while planning another, and who plays games with people,’ said Abigail. ‘Still think he’s not the one who called on Breda in Ancoats?’

  ‘This calls for a change of plan,’ snapped Daniel. ‘I’m going to confront him about this article. So we’ll both go to Ancoats and bring Breda back to the city centre, and you and she can place yourselves somewhere in the reception area of the Guardian while I call him out and demand he write a letter of apology to Mr Steggles. Two birds with one stone. I vent our anger on Mr Bickerstaff, and we also find out if it was he who went looking for Kathleen.’

  A copy of the Guardian was open on Bernard Steggles’s desk when Daniel and Abigail entered his office. The museum manager’s face was ashen and he stared at the newspaper as if he couldn’t believe what he was reading.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ said Abigail, ‘and we’ve come to reassure you that nothing in that article came from us, Mr Steggles. In fact, Mr Bickerstaff gave us his assurance that the article would contain nothing of a political nature.’

  ‘Indeed, the piece he submitted through Mr Wilson kept to that.’ He looked at the newspaper in disgust. �
�But this!’

  ‘I can assure you that after we’ve seen you we are going to call on Mr Bickerstaff and demand an explanation and an apology from him.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ said Steggles, and they could see that he could barely control his anger. ‘I was betrayed. Lied to. And now the museum has been implicated in a political diatribe which could be very injurious to our reputation.’

  ‘We can only apologise again—’ began Abigail.

  ‘No, I know neither of you are at fault. Like me, you trusted this man and took his assurances that the piece he gave you was what would be published. It seems to me that he was already planning to put this out instead.’

  ‘We should not have allowed ourselves to be duped,’ said Daniel. ‘We feel we are culpable for that and will completely understand if you decide that you no longer require our services.’

  ‘No, no, absolutely not!’ Steggles said, his tone firm. ‘You have already shown your expertise in establishing the identities of the two women found here. We want you to continue with your work and find out what the motive was, and who carried out these dreadful acts and have them brought to justice. Have your investigations established any possible motives?’

  ‘Miss Fenton has identified two possible suspects, a man called Dan Daly and one called Con Gully,’ said Daniel. He looked towards Abigail, and she proceeded to tell Steggles what she’d learnt from Father O’Brien and Breda the previous day. ‘Fortunately, that information came to us after Mr Bickerstaff had written his piece, otherwise I’m sure he would have included it to sensationalise his story. The pimp and the killer.’

  Steggles shuddered. ‘My hope would have been that the editor would have frowned upon such gutter press images and stopped them before they got to print.’