Murder at the Manchester Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Excellent!’ Steggles smiled. ‘And if there’s anything I can do to facilitate your efforts, don’t hesitate to ask.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Abigail.

  She began to rise, but Steggles waved for her to remain in her seat, as he said, ‘Actually, there’s another topic on which I’d like to talk to you. One close to your heart. Ancient Egyptian archaeology.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Abigail, her interested piqued.

  ‘I’ve been approached by Mr Jesse Haworth – I’m assuming you might be familiar with his name …’

  ‘Of course!’ exclaimed Abigail. ‘He and Mr Henry Martyn Kennard were the ones who sponsored Flinders Petrie’s excavations at Hawara, as well as at Kahun and Gurob. I was delighted to note that in the museum’s guide you give them the credit for your superb display of ancient Egyptian artefacts.’

  ‘Although most of Mr Kennard’s share went to the Ashmolean in Oxford,’ said Steggles. ‘It was Mr Haworth who donated his share of the finds to us here. He is doing his best to make the world aware of Manchester. He’s a partner in James Dilworth and Sons, the cotton manufacturers.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already had a conversation on that point with Mr Bickerstaff,’ said Abigail bitterly. ‘It rather gives the lie to Mr Bickerstaff’s comments about the mill owners sucking the lifeblood of the poor so they can amass riches.’

  ‘This museum would not have the Egyptian display without his financial generosity,’ agreed Steggles. ‘Anyway, Mr Haworth contacted me after he read in the newspaper that you were here in the city, and he … er …’ He hesitated, before adding awkwardly, ‘You remember I told you about the forthcoming talk by Mr Henry Eeles Dresser.’

  ‘On exotic birds,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Yes. Well it appears that Mr Dresser has unfortunately contracted a throat infection and lost his voice, so he will not be able to give his talk. And Mr Haworth suggested that you might agree to give a talk in his place on your archaeological experiences in Egypt. This is not just as a substitute; Mr Haworth suggested it even before he knew that Mr Dresser would be unable to be here …’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Abigail.

  ‘You will?’ Steggles beamed delightedly. ‘This is superb!’

  ‘It will be a pleasure to finally meet him, and thank him,’ said Abigail. ‘I was at one of the sites Mr Haworth sponsored. At Hawara.’

  ‘With Petrie,’ observed Steggles. ‘That must have been a wonderful experience.’

  ‘I must tell you, Mr Steggles, when I saw the artefacts from Hawara on display here, they transported me back to my time at the pyramid.’

  ‘Perhaps you could make Hawara the subject of your talk?’ suggested Steggles. ‘It would bring in Petrie, and the fact that Mr Haworth funded the expedition, and the fact that you were there as part of it, with your personal reminiscences …’

  ‘That is an excellent suggestion. Would it be possible to have some of the artefacts out of their cases and on display? That way I can talk about them, and – with your agreement – allow the people there to touch them. Because there is nothing that brings that time alive better than being able to touch something that is thousands of years old.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ murmured Steggles doubtfully. ‘They are fragile, and the risk of them being broken …’

  ‘Perhaps we could select just one or two of the pieces?’ suggested Abigail. ‘I could select the more robust.’

  ‘Yes, that would be acceptable,’ said Steggles. He smiled happily. ‘This is wonderful, Miss Fenton! Mr Haworth will be delighted when I tell him.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Grimley sat behind his desk and glared at Daniel.

  ‘So let’s make sure I’ve got this right,’ he grunted. ‘You say that Terry Brady killed Eve Preston, and some person we don’t know about chops Terry Brady up in revenge because he’s in love with her?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Daniel.

  ‘Poppycock!’ snorted Grimley.

  ‘Who else would want to kill her?’ insisted Daniel. ‘She’d shopped this Terry Brady to us, put him in the frame for murder.’

  ‘For a murder that she made up,’ retorted Grimley. ‘There’ve been no reports about anyone called Deborah turning up dead.’

  ‘She mistook the woman in the photograph, or she made it up to have her own back on him,’ said Daniel.

  ‘This is nonsense!’ spat Grimley. ‘Pure speculation! Is this how you did things at Scotland Yard?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Then it was no wonder you never caught the Ripper!’ snorted Grimley. He pointed at the door. ‘Out. And don’t come back here bothering me again.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Out! And leave police work to proper working coppers.’

  Abigail waited until she was back in their hotel room before she opened the envelope Jonty Hawkins had handed to her. The signature at the end of the letter inside brought a smile to her lips. Septimus Creighton had been a student at Cambridge at the same time as she’d studied there, and now – according to the letterhead – he was a professor at Manchester’s Victoria University. The letter said that he’d read in the Manchester Guardian that she was in town, investigating a murder at the museum, and he wondered if it might be possible to meet up.

  It would be wonderful to catch up and reminisce about old times, he wrote. Do you remember when we went punting on the Cam and my pole got stuck and I was left high and temporarily dry clinging to the pole as you drifted away in the punt, before gravity won over and I was immersed, ruining the outfit I’d worn especially for the occasion.

  Yes, she did remember, and also other occasions when his best-laid plans had gone awry. Perhaps that was the reason she’d resisted taking their possible relationship further. Septimus had been keen, but Abigail had been rather more serious about things in those days. For a woman to be able to study for a degree had been a privilege, one not to be taken lightly, or treated frivolously. And if there had been a word to describe Septimus in his Cambridge days, ‘frivolous’ would have fitted the bill. But her time spent with him had been fun. Harmless fun. And there had been something about him, a puppy-like naivety, that had stopped her from putting an end to their meetings. In the end, they’d sort of fizzled out, once Septimus accepted that Abigail was never going to view him as a suitable romantic prospect.

  She wondered what sort of man he’d turned out to be. Academically, he’d always been bright, so his becoming a professor came as no surprise, but she wondered why he was a professor at Victoria University rather than at Cambridge. Possibly that had been a side effect of his rather light-hearted approach to life. The college authorities had not approved; they preferred their professors to be of a serious demeanour.

  I shall write back and invite him to meet us at the hotel, she decided. She wondered if Septimus had ever married. She debated with herself suggesting that when he called he bring his wife, if he had one – but then reflected that might be sending a wrong signal, that she was asking if he was married or single, and she didn’t want him to think she had ambitions towards him in that direction. Polite and friendly, but not intimate, she decided, would be the right tone.

  She was just taking a sheet of the headed notepaper the hotel supplied for the use of guests in order to begin her reply, when Daniel returned. The rueful smile he gave her told her his visit to the police station had not been successful.

  ‘The inspector threw you out again?’ she asked.

  ‘Not physically,’ said Daniel. ‘I left of my own accord, but Grimley made his feelings towards us very clear.’ He caught sight of the letterheaded notepaper and the inkwell and pen in front of her, and asked, ‘Catching up on correspondence? To your sister, Bella, perhaps, to try and offer a truce? She still seems to resent the fact that we are – in her words – living in sin.’

  Abigail smiled and shook her head, and offered him Septimus Creighton’s letter. He read it, and then looked at her quizzically.

  ‘Pu
nting on the Cam?’ he said. ‘This sounds like a romance.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Abigail. ‘Everyone punts on the Cam.’

  ‘Unchaperoned?’

  ‘It was not like that at all,’ said Abigail crisply. ‘Septimus read Classics at Trinity at the same time as I was studying in Cambridge, and we’d meet up occasionally as fellow students. Now he’s a professor at Victoria University here in Manchester, so I think your prayers may be answered.’

  ‘What prayers?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘For physical protection, in case anyone tries to attack you again.’

  Daniel looked at her, puzzled. ‘What use would a university professor be against a bunch of soldiers, or thugs?’

  ‘The second most important university competition in the English sporting calendar, after the sporting rivalry between Oxford and Cambridge, is the Christie Cup,’ explained Abigail. ‘It’s an annual varsity match between the universities of Manchester, Leeds and Liverpool, and includes sports such as rugby. Septimus was a Cambridge blue at rugby, very keen on the sport, so I’m pretty sure he has access to the rugby squad at Victoria, and if so it’s possible that some of them might want to take on the role of our physical protectors. If they’re anything like their Cambridge counterparts, they’ll be ideal for the job.’

  ‘Why would they want to protect me?’

  ‘Because Septimus will ask them. And, if they’re the sort of people I think they will be, they love a physical scrap. I was just about to reply and suggest he meet us at our hotel.’ Then she turned to him, her face very thoughtful. ‘Another possibility has just occurred to me. Could it be that Kathleen’s death might have its roots in Ireland? After all, she was only here for a few days. That’s not much time for her to make a mortal enemy.’

  ‘She was asking questions,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Her asking questions may well have provoked someone to kill her to stop her finding answers, but about what?’ pressed Abigail. ‘I think we need to look to Ireland and find out why she’d come to England.’

  ‘Yes,’ Daniel agreed, ‘that’s an excellent suggestion.’ Almost angrily, he added, ‘I should have thought of it before. If I hadn’t got so obsessed with the army aspect …’

  ‘No, I think you’re right about that,’ said Abigail. ‘But I hope we might get the missing piece of the puzzle from Ireland. And luckily we have a very good connection there.’

  ‘Father O’Brien.’

  Abigail nodded.

  As they walked to St Michael’s Church, Abigail told Daniel about Steggles asking her to give a talk on her archaeological work in Egypt.

  ‘I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ he said.

  St Michael’s Church was empty, except for two women arranging flowers and the elderly priest himself, whose face lit up when he saw them.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said. He gestured them to a pew, and the three of them sat down. ‘Have there been any developments?’

  ‘Nothing we can say for certain,’ said Abigail. ‘Which is why we thought we’d see if there’s any information in Ireland that could help us, particularly if we can discover the reason Kathleen came to Manchester. We’re hoping we might be able to make contact with someone who knew her, who was close to her, who we can talk to. To that end, we thought we’d try putting something in a local paper over there, asking for information. You said she came from north Cork. Do you happen to know anyone at the newspaper that serves that area?’

  ‘As it happens, I do,’ said O’Brien. ‘The Irish community is quite tight-knit. You could say that everyone knows everyone, regardless of wherever they may have travelled to. I know a man at the North Cork Reporter called Sean Fitzpatrick quite well. If you let me have details of what you want to know, I’d be happy to send it to him.’

  ‘We thought a word about what had happened to her and the fact that we’re private enquiry agents, so there’s no hint of the police,’ said Abigail. ‘After what you said about people being suspicious of the police. Also, we’ll send the photograph of Kathleen, and say we’re trying to find out why she came to Manchester, and that people can get in touch with us at the Mayflower Hotel.’

  ‘That seems to cover everything,’ said O’Brien. ‘If you can let me have that today, I’ll send it off to Sean at once.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ said Abigail. ‘We’ll be back later.’

  As they left the church, Daniel said, ‘Now to hopefully get approval from Mr Steggles for us to travel to Ireland, if anything comes of an article in the Cork local paper. As you’re in his good books with this talk, I suggest you do most of the talking when we see him.’

  ‘Am I in danger of becoming the senior partner in this team?’ asked Abigail, amused.

  ‘A temporary matter,’ said Daniel. ‘Think of this as part of your training.’

  Bernard Steggles received them in his office with a look of apprehension.

  ‘I hope you aren’t here with news of more deaths?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as far as we are aware of,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Thank heavens for that!’ said Steggles, sinking back into his chair.

  ‘We’ve decided to make enquiries in Ireland,’ continued Abigail. ‘The young woman had only been in England for three days before she was killed, not much time to have made enemies, so we’re thinking we may be able to discover the reason for her murder if we can find out why she came to Manchester.’

  ‘So you might have to travel to Ireland?’ said Steggles, weighing this latest information up.

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Abigail. ‘We’re going to put an announcement in the local newspaper in Ireland, the North Cork Reporter, so it will depend on what sort of replies we get.’

  Steggles nodded. ‘Very well. If you feel it’s necessary. The sooner we can get to the bottom of this and return to normal, the better.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Daniel looked at the ornate clock on the wall of the Mayflower Hotel’s lounge, and then gave Abigail an enquiring look.

  ‘He was never late when we knew one another in Cambridge,’ she said. ‘Always punctual.’

  ‘People change,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Septimus came across as the kind of person who’d never change,’ said Abigail. ‘People knew where they were with him, which was a rarity.’ Then she spotted a movement by the entrance and her face lit up into a smile. ‘Here he is,’ she said, getting up.

  Daniel rose, too, and turned to see a very tall, muscular-looking man in his late thirties, a huge smile on his face, and a mop of thick red hair sticking up from the top of his head, approaching them.

  ‘Septimus!’ she said, and Creighton lumbered towards her, hand outstretched, but just as he was about to take her hand to shake, he tripped, stumbled and then fell to the floor with a crash.

  Abigail and Daniel stared down at him in alarm, then Daniel hurried forward and bent down and offered the fallen man a hand.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, concerned.

  ‘Only my pride is injured,’ said Creighton with a rueful sigh. He pushed himself up off the floor and dusted himself down, then looked at them both apologetically.

  ‘Sorry about that, Abi,’ he said. ‘Still falling over my own feet.’

  ‘It was because your shoelace has become undone,’ said Daniel, pointing at the offending item.

  ‘Drat!’ said Creighton. ‘New shoes as well.’ Again, he gave his apologetic grin. ‘I was so hoping I’d make a good impression after all this time.’

  ‘You made a good impression on the carpet,’ said Abigail. She smiled. ‘The main thing is, you’re here now. And uninjured.’

  She gestured to the three chairs around the small table, which had been set out with three cups and saucers ready for their guest’s arrival. Creighton settled himself down on the chair, but as he swung round to face them his elbow knocked against the cup nearest to him and it fell from its saucer and rolled off the edge of the table. With lightning reflexes, Daniel managed to catch it b
efore it hit the carpet and placed it neatly back on its saucer.

  ‘Oh my gosh!’ groaned Creighton, shamefaced. ‘What must you think of me!’

  ‘To be honest, Septimus, it’s a relief to find you haven’t changed,’ said Abigail. ‘I recall in your Cambridge days it was said you could destroy a table just by looking at it.’

  ‘Unfair, and wrong,’ said Creighton. Then he added awkwardly, ‘At least, an exaggeration.’ He looked at Daniel and said, ‘But I must apologise. This is our first meeting, and I did so want to impress you, Mr Wilson. After all, you’re famous for what you do.’ His attention went back to Abigail. ‘As you are, Abi. The famous Egyptologist. Two celebrities. And here am I, tumbling around like a clown in a circus.’ He shook his head. ‘All my plans to show you how sophisticated I’ve become, gone up in smoke.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Abigail assured him. ‘The main thing is that you’re here.’

  ‘And late,’ continued Creighton with his self-berating. ‘I was determined to be on time, but I got caught up in the crowd coming out of a football match. So many people, it took ages to get away!’

  ‘Who was playing?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Newton Heath against Bolton Wanderers. Incredible game!’

  ‘I thought you were a rugby man,’ said Abigail, surprised.

  ‘I am, but Association Football has a quality all its own. I must admit, I’ve discovered it more since I’ve been here in Manchester. And there’s a few problems in rugby up here with the players over money, which has led to a talk of a breakaway league. And not just that, there’s talk of a different way of playing the game.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand the world of rugby,’ said Daniel.