by Jim Eldridge
‘If he was there was no correspondence from them to back up his claim of being authorised to act on their behalf. And, judging by some of the other letters he’d sent, it was a dodge he used more than once. The letters have all been taken to the Yard, if you want to see them. How did you get on with Mrs Simpson?’
Daniel filled him in on his encounter with her and her denial that her son was in any way involved in the trial of Oscar Wilde.
‘I can assure you he was,’ said Feather. ‘I was with the super when he talked to him.’
‘Yes, well, it’s pretty obvious that Mrs Simpson was lying, and we got confirmation when we went to the restaurant where Raymond worked. A restaurant from which he was sacked for theft. Incidentally, he also worked at the Lyceum Theatre, as an usher.’
‘Did he?’ said Feather. ‘It must have been after the trial or we’d have picked that up.’
‘The point is, Stoker must have known him from the Lyceum. Which gives more credence to the superintendent’s suspicions about him over Raymond being killed when he was here. Is it worth talking to Stoker about Simpson, see what he says about him at the Lyceum?’
Feather looked doubtful.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I doubt if Armstrong would get much joy from seeing him again. Stoker doesn’t like him. And the super’s warned me off from talking to Stoker. I think he’s worried that Stoker might register a complaint about him with his “powerful friends”, as Armstrong calls them.’
‘Perhaps if we went to see Mr Stoker?’ suggested Abigail. ‘We’re representing the museum, not the police. He might be more receptive to us.’
‘Yes,’ said Feather, thoughtfully. ‘That’s a good idea. But first I wonder if we shouldn’t go and talk to Mrs Simpson again, in view of the latest you’ve picked up.’
‘She refused to talk to me,’ said Daniel.
‘But she’ll talk to me,’ said Feather. ‘She knows I’m from Scotland Yard, and I could take her in for questioning if she gets obstructive. I don’t think she’d like that.’ He looked at Daniel. ‘It might be a good idea if you came along, after the way she acted with you. That way she won’t be able to lie about her denials to you.’
‘Yes, good idea,’ agreed Daniel. He looked at Abigail. ‘Would you like to come with us?’
She shook her head. ‘I think I’d rather wait here and see Mrs Smith when she gets back. A bit of courtesy and politeness always pays off.’
‘Yes, good thinking,’ said Daniel. He turned to Feather. ‘Right, let’s go and challenge Mrs Simpson.’
As Daniel and John Feather walked to the Simpson house, Feather gave Daniel more details about the letters they’d uncovered at the office.
‘He seemed to target public organisations and large companies rather than small firms,’ said Feather.
‘More chance of getting money out of them,’ said Daniel. ‘Small traders have to watch every penny; it’s their money. But people working for big outfits are more worried about their job being under threat if they’ve done something wrong, like not paying a bill that’s due.’
‘The tone of the letters was always the same: the threat of retribution if payment wasn’t forthcoming. And some of the people Petter claimed to be writing on behalf of The Houses of Parliament. The Courts of Justice. Major newspapers like The Times. And he seemed to specialise in firms based in America. The Bone Company was just one. He also quoted the Chicago Stockyard Corporation, claiming non-payment for a consignment of beef. Then there’s the San Francisco Steamship.’
‘All companies it would take time to contact for verification,’ said Daniel. ‘I assume he used strong-arm tactics to enforce these claims.’
‘I’m sure he did. But with Benny and Billy Wardle under lock and key these last few months, I guess he hired replacements …’
‘… who broke up the dinosaur skeleton,’ finished Daniel. He stopped as they entered the cul-de-sac where the Simpsons’ house lay. ‘Looks like Mrs Simpson has a visitor,’ he said.
A man had just come out of the Simpson house and was locking the door. As he began to walk away, John Feather gave a shout at him: ‘One moment!’
The man, a middle-aged character wearing a brown suit of large checked material, stopped and regarded the approaching Daniel and Feather guardedly.
‘Was that Mrs Simpson’s house we saw you coming out of?’ asked Feather.
‘Who wants to know?’ demanded the man, belligerently.
In response, Feather produced his warrant card and showed it to the man.
‘Police,’ he said.
The man stared at them, his eyes bulging in shock.
‘Police?’ he repeated, worried. ‘But I ain’t done nothin’.’
‘Is Mrs Simpson in the house?’ demanded Feather.
The man gulped, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.
‘How come you have a key?’ asked the inspector.
‘Because it’s my house,’ said the man. ‘I’m her landlord.’
‘Name?’ asked Feather.
‘Dobbs. Alf Dobbs. I own most of the houses along here. You can ask anyone. Knock on any door.’
Feather and Daniel exchanged glances, then Feather asked: ‘What were you doing in the house?’
‘Making sure everything’s safe. Mrs Simpson just called on me and told me she’s got to go away urgent, so she’s giving up the house. Some family business. She paid me the rent due and for another week. She said she’d write to tell me where to send her things. She’s got quite a bit of furniture. She’s paid me for the hire of a van to move her stuff once she knows where to send it.’
‘So, the house wasn’t let furnished?’ asked Daniel.
Dobbs shook his head.
‘No. That’s all hers in there. Good stuff, as well. And all paid for. Nothing on tick.’
‘Has she always paid her rent on time?’ asked Daniel.
‘Always,’ said Dobbs. He gave a sad sigh. ‘She was a good tenant. Reliable. Clean. Kept the place spotless. I wish I had more like her.’ He frowned and looked at them quizzically. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? The police?’
‘We wanted to talk to her about her son.’
‘Raymond? Why, what’s he been up to?’
‘Tragically, he was killed earlier today.’
Dobbs stared at them, his eyes bulging once more.
‘Killed? How?’
‘Murdered,’ said Feather, ‘at the place he worked: the Natural History Museum. I’m sure it’ll be in the papers tomorrow. Didn’t Mrs Simpson mention that to you?’
‘No. Poor her. She depended on Raymond. What’s she going to do now?’
‘That’s what we’d like to know,’ said Feather. ‘When she gets in touch with you with the address to send her things, let me know at once. Inspector Feather at Scotland Yard.’
‘Scotland Yard?’ echoed Dobbs, impressed.
Feather nodded. ‘It’s important you do that. As soon as you hear from her.’
‘I will,’ Dobbs assured him.
‘I’ll need your address, in case we need to get in touch with you,’ added Feather.
‘12 Albert Crescent,’ said Dobbs. ‘It’s just two streets away. If I’m out, my daughter Gladys will be there. She looks after things for me.’
‘Then make sure you tell her the same, she’s to contact Inspector John Feather—’
‘At Scotland Yard.’ Dobbs nodded. ‘I got that.’
Daniel and Feather walked off, leaving the stunned Dobbs standing on the pavement looking after them.
‘Another one done a runner,’ said Feather. ‘First Petter, now her.’
‘And for a similar reason, I suspect,’ said Daniel. ‘To avoid being caught for criminal activities.’
‘Criminal?’ queried Feather.
‘Absolutely. Her son was a thief and possibly a blackmailer. Her house is full of good quality furniture and possessions, all paid for. Her aggressive and defensive attitude when I asked questions about Raymond ma
kes a lot of sense now.’
‘She was in it with him?’ He looked thoughtful. ‘She could have just been taking the money and not known where it came from.’ Then he shook his head. ‘No. She was part of it.’ He looked at the street, with its terrace of neatly kept houses. ‘Very clever. Outward appearance of respectability. A widow raising her son in a respectable area. Very different from Erskine Petter and Benny Wardle. Crooks certainly come in all sorts of guises.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Abigail stood before the part of the dinosaur exhibition devoted to the work of Mary Anning and remarked to herself on the amazing work this woman had carried out during her short life. The daughter of a carpenter who’d died when she was eleven and one of ten children, Mary had spent her childhood in poverty and therefore had to forego any idea of a classical education. And yet when still a child she’d taken to exploring the cliffs and beaches around her home in Lyme Regis in Dorset with her brother, Joseph, where she’d excavated and identified the skeletons of marine animals from the Jurassic period. It had been Mary Anning who’d discovered the first ichthyosaur in 1811 when she was just twelve years old, and later the first two plesiosaur skeletons.
I am so in awe of her, thought Abigail. With no advantages in her childhood and receiving only a basic education at her church where she learnt to read and write, Mary’s work as a palaeontologist had broken new ground in the field, her discoveries creating the platform for others to follow.
‘Miss Abigail Fenton?’
Abigail turned and beheld a small, dumpy man in his late twenties, a beaming smile of greeting beneath his moustache. ‘Herbert George Wells. I’m such an admirer of your work, Miss Fenton. I have followed your career as an archaeologist, your work with Petrie in Egypt, as well as your digs in Greece, Mesopotamia and Palestine.’
‘Thank you.’ Abigail smiled, taking the fleshy hand he offered and shaking it.
Wells returned her smile. ‘I am a writer. I don’t know if you’ve read my creation, The Time Machine?’
‘Alas, no,’ said Abigail. She tried to remove her hand from his but was surprised to find he still kept a firm hold of it.
‘It was serialised in instalments in The New Review and then published as a novel. Some great names have remarked on its ingenuity and invention.’
‘How fortunate,’ said Abigail, and she pulled her hand from his grasp with a sudden jerk. Wells did not appear to notice.
‘I would very much like to send you a copy,’ he continued in his rather high-pitched, squeaky voice. ‘Inscribed by me personally. I would be most grateful for your opinion.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Abigail, politely, ‘but I could not possibly take advantage of your generosity.’
‘I would not consider it taking advantage,’ insisted Wells. ‘It would be a privilege to have the opinion of someone like yourself, who I admire so much. And to find that such a highly intelligent woman, a great brain, also has beauty.’ He leant in towards her and murmured, ‘My close friends call me George. Would you consider joining that happy band?’
‘Mr Wells.’ Wells spun round to see Miss Scott approaching. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you again.’
‘Miss Scott,’ said Wells, bowing to her. ‘I was just saying to Miss Fenton—’
‘Indeed, and I am so very sorry to interrupt, but it is Miss Fenton I need to see as a matter of urgency.’ She looked towards Abigail and said: ‘My apologies, Miss Fenton, but there is something in my office that needs your attention.’
‘Of course,’ said Abigail.
‘Perhaps we could continue our conversation after you’ve finished with Miss Scott?’ suggested Wells, a smile of hope and expectation on his chubby face.
‘That would be lovely,’ said Abigail, with a smile of apology, ‘but I am due to meet my partner here. He will be arriving at any moment.’
‘Your partner?’ asked Wells, his smile fading.
‘Daniel Wilson, the detective,’ said Abigail.
‘The museum has engaged Mr Wilson and Miss Fenton to investigate certain things that have happened here at the museum,’ added Miss Scott.
‘What sort of things?’ asked Wells, eagerly. ‘Supernatural? Criminal?’
‘This morning one of the attendants was found murdered,’ said Scott.
‘Murdered? How wonderful,’ exclaimed Wells, an expression of delight on his face. Then he looked serious. ‘Not for the poor victim, of course. But as an incident that sparks so many questions.’
‘Indeed,’ said Scott. ‘But I must steal Miss Fenton from you.’
‘Of course,’ said Wells.
He bowed as the two women headed towards the stairs to the first floor and the offices. Abigail was curious as to what might have happened for Miss Scott to hurry her away with such urgency, but Scott didn’t speak until they were in her office.
‘My apologies, Miss Fenton, but I felt the need to intercede.’
‘To intercede?’ repeated Abigail, puzzled.
‘When I saw Mr Wells talking to you …’ She hesitated, then said: ‘I wanted to warn you about him before he made his advances. He seems to have made lechery his major pastime. He is not to be trusted.’
Abigail smiled as she said, ‘I had rather formed that impression of him myself.’
‘Then you are not offended by my action?’
‘Not at all. I am grateful. It gave me the chance to escape without any rancour. He said he is a writer.’
‘Yes, and rather a good one.’
‘You’ve read his work?’
‘I have, and he has talent. But he also has roving hands and is not easily put off.’
‘You speak as if you had personal experience of it.’
‘Not just I, but almost any woman who comes within his vicinity.’
‘How did you deal with it?’
‘I told him that I was not attracted to men in that way.’
‘And how did he respond?’
Scott looked uncomfortable. ‘It only seemed to encourage him more. In the end I – er – accidentally trod on his toes with the heel of my shoe. It seems he suffers from corns. I apologised, of course, but it seemed to do the trick.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Perhaps that’s Mr Wells with some excuse to continue his pursuit,’ said Abigail, with an amused smile.
‘Come in,’ called Scott. The door opened, and Mrs Smith entered.
‘I’m so sorry it took me longer than I thought,’ she apologised. ‘The people at the British Museum wanted to discuss some of the figures in detail.’
‘That’s perfectly all right, Mrs Smith,’ said Scott.
Mrs Smith looked at Abigail, then back at Scott and said: ‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted a conversation.’
‘Not at all.’ Scott smiled. ‘In fact, your arrival is very opportune. I’ve suggested to Miss Fenton that she and Mr Wilson use the spare desk in your office as the base for their investigations, if you have no objections.’
‘Not at all,’ Mrs Smith assured them, enthusiastically. ‘It will be my pleasure.’
‘In that case, I’ll leave you to arrange things,’ said Scott.
‘Are you free now, Miss Fenton?’ asked Smith.
‘I am indeed,’ said Abigail.
She thanked Miss Scott, then followed the secretary along the corridor to her office.
‘I’m so glad Miss Scott suggested it, and that you agreed,’ said Smith. ‘It will be a nice change to have company.’ Then quickly she added: ‘Not that I will interrupt or interfere with your work.’
‘You can interrupt as much as you like,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m sure both Mr Wilson and I will be in need of your assistance, just as Miss Scott is.’
Mrs Smith took some papers from the top of the spare desk to clear it for Abigail, and asked: ‘Have you reached any conclusions as to who may have been responsible?’
‘Not yet,’ said Abigail, seating herself at the desk. ‘We are still examining different possi
bilities. Actually, one of the trustees, Lady Fortescue, was here earlier.’
‘Yes. Miss Scott asked me to send letters to all the trustees advising them what happened to the skeleton.’
‘So Miss Scott told me. Lady Fortescue seemed to blame Miss Scott for what had happened, both to the skeleton and to Mr Simpson.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Smith, sadly.
‘She said these incidents wouldn’t have happened if Mr Watling had taken the post of curator.’
‘Yes, she would say that,’ said Smith, bitterly. ‘I believe she and Mr William Watling are … very close.’ She scowled and added: ‘An odious man, in my opinion.’ Suddenly she stopped, alarmed at what she’d just said, and hastily added, ‘I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.’
‘Rest assured, you’re not speaking out of turn,’ Abigail assured her. ‘I only saw the man once, at a distance, but I, too, felt he had an odious personality.’ Pressing on, she said: ‘I would be interested to know the background of the situation. Why Lady Fortescue seems so bitterly opposed to Miss Scott, for example. The more we know, the sooner we’ll be able to uncover what happened, and why.’
‘I doubt if Mr Watling and Lady Fortescue are involved in any way with the dreadful things that have happened here, but you can be sure they’ll use them to attack Miss Scott.’
‘Why?’
Smith hesitated, obviously weighing up how much to reveal. Then she made up her mind.
‘I was here before Miss Scott came. I was secretary to her predecessor, Mr Danvers Hardwicke.’ She gave a sad sigh. ‘Such a dreadful tragedy.’
‘What happened?’
‘He drowned. He fell into Regent’s Canal. Everyone was shocked. He was such a nice man. Fortunately for me, Miss Scott was chosen to succeed him.’
‘You knew Miss Scott already?’
‘No, but I was familiar with William Watling. After Mr Hardwicke died, he made no secret of the fact that when – not if – he was appointed he’d get rid of me and employ a secretary of his own. A man. Mr Watling has no time for women at places of work, except in menial roles. Cleaners, that sort of thing.’