by Jim Eldridge
‘How do you know all of this?’ asked Daniel.
‘How do you know that if a diamond robbery is carried out it’s likely the work of a particular nefarious underworld character with a name like Jimmy Jeweller?’
‘There’s no such person,’ said Daniel.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘It’s the world I live in and have experience of,’ said Daniel.
‘Then the same applies to me,’ said Abigail.
‘But you and I both live in the same world,’ said Daniel.
‘As far as detecting goes,’ agreed Abigail. ‘But I have other interests. Archaeology, obviously. Theatre. Music. The arts. And I satisfy that interest by reading about them in magazines.’
‘We could go to the theatre if you’d like,’ suggested Daniel.
‘You would hate it,’ said Abigail.
‘That depends on what it was,’ said Daniel. ‘A Shakespeare might be all right, so long as it wasn’t too wordy.’
‘The whole point of Shakespeare is his wordiness,’ said Abigail with a smile. ‘How about opera?’
‘If it was in English,’ said Daniel. ‘And funny.’
‘I think you’re talking about Gilbert and Sullivan,’ said Abigail. ‘They’re more “comic operetta”. Most opera is in Italian.’
‘So you can’t understand the jokes.’
‘There are very few jokes in classic opera,’ said Abigail.
‘So, it’s Gilbert and Sullivan, or possibly a less-wordy Shakespeare,’ said Daniel.
‘It’s a start,’ said Abigail. ‘And now, I shall head for the British Museum and see if Sir Jasper’s available, and then I’ll make for University College to see Jeremy. Shall we meet at home?’
‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘I was going to suggest going to Scotland Yard and catching up with John Feather to see what he’s been up to. But in view of your very crowded afternoon, I think it might be better to leave that till the morning.’
‘You could always go and see him while I’m at the museum and University College,’ suggested Abigail.
‘True, but it’ll be better if we both see him after you’ve gathered your information about William Watling.’ He leant forward and kissed her. ‘I’ll see you at home.’
Once again, John Feather was in the interrogation room facing Benny Wardle across the table, with the same grim-faced guard in attendance.
‘Two visits in two days, Inspector?’ Wardle grinned. ‘Someone must be on your back big time.’
‘Superintendent Armstrong and I paid a visit to your partner after I saw you yesterday.’
Wardle scowled at the mention of Armstrong’s name. ‘Don’t talk about that man to me. He was the one who put me in here.’
‘Not personally, he didn’t,’ Feather pointed out. ‘I rather thought that was the result of you and Billy beating up the Maxwell brothers.’
‘He was having me watched. That’s persecution, that is.’
‘You were being watched because of the things you’d been getting up to.’
Wardle shrugged. ‘Yes, well, that may be. Anyway, did you give Erskine my message?’
‘I didn’t have the opportunity,’ said Feather. ‘He’d done a runner.’
Wardle frowned.
‘A runner?’
‘Scarpered. Locked up the office and vanished, telling the butcher downstairs he didn’t know when he’d be back. We recovered most of the correspondence we were after, but there was no sign of any money, which definitely makes us think he’s gone for good.’
Wardle looked at Feather uncomfortably.
‘So, that’s why I’m here today, Benny, to ask: where’s the money kept?’
‘What money?’ muttered Wardle.
‘The income for Petter and Wardle. I assume some money came into the company.’
‘Erskine looked after that.’
‘So, where did he put it? In a bank? Under his mattress?’
‘Like I say, that was his side of the business.’
‘So long as you got paid, you didn’t bother. Is that right?’
Wardle nodded in agreement.
‘But I’m guessing no money’s come your way while you’ve been in here. And as your brother is here as well, I doubt if Erskine popped in and paid him either. And you haven’t got a wife and family he’d have given it to. So, what’s happened to your share, Benny?’
Wardle glowered at the detective.
‘Erskine will see me right,’ he growled.
‘Well, he hasn’t done so far, not since you’ve been in the Scrubs,’ said Feather. ‘And now it looks like he’s done a runner. Any bets he’s taken your money with him and left you high and dry?’ When Wardle didn’t say anything, just sat and scowled at him, Feather added: ‘Where’s his hidey hole, Benny? He’s gone to ground somewhere, with the money he owes you and Billy. Don’t you think you ought to try and lay your hands on it? We can do that for you if you tell me where he’s hiding.’
Wardle glared at him.
‘I’ve never been a snitch,’ he said, curtly.
‘I’m not asking you to inform on him,’ said Feather. ‘All we want to do is ask him some questions about those dinosaur skeletons.’
Wardle shook his head. ‘Don’t you worry, he’ll see me right. Me and Billy both.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sir Jasper Stone, Executive Curator-in-Charge at the British Museum, greeted Abigail with a hearty handshake and a warm smile of welcome as she entered his office.
‘Miss Fenton. What a pleasure to see you again.’ His face clouded as he added: ‘Although I wish it were in better circumstances. Miss Scott wrote to me and told me she had hired you and Mr Wilson to look into the recent tragedies there.’
‘Yes. Fortunately, Miss Scott is very supportive, as you were when we were here, which makes our work a little easier. But, alas, the murder is still a mystery.’
‘Dreadful.’ Stone sighed. ‘And it seems inexplicable. For someone to have killed this poor attendant in the short space of time between the cleaning staff leaving and the guests arriving – a matter of minutes.’
‘Indeed,’ said Abigail. ‘But we are following some interesting lines of enquiry. However, that’s not the reason I’ve come to see you today.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No. I’ve been considering writing an article for a magazine about our work excavating the pyramids at Giza, and I’d very much like to mention the importance the British Museum had on our work.’
Sir Jasper smiled in obvious delight.
‘Why, that is so flattering.’
‘Flattery has nothing to do with it,’ said Abigail. ‘Without the support and expertise of the British Museum so many archaeological discoveries would never have happened. But first I wanted to check that such a piece would have the approval of the British Museum. I’m aware that the trustees would need to give their consent.’
‘I don’t see that as being a problem,’ said Stone, confidently. ‘They, too, will always be eternally grateful for your work here, not just as an archaeologist but as a detective. And you know most of them already.’
‘True,’ said Abigail. ‘But it’s possible that some trustees may be recent appointments who are unfamiliar with me, and I with them.’
Stone gave a friendly laugh.
‘You do yourself a disservice, Miss Fenton. None of the trustees will be unfamiliar with you and your work.’
‘Out of curiosity, who are the recent additions to the board? Just in case I may know them.’
‘Let me see,’ mused Stone, thoughtfully. ‘There have been two new appointees in the last six months, both replacing previous trustees who sadly passed away.’
‘Yes, Sir Gerald Tubb and Mr Mitchum Wells,’ said Abigail. ‘I saw their obituaries in the newspapers. Both very good men and absolutely dedicated to the work of the museum.’
‘Their replacements are Lord Carlisle of Derby and Professor Challenger from the University College of London.’
‘Then I’m sure you’ll have his full approval. And I have no doubt the same will be true of Lord Carlisle. Although his interest is mainly in the cultures of South America, the Maya, Inca and Aztec, which has led to some interesting acquisitions for us. In particular, some crystal skulls.’
‘I would be most interested in seeing them.’
‘At the moment they are in storage while we determine how best to display them,’ said Stone. ‘But once they are on show I will make sure I send a message to inform you.’
‘Thank you, Sir Jasper. I look forward to that.’ Then a pensive look crossed her face and she said: ‘Actually, and forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, I met one of the Natural History Museum’s trustees recently. A Lady Fortescue.’
‘Ah,’ said Stone, warily. ‘Lady Fortescue. Yes. A very … energetic lady.’
Abigail smiled. ‘Energetic indeed, Sir Jasper. To be honest, I found her a little too energetic. She is a woman of very strong opinions.’
‘She is,’ agreed Stone, his tone still wary.
‘She talked at some length and with some passion, in support of William Watling.’
‘Ah,’ said Stone, ruefully. ‘He was … ah … a candidate to be the curator at the Natural History Museum after Mr Hardwicke’s tragic accident.’
‘Yes, so I understand. But, although I can’t say that I know him, and it’s therefore difficult for me to judge, I have been very impressed by Miss Scott. I believe she is an ideal choice as curator.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘As I say, I don’t really know Mr Watling. All I know of him is that he is an eminent anthropologist and that he was widowed a few months ago.’
Stone nodded. ‘Correct on both fronts.’
‘His wife must have died young,’ mused Abigail.
‘Yes. She was only thirty,’ said Stone. He looked sad. ‘She drowned.’
‘Drowned?’
‘In the bath at home. She must have had a seizure of some sort and slipped down beneath the water. A dreadful tragedy. Made worse for Mr Watling by the fact that it was he who found her.’
Daniel’s route home took him along St Pancras Way, past St Pancras railway station and heading for the junction with Crowndale Road and Royal College Street. Often, he took unfamiliar routes home just to observe different areas, but today he’d taken a deliberate detour to take him past the workhouse where he’d spent much of his childhood. He’d often walked along this road over the years, and usually he’d ignored the large red-brick building with its two rows of high, narrow, barred windows. But his conversation about his past with Abigail had brought up memories that he’d done his best to forget. Looking at the workhouse again, the memory of walking into it with his mother, brother and sister all those years ago, when he was seven years old, came back to him as clear as the day it had happened. Then this road had been called Kings Road. He couldn’t remember when the name had been changed to St Pancras Way. Had that happened while he was imprisoned here? No, ‘imprisoned’ was possibly being unfair, but that’s what it had felt like to him.
He hadn’t known why they had come to this place, all he knew was that his mother was carrying his baby sister, Lou – for Louisa – and his brother, Harry, nine years old, was holding Daniel’s hand as they walked into the entrance where they were met by a tall, strict-looking man.
They were taken to a room where they were all examined by a nurse. Then their clothes were taken from them, and he and Harry had each been issued with a striped shirt made of a rough material, a grey jacket with matching short trousers and heavy boots. He and Harry had been taken to a large room with lots of beds in it and allocated a bed each. This was the ward for boys under fourteen.
His mother was sent to the women’s ward. Lou was allowed to stay with their mother because she was still a baby, under two years old.
Daniel had no memories of life in the workhouse, except for picking oakum – a dirty task which consisted of tearing apart old ropes and collecting the fibres of hemp. The work made his fingers and thumbs bleed at first, but gradually the skin hardened up.
He barely saw his mother and Lou, and then only at a distance. The women ate separately from the men and boys. They walked around the outside exercise yards at a separate time to them too.
When Daniel was nine, after two years at the workhouse, he and Harry were summoned to the superintendent’s office where they were told their mother and sister were dead. Sickness, they were told. There was a lot of sickness at the workhouse. Typhus, Daniel discovered later, caused by foul air, the lack of proper ventilation and poor sanitation. The next year, Harry got sick, as did many of the boys in their ward, including Daniel. Ten boys died. Among them was Harry. Daniel survived. Why? It was a question that had haunted him ever since.
He’d stayed a further two years at the workhouse, and then signed himself out. Now twelve years old, he could do that. The board of the workhouse didn’t object; on the contrary, they encouraged people to leave because it was less of a drain on the public purse. And so, Daniel had gone out into the world vowing two things: he would survive and never again would he pick oakum.
He looked again at the huge red-brick building where he’d spent those miserable years, a time and memories he’d blotted out of his mind until now, then turned and walked away. That was the past. It was dead and gone. Now there was the future. With Abigail.
Abigail was relieved to find that Jeremy Swanton was in and available, when she called at the large white building that housed University College London. She remembered Jeremy as someone who was always busy, always occupied, so she’d half expected him to be lecturing or tutoring students, or out at one of the many committees he seemed to be on. The man on duty at the reception desk sent a note to Swanton to inform him that Miss Abigail Fenton was here, if he was able to see her, and within minutes the short, rather plump but very energetic figure of Jeremy Swanton appeared.
‘Abigail. This is a surprise. And a very welcome one. It must be – what? – a year since I last saw you?’
‘Indeed, at that reception at the British Museum,’ said Abigail. ‘I was last here six months ago to see Charles Winter and I checked to see if you were in, but you were out doing good works somewhere.’
Swanton chuckled. ‘An exaggeration,’ he said. ‘I just did a couple of days helping Thomas Barnardo at one of the ragged schools he’s set up for street urchins. Orphans mostly. Wonderful chap, Barnardo. Do you know him?’
‘No, although I know of him and his work. He seems an exceptional man.’
‘He is. Do you know he’s been helping these orphans for nearly thirty years? Thirty years!’ Then he smiled. ‘Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to me wax lyrical about Barnardo. What can I do for you? And would it be nicer to chat in my room, where we can have a cup of coffee?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Abigail.
A short while later they were ensconced in Swanton’s room, a study where the shelves and every available space seemed to be piled with essays and papers from students.
‘How are your students?’ asked Abigail. She gestured at the shelves. ‘They certainly seem to keep you busy.’
‘They’re not all current,’ said Swanton. ‘Some of the really good pieces of work I keep for reference. Fortunately, the students seem happy to make a copy for me.’ He chuckled again and added: ‘They think it puts them in my good books and will get them a better mark.’ He sipped at his coffee, then asked: ‘So, how can I help you?’
‘I’ve come to delve into your memory,’ said Abigail, ‘concerning Ampleforth.’
‘Ampleforth?’ Swanton frowned. ‘What’s my old school got to do with it?’
‘Were you there at the same time as William Watling?’
‘The anthropologist? Yes, I was, as a matter of fact.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Not a very nice boy, as I recall. A bit of a bully.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘What’s this to do with? Has he been up to something bad? Is he being investigated?’ He gave her a conspiratorial smile. ‘You can’t deny that you and your erstwhile partner, former Scotland Yard Detective Inspector Daniel Wilson, have started to feature prominently in the newspapers of late. The Museum Detectives?’
Abigail sighed. ‘The press often exaggerates.’
‘But I did read a report this morning about a body being found at the Natural History Museum. Murdered, by all accounts. And it’s well known on the academic gossip mill that Watling was very keen to be appointed curator at the Natural History Museum after poor Hardwicke died. So, do you suspect Watling of being involved in some way?’
Abigail smiled. ‘You should have been a detective yourself. The answer is … perhaps. But then, it’s pure guesswork at the moment, and I’m sure he’s perfectly innocent of any wrongdoing, so please don’t pass this on to anyone else. As you say, there is a gossip mill that can get very active.’
‘My lips are sealed, I promise you,’ Swanton assured her. ‘So, how can I help you with Watling? I doubt if I can be of much use. I didn’t like him at school so took pains to avoid him, and I like him even less as an adult so he and I rarely meet socially and then only at a distance.’
‘Do you know if he can swim?’ asked Abigail.
‘Swim?’ Swanton laughed. ‘My God, like a fish. Swimming champion of the school, in fact. He was always top at all sorts of sports. He was good at anything physical and he knew it. Why?’
‘Nothing,’ said Abigail. ‘It’s just a line of enquiry we’re following up.’
Swanton gave a laugh. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Abigail, with platitudes like that, you’re sounding like a Scotland Yard plod. And how does whether or not he can swim connect to this dead body at the Natural History Museum?’