by Jim Eldridge
‘To be honest, Jeremy, we’re not sure that it does. We’re groping in the dark at the moment. But I promise you, when we know more, I’ll let you know.’
‘Please do. Especially if it’s bad news about Watling. I’d love to see him arrested for something, even if it’s using bad language in a place of worship.’
‘He was that bad at Ampleforth?’
‘Awful. He put my head down a toilet. That’s the sort of bully he was.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When Inspector Feather walked into his office at Scotland Yard the next morning he found a note on his desk in Superintendent Armstrong’s familiar handwriting: See me. He picked it up and cast a quizzical look at Jeremiah Cribbens, his detective sergeant.
‘He just walked in and put it there about five minutes ago,’ said Cribbens, puffing at his pipe and sending clouds from the evil-smelling shag tobacco he smoked around the office. ‘Didn’t even say good morning to me.’
‘Possibly he was afraid to open his mouth and breathe in that awful muck you pollute the place with,’ grunted Feather. He went to a window and opened it.
‘It’s my only pleasure,’ defended Cribbens. ‘It’s the only one I can afford on my pay.’
‘I’ll go and see what he wants,’ said Feather.
The superintendent was sitting at his desk leafing through a report and looking decidedly sour. But then, that seemed to be Armstrong’s standard demeanour, thought Feather.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
Armstrong gestured for Feather to sit.
‘This Simpson case,’ he snapped. ‘What’s the latest?’ He picked up a letter and showed it to Feather. ‘I had this from the commissioner demanding to know what we’re doing. That’s always the way when the top nobs are involved: we get interference.’
‘I’d hardly describe Raymond Simpson as a “top nob”, sir,’ said Feather.
‘I’m referring to the trustees of the museum. They want their reputation protected. Anything more on Erskine Petter? Have you laid hands on him yet?’
‘No, sir. And I went to see his business partner, Benny Wardle, in Wormwood Scrubs again yesterday, but he claims he doesn’t know what Petter’s been up to. He also refused to say if Petter had a hideaway.’
‘Refused,’ barked Armstrong, outraged. ‘I’ll give him refused. Put him on the treadmill and keep him there until he talks.’
‘I doubt if that will have much effect on Benny, sir. He’s an old lag. He’s more at home in prison than outside. He won’t talk. Also, it’s quite likely he may not know anything.’
‘But Petter’s his business partner.’
‘In name only, sir. Benny’s just Petter’s muscle.’
‘So, we’re nowhere.’ Armstrong scowled.
‘Not necessarily. I got a list of the staff of the Natural History Museum, to see if any of them had form of any sort.’
‘And had they?’
‘No, but two names struck me. Two of the cleaners, Dolly and Tess Tilly, mother and daughter. They were the ones who cleaned the small anteroom where the body of Simpson was found.’
‘And?’ asked Armstrong, intrigued.
‘It jogged something in my memory and yesterday I went back to our notes when we talked to Simpson about Oscar Wilde. He named three boys who he claimed had sexual relations with Wilde and his friends, and one of them was a Tom Tilly.’
‘Yes, he did, by Jove,’ exclaimed Armstrong. ‘I remember now. He killed himself, didn’t he?’
‘He did, sir. Hanged himself. I remember it because I was the one who had to go and tell his mother and sister the bad news. Dolly and Tess Tilly.’
The superintendent slammed his fist down on his desk excitedly.
‘That’s it, Inspector. It has to be them. Everything fits. Opportunity? They were there, in the room.’ He gave a triumphant laugh. ‘I knew it was connected to the Wilde case. I felt it in my bones. I admit I thought it was Stoker, but it’s still the same case with the same motive: revenge.’ He beamed happily. ‘Bring ’em in, Inspector.’
As Daniel and Abigail entered Scotland Yard they met John Feather and his sergeant walking across the marble floor of the reception area, heading for the exit.
‘John.’ Daniel smiled. He also smiled at Cribbens. ‘And good morning to you as well, Sergeant.’
‘Morning, Mr Wilson. And you too, Miss Fenton.’
‘You look like you’re off on important business.’
‘We are,’ said Feather. He turned to Cribbens and said: ‘Go to the stables and arrange a van for us.’
Cribbens nodded and headed off.
‘A van?’ said Daniel. ‘You’re making an arrest?’
‘Bringing in suspects for questioning in the Raymond Simpson case,’ said Feather.
‘Oh? Who?’
‘Dolly and Tess Tilly.’
‘No,’ burst out Abigail, shocked. ‘Not them, surely. Why?’
Feather told them of the connection with the case to Tom Tilly.
‘I remember them because I was the one who went to deliver the bad news about Tom killing himself.’
‘Because he’d been exposed by Raymond Simpson?’ asked Daniel.
Feather nodded.
‘Did you tell them that it was Simpson who’d told the police about Tom?’
‘No,’ said Feather. ‘I didn’t tell them why he’d killed himself, just that he had. But they could easily have found out the reason and blamed Simpson for his death. As the superintendent says, they had motive and they certainly had the opportunity. They were working in the room where his body was found. What did you make of them?’
‘I only spoke to them about the skeleton being smashed,’ said Daniel. ‘It was Abigail who saw them after Simpson’s body was found.’ He turned to her. ‘What do you think?’
She frowned. ‘They didn’t strike me as murderers,’ she said. Then she gave a sigh. ‘I hope it’s not them. I’m hoping it’ll be someone like that Petter man.’
‘Because he’s awful.’ Feather smiled. ‘But sadly, some of the nicest people turn out to be murderers.’
‘Talking of other suspects,’ said Daniel, ‘what did you feel about the death of Mr Hardwicke, the previous curator at the museum?’
‘The one who fell in the canal?’ said Feather. ‘What was there to feel about it? He fell in and drowned. It happens a lot, sadly.’
‘Nothing strike you as suspicious?’
Feather shook his head.
‘We had a witness who saw him fall in,’ he said.
‘Yes, William Watling,’ said Abigail. ‘Was there any suspicion that he may have pushed Hardwicke in?’
Feather stared at her. ‘William Watling? He’s an eminent scientist. A pillar of society, not some hooligan.’
‘What did Watling say?’
‘Hardwicke suddenly tripped and fell. He struck his head on the edge of the towpath and tumbled into the canal.’
‘Watling didn’t go in and try to save him?’
‘He can’t swim. At least, that’s what he told us. Also, Hardwicke disappeared completely beneath the surface, and you know what the water is like in the canal, it’s more like thick soup than water.’ He looked at them suspiciously. ‘What’s brought this on? And what’s this got to do with the murder of Raymond Simpson?’
Daniel turned to Abigail. ‘You tell him,’ he said. ‘You’re the one who unearthed it.’
Abigail told Feather what she’d learnt from Mrs Smith: Watling’s determination to become the curator at the museum, his anger at Miss Scott’s appointment, his gambling debts, his rages.
‘And I’ve also learnt that he was a champion swimmer when he was at school. Which gives the lie to his reason for not trying to rescue Hardwicke.’
‘So, you think he pushed Hardwicke into the canal?’
‘After first hitting him on the head,’ added Daniel.
Feather shook his head in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘No one would go that far just t
o get a job.’
‘People have done it before, John,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘One job going and two men after it. We’ve seen it. Remember Bert Brown and Colly Wethers.’
‘Yes, but that was about getting a stoker’s job at a factory.’
‘For a few pounds a week. The curator’s job at the Natural History Museum is worth much more, especially to someone desperate for money and social prestige.’
Again, Feather shook his head. ‘The coroner’s decision has already been made: Hardwicke died an accidental death. I can’t see the superintendent agreeing to open an investigation, especially with the class of people we’re talking about. And right now, everything’s about solving the Simpson murder. And I can’t see that being connected to William Watling.’
They were joined by Sergeant Cribbens. ‘The van’s ready, Inspector. The driver’s pulling it round to the front for us.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Feather. He nodded at Daniel and Abigail. ‘I’ll let you know what happens.’
‘By the way, John,’ said Daniel, ‘did you look into Mason Radley?’
‘Who?’ asked Feather.
‘The museum trustee. The one with the red hair and big beard.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Feather, suddenly remembering. ‘That other trustee told you he thought he’d seen him earlier at the museum than he’d claimed.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘No, I haven’t had a chance. And now I’ve got to bring in Dolly and Tess Tilly, who look more likely suspects.’
‘Do you mind if we look into him?’ asked Daniel. ‘Have a word with him?’
‘Not at all,’ said Feather. ‘In fact, I’d be grateful. I’ve got enough on my hands already.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Daniel and Abigail made their way back to the museum, where they sought out Mrs Smith. The secretary smiled brightly when she saw them enter her office, then asked, apprehensively: ‘Is there any news?’
‘We’re still looking at various lines of enquiry,’ Daniel told her. ‘One thing that would be useful is if you could let us have a list of the trustees, so we can check we’ve talked to everyone we need to.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘Would you also like their addresses?’
‘Just Mr Radley’s and Mr Turner’s for the moment,’ said Daniel. ‘We thought we’d start with the trustees who were here on the morning the body was found.’
‘And also Lady Fortescue’s, if you have it,’ added Abigail. ‘After my encounter with her the other day, I’d be interested to know more about her. Is she married?’
‘A widow,’ said Smith as she opened a drawer in her desk and took out some papers with the information they were after. ‘Her husband died in a tragic accident six months ago. He was cleaning his gun, and it went off and killed him.’
‘His gun?’
‘Lord Fortescue was a well-known sporting gentleman. Hunting, shooting and fishing. He was very much a mainstay of the establishment. So much so that his funeral was held at Westminster Cathedral.’
As Daniel and Abigail made their way to the address in Marylebone they’d been given for Mason Radley, their main topic of discussion was the facts they’d learnt about William Watling and Lady Elizabeth Fortescue.
‘We have two people who – if the rumour Mrs Smith alluded to is to be believed – are romantically entwined. And both their spouses died in tragic accidents within the last year,’ said Daniel.
‘And both Mr Watling and Lady Fortescue are Catholics, which means they would have been unable to divorce their spouses.’
‘How do you know they’re both Catholics?’ asked Daniel.
‘Watling went to Ampleforth college, which is a Catholic public school. Lord Fortescue’s funeral was held at Westminster Cathedral, which is Catholic. It’s Westminster Abbey which is Anglican.’
‘But some Catholics do divorce,’ pointed out Daniel.
‘Rarely at that level of society,’ countered Abigail.
‘So, what are we thinking? That they murdered their spouses so they could be together. If that’s the case, why aren’t they married already?’
‘Because they have to let a decent interval elapse.’
‘And what’s a decent interval?’
‘At that level, a year,’ said Abigail.
Daniel thought this over. ‘I must admit, I find the idea of an experienced sportsman like Lord Fortescue accidentally shooting himself while cleaning his gun to be unlikely.’
‘Murder?’
‘Or suicide,’ said Daniel. ‘Covered up as an accident because it is a mortal sin in the Catholic religion. But why would he commit suicide?’
‘Because he found out his wife was having an affair with Watling?’
‘It’s more likely he’d have shot Watling. Or his wife.’
‘So, it’s murder, then?’ said Abigail.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Daniel. He shook his head. ‘It’s all conjecture. We have no proof of anything. And, as John Feather pointed out, none of this is connected with the murder of Raymond Simpson.’
‘It is if it means that Watling and Lady Fortescue are capable of murder and killed Simpson as part of a plan to disgrace Miss Scott and have her dismissed.’
‘But no one mentioned seeing either of them at the museum around the time the body was discovered,’ said Daniel.
‘That doesn’t mean they couldn’t have hired someone else to carry out the killing,’ said Abigail. ‘From what Jeremy Swanton told me about Watling, he sounds just the sort of person to hire someone else to do his dirty work.’
Mason Radley’s house in Marylebone was large and expensive-looking, with Doric columns either side of a black oak front door, embellished with gleamingly polished brass door furniture. Their tug at the bell-pull was answered by a middle-aged woman dressed in a long apron.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘Good day,’ said Daniel. ‘My name is Mr Daniel Wilson, and this is Miss Abigail Fenton. We’ve been retained by the Natural History Museum to look into some events that have happened there recently and we’d like to talk about them with Mr Radley. Is he available?’
‘I’m afraid Mr Radley’s not here,’ said the woman.
‘Oh? Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘I don’t think he’ll be back for a while,’ said the woman. ‘He’s gone to India. He has plantations there. He said he had to go there at once. Something urgent.’
Daniel and Abigail exchanged puzzled looks, then Abigail asked: ‘When did he go?’
‘The day before yesterday,’ said the woman. ‘I’m his housekeeper, Mrs Walton.’
‘What time of day was it when he departed for India?’ asked Daniel.
Mrs Walton hesitated, and they could both see something was worrying her very deeply, then she said: ‘It must have been just before lunchtime, because I was preparing his meal for him, when he suddenly came home unexpectedly. “I’ve got to go, Mrs Walton,” he said. “Urgent business in India. If anyone asks for me, tell them that’s where I’ve gone.”
‘Then he packed a suitcase and went. Didn’t even attempt to have a taste of the meal I’d made for him. But then, he did look all of a dither, so whatever it was that had happened must have upset him.’
‘Did he take a large suitcase with him or a small one?’ asked Abigail. ‘We’re trying to get an idea of how long he expected to be away.’
‘A small one,’ said Mrs Walton. ‘But then, he has his own things out in India already, so he doesn’t need to take much.’
‘Does this happen often?’ asked Daniel. ‘Him having to go off to India all of a sudden like this?’
‘No, sir,’ said the housekeeper. ‘In fact, I’ve never known it before. So, whatever it is, I can only think it’s serious. I just hope everything’s all right out there when he arrives.’
‘Do you know where his plantations are in India?’ asked Daniel.
‘I’m afraid not, but his office will know.’
‘And do you have the address of
his office?’
‘Yes, sir. Portland Place. Number 30. Which isn’t far away. Easy walking distance, as Mr Radley says.’
‘And the name of the company?’
‘Anglo-India Tea.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Walton,’ said Daniel, doffing his hat.
As they walked away, Daniel remarked: ‘She seemed very worried. Much more than her words. Did you notice how she kept twisting her hands together?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Abigail. ‘She’s frightened. Do you think she knows something?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Daniel. ‘I feel she was deeply worried about Radley.’
‘I think you’re right,’ agreed Abigail, adding: ‘India? All of a sudden? Within a few hours of Raymond Simpson’s body being found dead at the museum and Dawson Turner saying in front of you that he was sure he saw Radley early that morning at the museum.’
‘Do you think it’s that simple?’ asked Daniel. ‘That Radley killed Simpson, and once he realised that Turner had spotted him, he decided to make a run for it? But why would he want to kill Simpson?’
‘Perhaps we’ll find the answer at his office.’
In the interrogation room at Scotland Yard, Inspector Feather sat beside the bulky figure of Superintendent Armstrong. Across the bare wooden table on the opposite side sat Dolly and Tess Tilly, mother and daughter pressed arm and arm against one another for comfort, their hands clasped together. Behind them stood a uniformed police constable. They both looked terrified, although the fear showed more openly on the face of Tess. How old was she? Feather struggled to remember. Twenty? Twenty-one? She didn’t look much older than that.
‘The prisoners will separate from one another,’ growled Armstrong. ‘I don’t want any hand signals between you while I’m asking questions. So, come on, move those chairs apart.’
Dolly Tilly, protective of her daughter, although fearful, gave a hateful look at Armstrong, then slowly disentangled her hand from Tess’s and shuffled her chair a few feet away.