Murder at the Natural History Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Don’t worry, Tess,’ she muttered. ‘I’m still here. I won’t let them hurt you.’ And she added, with a challenging look at Armstrong and Feather, ‘And we haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘No?’ said Armstrong. ‘We know you killed Raymond Simpson because of what he did to Tom.’

  Both Tess and Dolly stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘Tom?’ said Dolly. She looked at Tess, who sat with her mouth open in a state of bewilderment, before turning back to Armstrong. ‘We were told he killed himself. Are you saying now that Simpson killed him? That he killed our Tom?’

  ‘No, Tom killed himself, but you know that it was because of Raymond Simpson,’ said Armstrong, firmly.

  They looked back at him, even more bewildered than ever.

  ‘We don’t know what you’re talking about. What had Tom got to do with Raymond Simpson?’

  ‘The trial,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘What trial?’ asked Tess.

  ‘The trial of Oscar Wilde? For gross indecency?’

  They stared at him, horrified.

  ‘Are you trying to say that Tom—?’ began Dolly, angrily.

  ‘He killed himself because of what came out at the trial about him. And that only came out because Raymond Simpson told on him, and you know that.’

  ‘We didn’t know that,’ cried out Tess, and then she burst into tears.

  ‘Of course you did,’ snapped Armstrong. ‘It was in all the papers.’

  ‘We don’t read the papers,’ said Dolly. ‘We can’t read.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ barked the superintendent. ‘It was public knowledge. Someone must have said something to you about it.’

  Feather gave a discreet cough, then said quietly: ‘Could I see you outside for a moment, Superintendent?’

  ‘Now?’ demanded Armstrong, impatiently.

  ‘Just for a moment, sir. It is important.’

  Armstrong scowled. He stood up and snapped at the constable: ‘Keep an eye on ’em.’

  Feather followed Armstrong out of the room into the corridor.

  ‘What do you mean by interrupting an interrogation like that?’ demanded Armstrong, angrily.

  ‘Tom Tilly never made the papers, sir. He was going to be called to give evidence, but he killed himself before he was due to appear. Simpson named him, but only to us. We passed his name to the prosecutor, but it never got to the public.’

  ‘So? He was their family. They must have known what was going on – he lived with them.’

  ‘If you remember, sir, he didn’t live with them. He hadn’t done for six months before he died. He was in lodgings.’

  Armstrong stared at Feather. ‘But you said it was them. You said they were the ones who most likely did it.’

  ‘No, sir, I said their names came up when I was looking through the evidence. Like you, when I saw their names on the list, I thought it was likely that someone had told them about why he killed himself and about Raymond Simpson. But now I’ve seen them … I’m not so sure, sir.’

  ‘Don’t start going soft, Inspector. It is them. It’s got to be.’

  ‘I think, sir, we have to find out if they knew about Simpson and Tom. We need to talk to their neighbours and the other cleaners at the museum, find out if anything was said that connected the two men. Otherwise, it could be just a coincidence. Maybe they’re telling the truth. Maybe they didn’t know about the connection.’

  Armstrong stood, his mind in a state of ferment, the side of his face twitching in agitation.

  ‘It’s got to be them,’ he hissed. ‘It all fits.’

  ‘But not if they didn’t know about Simpson naming Tom.’

  Armstrong looked so furious that for a moment Feather thought the superintendent was going to strike him. Finally, Armstrong appeared to bring his rage under control.

  ‘Go and talk to the neighbours, Inspector,’ he grated between his clenched teeth. ‘Find the evidence that says they knew. Until then they’re remaining in custody. Once we’ve got the word of someone who says they did know about Simpson and Tom, then I’ll force confessions out of them.’

  Number 30 Portland Place was a smart four-storey building in a plush terrace, every one of which seemed to house offices. The offices of Anglo-India Tea were on the second floor, a neat and tidy suite of rooms with smartly dressed staff, both men and women, at desks working on papers of various sorts, mostly orders and invoices, from what Daniel and Abigail could make out as they entered the first and largest room. A severe-looking man dressed in a suit of clerical black and a stiff white starched shirt approached them.

  ‘May I help you?’ he asked.

  Daniel introduced themselves, adding: ‘We’re here to ask some questions about Mr Radley. We understand he’s out of the country at the moment, in India.’

  The man gave a puzzled frown.

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘I am Septimus Sprigg, I’m Mr Radley’s office manager, and he never said anything to me about going to India.’

  ‘That’s what his housekeeper, Mrs Walton, told us,’ said Daniel. ‘That Mr Radley has gone to India as a matter of urgency, that he left the day before yesterday.’

  Mr Sprigg remained unconvinced.

  ‘Mr Radley called here the day before yesterday and informed me that he would have to be away for a few days, possibly a week, but he never mentioned anything about going to India. Is it possible that Mrs Walton misheard him?’

  ‘She seemed very sure,’ said Abigail. ‘We need to get in touch with him, so we’ve come to ask for the addresses of his plantations in India.’

  ‘I can certainly give you them, and by all means you’re welcome to write to him there. But your letter will take some time to arrive, and – as I said – I’m not even sure he is in India.’

  ‘Do you know where else he might have gone?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘No,’ said Sprigg. ‘When he last came here all he said was he would be away for a few days, just as I told you. I didn’t ask him where he was going, it wasn’t my place to enquire, and if he’d thought I needed to know he would have told me.’

  As Sprigg talked, Daniel’s attention was caught by a tall, very thin young man who seemed very uncomfortable. He had left his desk and moved to a set of filing cabinets nearer to where Daniel and Abigail stood with Sprigg, and although he had opened one of the filing cabinet’s drawers, Daniel was fairly sure he wasn’t involved in looking at any of the papers inside; it was merely in order to eavesdrop.

  ‘I see,’ said Daniel. ‘Would you excuse us one moment? I need to discuss something with my colleague.’

  Sprigg nodded, and Daniel led Abigail outside into the common passageway.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Abigail, curious.

  ‘Did you see the tall young man by the filing cabinets?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘No,’ said Abigail. ‘I was concentrating on Mr Sprigg.’ She gave him a quizzical smile and asked: ‘Your policeman’s nose?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s definitely twitching.’ said Daniel. ‘Keep an eye on him this time.’

  They returned to the office. The young man had returned to his desk, and Daniel noticed that now he kept his head firmly down, eyes fixed on the papers.

  ‘Him,’ whispered Daniel to Abigail, gesturing to the young man. Then he turned to Sprigg. ‘I wonder if it would be possible for us to have a word with your staff?’ he asked. ‘In case some of them may have any information that may help us.’

  ‘I don’t see—’ began Sprigg, stiffly.

  ‘As I explained, we are here on behalf of the Natural History Museum where Mr Radley is a trustee, and we’re fairly sure that Mr Radley would expect us to leave no stone unturned in order to get an urgent message to him. It will be important to him.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Sprigg, with reluctance. ‘But I would appreciate it if you could carry it out with the least possible disturbance.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. He pointed at the young man whose head was bowed over his desk.
‘I just wish to talk to that young man. What is his name?’

  Sprigg looked surprised. ‘That’s Simon Purcell,’ he said. ‘Why do you think he can help?’

  ‘Simon Purcell. Thank you.’

  At the mention of his name the young man looked up, and now Daniel saw fear in his face as he approached him.

  ‘Mr Purcell—’ he began.

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ said Purcell, defensively.

  ‘An interesting response, as I haven’t asked you anything yet,’ said Daniel.

  ‘What’s this about?’ demanded Purcell, aggressively. ‘I don’t have to answer your questions.’ He suddenly shot a look at the clock. ‘Anyway, I have to go. I have an appointment.’

  He stood up, and Daniel could now see he was agitated, his movements nervous and jerky. Sprigg stared at him ‘What appointment?’ he demanded. ‘You never said anything to me about an appointment.’

  ‘I was going to,’ said Purcell. He tried to push past Daniel. ‘I have to leave.’

  Daniel blocked his path.

  ‘Mr Purcell, we’ve been engaged by the Natural History Museum to look into the murder of Raymond Simpson,’ he said. ‘To that end we’re working with the police, who’ve asked us to bring things we’d like investigated to their attention. We’d very much appreciate it if you’d come with us to Scotland Yard …’

  ‘No!’ shouted the young man. ‘You’ve got no authority. You’re not police. You can’t stop me from leaving.’

  ‘I can,’ said Daniel. ‘If necessary—’

  The young man didn’t give Daniel time to finish. He lashed out with his foot, kicking Daniel in the shin. As Daniel fell back in pain the young man rushed for the door, but before he could get there, Abigail had grabbed him by one arm, then swung him sharply so that he crashed face first into a wall. He kicked out at her, but she nimbly dodged his flying foot and pulled his arm up behind his back, twisting it. He gave a cry of pain.

  ‘Try any more kicks and I’ll break your arm,’ Abigail hissed at him.

  Sprigg, along with the rest of the staff, stared at Abigail and Purcell, open-mouthed, shocked.

  Daniel got to his feet and limped across the office.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sprigg,’ he said, politely. ‘And we are very sorry for the interruption.’

  He opened the door, and Abigail forced Purcell out with further pressure on his twisted arm.

  ‘Well done,’ Daniel complimented her. ‘And now to find a hansom cab.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  John Feather sat at his desk and wrote the address of Dolly and Tess Tilly on a piece of paper, watched by Sergeant Cribbens.

  ‘Go to the nick by Paddington Station and see the station sergeant,’ Feather instructed his sergeant. ‘Tell him you need a word with the beat copper who does the area around where the Tillys live.’ He slid the piece of paper across the desk to Cribbens. ‘He’s to ask around amongst their neighbours and people who know them and find out if the two women knew why Tom Tilly killed himself. Any gossip, any information at all. And if there was ever any mention of Raymond Simpson, either from them or from Tom Tilly when he was living with them.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Cribbens. ‘In fact, there’s a mate of mine, Jim Bunn, who works out of Paddington nick. I’ll have a word with him as well. Sometimes the local coppers will mention something to one of their own they won’t say to Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Very true. Good thinking, Sergeant.’

  After the sergeant left on his mission, Feather studied the list of museum employees again, especially the names of the cleaners. Maybe, if the Tillys hadn’t talked to their neighbours, they might have said something to one of the other cleaners. He’d need to talk to them.

  There was a knock at the door which opened, and Daniel and Abigail appeared, ushering in a tall, thin young man with a sullen expression on his face and a bruise around his right eye. Feather noticed that Abigail and Daniel were each holding the man by one of his wrists.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Abigail. ‘We have someone we think it might be worth your talking to.’

  ‘I don’t know anything!’ shouted the young man. ‘These people attacked me!’

  ‘His name’s Simon Purcell, and he works at the offices of Mason Radley’s tea company,’ continued Abigail. ‘Unfortunately, he tried to run away when we began to talk to him, so we were forced to restrain him.’

  Hence the black eye. Feather smiled silently to himself.

  ‘Mason Radley. That’s the trustee you mentioned,’ said Feather. ‘The tea plantation owner.’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Daniel. ‘It seems that Mr Radley has disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘Run away to India, according to his housekeeper. And we have a feeling that Mr Purcell here has information about why.’

  Feather got up from his desk, went to his door and summoned a nearby constable.

  ‘Constable, take this young man down to the cells.’

  ‘You can’t lock me up!’ shouted Purcell. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong!’

  ‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,’ said Feather.

  The constable took the frightened Purcell away, holding one of his arms in a firm grip, and Feather gestured to Daniel and Abigail to sit.

  ‘Letting him stew to soften him up?’ asked Daniel.

  Feather grinned. ‘There’s nothing like sitting in a prison cell for a short while, listening to the sound of boots in the corridor, keys being turned in the locks, to loosen someone’s tongue. Especially if they’re new to it, and this character Purcell looks to me like he’s just that.’

  ‘Not an old lag, I agree,’ said Daniel.

  ‘So, tell me what prompted you to bring him in?’

  ‘You remember I told you that another trustee, Mr Turner, said he thought he saw Mason Radley at the museum around the time that Raymond Simpson’s body was discovered?’

  Feather nodded. ‘And I asked you to have a word with him.’

  ‘We also intend to talk to Turner, but first we went to Radley’s house, where his housekeeper told us that he’d suddenly left for India the day before yesterday, just before lunchtime. In other words, soon after the discovery of the body.’

  ‘Suspicious,’ said Feather.

  ‘We went to his offices to see if they could give us the address of his tea plantations in India, in case there was a way of contacting him through the authorities there. But while we were there, I felt there was something suspicious about one of the clerks. He was edgy, and I felt it was to do with Radley.’

  ‘Daniel’s policeman’s nose.’ Abigail smiled.

  ‘I went to talk to him, but he turned nasty. Kicked me in the leg and tried to flee.’

  ‘So, you blacked his eye,’ said Feather.

  ‘No, that was me,’ said Abigail. ‘Not deliberate, I assure you. It happened as I stopped him trying to escape.’

  ‘From what you’ve said, he certainly needs looking into. And this Mason Radley.’

  ‘How did you get on with Dolly and Tess Tilly?’ asked Abigail.

  Feather gave an unhappy sigh. ‘Not well,’ he admitted. ‘They say they didn’t know anything about why Tom Tilly killed himself, or Raymond Simpson having anything to do with him. I’m convinced they’re innocent, but I can’t persuade the superintendent. He insists they’re lying, that they must have known. But Tom Tilly hadn’t been living with them for six months before he killed himself, so it strikes me as quite likely they didn’t know what he was up to or who he was mixing with. I’ve sent Sergeant Cribbens to Paddington nick to check out their story among their neighbours and acquaintances, then I thought I’d have a word with the other cleaners at the museum to see if they can back up their story.’

  ‘How did they take being arrested?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘They were terrified,’ replied Feather. ‘They’ve never been in this kind of situation before.’

  ‘Do you mind if I have a word with them?�
�� asked Abigail. ‘I’d be a friendly and sympathetic ear. They sound like they need one.’

  ‘That would be good,’ said Feather. ‘Thanks.’ He stood up. ‘In fact, I’ll arrange for someone to bring Dolly and Tess up to my office for you to talk to them. Nicer surroundings.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ asked Abigail. ‘I don’t want to force you out of your own office.’

  ‘While you talk to them, Daniel and I can go to the cells and have a word with Mr Purcell. Much less comfortable surroundings there. More intimidating. What do you say, Daniel?’

  ‘Yes, but be careful of him; he kicks.’

  ‘Not here, he won’t,’ said Feather. ‘Not with a burly constable standing guard over him.’

  The door to Feather’s office opened, and the two Tilly women were ushered into Abigail’s presence by a uniformed constable. Tess looked scared, Dolly wary and suspicious. Dolly was holding Tess firmly by the hand.

  ‘Thank you, Constable,’ said Abigail. ‘You may go now.’

  The constable frowned, unhappy with this instruction. ‘Are you sure, miss?’ he asked. ‘These are prisoners. They could be dangerous.’

  ‘I am certain,’ said Abigail. ‘If I need any assistance, I shall call.’

  The constable hesitated, still uncertain, then left, pulling the door shut behind him.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ said Abigail, gesturing at the two chairs she’d placed near her own so that they were close to one another, rather than facing across the desk. Gingerly, the two women sat, Dolly’s suspicious look firmly on Abigail.

  ‘You may remember I came to see you with Mr Sharp,’ said Abigail.

  Dolly nodded.

  ‘I am here to try and get you released,’ said Abigail, and at these words Tess suddenly burst into tears. Dolly put her arm around her daughter and pulled her close.

  ‘Wait, Tess,’ she said. ‘We ain’t out yet.’ She looked at Abigail challengingly and said: ‘There’s a “but”, ain’t there?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Abigail. ‘The inspector you were with before, Inspector Feather, I feel he believes you and that you had nothing to do with the death of Raymond Simpson.’