Murder at the Natural History Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘And this Mason Radley was seen at the museum the morning Simpson was killed,’ mused Armstrong, thoughtfully.

  ‘But I still can’t see the connection yet, if there is one,’ said Feather.

  ‘How did you get on with Wilde?’ asked Armstrong. ‘You saw him this afternoon at Wandsworth, is that right?’

  ‘It is,’ said Feather.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He didn’t give up any names,’ said Feather.

  ‘You gave him the offer? Leniency in his treatment?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And he still gave nothing?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘How did he look?’

  ‘Ill,’ replied Feather. ‘In fact, very ill.’

  Armstrong looked pensive. ‘Maybe you should have taken one of his friends with you. They might have been able to persuade him.’

  ‘I did, sir. Mr Stoker came with me.’

  Armstrong stared at him, stunned. ‘Stoker? How did you manage that?’

  ‘I asked him. Or, to be exact, Daniel Wilson asked him.’

  ‘Wilson,’ burst out Armstrong, angrily. ‘You brought Wilson in?’

  ‘Because I thought it might help if a friend of Wilde’s was present. It might encourage him to cooperate. But I knew that Stoker wouldn’t go with me if I asked him. He feels animosity towards the police. But he seems better disposed towards Wilson, possibly because he’s no longer part of the force. And Wilson does seem to be able to persuade the most unlikely people to cooperate.’

  ‘He can’t be trusted, Inspector.’ Armstrong scowled. ‘He’s too much of a maverick. A wild card.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather.

  Armstrong fell silent, thinking this over. Finally, he said: ‘Well, if that’s a dead end, that once again leaves this Mason Radley as the most likely suspect. You think he’s still in this country?’

  ‘Unless he used a false name and took a circuitous route to get to India, I think it’s highly likely he’s holed up somewhere more local.’

  ‘Right. Find a picture of him and put it in all the papers. Offer a reward. But keep looking for the Wardle brothers. There’s still a chance it could be them. This way we cover all the bases. The last thing we want is to find for certain it wasn’t the Wardle brothers and this Radley character has had the time to get away.’

  Daniel and Abigail sat either side of the kitchen range in their home, basking in the glow from the coals, each sipping a post-meal tot: for Daniel it was a whisky, for Abigail, a brandy. Daniel looked up from his newspaper at Abigail immersed in her reading.

  ‘What’s the book?’ he asked.

  ‘The story of Mary Anning and her work in Dorset,’ replied Abigail, showing him the cover. ‘She barely left Lyme Regis, but what she achieved was incredible. It’s absolutely fascinating.’

  ‘You’re cramming in case you get asked any questions?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘If there are any questions then Cedric Warmsley will be the one answering,’ said Abigail. ‘It’s just that, as I’m the one introducing the evening, I want to have some knowledge about her at my fingertips in case I’m collared after the talk’s over. You know how it can be at these events, people eager to talk about a subject dear to their hearts.’

  ‘Fortunately for me, giving talks to audiences is something I haven’t had to do.’ Daniel smiled. ‘Unlike a celebrity such as your own good self.’

  ‘I’m not a celebrity,’ responded Abigail, curtly.

  ‘Yes, you are, my darling,’ said Daniel. ‘Miss Scott said so. You are the name on the marquee to draw in the crowds.’

  ‘You make me sound like Marie Lloyd,’ complained Abigail.

  Daniel laughed. ‘Now that would be something different, for you to break into a risqué song partway through a lecture on the pyramids of Egypt.’

  ‘Thankfully, I can never see that happening,’ said Abigail. She put down her book and said, ‘I can sense you have something on your mind.’

  ‘The mention of a risqué song?’ Daniel chuckled, archly. ‘You are suggesting I have lecherous intentions towards you?’

  Abigail smiled. ‘I hope so. But no, I can see you’re thinking about the case.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘I am,’ he said. His face clouded as he added: ‘Recent events puzzle me because they don’t add up.’

  ‘You mean this business of the search for Mason Radley?’ she asked. She pointed at his newspaper. ‘Scotland Yard must have moved with great speed to get his image in the late edition of the paper.’

  Daniel frowned. ‘It doesn’t make sense. I can’t see why Radley would want to kill Petter. We know Radley was being blackmailed by Raymond Simpson, but where does Petter fit into that?’

  ‘Perhaps Petter was also blackmailing Radley,’ suggested Abigail.

  Daniel shook his head. ‘I can’t see it,’ he said.

  ‘Well, someone killed Erskine Petter.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  ‘Perhaps the motive is nothing to do with the events at the museum,’ said Abigail.

  ‘They’re connected, I’m sure of it,’ said Daniel, firmly.

  ‘Your policeman’s nose again?’

  Daniel tapped the side of his nose and nodded. ‘Things smell right, or they smell wrong. All this stuff smells wrong. The killing of Erskine Petter feels like someone’s putting up a smokescreen. The same with the letters the trustees received, repeating the threat from Petter and Wardle about the fossil skeletons from America, which suddenly came out of nowhere and after Petter had done his disappearing act. It reminds me of those conjurers who deflect your attention to something else so you don’t see what they’re really up to. A piece of misdirection.’

  ‘Killing someone is a pretty drastic piece of misdirection,’ commented Abigail.

  ‘Which means the stakes for someone are very high,’ said Daniel. He frowned again as he asked: ‘What do you think of Mrs Smith?’

  ‘As a suspect?’ asked Abigail, surprised.

  ‘Possibly not as lethal as that. I was thinking more as an accomplice.’

  ‘To whom? The murderer?’

  ‘Not necessarily wittingly. She may have been duped into helping.’

  ‘Helping with what?’

  ‘Those letters, for example. Apart from Miss Scott, Mrs Smith was the only other person we know of at the museum who knew the contents of the original letter mentioning Petter and Wardle and the Bone Company. If she is having an affair with Turner, as we suspect, she could have told him about it. Even shown him the letter.’

  ‘If,’ stressed Abigail. ‘We don’t know for certain they are in a relationship. And do you now suspect Mr Turner? I thought William Watling was your suspect of choice. What’s brought Dawson Turner into your mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just a feeling.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘Talking of feelings …’

  She chuckled. ‘You are incorrigible.’

  ‘And lecherous, according to you.’ He got up from his chair and walked over to her, took her in his arms and deftly undid the buttons at the top of her skirt, causing it to slide down to the floor. She stepped out of it and let him caress her, before biting his ear and murmuring: ‘Bed will be more comfortable, if you can wait that long.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When Abigail drew back the bedroom curtains the following morning, the world outside had vanished to be replaced with a thick grey and slimy green blanket of fog. Nothing was visible within it. Nor was there any sound, no clattering of horse hooves on the cobbles of the road; the thick fog absorbed everything.

  ‘Fog,’ she announced to Daniel as he pulled on his clothes.

  He joined her at the window. ‘Thick, as well,’ he added. Tendrils of oily green rubbed against the windowpane before disappearing back into the thick greyness of the clouds that hid the world. ‘A real pea-souper. It’s lucky it’s a Sunday and most of the places we need to go to will be closed, at least this morning. Do you know it’s almost ten years ago that Parliament pa
ssed a bill allowing galleries and museums to open on Sundays, but most still remain shut.’

  ‘The Lord’s Day Observance Society,’ added Abigail. She smiled. ‘You know they were founded by a Daniel Wilson. A relation?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ retorted Daniel. ‘And they’re a very powerful lobby group. They’ve got the workers on their side because they get a day off.’

  ‘Only those working for big organisations,’ Abigail corrected him.

  ‘It’s still the majority of working people. And the politicians support them because the Church informs most of those who vote which way to cast their ballot.’

  ‘You sound like you agree with them,’ observed Abigail.

  ‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘If they had their way there’d be no trains running, no postal deliveries, no Sunday newspapers, and even the small shops and establishments that are currently exempt from the law would be forced to close. I prefer people to be given the choice.’

  Abigail looked thoughtful. ‘I still feel there must something we could do today to push the investigation forward. With each day that passes I feel we lose momentum.’

  ‘There is,’ said Daniel. ‘Jones the butcher will be open this afternoon. I missed asking him some vital questions. Because John was concentrating on the Wardle brothers as the most likely to have killed Petter, I didn’t pursue it and ask who else might have asked him for the information about Petter’s hideout.’

  ‘Surely, if anyone else had attacked Mr Jones he would have told you,’ said Abigail.

  ‘There are more ways of getting information than by beating it out of someone,’ said Daniel.

  They spent the morning safe indoors, away from the thick smog that blotted out the city, waiting to see if it would lift. But by the time two o’clock came and there was still no sign of a break in the greenish clouds, they decided to brave the outside. They each tied a large handkerchief around their noses and mouths, keeping it in place with a thick scarf, before setting out. Even through this protection they could taste the acrid smoke of the fog and feel it making their eyes water.

  ‘We might as well walk to Paddington,’ said Daniel. ‘There’ll be no hansom cabs or buses running today.’

  Daniel’s prediction proved correct, even though as they walked they passed people arguing with the drivers of stationary cabs insisting they be taken somewhere, while the drivers responded that there would be no transport until the fog lifted. ‘Too foggy,’ the drivers told them, firmly. ‘Can’t risk the horse. It could stumble and break a leg, then where would I be?’

  Even on foot the journey was hazardous, with visibility down to a few yards in some places, and so Daniel and Abigail held hands as they edged carefully forwards, feeling their way with their feet.

  After what seemed an age, they arrived at Jones’ shop, which was empty except for the forlorn figure of Jones himself in his butcher’s apron.

  ‘Hurrah,’ he exclaimed as they entered his shop. ‘Customers at last.’ Then his expression changed as Daniel and Abigail unwrapped their scarves and he saw their faces. ‘Oh, it’s you again,’ he said, grumpily.

  ‘It is,’ said Daniel. ‘A quiet day for you?’

  Jones gestured to the fog that rubbed against his shop window, hiding everything.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said, sourly. ‘No one’s going to be coming out today. Not anyone with any sense, that is.’ He looked towards Abigail. ‘Unless you’ve come in for something?’ he said, hopefully. ‘I’ve got some lovely sausages. Best quality pork.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m with Mr Wilson here,’ said Abigail.

  ‘I thought you might be,’ said Jones, with a groan. His face still bore the bruises inflicted on him by the Wardle brothers.

  ‘We’re hoping you might be able to help us,’ said Daniel. ‘If you do, then it’s quite possible we might buy some of those excellent sausages you speak so highly of.’

  ‘Information for a sausage,’ snorted Jones, derisively. ‘What sort of bloke do you think I am?’

  ‘The sort who divulges information under pressure,’ said Daniel.

  Jones regarded him warily, then pick up a large meat cleaver from his counter.

  ‘After what happened with the Wardles I’ve decided to protect myself,’ he said, and waved the meat cleaver at Daniel.

  ‘Very wise,’ said Daniel, apparently unperturbed. ‘But that may be no match for the pistol I carry in my pocket.’

  ‘You’ve got a pistol?’ queried Jones.

  Daniel slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. Immediately, Jones put down the cleaver.

  ‘All right, no need for that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s something I should have asked you yesterday when I was here with Inspector Feather,’ said Daniel. ‘Afterwards it struck me that a punch in the eye isn’t the only way of getting information. An open wallet is more often a better way.’

  Jones looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he blustered.

  ‘Oh, come on, Mr Jones,’ said Daniel. ‘As I said, I used to be a detective at Scotland Yard. Now, we can have a discussion here that stays here, or I can call in Inspector Feather and he can haul you into the Yard for questioning. Either way, the answer’s the same, but the first way will be a lot easier for you. No one’ll be looking at you suspiciously like they would if you were taken off to the Yard. So, my question is: who else did you give Erskine Petter’s address to?’

  Jones fell silent, studying Daniel thoughtfully, weighing things up. Then he nodded.

  ‘It was some toff,’ he said.

  ‘Did he have a name?’

  ‘I’m sure he did, but he never said what it was, and I never asked him.’

  ‘When did he call?’

  ‘Three days ago. Thursday morning, in fact. He said he was in the middle of doing business with Erskine and found he’d gone, and it was very urgent he got in touch with him.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Like a toff. Good clothes. Good shoes. Nothing cheap.’

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Ordinary. Dark brown. Cut short, but not too short.’

  ‘Moustache? Beard?’

  Jones shook his head.

  ‘Build? Fat? Thin? Tall? Short?’

  ‘About your height, maybe a bit shorter. Not fat, not thin, just an ordinary-looking bloke. Nothing noticeable about him.’

  ‘But well-off,’ said Daniel.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Jones, emphatically. ‘He offered me twenty quid. Twenty quid!’

  Daniel stood, studying the butcher, then he nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jones. And now we’ll take a pound of your sausages.’

  As Daniel and Abigail walked away from the butcher’s shop, their mouths and noses once again protected by their handkerchiefs and scarves, Abigail asked: ‘What was that nonsense with that supposed pistol?’

  ‘It worked,’ said Daniel.

  ‘But say he’d challenged you? Gone for you with that meat cleaver?’

  ‘I could see in his eyes he wasn’t that kind of person,’ said Daniel. ‘Anyway, we now have a piece of the puzzle. The person who really killed Petter: a mysterious toff.’

  ‘Which doesn’t mean we’re much further forward. A mysterious toff with money to spare. There must be many hundreds of them.’

  ‘But not that many associated with the Natural History Museum, and it is the museum thing that links the deaths of Erskine Petter and Raymond Simpson.’

  ‘You’re still thinking it could be one of the trustees?’

  ‘I am,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Mason Radley?’

  ‘Mr Radley has a very distinctive appearance. Mr Jones described the man he saw as ordinary-looking.’

  ‘But this man may not have any connection with the museum,’ said Abigail.

  ‘He may not,’ agreed Daniel. ‘But I have a feeling about this.’

  ‘And if you’re wrong?’

  ‘It wo
n’t be the first time,’ admitted Daniel. ‘But I want to follow it through. Tomorrow morning, we need to go to the museum and make arrangements to get hold of the trustees in one place together. And afterwards we’ll go to Scotland Yard and let John Feather know what we’ve learnt.’

  The following morning the fog seemed as bad as ever.

  ‘Another day of walking everywhere,’ commented Abigail, looking out at the swirling mist that pressed against their windowpanes.

  ‘The exercise will do us good,’ said Daniel.

  ‘The breathing in of the muck it contains won’t,’ added Abigail.

  In Kensington, Evelyn Scott made her way along the path towards the entrance to the Natural History Museum. The fog had been so thick when she left home that she had been unable to find a bus or hansom cab and had been forced to make the journey on foot, blinded for most of the way by the green, evil-smelling smog to such an extent that it had taken her more than two hours to get here, stumbling most of the way, bumping into lamp posts, losing her footing when she came to kerbs. The acrid fog stung her eyes and forced its way into her lungs, despite the handkerchief she held pressed to her mouth and nose. But soon she would be safe inside her office, where she determined she would stay and not venture out again. If necessary, if the fog didn’t clear, she might even spend the night at the museum.

  She was just level with the tall Doric columns that fronted the museum when she heard a shuffling of feet close by, and suddenly the shadowy figure of what she took to be a man lurched at her from behind one of the columns. His hands were outstretched towards her, and then he was on her, hands grabbing at her clothes, and she screamed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ‘Miss Scott! It’s me!’

  Scott stared at the figure in front of her, half enveloped in fog. Mason Radley.

  ‘I’ve been waiting her for you, and when I saw you arrive, I stepped out but stumbled and fell towards you. I’m so sorry I frightened you.’