Murder at the Natural History Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘No, but Jones has seen his face, so I suggest we put him in a situation where he’s likely to see him again.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The museum. There’s a talk there on Wednesday evening, the day after tomorrow, about Mary Anning—’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She collected fossils of prehistoric fish,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Sounds fascinating,’ said Feather, sarcastically.

  ‘We’ve asked Miss Scott to send out invitations to all the trustees to get them to attend. We’ll have Jones stashed somewhere to watch out as the trustees arrive. And when he points this mysterious person out to us, you move in and arrest him.’

  Feather laughed. ‘We don’t even know this mysterious toff is definitely a trustee. He could be nothing to do with the museum. In which case, the whole thing would be a waste of time.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Daniel. He smiled. ‘You’ll learn a lot about prehistoric fish.’

  Feather pondered for some moments before he spoke again. ‘All right. We’ll do it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. ‘But in the meantime, what are you going to do about Mason Radley?’

  ‘Keep him in custody,’ said Feather. ‘We’ll talk to him and get his version of events, and then I expect he’ll be transferred to Holloway on remand.’

  ‘He’s told us his version of events already,’ said Daniel. ‘He admits he was at the museum when Simpson was killed, but he’d gone there to try and bargain with him. Get time to pay the blackmail.’

  ‘A bit convenient as an explanation,’ observed Feather.

  ‘True, but I believe him,’ said Daniel.

  Feather smiled. ‘Sounds like you’re getting soft in your old age.’

  ‘At least look into his alibi over the killing of Erskine Petter,’ urged Abigail. ‘He said he was staying with his cousin in Kent from the day that Simpson was murdered. He was at …’ She looked at Daniel as she struggled to recall the name of the place.

  ‘St Mary’s Platt,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s a small hamlet about a mile outside the village of Borough Green.’

  ‘There’s a railway station at Borough Green,’ said Feather. ‘He could easily have caught a train to London, killed Petter and gone back again without his cousin knowing.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Daniel. ‘For one thing, you’ve seen him, that red hair and big bushy beard. You think this is a man that Jones would describe as having nothing noticeable about him? At least go and talk to this cousin of his. And check with the railway station staff. If he travelled by train they’d have spotted him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ said Feather, apologetically. ‘The superintendent’s sure he’s our man so he’s not going to let me go off to Kent just like that, especially when it’s outside our area of jurisdiction.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Daniel. ‘You won’t mind if we do? We’ll go tomorrow.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Feather. ‘And I’m sure you’ll find he didn’t kill Petter, but the super is certain we can get him for killing Raymond Simpson.’

  ‘Both killings are connected, I’m certain of it,’ said Daniel. ‘If we can show that Radley didn’t kill Petter, it means someone else did, and when we find that person we’ll get our link to the killing of Raymond Simpson.’

  ‘And you’re convinced that the person who killed Petter is going to show himself on Wednesday at this talk?’

  ‘I am,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Talking of people being held on remand, is there any news of Simon Purcell?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘He’s still being held at Holloway,’ said Feather. ‘The super wants to wait and get firm evidence about these murders first before bringing him to court. Now we’ve got Radley in the cells I think that might speed things up.’

  ‘Purcell will still be guilty of conspiracy to blackmail whoever killed Simpson,’ pointed out Daniel.

  ‘True, but the super wants to make a big splash in the papers about this whole case,’ said Feather. ‘The more names the better.’

  ‘With his name the biggest of all.’ Daniel smiled.

  ‘He’s ambitious.’ Feather shrugged. ‘What do you expect?’

  ‘I expect that we’ll lay our hands on the real killer on Wednesday night at the museum,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Feather, grimly. ‘Especially if I’ve got to sit through a talk about fossilised fish.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Wardle brothers arrived outside the Railway Tavern close to Paddington Station in grim and determined moods. Everything had gone wrong for them. They had no money, nothing to eat and all their hopes of rectifying this situation had vanished once they’d encountered Erskine Petter. It had been Benny who’d said they weren’t just staring at destitution, they were staring at the hangman’s rope. They needed to get as far away from London as possible. But to do that they needed money. And not just a pound or two. ‘We need real money,’ said Benny. ‘Ready cash to get us train tickets, boat tickets if necessary.’

  ‘I ain’t never been on a boat,’ said Billy, doubtfully.

  ‘Scotland might be the answer,’ Benny told him. ‘We could lose ourselves in a place like Glasgow. But first we got to get there.’ He balanced the heavy wooden cudgel in his hand and patted it against the palm of his other hand.

  Billy looked at the cudgel he held, of strong oak with nodules studding the length of it.

  ‘It seems a bit of drastic,’ he commented, uncertainly. ‘I don’t like weapons. What’s wrong with fists and boots like usual?’

  ‘Drastic times call for drastic actions,’ said Benny. ‘And right now, we have no money at all. Not a penny. And there’s no Erskine to call on for any, nor to come up with a scheme for us to get hold of any. So, it’s up to us. People in this area know us and they’re frightened of us, and these cudgels back that up. No one’s gonna call the coppers on us because they know what’ll happen to them if they do.’ He hefted the cudgel in his hand and smacked it into his other palm. ‘And no one’s gonna argue with these once they’ve seen what we can do with ’em. So, here’s the way we do it. We go in and straight away I smash a table. Broken glass everywhere. You grab the nearest bloke and punch him, knocking him to the floor. If he starts to get up, bash him. That’ll put ’em all in shock. Then I tell ’em you’re coming round with a bag and we want it filled. Money, wallets, watches, whatever they’ve got on ’em. And if anyone refuses …’ He grinned and swung his cudgel. ‘I’ll give ’em a taste of this. And that’s all there is to it. We’ll be in and out in four minutes.’

  Inside the Railway Tavern, Sergeants Bunn and Cribbens sat at a table heavy with pint glasses. Bunn picked up his glass and held it out in a toast to Cribbens.

  ‘Here’s to you,’ he said, and took a hearty swig.

  The third member at the table, Constable Parrot, looked with concern at the glasses on the table, four of which were still filled with beer.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be out with the others?’ he asked, nervously, referring to the two constables parked just round the corner from the pub in their police van.

  ‘Plenty of time for that,’ said Cribbens. He took a puff on his pipe, sending a cloud of thick, dark smoke drifting across the table. ‘This is like a conference between Scotland Yard and the local force.’

  ‘Vital.’ Bunn nodded. ‘Cooperation. Especially at a time like this, with a mad serial killer on the loose bumping people off left, right and centre.’

  ‘I thought there’d only been the two,’ said Parrot. ‘Erskine Petter and that attendant at the museum.’

  ‘Two we know about,’ said Bunn. ‘Who’s to say there ain’t more.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Cribbens. ‘That’s why we need to swap information, see if we can’t get a lead on what’s happening and who’s behind it. For example, where are Benny and Billy Wardle?’

  ‘There you have hit the nail on the head,’ said Bunn, emphatically. ‘Not much bad happens in this area without them
two being involved.’

  ‘I thought they were locked up,’ said Parrot. ‘In the Scrubs.’

  ‘They were,’ said Cribbens. ‘Until the governor of the jail saw fit to let them go.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘He reckoned they’d served their time, so out they pop to cause mayhem for us who have to patrol the streets.’

  ‘They’ll be back behind bars soon enough,’ said Bunn, confidently. ‘Those two can’t stay out of trouble long. And when they do appear—’

  It was at that moment the door of the pub burst open, and Benny Wardle rushed in, waving his cudgel, closely followed by his brother, Billy. There was an almighty crash as Benny smashed the weapon down on the nearest table, sending the glasses scattering in a rain of spilt beer. Meanwhile, Billy, following his brother’s orders, had grabbed the man sitting nearest to him and punched him in the face, sending him reeling backwards off his chair to fall onto the beer-soaked floor.

  ‘Now, hear this!’ roared Benny.

  Before he could say any more, there was the ear-splitting blast of a police whistle close by. Horrified, Benny and Billy turned and saw Sergeants Cribbens and Bunn getting to their feet, along with a younger uniformed constable.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ moaned Billy. ‘The law.’

  He turned and was about to run out of the pub, when he found his way barred by two constables who’d responded to the sound of the whistle and come rushing into the scene. Benny stood, helpless, and then he made a run for the door, but before he could get a few steps the young constable had stepped forward, pulling his truncheon from his belt as he did so, and smacking it down on Benny’s head. Benny collapsed with a groan and lay still, while Billy was forced to the floor by the two newly arrived officers.

  Bunn and Cribbens exchanged very satisfied looks.

  ‘See.’ Cribbens beamed. ‘Conferencing pays off.’ He picked up his glass and took another swig of beer, before putting the glass down and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘That’s what I call good policing.’

  Daniel and Abigail stepped down from the train at the small railway station that was Borough Green. Or, more properly, ‘Borough Green and Wrotham,’ said Abigail, reading the station sign.

  ‘It’s pronounced Root-ham,’ said Daniel. ‘Wrotham is another village close by.’

  ‘Another pronunciation mystery of the English language,’ said Abigail. She looked admiringly at the hanging baskets and the flower borders that ran along the platform with their proliferation of colour: purples, blues, yellows, reds. ‘How lovely,’ she said. ‘It’s a pity they don’t do the same with the London stations.’

  ‘They do in the suburban ones,’ said Daniel. ‘But I agree that this kind of thing would brighten the main stations.’ He took a deep breath of the country air, then announced: ‘And now we make our way to St Mary’s Platt.’

  Abigail looked up at the clear blue sky and remarked. ‘At least it’s good weather for a nice walk.’

  ‘True, but we’ll do that on the way back,’ said Daniel. ‘We’ll take a hansom cab to Mr Cartwright’s place.’

  ‘I thought you preferred to walk,’ said Abigail.

  ‘If we were in London, yes. But this part of Kent is very different. Woods and country lanes, most of them without nameboards. We’re looking for a cottage in the middle of the woods up a lane. It could take us hours to find it. Once we’ve found his cottage and met with Mr Cartwright, I’m very happy to walk back to the station.’

  There were two hansoms waiting outside the station ready for passengers from the London train. Other travellers took the first and Daniel and Abigail the second, once the driver had reassured them that he knew the location of Woodman Cottage.

  ‘You obviously know this area,’ said Abigail, once they were on their way to the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves clip-clopping over the stony road.

  ‘I do,’ agreed Daniel.

  ‘Is that how you were able to remember what Mason Radley told you? When we were talking to John Feather about where Radley had been staying, my mind went blank. But you knew the whole address. I wondered if that was due to some kind of memory training you did in the police?’

  Daniel chuckled. ‘No. The truth is I spent some time here many years ago.’

  ‘In the police?’

  ‘No, I came here when I was twelve. ‘

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Hop-picking at a place called Mereworth, which is just a few miles from St Mary’s Platt.’

  ‘Hop-picking? Isn’t that hard work?’

  ‘No harder than picking oakum, or any other work I did when I was in the workhouse,’ said Daniel. ‘At that time, I was working different markets in London, helping on stalls. Chapel Street, Inverness Street, Petticoat Lane. There was always work for a willing lad. And one family of stall-owners I worked for told me that every year their whole family decamped to work in the hop fields of Kent, and did I fancy going along with them. There was a promise of good money and a roof of sorts over our heads. As it turned out, our roof was a canvas one, but some of the families had been going to the same hop field for so long they’d built huts for themselves out of old boxes.’

  ‘How long were you there for?’

  ‘Two months. And by the end of it I smelt like a brewery rat. As did everyone else.’

  ‘There was no water for washing?’

  Daniel laughed. ‘Such luxury. No. But one thing I learnt, when everyone around you also stinks, after a while you don’t notice the smell.’

  Bert Jugg shuffled down the long stone corridor in a bad mood. He hated being a warder here at Holloway jail. When he joined the prison service the thought he’d be working at Wormwood Scrubs, or Pentonville, or Wandsworth, dealing with proper hardened criminals, people he could boast about to his mates at the pub, telling them how he’d told a well-known murderer or master criminal what to do. But instead he was at Holloway, a mixed-sex prison where most of the inmates were on remand while they awaited trial. It was the women who upset him the most. They had no respect for him, treating him like dirt or laughing at him.

  It’s because I’m young, he’d decided. And what’s worse, I look young. He’d applied for permission to grow a beard, but it had been refused, so he had to content himself with cultivating a moustache. But, so far, his moustache wasn’t the sort that would give him an air of authority. He had to admit that the few thin strands growing above his upper lip looked more like the remains of a skinny mouse than decent whiskers, which resulted in the women prisoners laughing even more at him. Those who were on remand for things like prostitution and theft, that is. The political women who were here for causing damage as part of their protests either ignored him or treated him with looks of contempt. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the open scorn and contempt or the laughter and rude comments.

  At least a couple of the male prisoners treated him with the respect he should get. They were the ones who’d never done anything wrong before and were petrified about being in here, and what was going to happen to them. Them, he could wind up. Make ’em scared, especially the younger ones. Like that Simon Purcell. He’d made him cry.

  ‘They hang you for blackmail,’ he’d told Purcell. ‘I know. I’ve seen ’em swinging.’

  And Purcell had burst into tears.

  Good, Jugg had thought, satisfied. Someone who treats me with respect. Someone I can have a go at and who won’t laugh at me or threaten to punch me when they get out. Someone I can have a bit of fun with. And so, he’d made a point of calling on Purcell in his cell and telling him terrifying tales about what the other prisoners were planning to do to him when they got hold of him in the exercise yard, and the dreadful fate that awaited him after his trial when he’d be found guilty and sent to a proper prison, with hard labour. After the derision and contempt he suffered at the hands of the women, it filled Jugg with satisfaction to watch Purcell shake with fear in his cell. It was payback for what Jugg suffered in this place. Like just now, in the women’s block, where that whor
e Doris Drake had flashed her fanny at him when he opened the Judas window in her cell door and then she’d urinated on the floor, laughing at him all the time. Then she shouted at him, ‘Is this what helps you get it up, you creep?’

  He’d hurried off, knowing his face was flaming red. As he approached the cell where Simon Purcell was locked up, and where Jugg knew he’d be languishing in abject misery and fear, a new determination filled him to really terrify Purcell with some new stories and predictions about his fate. He’d teach these prisoners who was boss here.

  He looked through the window of Purcell’s cell and scowled towards the bunk where Purcell could usually be found crouched, a picture of terror. But today Purcell wasn’t there.

  ‘Purcell!’ shouted Jugg. ‘Step out and show yourself!’

  But there was no appearance by Purcell from within the cell, or even a sound of movement.

  Then he saw a flicker of something dangling from the bars of the window, and a feeling of horror filled him. No. It couldn’t be. Not on his watch.

  Frantically, with fumbling fingers, he managed to find the key, unlock the cell door and step in. Purcell was naked from the waist upwards, hanging from the bars by his shirt twisted round his neck, his bare feet dragging on the flagstones of the floor.

  ‘No!’ yelled Jugg. Then immediately he followed this with a howl of: ‘It’s not my fault! It’s not my fault!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Woodman Cottage was a single-storey house of old red bricks, with a roof of red tiles, which was barely visible from the lane because of the cluster of trees that surrounded it.

  ‘A cottage in the woods,’ said Abigail. ‘It’s like an illustration from the Grimms’ fairy tales.’

  As they walked down the winding path to the cottage, a small man appeared from behind a clump of trees and regarded these visitors suspiciously. He was broad-shouldered, wore a leather jerkin, carried a long-handled axe and walked with a limp.

  ‘Even more like Grimms’ fairy tales,’ murmured Daniel. ‘The woodcutter. Beware of hobgoblins.’ Aloud, he called: ‘Mr Dick Cartwright? We’ve come under the direction of your cousin, Mason Radley.’