by Jim Eldridge
‘And you’re going to Scotland Yard now?’
‘We are.’
Mrs Walton got up and opened a door that led into a larder. She returned a moment later with a large slab of rich fruit cake, which she brought to the table and proceeded to wrap in pages from the newspaper – although Abigail noticed she was careful not to include the page with Radley’s photograph.
‘Will you take him this?’ she said. ‘I’m sure they won’t be feeding him properly. Not the type of food he’s used to. This is one of his favourites, and it will let him know we’re thinking of him.’ She looked at them earnestly. ‘The greatest gift will be for you to bring him home today, but from what you’ve said about the police, I suppose that’s unlikely.’
‘We will do our best,’ Daniel assured her. ‘But, sadly, I think it may take a little more time. Not much more, we hope. But rest assured, we will be his advocates.’
As they walked away from the house, Daniel looked at the bag Mrs Walton had given him in which to carry the cake for Radley and grumbled: ‘On Sunday it was sausages, today it’s fruit cake. I’m beginning to feel like a grocer’s delivery boy.’
They learnt that Superintendent Armstrong was out when they arrived at Scotland Yard, but Inspector Feather was in.
‘So, we’ll be subjected to that evil-smelling pipe of Sergeant Cribbens,’ commented Abigail as they made their way up the stairs.
Fortunately for them, Sergeant Cribbens was also out, and they found Feather at his desk filling in forms.
‘Paperwork,’ he grunted, sourly, adding another completed form to a small pile at one side of his desk. ‘These days I seem to spend more time on paperwork than solving crimes.’ He looked at the bag that Daniel had placed on his desk. ‘What’s that?’
‘Rich fruit cake for Mr Radley from his housekeeper. I assume he’s still here in custody.’
‘He is,’ replied Feather. ‘I’m waiting to see if the superintendent is going to have him remanded.’
‘He didn’t kill Erskine Petter,’ said Daniel. ‘He was in Kent the whole time after Simpson died and never left there, according to his cousin and the railway station staff. We went to Kent yesterday to check his alibi. He’s in the clear.’
‘I agree over the killing of Erskine Petter,’ said Feather. ‘But that doesn’t let him off as a suspect over the Simpson killing.’
‘The Simpson killing and that of Erskine Petter are connected,’ insisted Daniel. ‘The same person is responsible for both.’
‘That’s just a guess. You can’t say that for certain,’ said Feather.
‘I know it in my bones,’ said Daniel. ‘But at the moment I can’t prove it. I’m hoping we’ll get that proof this evening from Mr Jones.’
‘We may not,’ cautioned Feather. ‘This mysterious toff he talked about may be nothing to do with the museum.’
‘Let’s reserve judgement on that until this evening,’ said Daniel. ‘Have you got Jones ready? We don’t want him doing a vanishing act.’
‘I’ve got a uniformed officer watching his shop and I’m going along to pick him up this afternoon when he closes, and I’m going to hang on to him. He’ll be at the museum all right.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel.
‘Something else happened,’ said Feather. ‘Simon Purcell committed suicide.’
‘What?’ said Abigail, shocked. ‘Why? Where was he? I thought he was being held on remand.’
‘He was, at Holloway prison,’ said Feather. ‘One of the warders went to check on him and found him hanging from the bars of his cell window. He’d used his shirt as a makeshift rope.’
‘But why would he do something like that?’ pressed the horrified Abigail.
Feather sighed. ‘Who knows. Usually it’s fear. Fear of exposure when his case comes to court, as happened with Tom Tilly. Fear of what lies in store for him when he’s sent to prison. Most people know what prisons are like, the harsh treatments that are meted out, by prison officers and other inmates. You have to be tough to survive in places like that. Being physically tough helps but being able to cope emotionally is even more important. Would you agree, Daniel?’
‘Sadly, I would,’ said Daniel. ‘And it’s not just in prisons. Any organisation that’s run on harsh lines, where physical punishment is a constant threat, the fragile suffer and often take their own lives rather than endure the misery that they know will go on, with each day being as bad as the last, and many times even worse.’
‘The army. The navy. Schools,’ agreed Feather. ‘But in those there’s a chance to abscond. There’s very little chance of running away from prison.’
Mason Radley sat on the hard bunk in the holding cell, his head bowed, his mind churning. Oh, the misery! He wished he’d never handed himself in now. He should have stayed with his cousin in Kent. But no, common sense told him that sooner or later someone would report his presence in the village to the police, and it would have been even worse for him to have been dragged away in chains. At least he hoped his surrendering himself would be taken as proof of his innocence. Although that depended on Superintendent Armstrong. He didn’t like the superintendent. He was callous, short-tempered and indifferent to Radley’s protestations of innocence. At least the other policeman, Inspector Feather, seemed sympathetic.
There was the sound of a key in the door of his cell and he got to his feet. He was relieved to see that the man who entered was Inspector Feather, rather than the superintendent.
The cell door was pulled shut by the turnkey in the corridor outside, closing with a dreadful metallic clang. Inspector Feather approached him and held out a small parcel wrapped in newspaper.
‘A gift from your housekeeper, Mrs Walton,’ said Feather. ‘A good-sized slab of rich fruit cake. I believe she is concerned about your health and worried that you might not be getting good enough food.’
‘But … h-how does she know I’m here?’ stammered Radley. ‘Have you been to see her?’
‘No,’ said Feather. ‘But Mr Wilson and Miss Fenton have. They wanted to let her know that you are safe and well, although in custody. They also wanted to tell her that they’d been to see your cousin in Kent and confirmed that you couldn’t have been in London killing Erskine Petter in that time.’
‘That’s what I told you,’ said Radley, excitedly. ‘Does that mean I can go?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Feather. ‘The superintendent is still conducting enquiries into the death of Raymond Simpson.’
‘I did not kill him,’ burst out Radley, in despair.
‘I’m afraid, until we find a suspect who’s seen as more likely, the superintendent will insist you stay here.’
Radley fell back down on the hard bench with a groan and buried his face in his hands. ‘How long must this dreadful nightmare go on?’ he moaned.
As Feather looked at him he thought of Simon Purcell and how alike the two were. Yes, Purcell had been a blackmailer, but he’d been a fragile figure, not a hardened criminal. Radley, too, was fragile. Incarcerated in a jail cell for the first time and desperately fearful of what fate awaited him. A man out of his natural element; a man lost and helpless.
‘Rest assured, Mr Radley, there are people working on the case even as we speak, looking into other potential culprits. I know this is hard for you, but there is hope. There is always hope. If you are innocent, as many believe, then I promise you, you will be released. I have never sent an innocent man to the gallows, and I do not intend for that to happen now.’
Feather handed him the cake, then walked to the door and banged on it to be let out. As the cell door swung shut, through the gap Feather saw Radley breaking off a piece of the cake. His last look at Radley seemed to show that the man had perked up just a little. He hoped it had been his few words of comfort, but he reflected that it was more likely to be the fruit cake. Whichever it was it didn’t matter. Whatever happened, while Radley was in his custody here at the Yard, Feather was set on making sure there was no repeat of what had happ
ened to Simon Purcell at Holloway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Evelyn Scott and Mrs Smith stood at the back of the Grand Hall and watched as people filed in and took their seats. On the temporary platform that had been erected at the front of the rows of seats, Abigail and Cedric Warmsley sat together facing the display of large illustrations depicting Mary Anning, along with many of the various fossils she had discovered during her short career. There was a buzz of anticipation among the audience, an air of quiet excitement.
‘It’s a very good attendance,’ murmured Smith.
Scott smiled. ‘It is indeed. With some very famous faces, which will make this quite a society occasion: Herbert Wells, William Gilbert, Bram Stoker, and I see George Bernard Shaw is here as well. And it looks as if nearly all of the trustees have turned up. Although there’ll be no Mr Radley, of course.’
‘It was his own fault, really,’ said Smith. ‘If he hadn’t run away as he did …’ She stopped. ‘I see William Watling is here, accompanying Lady Fortescue.’
They watched as Watling and Lady Fortescue made an entrance full of pomp and self-important grandeur, sweeping down to the front row and the seats that had been marked ‘Reserved for trustees and guests’.
Scott cast a look at the clock. ‘Almost eight o’clock,’ she said. ‘I think we can begin.’ She was about to raise a handkerchief and wave it in a prearranged signal to Abigail telling her to begin when Smith stopped her.
‘One moment,’ she said. ‘Mr Turner has just arrived. Do let him take his seat.’
Scott waited until Turner had hurried to the last remaining empty seat at the end of the front row and sat down, then flourished her handkerchief.
Abigail rose and as she moved to the front of the stage, there was a round of applause from the audience. Abigail acknowledged it with a smile and a bow.
‘Thank you for that lovely reception, and for coming here tonight to what I know will be a wonderful presentation from Mr Cedric Warmsley of the British Museum. When Miss Scott invited me to open this evening’s talk I felt rather a fraud. I was flattered because I have long been an admirer of this woman’s wonderful work, but palaeontology is not my particular area of expertise. However, fortunately you will not have to hear me lecture on it as many of you here have far greater knowledge than I on the subject, but instead it gives me the greatest of pleasure to introduce Mr Warmsley, himself a noted palaeontologist and also an expert on the life and work of Mary Anning. My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I present Mr Cedric Warmsley.’
Abigail gestured for Warmsley to step forward, while she retreated to a chair at one side of the stage.
At the back of the Grand Hall, Daniel and Inspector Feather stood beside Jones the butcher.
‘Did the man you spoke to arrive?’ asked Feather.
Jones nodded and pointed towards the front row. ‘That’s him all right,’ he said.
Feather moved quietly down the side of the audience to the front row and knelt down beside Dawson Turner.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Turner,’ he whispered, ‘but I’d be grateful if you would come with me.’
‘Now?’ Turner frowned.
‘If you would, sir. Without a fuss, if you please.’
Turner got up and accompanied the inspector to the back, where they joined Daniel. Jones the butcher had made a hasty exit from the scene and was now in the reception area in the company of a police constable with orders to keep an eye on the man in case he was required.
Feather ushered Turner out of the Grand Hall and towards the stairs that led to the first floor. Daniel was about to follow them when he was stopped by Miss Scott.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘Why has the inspector taken Mr Turner out?’
‘Because we have evidence that it was Mr Turner who was responsible for the murder of Erskine Petter,’ Daniel told her. ‘We feel it also implicates him in the killing of Raymond Simpson.’
Scott stared at him, horrified. ‘Mr Turner?’ She gasped. ‘No, that’s impossible.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Daniel. ‘We’ll be talking to him in your office if you are still in agreement with that.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But—’
‘Rest assured, there’ll be no trouble. Nothing to disturb the evening,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ll let you know once we have confirmation.’
As Scott stared after his departing figure, she was aware that Mrs Smith had joined her, and her secretary appeared to be in a state of nervous agitation.
‘What’s going on, Miss Scott?’ she whispered. ‘Where are they taking Mr Turner? And why?’
‘Prepare yourself for a shock, Mrs Smith. The police say that it was Mr Turner who killed Raymond Simpson.’
Smith stared at her in horror. ‘No,’ she burst out. ‘That’s impossible. It can’t be.’
‘If it’s not so, I’m sure Mr Turner will be able to reassure them, but I understand they have convincing evidence.’
‘What evidence?’
‘I’m not exactly sure, but I believe they’ll be presenting it to Mr Turner for him to answer.’
‘Where are they taking him?’
‘I’ve said they can use my office.’
‘But—’
‘Ssh,’ said Scott, putting a finger to her lips. ‘We don’t want to create a disturbance.’ And she turned her attention back to the stage, where Cedric Warmsley was pointing to a large drawing of a very young Mary Anning, portrayed as a tiny girl wearing a slightly shabby dress.
‘Mary Anning was born in May 1799 in Lyme Regis in Dorset,’ said Warmsley. ‘Her father, Richard, was a carpenter who also earned money by collecting fossils from the fossil beds close to the town and selling them to tourists, which is how young Mary came to get involved in fossil-collecting. Mary’s parents had ten children, but most of them died during infancy. Just Mary and her brother Joseph survived, and Mary only survived thanks to luck. In 1880, when she was just fifteen months old, she was at a show of horsemanship being put on by a travelling company. She was being held in the arms of a neighbour who was watching the show along with two other women, when suddenly lightning struck the tree under which they were standing and all three women were killed instantly. Fortunately, the infant Mary was alive, but unconscious. She was rushed home and plunged into a bath of hot water, where she was revived.’
In Scott’s office, Dawson Turner sat, silent, his eyes darting backwards and forwards between Daniel and Feather. It was Daniel who was doing most of the questioning. Or, to be more exact, instructing Turner on what had led them to him.
‘You made two major mistakes, and both were linked to your attempt to point to a dispute over the fossils as being the motive for the killing of Raymond Simpson and so divert attention away from the real motive, which was about blackmail.
‘You killed Erskine Petter as part of the plan to persuade everyone that the bones were the motive for the killing. But very few people knew where Petter was hiding out. In fact, as far as we can find, the only person Petter had confided in was Mr Jones, the butcher. Mr Jones was at the meeting tonight, watching out with us, and he pointed you out as that person who’d paid him for Erskine’s address.
‘Your other mistake was sending out those letters to the trustees and mentioning Petter and Wardle. The only people, apart from the police and Erskine Petter himself, who knew the original letter was from Petter and Wardle were Miss Scott and Mrs Smith. And you and Mrs Smith have been lovers for some time.’
‘Even if it were true, which it’s not, that’s irrelevant,’ said Turner, curtly.
‘Is it?’ asked Daniel. ‘My guess is that Simpson had found out about your affair with Mrs Smith and was blackmailing you. You’re in line for a knighthood, I believe, which would be at risk if your adultery was discovered. So, you had to get rid of Simpson. There were just two trustees here when Simpson was killed: you and Mason Radley. I believe you didn’t know that Radley was going to be at the museum at that time, but when you
saw him you leapt at the idea of putting suspicion on him. And it might have worked, too, if you hadn’t overdone it by killing Erskine Petter.’ He looked quizzically at Turner. ‘Would you like to fill in some of the blanks? I’m sure I’ve left some important points out.’
‘I refuse to answer any of your questions,’ said Turner, sharply. ‘If you wish to charge me do so, and I’ll have my lawyers deal with it. You have no proof of anything.’
Daniel shrugged. ‘Very well. If that’s to be your attitude. But we’re giving you the chance to answer the accusations against you in an informal setting, rather than Inspector Feather taking you to Scotland Yard and charging you formally.’ He paused, then added: ‘We’re sure that when we talk to Mrs Smith she’ll help us add some details.’
‘Leave her alone,’ snapped Turner. ‘She had nothing to do with anything.’
‘With the murders, or the threatening letters to the trustees?’ asked Daniel.
Turner glared at him. ‘I’m saying nothing,’ he said, firmly.
Scott climbed up the stairs in pursuit of the agitated Smith.
‘I know you said it’s urgent, but I’m sure whatever it is can wait until the talk ends, Mrs Smith,’ she protested.
‘No, it can’t,’ insisted Smith. ‘It’s in my office. It’s vitally important.’
She opened the door of her office and hurried in. ‘It’s here,’ she said, pulling open one of the drawers in her desk.
Scott joined her, looking down at the open drawer. ‘Where?’ she asked.
‘Here,’ said Smith, and suddenly she pulled out a pair of scissors and thrust the sharp points so that they pressed painfully against the flesh of Scott’s neck.
‘Mrs Smith. What are you doing?’ asked the shocked Scott.
‘I’m saving my lover.’
With that, she grabbed hold of the back of Scott’s blouse and tugged sharply on it, exposing the woman’s neck even more.