Murder at the Natural History Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  Daniel looked down at him, startled, and saw the pistol in the man’s hand.

  ‘There’s a horse and cart by the kerb,’ said the man. ‘Walk to it.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ demanded Daniel.

  ‘Don’t waste time. Walk,’ said the man.

  As they walked along the path towards the horse and cart, Daniel’s mind was racing. Why was this happening? It couldn’t be to do with Dawson Turner; he was in custody and no one had tried to free him as far as Daniel knew. And then there was the fact that Abigail hadn’t been where she said she’d be. Had she been abducted? If so, who by? Was she on the cart?

  Daniel looked at the waiting cart. It was a flatbed vehicle, and as far as he could see there was just one person on it already, the driver. So, where was Abigail?

  ‘Where are we going?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘For a ride,’ said the man. And he gave a little chuckle.

  It was the chuckle that made Daniel’s mind up. He wasn’t going anywhere. At least, not alive. Once he was on the cart the gun would go off and he’d be driven away for his body to be dumped somewhere. The cart was still a short distance away. Was the driver also armed? If so, Daniel couldn’t afford to wait before he made his move; he had to strike now.

  He stopped suddenly.

  ‘Move,’ growled the small man.

  ‘I’ve got something in my shoe,’ said Daniel. ‘A stone.’ And he began to bend down, reaching for his shoelaces.

  ‘Get moving,’ snarled the man, and he prodded Daniel with the barrel of the pistol.

  Obligingly, Daniel stood up, and as he did so he swung his right hand down hard on the man’s wrist, knocking the gun to one side, while at the same time smashing his left fist hard into the man’s throat.

  The man dropped the gun and fell to the ground, clutching his throat and making dreadful gurgling noises.

  Daniel scooped up the fallen pistol and aimed it at the driver of the cart. The driver had obviously been keeping close watch on Daniel’s and the small man’s approach because he snapped his reins and the horse began to move, hauling the cart away from the kerb. Daniel was torn between staying with the fallen man or chasing after the cart. He decided to stay rather than risk losing both his possible abductors. He considered shooting at the driver, but the cart was well on its way, and there was always the danger of accidentally hitting some innocent bystander.

  His assailant was now trying to push himself off the ground, but he was still choking. He reached up and tried to grab the pistol back, but Daniel kneed him in the face. As the man went down, Daniel smashed the gun on his head and his would-be assassin sank to the ground with a groan.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Abigail sat, her wrists tied, and regarded Watling coldly. The pistol in his hand remained firmly aimed at her, despite the rattling of the carriage as it rumbled over the cobbles.

  ‘You won’t get away with this,’ she told him, defiantly. ‘Daniel Wilson will find us.’

  ‘I doubt that. At this moment, your friend Wilson is at the bottom of the River Thames with a bullet in his head. And shortly you will be joining him. When they recover your bodies and the pistol, the authorities will put it down to murder followed by a suicide. Wilson shot you, then killed himself.’

  ‘Why on earth would they believe that?’ demanded Abigail, coolly, though inside, calm was the last thing she felt. Her heart was racing with a mixture of terror at the sight of the pistol held very firmly in Watling’s hand and the thought of Daniel being killed. Surely he’d been able to escape. He’d have fought back against whoever tried to kill him.

  Watling smirked. ‘Because I will tell them that we saw you arguing after the event at the museum and Wilson actually threatened you with a gun.’

  ‘That’s preposterous. No one will believe you.’

  ‘There will be other witnesses to the incident,’ said Watling. ‘My coachman was with me and he’ll testify to the fact.’

  ‘I assume this is because we were getting too close to proving that you killed Danvers Hardwicke.’

  The smile vanished from Watling’s face at this. ‘It was an accident,’ he burst out angrily.

  ‘Nonsense,’ retorted Abigail. She’d decided that the only way she was going to get out of this situation alive was to keep him talking while she looked for an opportunity to launch some sort of attack on him. But first, she had to get the pistol off him. ‘You and he were bitter rivals. Or, at least, you were the bitter one, and you were determined to get rid of him and take his job as curator. You took the opportunity of being by the canal to throw him in, after first striking him on the head to make sure he drowned.’

  ‘No!’ raged Watling and he repeated: ‘It was an accident!’ Then he scowled at her as he added: ‘I admit we argued and I pushed him, but I didn’t mean for him to fall in the canal.’

  ‘And your wife, drowning in her bath?’ demanded Abigail. ‘And Lord Fortescue conveniently shooting himself?’

  Watling glared at her. ‘You can’t prove anything.’

  ‘Can you be sure of that?’ asked Abigail.

  Watling fell silent, looking at her with a haunted look. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he bleated. ‘It was Elizabeth. She shot her husband and then forced me to get rid of my wife. I had no choice. She would have ruined me otherwise. She said that I’d be blamed for her husband’s death, not her.’ Then he gave a vicious smile. ‘Not that knowing that will do you much good. You and Wilson made a serious mistake when you decided to go after me. You, especially, Miss Fenton. You seem to think you are equal to us men. You are not. Women never will be, certainly not in a confrontation like this. Women do not have the strength of a man, and not just physical strength but the grit and the guts to be ruthless. A woman can never be a warrior.’

  ‘No?’ said Abigail, archly. ‘Boudica? Joan of Arc?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ sneered Watling. ‘Legends and folk tales.’

  Suddenly, the carriage gave a jolt as the wheels ran over something in the road, causing both Abigail and Watling to slither on their seats, Abigail tumbling to the floor of the carriage. Watling recovered, bringing the pistol back to bear on her.

  ‘Get up,’ he snapped.

  Abigail pushed herself up off the floor, and as she did so she threw herself forward towards Watling and smashed the bony ridge of her forehead into his face. Watling shrieked in pain, blood spurting from his broken nose. He waved the gun blindly and fired, the bullet going through the ceiling of the carriage. Before he could recover himself, Abigail kicked him hard in the groin, and this time Watling shrieked and dropped the gun to clutch himself with both hands.

  Abigail snatched up the fallen gun and brought it down hard twice on Watling’s head. He crumpled to the floor.

  The carriage had pulled to a halt at the gunshot, and Abigail heard the driver dismounting and calling out, ‘Is everything all right, sir?’ Jeffers opened the door and stared in shock when he saw Abigail pointing the pistol at him.

  ‘Step in,’ said Abigail. ‘If you try anything I will shoot you. And I warn you that I am a deadly shot.’

  Jeffers stepped in, fear showing on his face. He looked nervously down at the unconscious Watling.

  ‘You will untie my wrists,’ ordered Abigail. ‘And remember, the whole time you’re doing it, that this pistol will be close to your belly and my finger is on the trigger. If you try anything—’

  ‘I won’t,’ burst out Jeffers, fearfully.

  With trembling fingers, the coachman set to work to untie the cord from Abigail’s wrists. When that was done, she kept the pistol aimed at him as she ordered: ‘Now, tie Mr Watling’s ankles and wrists together behind his back. And tie them tightly.’

  Jeffers did as she instructed.

  ‘Now, you’re going to drive us to Chelsea Creek,’ she said. ‘But I shall be next to you on the driving seat, with this pistol in your side. If you attempt any trickery, such as going somewhere else …’

  ‘I won’t!’ Jeffers assur
ed her in a begging tone.

  Abigail gestured with the gun, and Jeffers got down from the carriage.

  ‘Stay there until I’m in the driving seat,’ ordered Abigail.

  Jeffers nodded and stood waiting obediently as Abigail climbed down from the carriage. His pose of obedience had lulled her into feeling in control, which is why she wasn’t prepared for him to leap at her as he did, striking at her hand that held the pistol.

  BANG!

  Jeffers gave a scream of pain and fell to the ground, rolling and thrashing about, clutching his foot in agony where the bullet had torn through the leather of his boot when the pistol went off involuntarily. Abigail felt a sense of shock and revulsion at the fact she’d shot someone, albeit accidentally, but she knew she had to maintain the pose of sheer ruthlessness if she was going to get Jeffers to drive them to Chelsea Creek. And she needed to get there. Her only hope was that Daniel was still there too, still alive.

  ‘Get up,’ she snapped.

  ‘You shot me!’ howled Jeffers. ‘My foot’s broken!’

  ‘Get in that driving seat or the next bullet goes in your head,’ barked Abigail.

  Jeffers looked up at her, at the grim, determined look on her face and the way the pistol was held in her firm grasp, pointing straight at his head.

  ‘You’re an evil witch,’ he sobbed.

  ‘I’m an evil witch with a gun,’ she said, curtly. She climbed up to the driving seat, keeping the pistol pointed at Jeffers the whole time. When she was in place, she said: ‘Climb up here and take the reins.’

  ‘I can’t,’ moaned Jeffers. ‘My foot’s busted. I can’t climb up.’

  ‘You’ve got another foot and two good hands,’ said Abigail, coldly. ‘Now, get up here. If you can’t you’re no use to me, and I might as well finish you off.’

  ‘That’ll be murder,’ said Jeffers, tearfully.

  ‘It’ll be self-defence,’ said Abigail, flatly.

  Accompanied by agonised moans of pain the coachman struggled to his feet, then hopped to the carriage and hauled himself up to the driving seat, using two hands and his one good foot.

  ‘Right,’ said Abigail when he was settled. ‘Chelsea Creek.’

  ‘Where were you to take Mr Wilson’s body after you’d shot him?’ demanded Armstrong.

  The superintendent sat in the leather chair in his office and glowered at the shabby man sitting handcuffed across the desk from him, the would-be assassin, Thomas Carthy. Daniel and Inspector Feather stood either side of the desk, their eyes fixed on him. A uniformed constable stood behind Carthy, but if Carthy was supposed to be intimidated by this show of police strength he wasn’t showing it.

  ‘I keep telling you, I wasn’t going to shoot him,’ insisted Carthy. ‘I just told ’em I’d kill him so I’d get the money, but I wasn’t going to. I’m not a killer.’

  ‘What were you going to do?’ demanded the superintendent.

  ‘I was going to knock him on the head, put him on the cart and then dump him. They wouldn’t have known the difference.’

  ‘You keep saying “they”,’ said Armstrong. ‘Who were “they”?’

  ‘I told you already, I didn’t know their names. Nor the name of the bloke who was driving the cart. We were all strangers to one another. All I know is the bloke was paying, and that was good enough for me.’

  ‘You said a man paid you, but it was a woman who pointed out the intended victim.’

  Carthy nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Describe them.’

  ‘Well, they were both very posh. Upper class. It was the way they spoke.’

  ‘What did they look like?’ demanded Daniel, impatiently. Then he shot an apologetic look at Armstrong for the interruption. Armstrong nodded, sympathetically, aware of Daniel’s concern for Abigail.

  ‘Yes, come on. What did they look like?’ snapped Armstrong, the menace in his voice making Carthy recoil in his chair.

  As the small man described the pair, Daniel nodded in recognition. Seeing this, Armstrong rose to his feet.

  ‘Constable, keep an eye on him,’ he barked, then gestured for Daniel and Feather to follow him outside into the corridor.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘William Watling and Lady Elizabeth Fortescue,’ said Daniel.

  Armstrong frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daniel. He turned to Feather. ‘You met Lady Fortescue.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Feather. ‘That description certainly sounds like her.’

  ‘But what would a titled lady be doing getting involved in something like this?’ demanded Armstrong in bewilderment.

  ‘Because she and Watling knew we were on to them for a murder. Possibly three murders.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Can I explain the details to you later?’ Daniel appealed to the superintendent. ‘Right now, it’s my belief that Watling has got Abigail and we need to know where. Regardless of what Carthy says, their plan was to kill me, and I’m sure they mean the same for Abigail. We need to go after Watling and Fortescue.’

  Armstrong nodded and turned to Feather. ‘Inspector, go and bring in Lady Fortescue. My guess is she won’t come easy so take three constables with you. Be prepared for rough stuff but be careful. Anything to do with the aristocracy is always messy.’ To Daniel, he said: ‘I’m guessing you know where Watling lives, Wilson. So, take Sergeant Cribbens and a couple of constables and go and pick him up. But you’re only there in an advisory capacity, you’re not an official, so if there’s any rough stuff leave it to the officers.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Lady Elizabeth Fortescue paced around her drawing room, unable to settle. William should have been here an hour ago. All he had to do was kill the woman and dump her body in the river. Her own part of the action had been over and done with long ago: she’d seen the grubby little man take Wilson away at gunpoint, and that had been enough. There’d been no reason for her to wait. The exact opposite, in fact: if anything went wrong when the man shot him, some interfering busybody becoming involved, then it was vital that she was nowhere near the scene. Even if things did go wrong and the grubby little man was caught, there was nothing to link herself and William to it. William had assured her that no names had been mentioned. Providing Wilson was dead – and she had little doubt of that, after all the man had been holding the pistol pressed into Wilson’s side with no chance of missing – she and William were in the clear. No further investigations into their business by that dreadful pair. The Museum Detectives, the newspapers called them, she thought scornfully. Well, not any more. When their bodies were found they’d be known as the Dead Detectives, and rightly so. That would teach them not to poke their noses into people’s personal lives.

  The sound of the doorbell made her stop pacing. At last! She’d given her maid, Effie, the night off and informed her housekeeper, Mrs Penton, that she could go and stay with her sister overnight, because she had private business to conduct. She smiled to herself as she hurried to the door and thought of how she’d be celebrating her private business. Very noisily, and frequently. First, in the hallway, followed by a roister in her drawing room, before finally taking William to the bedroom.

  She jerked open the door and stared at the four men who stood there on her doorstep. Not William, but three uniformed police officers and a man in an overcoat who she vaguely recognised. Of course, the detective from Scotland Yard, the one who’d taken that threatening letter. Was that what this was about? A sense of fury and indignation filled her. Of all times to call. At this late hour when she was expecting her very special visitor.

  ‘Lady Fortescue?’ said the man in the overcoat. ‘We met before. My name’s Inspector Feather—’

  ‘Yes, I know who you are,’ snapped Fortescue. ‘What do you mean by calling at my home at this hour?’

  ‘I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of conspiracy to commit murder,’ said Feather, producing a sheet of paper which he held out towards her. ‘You
will please come with me.’

  Fortescue stared at Feather, her mind in a whirl. ‘How dare you!’ she thundered, angrily, at last. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Feather. ‘You’re a woman accused of conspiracy to commit murder.’

  Fortescue stepped back and began to slam the door shut, but Feather stopped the door from closing with his boot.

  ‘I must advise you that if you resist—’

  In response, Fortescue snatched up a walking stick from a stand in the porch and began to strike out at the inspector, but Feather – who had anticipated some action like this – grabbed hold of the stick and jerked it sharply towards himself, pulling Fortescue off balance. As she stumbled, Feather ordered the uniformed officers to take hold of her. ‘Handcuff her and take her to the van,’ he ordered. ‘And if she kicks, put shackles on her ankles.’

  The driver pulled the carriage to a halt at Chelsea Creek.

  ‘I’m dying here,’ he moaned. ‘My foot’s busted.’

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped Abigail. She surveyed the area. There was no sign of anyone. There were a few barges moored at the actual wharfside, but they all appeared to be empty. No cargo, no people. The wooden buildings, similarly, all seemed to be empty and locked.

  ‘Where is he?’ Abigail barked at Jeffers. ‘Where’s Mr Wilson?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jeffers appealed. ‘All I know is what I was told to do, which was drive you and Mr Watling here.’ He looked at the dark waters of the Thames. ‘I suppose they put him in already.’ Then he cringed in fear beside her as he realised what he’d said. ‘But I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t! I swear! Please don’t shoot me!’

  And then, before she could stop him, the coachman had hurled himself off the driving seat. He hit the ground with a thud, screaming in pain as his injured foot smashed into the wooden surface of the wharf, before flopping and laying still.

  Oh my God, thought Abigail.

  She climbed down from the driving seat and approached the fallen coachman warily, expecting him to launch an attack on her, but there was no movement from Jeffers. Cautiously, she moved nearer to him. He seemed to be out cold, but she remained suspicious. She poked his injured foot with her own shoe. There was no reaction; he was unconscious.