by Jim Eldridge
‘Damn.’ She scowled. She needed to get help. She needed to find out what had happened to Daniel. Was he dead, his body dumped in the Thames as Watling had said? She wouldn’t be able to cope with that. To have found the one person who filled her life with love and to lose him like this. Her eyes filled blindingly with tears at the thought, and she sank to the ground, the pistol still clenched in her hand.
Daniel forced himself to fight against the rage and frustration that welled up inside him as he, Sergeant Cribbens and the uniformed officers walked away from William Watling’s house and returned to their police van. There had been no sign of Watling. According to his housekeeper he’d left some hours ago to attend a talk at the Natural History Museum. He had advised her that it was unlikely he would be home at all that night and told her he would see her at some time the next day. Sergeant Cribbens and Daniel had used the arrest warrant in their possession to search the house, but to no avail. Sergeant Cribbens instructed the two uniformed officers to wait on guard outside the house and arrest Watling if he returned, while he and Daniel made their way back to Scotland Yard.
‘We’ll find her, Mr Wilson,’ said Cribbens, noticing Daniel’s obvious distress and trying to reassure him. But Daniel wasn’t reassured.
Platitudes, he thought angrily. It wasn’t the sergeant’s fault, but that was all they had so far. His only hope was that Watling had taken Abigail to Lady Fortescue’s house and Feather had found her there. If Watling wasn’t there … It didn’t bear thinking about. It meant she was still in his clutches, in mortal danger. Then helplessness filled him at the thought that if Watling was at Fortescue’s, but with no sign of Abigail, then he’d already killed her.
I’ll kill him, he vowed silently. I don’t care if they hang me for it, because if he’s killed her I’ll have lost the one person who makes this life worthwhile, which means I have nothing to live for. I cannot bear the thought that she’s been snatched away from me before we’ve really begun to live our life together.
As he and Cribbens mounted the stairs to Armstrong’s office he began to silently pray that Watling would not be there. If he wasn’t it meant there might still be a chance that Abigail was alive.
As he neared the superintendent’s office, he saw John Feather walking along the corridor accompanied by Thomas Carthy and he burst out: ‘Have you found her, John?’
‘No, nor Watling,’ said Feather. ‘But we’ve got Lady Fortescue. She might know where they are.’
Daniel felt weak and had to force himself to stop from collapsing.
‘We’ll find her, Daniel,’ said Feather. ‘While Watling’s out there, there’s a chance she’s still alive.’
That’s what Daniel had told himself, but a large part of him felt it was just wishful thinking. Please don’t let her be dead, he begged, fervently.
Feather gestured at Carthy. ‘The superintendent’s sent me to get him to identify Fortescue. Hopefully, once that’s happened, she’ll reveal where Watling’s gone to protect her own skin.’
‘I didn’t do any murder,’ Carthy reminded them. ‘Nor was I ever going to. I was just stringing ’em along.’
Feather ignored him and knocked at the superintendent’s door, then pushed it open and ushered Carthy in. Daniel and Sergeant Cribbens followed.
Lady Fortescue was sitting bolt upright in a chair across the desk from Superintendent Armstrong. Her handcuffs had been removed. Both she and Armstrong looked up as the visitors entered.
‘No sign of Watling at his house, sir,’ reported Sergeant Cribbens. ‘I’ve left officers on duty there in case he returns.’
‘This is all nonsense,’ sneered Fortescue.
Armstrong looked at Carthy. ‘Is this the woman who pointed out to you the man you were to shoot?’ he asked.
Carthy looked at Fortescue, then nodded. ‘That’s her,’ he said.
‘This is an outrage,’ blustered Fortescue. ‘Who is this man? I insist on seeing my solicitor.’
‘If you give me his name and address, we’ll send someone to fetch him,’ said Armstrong. He turned to Cribbens. ‘Take Mr Carthy down to the holding cells, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cribbens, and he guided the small man out of the office.
‘You’re making a very big mistake, Superintendent,’ snapped Fortescue. ‘I’ll have your job for this.’
‘And if Mr Watling has harmed Miss Fenton I’ll have your head and his in a hangman’s noose,’ retorted Armstrong. ‘Your only chance is telling us where he’s taken her.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Fortescue, sternly. ‘Mr Watling and I attended a talk at the Natural History Museum this evening. There were plenty of people who can verify we were there. Afterwards, I made my way to my house. I assume Mr Watling did the same. The fact he was not at home when your officers called is neither here nor there. It’s certainly nothing to do with me. This man you produced who claims I ordered him to shoot someone is obviously either lying or is deranged. I shall be making my complaints about this travesty, this outrage, to the Commissioner of Police, who was a close personal friend of my late husband, as well as to the Prime Minister, whom I also have an acquaintance with. I insist you return me to my home at once. The longer you keep me here, the more you compound the situation. Not only will I ensure you are dismissed from the police service, and without a pension, but I will make sure you are jailed for the appalling way you have treated me. Invasion of property, wrongful arrest – these are just the start of the legal proceedings you will face. Furthermore—’
She was interrupted by the door bursting open and Sergeant Cribbens rushing in out of breath.
‘She’s here, sir,’ he gasped. ‘Here!’
‘Who’s here?’ demanded the bewildered Armstrong.
‘Miss Fenton, sir. She’s outside on a carriage.’
‘On a carriage?’ repeated Armstrong, trying to make sense of what he was being told.
‘Yes, sir. She’s driving it.’
Armstrong looked towards Daniel and Inspector Feather, but they had already rushed out of the office. Armstrong rose to his feet and gestured towards Lady Fortescue, who seemed to have shrunk at this sudden news. Certainly, her face showed a mixture of fear and panic.
‘Keep an eye on her, Sergeant,’ said Armstrong to Cribbens. ‘If she gives you any trouble, handcuff and shackle her to the chair.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Abigail was climbing down from the driver’s seat of the carriage when she heard Daniel cry out, ‘Abigail! Thank God!’ She turned and saw him running towards her, closely followed by Inspector Feather, and she broke into a run, then she and Daniel threw themselves into one another’s arms.
‘Daniel! I thought you were dead,’ she gasped.
‘I thought you were dead too,’ said Daniel, taking her in his arms and hugging her tightly.
Feather stood and looked at the carriage and the horse in awe. ‘You drove this?’ he said.
‘I had no choice,’ said Abigail.
Superintendent Armstrong appeared. ‘Miss Fenton,’ he exclaimed. ‘God be praised. You’re alive and well.’
‘I’m not sure about being well,’ she said. ‘In fact …’
Suddenly, Daniel realised that Abigail was slipping down in his arms, then she collapsed to the pavement.
‘Abigail,’ said Daniel, dropping to his knees beside her and lifting her in his arms.
‘It’s just … just a bit of a headache,’ said Abigail. She passed her hand over her eyes. ‘I’ve never headbutted anyone before. I didn’t realise it would hurt as much as it did. It was all right while I was rushing around and then driving the carriage, but once I relaxed …’
‘Headbutt?’ asked Daniel.
‘You really drove the carriage?’ said Armstrong, looking in awe at the black horse.
‘I had to,’ said Abigail. ‘The driver was unconscious.’
She began to push herself to her feet but Daniel eased her back down again. ‘Don�
��t try to get up yet,’ he said.
‘Where’s William Watling?’ asked Feather. ‘We went to his house, but—’
‘He’s inside the carriage, along with his coachman. They’re both tied up, but the driver’s been injured.’
‘Injured?’ asked Armstrong. ‘Badly?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ said Abigail. She hesitated, then admitted: ‘I shot him.’
‘Shot him?’ The men stared at her in horror.
‘Just in the foot. And it was accidental. I was holding the gun when he attacked me, tried to knock it out of my hand, and in the struggle it went off.’
‘You had a gun?’ said Armstrong, stunned.
‘It was Mr Watling’s. He was going to shoot me with it, and I took it off him.’
‘My God,’ said Feather. ‘Abigail, you never cease to amaze me.’
‘And me,’ muttered Daniel. ‘We need to get you to a doctor.’
‘No,’ said Abigail. ‘Right now, I just need something to drink. I’ve got a thirst on me like you wouldn’t believe. I’m sure it’s just a nervous reaction, but …’
‘No problem,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ll get someone to brew you a good strong cup of tea.’
‘Tea?’ said Abigail, derisively. ‘I’ve been abducted, fought for my life, shot a man and driven a horse and carriage halfway across London. What more do I have to do to merit a brandy?’
CHAPTER FORTY
It was around lunchtime the following day that Inspector Feather arrived at the house in Camden Town to catch up with Daniel and Abigail, where he found Daniel making cheese and ham sandwiches.
‘I’d come to take you to the pub for lunch,’ he told them, ‘but I can see you’re producing your own gourmet repast.’
‘With pickled onions.’ Daniel beamed.
‘Which Daniel assures me are a rare delicacy,’ said Abigail. ‘I have yet to put that to the test.’
‘I can assure you they are,’ said Feather. ‘And, just in case this was the situation I encountered, I brought some supplies.’ And he opened a bag and took out three bottles of beer. ‘If beer is all right, for you, Abigail?’
She picked up one of the bottles and examined it. ‘“Best stout”,’ she read. ‘Does this mean that I am now an honorary copper?’
Daniel finished making the sandwiches, while Abigail opened the bottles of beer and poured the dark brown liquid into three glasses.
‘I thought you’d be interested to know we have the men who damaged that dinosaur skeleton in custody,’ said Feather.
‘What? How?’ asked Abigail.
‘Luck,’ admitted Feather. ‘Fred and Ray Brown, cousins of Benny and Billy Wardle. They boasted to a barmaid about how they’d done this job at the Natural History Museum and never been caught. Smashed up a fossil and got paid for it. The barmaid told the local beat copper, they were brought in and admitted everything. Including the fact that it was Erskine Petter who paid them.’
‘So, the last part of the jigsaw,’ said Daniel. ‘Congratulations.’
‘On luck?’ asked Feather. sipping at his beer.
‘It’s as much a part of the copper’s armoury as anything else,’ observed Daniel.
‘True,’ agreed Feather. ‘I’ve also come to give you advance notice of a press conference the superintendent is holding this afternoon, so you’ll be seeing reports in the papers tomorrow.’
‘In which he will have personally solved the murder at the Natural History Museum.’ Daniel smiled.
‘And the murder of Erskine Petter, and those of Danvers Hardwicke, former curator at the museum, Lord Fortescue, and Mrs Mirabel Watling.’
‘My heavens, he has been busy.’ Abigail chuckled. ‘I sense a knighthood is being pursued. I assume there is no mention of our involvement?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Feather. ‘Which is why I decided to come round and alert you before it all appears in print.’
‘But there is a “yes”?’ enquired Daniel.
‘His statement reads that Scotland Yard, under his direction, solved the cases and brought the culprits to justice, with the assistance of some members of the public, for which he is grateful.’
‘Did he name these members of the public?’
‘No, although I believe that some of the reporters present were able to hazard a guess. Your old friend Joe Dalton from The Telegraph was there, and he asked if these members of the public were the famous Museum Detectives, Daniel Wilson and Abigail Fenton. To which Armstrong said it would be unfair to single out individual members of the public who’d helped, and he’d like to remind everyone that it was the proper procedures carried out by the Metropolitan Police that had resulted in the successful conclusions to this case.’ He raised his glass to them. ‘It would not surprise me if you got a visit from Joe Dalton to ask for your version of events.’
‘And we shall tell him that the real detective hero of this case is Scotland Yard’s Inspector John Feather,’ said Abigail.
‘Please don’t, not even as a joke.’ Feather shuddered. ‘The superintendent can be very sensitive.’ He turned to Abigail and said: ‘I have to ask, Abigail, had you ever driven a horse and carriage before last night?’
‘No,’ replied Abigail. ‘But I felt I was left with very little option other than to attempt it. However, I reasoned that I had ridden a camel when I was in Egypt and the principle might well be similar. Pull the reins either to the left or right to steer it. And, very importantly, let the animal know that you are in charge and that you mean it no harm. I also remembered watching how cabmen controlled their horses.’
‘Astonishing,’ said Feather.
‘Yes, she is,’ said Daniel, and he took a bite from his sandwich. ‘So, how are the various accused reacting? Watling and Lady Fortescue, and Turner and Mrs Smith?’
‘Very differently,’ said Feather. ‘Turner and Smith each insist that they were the real guilty party and that the other was merely caught up in it but it wasn’t their fault. Whereas Watling and Fortescue are busy blaming the other for everything and protesting their own individual innocence. As a result, with Watling and Fortescue working so hard to protect their own skins, I feel confident we have all the evidence we need to convict them.’
‘Providing the Establishment goes along with it,’ said Abigail. ‘They won’t be keen to see two of their own being hanged. And Lady Fortescue has friends in some very high places, as she was very keen to let everyone know.’
Feather sighed. ‘True. We’ll just have to wait and see. As for Turner and Smith, that becomes more difficult with each admitting guilt. It’s possible they’ll both hang. However, the good news is that Mason Radley is back at home, exonerated. To the delight of his housekeeper, Mrs Walton.’ He smiled and added: ‘I delivered him home personally, and if ever there was a woman with lovelight in her face, it was in hers when she opened the door to us. If the man’s got any sense, he’ll propose and get his life sorted out.’
‘Talking of proposing and getting lives sorted out …’ said Abigail. She stopped and looked towards Daniel.
Feather regarded them quizzically, then asked: ‘Who proposed to whom, and when is the happy day?’
Daniel laughed. ‘As with Dawson Turner and Mrs Smith, we each take the blame. As to the date, to be fixed, but soon, though at the moment we’re keeping everything quiet. The reason we’re telling you is because I’d be most grateful if you’d act as my best man.’
‘Me?’ said Feather, stunned.
‘There’s no one else I’d want at my side on the day Abigail and I marry,’ said Daniel.
‘And the same goes for me, too,’ said Abigail. ‘Please say yes, John.’
‘I’m flattered and grateful,’ said Feather. ‘And, of course, yes.’ He drained his glass and smiled. ‘This calls for more beer!’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’m delighted to have the opportunity to thank the superb team who worked with me creating this book and this series (The Museum Mysteries, featuring Daniel Wilson a
nd Abigail Fenton): my wonderful publisher at Allison & Busby, Susie Dunlop, my brilliant editor, Kelly Smith, and my agent, Jane Conway-Gordon, who have all inspired and worked with me in creating this series and these characters. It may be my name on the cover, but without those three these books would be far less in many ways and may possibly have not existed at all. I have no doubt it’s thanks to them that we have now reached book number five in the series. Thank you Susie, Kelly and Jane; and thank you, dear reader. You and your comments are the other vital ingredients of this team.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jim Eldridge was born in central London towards the end of World War II, and survived attacks by V2 rockets on the Kings Cross area where he lived. In 1971 he sold his first sitcom, starring Arthur Lowe, to the BBC and had his first book commissioned. Since then he has had more than one hundred books published, with sales of over three million copies. He lives in Kent with his wife.
jimeldridge.com
By Jim Eldridge