Murder at the British Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Abigail Fenton,’ said Daniel. ‘Miss. And why should there be?’

  ‘Daniel, you taught me everything there was to know about people, and how to read them. Little things like how people react when asked a question they don’t really want to answer: shuffling their feet, twisting an ear, pursing their lips, putting on a bit of a front …’

  ‘If you’re thinking I’m doing any of those things …’

  ‘I know you. I worked with you for years, and I can tell there’s something about this woman that’s special.’

  Daniel hesitated, then he nodded. ‘Yes, there is,’ he admitted. ‘But as far as this case is concerned, it’s a professional relationship. When you meet her you’ll see how sharp she is. She’s intelligent, strong, resourceful …’

  ‘And good-looking?’

  ‘Yes, well, there’s that, too,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Are you and she going to get married?’

  ‘That’s another issue,’ said Daniel awkwardly. ‘I just wanted you to know about her in case you come across her at the museum. We’ve arranged to have an office at our disposal during the investigation, so you can always get in touch with us there.’ He put the piece of paper with the address in his pocket. ‘And thanks for the tip about Mrs Pickering.’

  ‘I didn’t give you any tip,’ said Feather.

  ‘You say that after you’ve given me a talk about interpreting people’s body movements,’ chuckled Daniel.

  He left Feather’s office and headed towards the stairs that would take him back down to main reception. As he walked along the corridor, a door opened and Superintendent Armstrong stepped out. He stopped and scowled when he saw Daniel.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  The superintendent was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a protruding belly that showed a love of good food and wine. It was said that in his younger days he’d played rugby at a high level, and Daniel could well believe it. Even in his forties he had the imposing bulk that looked like it could still hold its own in a scrum.

  ‘I came out of courtesy to report my involvement in the murder at the British Museum,’ said Daniel.

  ‘What involvement?’

  ‘Sir Jasper Stone has asked me to do a separate investigation.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Professor Pickering was killed on their premises and they are concerned about their reputation.’

  ‘I’m already protecting their reputation!’ thundered Armstrong.

  ‘Nevertheless, Sir Jasper has invited me and my partner to work on the case independently.’

  ‘What partner?’ growled Armstrong suspiciously.

  ‘A historian and archaeologist called Abigail Fenton. She has a degree in history from Girton College in Cambridge, and is highly respected for her archaeological surveys in Britain and across the world.’

  ‘How on earth did she link up with you?’ demanded Armstrong.

  ‘We completed a case together successfully at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, where she was curating an exhibition of Egyptian artefacts. She has a great knowledge and understanding of history, and as this case seems to involve history …’

  ‘It doesn’t!’ snapped Armstrong. ‘It’s some lunatic; that’s obvious.’

  ‘Surely, it’s too early to draw that conclusion—’ began Daniel, but he was cut off by the superintendent.

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’ Armstrong snapped, waving a fleshy finger at him. ‘You’re not in Cambridge now. This is my manor. My case.’ His eyes narrowed and he demanded, ‘Who have you seen here?’

  ‘I’ve just been to see Inspector Feather to advise him of my involvement. I was on my way to see you to inform you of the same,’ said Daniel.

  ‘There’s no need,’ growled Armstrong. ‘You’re not needed. We’re doing this case. You have no part of it. And I won’t have you strolling around here like you’re part of this building. You’re not. Don’t come here again or I’ll have you thrown out.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After Daniel left, John Feather was joined in his office by his detective sergeant, Jeremiah Cribbens. Cribbens proceeded to fill up his pipe with the evil-smelling black shag he seemed to love and lit it, then puffed away at it in between recounting his latest accomplishment on the Pickering murder. Or lack of accomplishment, as soon became clear.

  ‘I had another word with the man who took the professor down to the convenience to see if anything had jogged his memory about that event, but sadly he said, no, that was all he could remember. He didn’t see anyone hanging around. Then I went to have another word with the man who found the professor’s body, but he wasn’t in work today.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’ asked Feather, his interest aroused. People who went missing so soon after a murder were always worth looking into.

  ‘It’s his day off,’ said Cribbens.

  ‘Pre-arranged?’ questioned Feather.

  ‘Yes, sir. I had a word with the museum’s Mr Ashford, who arranges the work schedules, and he told me today is Mr Wills’ regular day off.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ Feather nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Then I went in search of the person who cleans the conveniences to see if he knew any more about this “Out of Order” notice that someone stuck on the door …’

  Feather was saved from being told, as he guessed, that this person was also either not in, or had nothing more to offer, because the door of his office crashed open and Superintendent Armstrong glared in at the two men.

  Sergeant Cribbens leapt to his feet with alacrity and stood stiffly to attention, while Feather rose at a more leisurely pace.

  ‘Is there a problem, Superintendent?’ he asked.

  ‘There is, and his name is Wilson!’ growled Armstrong. ‘I understand he was here in this office not many minutes ago.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Feather. ‘He popped in to inform us as a matter of courtesy that he’d been engaged by the British Museum to look into the murder of Professor Pickering, and he wanted to assure us that he would be doing nothing to interfere with our investigations.’

  ‘Damn right he won’t!’ snorted Armstrong. ‘I’ve just seen Wilson and told him he’s banned from this building. Banned! Did you hear that, Inspector?’

  ‘I did, sir,’ said Feather calmly. ‘He’s banned.’

  ‘Exactly! Do you know why, Inspector?’

  Yes, I can certainly guess, thought Feather wryly. Aloud, he said, ‘Because you don’t like him, sir.’

  ‘I don’t like what he stands for.’ Noticing Cribbens still standing stiffly to attention, he said curtly, ‘At ease, Sergeant. You may sit.’

  Gratefully, Cribbens sat down and picked up his pipe.

  ‘Wilson is a maverick,’ continued Armstrong. ‘I disapprove of policemen who learn everything they can at the force’s expense, and then go off their own private way, coining money hand over fist at our expense!’

  ‘I don’t think that Daniel – Mr Wilson – does that, sir. He only takes on an investigation when a private client hires him.’

  ‘And what does that say about us?’ demanded Armstrong. ‘They don’t have faith in us!’

  ‘With respect, sir, I believe the British Museum has a great deal of faith in us. But Mr Wilson has a special relationship with Sir Jasper Stone after he solved that theft of that Saxon jewel.’

  ‘Which we could have solved if we’d had more time!’ shouted Armstrong angrily. ‘Well, I’ve told him and now I’m telling you as you two seem to be such buddies, he’s not to come in here. I won’t have him using our expertise to prise fabulous sums of money out of gullible people. If you ask me, what he does is as good as criminal.’

  ‘He’s not the only one who’s gone private, sir,’ Feather pointed out. ‘Inspector Abberline joined the Pinkertons and has done very well with them, I understand.’

  ‘Better than he did here,’ said Armstrong with a sneer. ‘I’ve no time for Abberline either. Traitors to the force, the pair of them. Abberli
ne and Wilson.’ He glowered at Feather. ‘I hope you’re not entertaining any ideas of going private, Inspector.’

  ‘No, sir. Absolutely not. I am very satisfied with my career here at Scotland Yard, and as long as I give satisfaction, I hope that career will be a long one.’

  ‘It could well be, so long as you keep away from Wilson. He’s a contaminant.’ He strode back to the door, then turned. ‘Remember, Inspector. Wilson is barred from this building. And don’t you forget it.’

  ‘It is indelibly inscribed on my memory, sir,’ said Feather.

  Armstrong gave Feather a quizzical look, searching for some sign of sarcasm in the inspector’s face. Then he gave a last scowl and left, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Cor!’ exhaled Cribbens. ‘The super don’t like Daniel Wilson, does he, sir!’

  ‘Well spotted.’ Feather grinned. ‘We’ll make a detective of you yet. Is there anything more to report?’

  ‘Er, no, sir,’ said Cribbens. ‘I was just wondering what our next move is?’

  ‘This business of the number of stab wounds bothers me,’ said Feather.

  ‘Someone didn’t like the professor, sir,’ said Cribbens.

  ‘Exactly, but who?’

  ‘When we saw Mrs Pickering she said her husband didn’t have an enemy in the world,’ said Cribbens.

  ‘I’ve noticed that’s usually the reaction of the nearest and dearest when something like this happens,’ said Feather drily. ‘We need to talk to someone else who knew the professor.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His publisher might be able to help,’ said Feather. ‘So, your next move, Sergeant, is to find out who published this book of his, and get their address.’

  ‘Consider it done, sir,’ said Cribbens.

  After Cribbens had departed on his errand, Feather reflected on Armstrong’s anger at former Scotland Yard detectives who became private investigators. Feather had meant what he’d said to the superintendent; he had no intention of going down that path himself. Not with a family of four children to support, as well as his wife’s widowed mother, who also lived with them. And the truth was, there were other superintendents he might be working under who were far worse than Armstrong. Armstrong was many things Feather disliked: vain, bigoted, arrogant and not a quarter as intelligent as he believed himself to be. But he wasn’t crooked or corrupt. And as long as it stayed that way, and as long as John Feather needed the regular salary he got from Scotland Yard, he was fine with the way things were.

  It was different for Daniel. He was single. He didn’t have to worry about making sure there was enough money coming in regularly to feed a large family. He could afford to take the chance on whether or not he’d earn anything that month.

  Then Feather smiled. But that might change. Daniel had fallen for someone. A female archaeologist with a degree from Girton. Feather chuckled to himself as he recalled the embarrassed look on Daniel’s face when he’d told him about her.

  I’m looking forward to meeting her, he thought. She must be someone special if she’s able to make Daniel Wilson stammer and blush.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Abigail was still studying the exhibition when Daniel returned.

  ‘Good?’ he asked.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘You really should spend time looking at it.’

  ‘I have done,’ he said.

  ‘A cursory glance only.’ She sniffed. ‘How did you get on at Scotland Yard? Did this Superintendent Armstrong throw you out?’

  ‘He did,’ said Daniel. ‘But fortunately not until after I’d met with John Feather, who’s given us a tip.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Cherchez la femme. He suggests we talk to the professor’s widow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Surely it would be a matter of course to talk to his widow, find out if he had any enemies, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Absolutely, but there was something in the way he said it.’

  ‘He suspects her?’

  ‘Mr Wilson! Miss Fenton!’

  They turned and saw a tall, thin man in his middle forties approaching them, immaculately dressed in a dark three-piece suit, shoes shined to a gleam.

  ‘I’m David Ashford. Sir Jasper asked me to find a space you can use as your base while you are here. I’ve arranged a room halfway up one of the spiral staircases just off the main reception. It’s quite bijou, but I hope it will suffice. There’s room in there for a small table and a couple of chairs, but unfortunately little else. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the way.’

  ‘I’m sure the room will be fine,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Thank you for accommodating us at such short notice,’ added Abigail, as Ashford led the way up the spiral staircase.

  ‘The thanks is ours,’ said Ashford. ‘I fear this tragic incident could adversely affect the visitor numbers to the exhibition on King Arthur. Sir Jasper has spent so long preparing it and it was intended to be the highlight of the season.’

  ‘It deserves to be,’ said Abigail. ‘I’ve taken the opportunity to spend time looking at it. The displays are superb, and the assembled information remarkably wide, taking in so many different aspects of the Arthur story.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ashford smiled. ‘It’s always gratifying to receive praise from someone as knowledgeable as you, Miss Fenton. I know of your work, of course, in the area of ancient Egypt. Perhaps while you are here you’d care to take a look at our Egyptian rooms?’

  ‘I would love to,’ said Abigail.

  He stopped at a landing and indicated a door. ‘This is your room.’

  He pushed the door open and they followed him in. He’d described it as bijou, but Daniel thought ‘tiny and cramped’ might be a better description.

  ‘Again, I must apologise for the smallness of the accommodation …’

  ‘This will be fine, Mr Ashford,’ said Abigail. ‘There will only be the two of us in it, and much of the time we will be around the museum and elsewhere, following leads. We very much appreciate your arranging this at such short notice.’

  Ashford gave a smile and a small bow, and left.

  ‘Flatterer,’ muttered Daniel.

  ‘That’s something I learnt from you,’ said Abigail. ‘A kindly smile gets more results than a sharp command.’

  ‘Yes, you were certainly more brusque when we first met.’

  ‘I was not brusque,’ bridled Abigail. ‘I was efficient. I was also at a disadvantage because I was a woman in what was essentially a man’s profession, and I had to appear to be stronger than a man if I was to be considered as an equal.’

  ‘But now, because of me, you have softened?’ Daniel smiled.

  ‘I saw the results you achieved when you interviewed people, especially the disadvantaged and those of lower social status. They appreciated the respect you showed them and were more helpful to you than they could have been to others. It was a salutary lesson.’

  ‘It doesn’t always work,’ said Daniel. He looked around the room. ‘Still, you’re right to compliment Mr Ashford. The room may be tiny, but at least he found us something, and in a short space of time, and without fuss. When I was at Scotland Yard, if a new senior officer was appointed and needed an office, it usually took months, and then only after endless red tape had to be untangled. Anyway, now I suggest we go to see Mrs Pickering, and see what light she may throw on what happened.’

  The late Professor Pickering and his wife lived in a large and luxurious-looking house in Park Square East, one side of a private square overlooking Regent’s Park. The gardens that formed the centre of the square were very well kept and ornately planted with all manner of blooms.

  ‘It must cost a pretty penny to keep the gardens looking like this,’ observed Daniel. ‘I hadn’t realised writing books on history could be so lucrative.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ pointed out Abigail. ‘We don’t know that the professor owned the house. It could have belonged to his
wife’s family or be rented.’

  ‘Even if it’s rented, it would be expensive.’

  ‘Some people live for show to impress others, regardless of expense,’ said Abigail. ‘You’d be surprised at how many aristocrats are living in debt.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ve met many of them in my time.’

  They mounted the steps of white stone to the front door and rang the bell. The door was opened by a plump woman in her sixties, who looked at them enquiringly.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked.

  Daniel and Abigail handed the woman their cards.

  ‘My name is Daniel Wilson, and this is my colleague, Abigail Fenton. We would appreciate it if we could talk to Mrs Pickering.’

  ‘For what reason?’ demanded the woman.

  ‘We are here at the request of Sir Jasper Stone of the British Museum,’ said Daniel.

  It was no proper answer, but enough for the woman to nod.

  ‘If you’ll wait here, I’ll see if Mrs Pickering is available,’ she said and closed the door.

  ‘Very protective,’ commented Daniel.

  ‘The sign of a good housekeeper,’ said Abigail.

  The door opened again, and the woman gestured for them to enter. ‘Mrs Pickering is in the drawing room. If you’ll follow me.’

  The house was as opulent and luxurious inside as it was outside, the walls adorned with paintings, along with statues that Daniel recognised as Roman and Greek. Most likely copies, he guessed, but even then, he reflected that it showed there was money here.

  Mrs Pickering was sitting in a chair by the bay window, looking out. A young man, well-dressed, with long hair that curled over his collar, was standing by the window next to her. As Daniel and Abigail were escorted in by the housekeeper, Mrs Pickering rose and looked at them enquiringly.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Pickering. My name is Daniel Wilson, and this is my colleague, Abigail Fenton. We’re very sorry to intrude at this difficult time, but we are private enquiry agents hired by the British Museum to look into the death of your late husband.’