by Jim Eldridge
‘No!’ howled the young man, and he dropped his head into his hands and began to sob.
After that, words tumbled out of him: the seance, the decision by the Children of Avalon to protest at the way their revered King Arthur had been denigrated, and finally – under Daniel’s stern gaze – Chapman wrote out his list of the members of the Children of Avalon.
‘Why did you ask them both for the list?’ asked Abigail after the security men had taken Chapman away.
‘To compare,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s quite likely each will decide to leave certain people’s names off it.’ He put the two sheets of paper side by side. There were eleven names on one sheet and fifteen on the other.
‘Hardly a mass movement,’ commented Daniel. Then he smiled. ‘Well, well,’ he said.
‘What?’ asked Abigail.
Daniel pointed to a name at the bottom of the longer list. ‘Joshua Tudder,’ he read.
CHAPTER TEN
At home that evening, Daniel sat in his favourite wooden armchair in the kitchen and watched as Abigail moved a saucepan about on the hob of the range. Cabbage bubbled away inside the saucepan. In the range’s oven she had two roasting trays, one bearing a chicken, the other potatoes.
‘Are you sure you’re confident about this?’ asked Daniel.
‘Yes, I am confident,’ retorted Abigail, irritated. ‘You’re the one who isn’t.’
‘If you’re not sure, there’s a very good pie and mash shop in Royal College Street.’
‘I am not having pie and mash.’
‘It’s very good,’ said Daniel. ‘The white parsley sauce is really tasty.’
‘I have worked hard preparing this meal,’ Abigail told him. ‘I watched what you did the other day, which is why I’m confident I can do the same dish, roasting a chicken and potatoes. If it turns out to be inedible, then and only then will I consider pie and mash.’
‘I thought you were going to start with something easier, like sausages,’ said Daniel. ‘To roast a chicken at your first attempt is quite brave.’
‘When you say “brave”, what you mean is foolish. But I have seen chickens cooked before, and not just by you. When I was in the desert out in Egypt …’
‘They don’t have kitchen ranges in the desert,’ said Daniel.
‘They have their equivalent, an ash pit in which the chicken is placed.’
‘The chicken needs to be cooked right the way through,’ said Daniel.
‘As you’ve already said about five times. Really, Daniel, you are being a complete fusspot over this. I would have thought, rather than finding fault and undermining me, you would have been encouraging me, giving me confidence.’
‘I am,’ said Daniel. ‘I want you to achieve this, that’s why I’m giving you my advice, based on my experience of using this particular range.’
‘Did you have anyone watch you when you cooked your first meal on this thing?’ asked Abigail.
‘No,’ said Daniel.
‘There you are, then. You did it without supervision and it was alright.’
‘Actually, it wasn’t,’ admitted Daniel. ‘I burnt the potatoes, boiled the cabbage to a mush, and the meat was raw inside.’
Abigail opened the oven door, took out the basting tray with the chicken on it and pushed a thin knife into it, which she took out and examined. She then did the same with the roast potatoes.
‘Five more minutes,’ she announced, putting both trays back into the oven, and sat down at the table.
‘I have to say I was very impressed with the way you dealt with those vandals today at the museum,’ said Daniel. ‘Where did you learn to step in like that?’
‘Egypt,’ said Abigail. ‘I was on a dig and had got separated from my fellow archaeologists – it was a very large site – and a local Egyptian decided to try and take advantage of the fact that I was alone.’
‘And?’
‘I beat him with a shovel that was lying nearby.’
‘Badly?’
‘Enough for him to need medical treatment,’ said Abigail. ‘And for word to spread about what had happened. No one ever attempted to molest me again.’
‘I can imagine.’ Daniel grinned.
‘I have a question,’ she said. ‘This reporter, Dalton.’
‘Joe,’ said Daniel.
‘How can you be so sure he won’t put anything in the paper about the attack at the museum? He’s a newspaper reporter, it’s his job to write about things like that.’
‘Because I asked him not to,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ve known Joe for a good few years. He’s honest, but he also takes the long view. So long as he keeps my trust, he knows I’ll always keep him informed when something really big happens. And often before anyone gets to know about it.’
‘Unlike that other reporter. Carson,’ said Abigail.
‘I wouldn’t trust Ned Carson as far as I can throw him,’ said Daniel. ‘There is a man who’d promise you anything in order to get a story, and go back on his word at the first opportunity. Joe Dalton is a news reporter; Ned Carson is a parasite.’
‘Getting back to the lists of names those two idiots gave us, what are we going to do about Joshua Tudder?’
‘I thought I’d go and visit him with John Feather.’
‘Without me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if the conversation turns to the affair we all think he’s having with Mrs Pickering, he might be reluctant to talk about it with a woman present.’
‘Whereas, with all men, he’s likely to boast?’
‘No, I don’t think he’d boast. I know we didn’t see him for long, but he didn’t come across as the type who’d boast about his sexual conquests.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ observed Abigail. ‘And we didn’t see him for long. But, yes, I take your point. He might be more frank without a woman there. But do you think there’s anything in it? Him being part of this ridiculous Children of Avalon?’
‘I know it seems unlikely, but say the situation is as we suspect, that Professor Pickering was an obstacle to Tudder and Mrs Pickering being able to be together. We’ve seen how gullible those two idiots were today, Markham and Chapman. Perhaps Tudder whispered in the ear of one of the others about having King Arthur’s revenge on Pickering. He could even have arranged a fake seance for the purpose. It’s easy enough for someone to make sure the planchette moves to the right letters on a Ouija board to spell out what’s wanted. Fake mediums do it all the time.’
‘What do you want me to do, while you and Inspector Feather are interrogating Mr Tudder?’
Daniel shrugged. ‘Just be at the museum, in case anyone arrives who might have some information. Talk to the staff, see if any of them can remember something about the day that Pickering was attacked that they’d forgotten. That often happens.’
‘I’m happy for that,’ said Abigail. ‘And also for the opportunity to look properly at the museum’s Egyptian rooms. With everything that’s been going on I haven’t had much chance to do that.’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Five minutes. Time for the test on the proof of the pudding being in the eating.’
That night, as they lay in bed contentedly wrapped in one another’s arms, Daniel whispered, ‘I do love you so, Abigail Fenton.’
‘And I do love you, Daniel Wilson,’ returned Abigail. ‘You don’t feel this is sinful, living as we do? Bella has barely been in touch with me since I told her about us.’
‘No, not at all,’ said Daniel. ‘If this is sin, then I’m all for it.’
‘Be careful who you say that to,’ cautioned Abigail. ‘You could offend a lot of people.’
‘I’m hardly going to be saying that outside these walls,’ Daniel assured her. ‘But, within these walls, I have everything I need with you.’
‘You might need a more modern oven.’
He smiled. ‘The meal was perfect.’
‘I didn’t get the potatoes right.’
‘I lik
e them like that, very crispy.’
‘Partly burnt.’
‘Not at all. And that chicken was perfection. You are a marvel, Abigail.’
‘And you are a liar, Daniel, but I love you for it.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tudder’s studio was at the very top of a tall, narrow building, squeezed in between other similar tall and narrow buildings. Daniel and Feather climbed the steep and winding staircase to the top. They reached the door to Tudder’s studio and were met with a smell of oil paints and turpentine mixed with linseed oil. Feather knocked on the door and Tudder opened it to them. He wore a smock, daubed with paint.
‘Inspector Feather,’ he said, ‘Mr Wilson. What can I do for you?’
‘We’ve got a few questions we’d be grateful if you could help us with, sir,’ said Feather. ‘Can we come in?’
The smell of oil paint, linseed and turpentine was even stronger inside than out. The slanted windows in the ceiling remained firmly shut, reducing any chance of fresh air getting in. Squeezed tubes of oil paint in all colours lay on every surface, on benches, on the table, on the two easels that adorned the studio. A dozen untouched canvases on wooden stretchers were stacked against the walls, waiting to be used. On one of the easels sat a canvas in the process of becoming a painting.
The face was of Mrs Pickering, but the pose and the setting were very similar to some of the paintings and images Daniel had seen at the exhibition. Mrs Pickering was depicted wearing long flowing robes, sitting regally on a large rock in a pastoral setting, a leafy glade that opened up into a verdant green valley behind her, with mountains and forests beyond. A small gold crown adorned her head, and sticking out of the rock was the lavishly decorated hilt of a sword.
‘Guinevere and Excalibur?’ said Daniel.
‘Yes,’ said Tudder. ‘It was to be a present for Lance in honour of his book, representing the Arthurian legends. I shall still finish it and it will hang in his memory.’
‘But I understand that Professor Pickering’s book concentrated on the realistic model for Arthur, Ambrosius Aurelianus, at the expense of the more romantic version of Malory that you have depicted,’ murmured Daniel.
Tudder shot Daniel a look of surprise. ‘You are a scholar?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘But the difference between the two views was brought to our attention as the result of an attack on the exhibition at the museum by a group calling itself the Children of Avalon.’
Daniel saw that flicker of recognition in Tudder’s face at the mention of the name.
‘As a result of that attack, we are now considering this group as possible culprits for the killing of Professor Pickering,’ said Feather.
‘No, that’s impossible!’ Tudder exclaimed.
‘Not from what the two young men from the Children of Avalon told us,’ said Daniel. ‘They were very vehement in their condemnation of the professor, and his book.’
‘They also physically attacked the exhibition and the stewards at the museum,’ added Feather. ‘That certainly indicates they are capable of violence.’ He paused, then added, ‘They named you as one of the members of the Children of Avalon. Would you care to explain your connection to them?’
Suddenly, Tudder appeared shrunken, defeated. He sat down on a chair.
‘It was an error of judgement on my part,’ he said dully. ‘An artist friend of mine mentioned them to me because he knew I was interested in the romantic aspects of the Arthurian legends.’ He gestured at the paintings and sketches around the studio. ‘Much of my work has been inspired by James Archer.’
Feather frowned. ‘The name is unfamiliar to me, sir.’
‘The Death of King Arthur,’ said Daniel. ‘The painting is on display as part of the exhibition at the museum.’
‘Yes.’ Tudder nodded. ‘You have a good eye, Mr Wilson. And a good memory.’
‘This artist friend who mentioned the Children of Avalon to you, his name?’ asked Feather.
‘William Epsom. As I said, he knows that I am very keen on the work of James Archer, and he suggested it might be interesting to learn what these people were doing, in case our interests coincided.’
‘And did they?’
‘No. I only went to a couple of their meetings.’
‘But you allowed your name to be added to their list of members.’
‘It was one of their things, trying to get as many names as possible to make it appear they were a large organisation.’
‘Were you at the seance?’ asked Daniel. ‘The one where the spirit of Emrys was conjured up?’
Tudder groaned and nodded. ‘To be honest, that was the last straw for me. I draw the line at mediums.’
‘When was this seance?’ asked Feather.
‘The week before Lance was killed.’
‘Yet you didn’t mention it to Mr Pickering, or Mrs Pickering, as a warning for him to be careful.’
‘I didn’t believe in it. It was a hoax.’
Feather moved a chair near to Tudder and sat down on it, then said in a quiet but very firm tone of voice, ‘Mr Tudder, an acquaintance of yours has been killed in the most savage manner. What we are looking for is a reason, and so far the only one we’ve come across is this Order of the Children of Avalon, and we find you are connected with them. I’m sure you can understand why we’ll be looking into you in greater depth over your relationship with Mr Pickering – and Mrs Pickering.’
Tudder fell silent, but Daniel could see that he was in an emotional turmoil. Daniel and Feather waited, and finally Tudder said, in a low whisper, ‘It was nothing to do with the Children of Avalon.’
‘What was it to do with?’ asked Feather.
There was a longer pause, and finally Tudder let out an anguished moan and said, ‘There was a child.’
Daniel and Feather exchanged looks, then Feather said, ‘Mrs Pickering’s?’
Tudder shook his head. ‘Lance’s.’
‘And how does that relate to his murder?’
‘There were threats,’ said Tudder hesitantly.
‘You’d better explain,’ said Feather.
Tudder nodded. ‘It seems that eighteen years ago, Lance was staying with some friends of his during a weekend. He – er – was attracted by their maid and it seems he had a brief relationship with her.’
‘With her consent?’ asked Feather.
‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Tudder.
‘Was he married at this time to Mrs Pickering?’ asked Daniel.
‘Yes.’
‘And did Mrs Pickering know of this … incident?’
‘No,’ said Tudder. ‘Not until earlier this year. A girl turned up at the house demanding to see Lance. Lance was away at the time, doing some research on his latest historical project. The girl was in an agitated state, and Laura – Mrs Pickering – took pity on her and invited her in. The girl told her she’d just discovered she was Lance’s child by the maid.’
‘So, this girl was seventeen.’
Tudder nodded. ‘Laura didn’t want to listen to it, wanted the girl to leave, but the girl was insistent on telling her story. According to her, when her mother found herself pregnant after what had happened between her and Lance, she was dismissed by the household. She told them that Lance Pickering was responsible, and the master of the house contacted Lance, who denied it and threatened to have the police on her if she repeated the allegation. So, the maid was sacked.’
‘What was the maid’s name?’ asked Daniel.
‘Maude Bowler. She called the child Elsie. Her relatives suggested she give the baby up for adoption, but Maude refused. She dedicated her life to raising Elsie, but she never told her who her father was.’
‘I expect she was still terrified about Pickering’s threat to have her charged by the police,’ grunted Daniel.
‘Earlier this year, Maude died. And it was then that Elsie’s aunts, Maude’s sisters, broke their silence and told Elsie the truth about her parentage. How Lance had got Maude pregnan
t, then abandoned her. And how she’d been sacked and had a hard life of struggle ever after, but she’d always taken care of her daughter.’
‘And the girl, Elsie, came looking for … what? Money?’
‘A confession,’ said Tudder. ‘She wanted Lance to admit what he’d done all those years ago, and how he’d got Maude sacked, and had abandoned her and his baby daughter. She wanted him to publicly acknowledge her as his daughter.’
‘I assume Mrs Pickering told her husband about this visit?’
‘She did.’ Tudder nodded. ‘He, of course, denied it. He was angry. He demanded to know where he could find the girl, said he would have her arrested for slander. The girl had actually left an address where she could be contacted with Laura, but Laura didn’t pass that on to him. She told him the girl had left no address.’
‘That was very brave of her,’ said Daniel.
‘It was,’ said Tudder. ‘Lance could be very … overbearing. Intimidating.’
‘A bully?’
‘Sadly, yes. He was used to getting his own way. Anyway, Laura wrote to the girl telling her what Lance had said, warning her that he had threatened to charge her with slander. She advised Elsie to drop her accusations, but she did say that she would do her best to try and talk to Pickering and see if she could change his mind.’
‘I doubt if there was any real chance of that,’ said Daniel.
‘None at all,’ said Tudder. ‘Laura just added that to try and make the girl feel not too let down.’
‘Do you happen to know Elsie’s address?’
Tudder shook his head.
‘You understand that we’ll need to ask Mrs Pickering for it,’ said Feather. ‘It’s important that we talk to Elsie Bowler.’
‘You think she might have been the one who stabbed Lance?’ asked Tudder.
‘Don’t you?’ asked Feather. ‘Seventeen years of anger building up over what happened to her mother, and once again this man denying he was responsible, and feeling she has no way to get him to admit what he did.’
Tudder nodded. ‘I’d like to talk to Mrs Pickering first, tell her I’ve told you, so she is prepared.’