by Jim Eldridge
‘I think he is,’ said Daniel. ‘When Special Branch told this informer about you, and your age, he must have told them he meant a younger John Kelly at this address. Your son, John Kelly Junior.’
‘John’s a good boy!’ Kelly told them.
‘But lately he’s got into bad company,’ said Daniel. ‘Where is he?’
Kelly fell silent, then he groaned and said, ‘I don’t know. He was gone when I came out of hospital. My wife, Eileen, told me he packed a bag and left the same day I was lifted by Special Branch.’
‘And you’ve no idea where he’s gone?’
Kelly shook his head. ‘And I don’t want to know. I don’t want them bastards beating it out of me so they can lay their hands on him.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
John Feather sat at his desk in his office going through his notes with a gloomy feeling. Nothing leapt out, everything so far had been a dead end. The supposed ransom pick-up had been a disaster. Why? Had the blackmailer spotted the stake-out and retreated? That was possible, but Feather still had his doubts as to how real it had been in the first place.
Joshua Tudder and Mrs Pickering had looked promising, but now he doubted them as potential suspects. Then there was this recent spate of vandalism at the museum, in particular this daubing of graffiti using red lead paint. With no signs of forced entry, that suggested it had been done by someone with inside knowledge of the museum, someone who either knew how to get in and out without raising any alarms, or who knew the museum well enough to spend the night there, and was then able to slip out easily the next morning. That certainly seemed the most promising. But who? And why? And was it the same person who’d stabbed Professor Pickering?
There was a knock at the door, then a messenger entered with a note for him.
‘There’s a lady downstairs who asks if she can see you, sir,’ he said.
Feather opened the note and smiled as he read: I’m downstairs in the main reception. Do you have a moment to see us? Yrs, Abigail Fenton.
Us. Of course, Daniel was hiding somewhere outside.
‘Is there an answer for her, sir?’ asked the messenger.
‘No thank you. I’ll see the lady myself. Thank you, Leonard.’
Feather took his coat from the coat-stand and headed out of his office and down the stairs to the main reception hall. Abigail was stood waiting and she came towards him as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘I hope I haven’t got you in any trouble?’ she asked.
‘None at all,’ he reassured her. ‘The superintendent’s at the Houses of Parliament, seeing important people. Where’s Daniel?’
‘In a coffee shop almost opposite,’ said Abigail.
‘Freddy’s.’ Feather nodded. ‘We used to do as much business in Freddy’s as we did in the Yard: swapping notes, meeting up with informers. The top brass thought it was a low place – they still do – so they never bothered us.’ He gestured at the main door. ‘Shall we go?’
Abigail and Feather left the Yard, and strolled along the Victoria Embankment a short distance, turning into a narrow lane where the smell of freshly roasted coffee wafted into their nostrils.
Daniel was sitting inside Freddy’s, three cups of steaming coffee on the table in front of him.
‘I took the chance that you’d be in the office,’ said Daniel, shaking Feather’s hand, and they all sat.
‘My turn to look after the shop,’ said Feather. ‘The super’s at the Houses of Parliament, cultivating the powerful.’
‘The ones who can land him the role of commissioner?’ enquired Daniel.
‘You’ve got it,’ said Feather. ‘So, what’s happened?’
‘It’s struck us that there’s an inside element to this case.’
‘Someone inside the museum?’
‘Or someone who may harbour feelings of revenge against them. For example, someone who may have been sacked, in their opinion, unfairly.’
‘It’s a bit extreme, to take revenge by killing someone,’ said Feather.
‘We agree. But nevertheless, we took a look at people who’ve left under a cloud, and there were only two who we’re looking into. But another person popped up. A man called John Kelly, who’s been working at the museum for years. Very respected. Nothing against him. But it seems that Special Branch took him in after they got word that the museum was going to be attacked by members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, and that John Kelly was one of the attackers.’
‘Special Branch.’ Feather shuddered. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘No, and they didn’t give him a nice time,’ said Daniel. ‘Until they realised that the John Kelly they had wasn’t the one they were after. That was his son, also called John Kelly. So, they let Kelly Senior go.’
‘How sure were Special Branch that the son, John Kelly Junior, was going to launch an attack on the British Museum?’ asked Feather. ‘And what sort of attack? Murder? Assassination?’
‘The only people who’d be able to answer that are Special Branch,’ said Daniel. ‘It seems one of their informers passed on information about this attack to them, and the name he gave them was John Kelly of such and such an address. We’ve been to see John Kelly, the father, and that’s where we got this from.’
‘I assume he won’t say where his son is?’
‘He says the boy ran off after he was picked up and he’s not heard from him since. The question is, did the Republican Brotherhood abandon their proposed attack once the elder John Kelly was picked up, or did they go ahead with it? And if so, did it involve the stabbing of Professor Pickering?’
‘You think that’s likely?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Daniel. ‘If it had been the Brotherhood, I’m sure they would have taken the credit for it as part of their push for home rule. Unless the attack went wrong and Pickering was killed in mistake for someone else.’
‘Like who?’
‘Sir Jasper Stone. On one level, the two men look quite similar. They’re about the same height, about the same age.’
‘So, you think it may have been them who did the attack, but when they discovered the wrong man had been killed – not the head of a place they described as being a keystone of the British Empire, but an author – they just kept quiet about it?’
‘I know it sounds far-fetched,’ said Daniel. ‘But I think it’s a possibility we need to look at.’
‘And how do you suggest we do that?’
‘This informer of Special Branch’s. Maybe he knows if Sir Jasper was the real target.’
Feather looked doubtful. ‘I can’t see Special Branch revealing anything to me. They don’t reveal anything to anyone.’
‘They’re more likely to talk to you than to me. You’re an inspector at Scotland Yard. One of their own. I’m not even allowed in the building.’
‘I’m never one of their own,’ snorted Feather. He gave a sigh. ‘Alright, I’ll have a word and see what I can find, if they talk to me.’
‘Tell them we think John Kelly Junior might be the person who killed Pickering, and why.’
‘The mistaken identity?’
‘It might nudge them into saying something. There’s another thing. A man called Mansfield Whetstone is coming to the British Museum tomorrow morning at ten.’
‘Pickering’s publisher,’ said Feather. ‘I met him. Loud, boastful, and definitely a man not to be trusted, particularly whatever he tells you about Lance Pickering. He told me that Pickering was a paragon of virtue who had the respect and admiration of anyone who ever met him.’
‘Huh!’ snorted Abigail indignantly.
‘That’s a pity,’ said Daniel. ‘We were thinking he might be able to tell us more about Pickering.’
‘He might have changed his tune in light of the latest information about Elsie Bowler,’ said Feather. ‘So, yes, I’ll join you. Especially because at the moment I feel we’re just clutching at straws. Though this Kelly business might lead somewhere. There have been a few incide
nts lately with these home rule fanatics getting more dangerous. The big fear is there might be another attempt to assassinate the Queen. In one way, it’s fortunate she’s largely kept herself away from the public since Prince Albert died.’
‘The last attempt was some time ago, wasn’t it?’ said Abigail.
‘Six years ago. 1882,’ said Feather. ‘Roderick Maclean tried to shoot her at Windsor Station soon after she arrived from London, but the boys from Eton College who’d been waiting to cheer her when she arrived overpowered him. Ten years before that, Arthur O’Connor tried to shoot her in 1872. Then there was a whole rash of attempts in the 1840s, most of them claiming to be in revenge for the Irish Famine – or the Great Hunger, as they called it.’ He sighed. ‘As if we haven’t got enough to keep us busy without assassins roaming the country.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The address they had for Algernon Pope was a terraced house in Coram Fields. Daniel knocked at the door, which was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing a flower-pattern apron.
‘Good day,’ he said. ‘We’re sorry to trouble you, but is this right the address for Algernon Pope?’
The woman looked at him, curious, and then burst into laughter. ‘It was,’ she said. ‘But his latest address is Newgate.’ And she laughed again.
‘Do I assume you mean Newgate Prison?’ asked Daniel.
‘You assume right,’ said the woman. ‘If you’re here to serve a summons on him, you’ll have to get in the queue behind me. He owed me rent for two months.’ She sighed. ‘I guess he saw me as a soft touch. Kept spinning these stories about how his wealthy family was due to send him money, just as soon as his mother could get it out of his dad, who was a regular old tight-fist, according to Algie.’
‘Why was he sent to Newgate?’ asked Daniel.
‘Stealing a wallet,’ said the woman. ‘He claimed it fell out of the gentleman’s pocket and he was chasing after him to return it to him, but when they found he’d done the same thing just the week before and been let off with a caution … well. That was it for Algie.’
‘How long ago was this?’ asked Daniel.
The woman thought. ‘It was a month ago he went in,’ she said.
‘And he’s been there all that time?’
‘Unless he’s managed to talk his way out,’ said the woman. She gave a chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t put nothing past Algie. He may have done me for two months’ rent, but he was always amusing. And he did help out when he could. He used to bring things home for me. “Here you are, Mrs P,” he’d say. “A little something for you until my dear ma persuades my tight-fisted old pater to cough up with the readies.”’
‘What sort of things?’ asked Abigail.
‘Trinkets,’ said the woman. ‘Little things. Old-looking. Nothing valuable though.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Abigail.
‘Cos I used to take ’em to the pop shop at the corner, Mr Moses. He’s always been fair. He said they were old, but not valuable. Nice-looking things, though. A couple of brooches. An ornate-looking hat pin.’
After they left the house, Abigail strode off with great determination along the street.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Daniel.
‘To this pop shop at the corner,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m interested to see how many historic items from the British Museum’s collection are on display there.’
‘Even if they are, we won’t be able to get them back,’ said Daniel.
‘Yes, we will. We’ll call a constable and have them impounded.’
‘Your proof?’ asked Daniel. ‘This Mr Moses will insist he bought them in good faith, and there’ll be no proof that they are actually from the British Museum.’
‘The curator will be able to identify them,’ insisted Abigail.
‘But who’s to say they are the same ones that came from the British Museum?’ queried Daniel. ‘Someone else could have got similar items from another source. And once you’ve identified something as potentially stolen, that item will soon disappear from the display, before it can be examined properly.’
‘You’re saying we should just turn a blind eye to this crime?’ asked Abigail.
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘Algernon Pope is currently in prison. Not for this offence, admittedly, but he was sacked for stealing from the museum. His landlady has had some recompense for the two months’ rent he didn’t pay her. Mr Moses is keeping the wheels of his local small business turning. If we were looking into thefts from the museum, then I agree we should follow this up. But we are looking into a murder, and that I feel is where we should be putting our energy. So, the first thing we do is go to Newgate and make sure that on the day of the murder, Algernon Pope was still locked up.’
‘I don’t approve.’ Abigail sniffed. ‘But I suppose what you’re saying does make sense. Even though it still seems to me that a serious crime will go unpunished.’
‘The museum know that Pope stole things from them. Ashford told us so. They don’t expect to get them back. But, I’m happy, once the main case – the murder – is solved, to pass this information on to them and let them deal with it, if they choose to. Would that make you happy?’
Abigail nodded. ‘Happier.’
John Feather strode along the basement corridor that connected the main building of Scotland Yard with an annexe where Special Branch had their offices. The setting was very apt, he thought: underground and out of sight, just the way that Special Branch operated. Unlike in the main building, none of the doors had identification on them to show who was behind a particular one, or even which department. Fortunately, Feather was on his way to see an old friend of his, Walter Grafton, who’d transferred from the detective division to Special Branch the year before. They still occasionally saw one another at police events, and Walter had given Feather the door number of his office in the annexe ‘in case anything ever turns up which you think might be of interest to us’.
It had been a while since he’d last seen Grafton, and he wondered if the invitation still stood, or whether Grafton had evolved into the same kind of person as other Special Branch personnel Feather had met: suspicious, wary, close-mouthed, trusting no one. It was time to find out.
He knocked at the office door and waited until he heard Grafton call, ‘Enter!’
Grafton looked up in surprise when he saw who his visitor was. ‘John! We don’t often see you in this corridor.’
Feather gave him a rueful grin. ‘Hallowed ground, Walter. Not for the feet of we ordinary coppers.’
Grafton snorted. ‘Come off it, John. Either you’re here for information – which you know I can’t give you – or you’re here to pass on something. Which is it?’
‘A bit of both,’ said Feather. ‘You know Superintendent Armstrong and I are investigating the murder at the British Museum.’
Grafton nodded, his eyes wary.
‘A name’s come into the frame that appears to cross over into your area. John Kelly Junior. Son of an attendant at the museum who I believe you pulled in for questioning.’
‘Not me,’ said Grafton quickly.
‘No, but your lot. Anyway, we’re looking for him, and I’m about to initiate a manhunt for him. I thought, before I did, I’d check with you that we’re not treading on your toes.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, according to whispers we’ve picked up, this John Kelly is rumoured to be part of an Irish Brotherhood group, and the stabbing of Professor Pickering might be part of an attack they carried out that went wrong. We think they had another target in mind. One of the top dogs in the museum itself. So, you see, we don’t want to go blundering in if you’re already involved. We don’t want to mess things up.’
‘Very considerate of you,’ grunted Grafton. He lapsed in thoughtful silence for a moment, then said, ‘This Kelly business isn’t one of mine, but I can have a word with the person whose it is. I’ll get back to you.’
‘That would be good,’ said Feather.
‘You say
you’re about to initiate the manhunt,’ said Grafton. ‘Has it got Armstrong’s backing?’
‘Not yet,’ said Feather. ‘I was just about to take it to him when I thought I’d check with you first. But he’ll be wanting to know what’s going on about it.’
Grafton nodded. ‘Give me half an hour,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ said Feather. ‘Will you come to me, or shall I come back here?’
‘You come here,’ said Grafton. ‘I don’t trust anyone outside this corridor.’
‘Not even me?’ said Feather with a smile.
‘Especially you,’ said Grafton. ‘In my book, you spent too long working with Abberline and Wilson. Renegades both.’
And Feather noticed he wasn’t smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Daniel and Abigail walked away from the grim granite building at the corner where Newgate Street met the Old Bailey, Newgate Prison.
‘What an awful place!’ said Abigail.
‘It used to be a lot worse,’ said Daniel. ‘And at least we know that Algernon Pope has the perfect alibi for the murder.’
‘I suppose the length of time he stays in there will depend on how harsh the judge views him.’
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘Newgate’s now only used for prisoners who are to be executed, or those awaiting trial at the Central Criminal Court. Once Pope is found guilty he’ll be sent elsewhere.’
‘Don’t you mean if he’s found guilty?’ asked Abigail.
Daniel chuckled. ‘That’s true. You never know; from past form, Mr Pope seems perfectly capable of evading justice.’
‘It’s still a horrible place,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m quite glad we didn’t go in any further than the front gate.’
‘There’s not that much more to see,’ said Daniel. ‘There’s the central courtyard, where the prisoners are exercised. Under the eyes of the guards, of course. There’s a chapel, where prisoners of both sexes attend services. The men sit on benches in the lower area while the women are in the gallery. The gloomiest part is the passageway between the Old Bailey and the prison, because it’s also the prison graveyard. Prisoners who’ve been executed are buried beneath the flagstones that mark the pathway of the passage.’