Murder at the British Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Very commendable,’ said Daniel. ‘You must feel proud to be able to say that the British Museum has led the way.’

  ‘In many things,’ said Ashford. ‘Our aim is to establish the British Museum as the foremost museum in the world.’

  ‘In the world?’ echoed Daniel. ‘That’s very ambitious.’

  ‘Achievement is only truly rewarding if one aims high,’ said Ashford.

  With that sentiment ringing in his ears, Daniel made his way down the stairs to the main reception area, just as Abigail entered the museum.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Recovering,’ replied Abigail. ‘She’s still in a bit of a state, which is understandable in view of what she experienced, but she was able to answer some questions. Sadly, she wasn’t able to enlighten us with anything useful. She didn’t see anyone hanging around that area before she discovered the stabbed man, she didn’t notice anyone acting suspiciously and she hadn’t seen Mr Whetstone before she discovered him.’

  ‘The same response as everyone else we spoke to,’ said Daniel gloomily. Then he brightened. ‘Anyway, at least we now have a connection that definitely links both murders.’

  ‘The book?’

  ‘Exactly. The author and the publisher both stabbed to death here at the museum. The book is the key to this case, so our next port of call has to be to the publishers.’

  Inspector Feather made his way down the wide staircase to main reception. He’d left a brief report about the murder of Mansfield Whetstone on Superintendent Armstrong’s desk, and now he was on his way back to the British Museum to join Sergeant Cribbens and his fellow detectives in asking questions. The trouble was he already felt they’d discover nothing they didn’t know already. Whoever this killer was, he was like a shadow, able to flit in and out and commit murder without anyone seeing him, or even being aware of his presence. Two murders, and no sighting of anyone by anyone. A real will o’ the wisp.

  As he reached the wider marbled floor of reception, a constable burst through the main doors, saw Feather, and rushed towards him.

  ‘Inspector Feather, sir!’

  ‘Yes, Constable?’

  ‘There’s been another stabbing.’

  ‘I know. At the British Museum. I’m just on my way back there.’

  ‘No, sir. This is another one. A Mr Tudder’s been stabbed at Professor Pickering’s house near Regent’s Park.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Daniel and Abigail arrived in Fitzroy Mews, the home of Whetstone and Watts publishers.

  ‘Just a stone’s throw from Regent’s Park,’ noted Daniel.

  ‘We seem to be brought back to this area time and again,’ Abigail observed. ‘First, to the Pickerings’ house, then for the abortive random demand and stake-out, and now the publishers. Pretty soon I will be able to find my way to this part of London blindfolded.’

  ‘That is one of the beauties of London,’ said Daniel. ‘At first it seems overwhelming, intimidating, but once you’ve explored it for a bit you realise how neatly it all connects, which is why the most efficient way to travel is on foot. At least, once you’re in a particular area – north-west London, for example, or the East End.’

  Whetstone and Watts were identified by a shiny black door with a brass plaque next to it. Daniel pulled the brass bell handle below the plaque, and shortly the door was opened by a smartly dressed nervous woman of middle age who peered anxiously out at them.

  ‘Good afternoon. My name is Daniel Wilson, and this is my colleague, Miss Abigail Fenton. We’re from the British Museum. May we come in and talk to you?’

  ‘Is this … is this about poor Mr Whetstone?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ve heard?’ said Abigail.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and they could see the tears in her eyes. She opened the door wider and they stepped inside, then followed her into a small reception area.

  ‘Might we have the pleasure of knowing who we are addressing?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Miss Roseberry,’ said the woman. She was nervous, twisting her hands together, and close to tears. ‘I’m … I was … Mr Whetstone’s secretary.’ At the mention of his name, tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her cheeks and she slumped down onto a chair. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said, taking a handkerchief and putting it to her eyes, dabbing at her face.

  ‘Please, no apology from you is needed,’ said Daniel. ‘If anything, we should apologise to you for disturbing you at this very difficult time.’ He paused, and then asked, ‘When did you hear the tragic news?’

  ‘Late this morning. Mr Watts, the other partner, came in, looking ill. “Mansfield’s been killed!” he said. “Just like Pickering!” I was in shock.’ She looked up at them, her face pale, tears still brimming in her eyes. ‘Who could have done such a wicked thing?’

  ‘That’s what the museum has asked us to find out,’ said Daniel. ‘We’re private enquiry agents hired by Sir Jasper Stone at the museum. We were already investigating what had happened to Professor Pickering when today’s tragic event happened to Mr Whetstone.’

  ‘Perhaps it might be better if we talked to Mr Watts,’ suggested Abigail. ‘It would be unfair to subject you to anything at this moment.’

  Miss Roseberry shook her head. ‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘He rushed upstairs to his office, then came running down and said he was going away. And then he flew out of the door.’

  Daniel and Abigail looked at one another, puzzled.

  ‘You don’t know where he went?’

  ‘I assume he went home,’ said Miss Roseberry.

  ‘Do you have his address?’ asked Daniel. ‘We’ll go and contact him there. There’s no need for us to disturb you any more at this time.’

  ‘Yes. 43 Mount Street. It’s off Park Lane.’

  ‘In Mayfair,’ said Daniel. ‘I know it. Thank you, Miss Roseberry. One more thing, what is Mr Watts’ first name?’

  ‘Jerrold. Jerrold Watts.’

  As they left the offices, Daniel asked, ‘What did you make of that?’

  ‘Firstly, how did Mr Watts learn about the murder of Whetstone so quickly?’ said Abigail. ‘As far as we knew he wasn’t at the museum with Mr Whetstone this morning, and there hasn’t been time for the story to appear in the newspapers.’

  ‘Yes, that was my thought,’ agreed Daniel. ‘And secondly, why rush off like that in such a panic?’

  ‘Frightened?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That he might be next.’

  ‘Which suggests he has a good idea as to why both Pickering and Whetstone were murdered.’

  ‘So why didn’t he go to the police with that information?’

  ‘Perhaps he did,’ said Abigail.

  Daniel shook his head. ‘I was with John Feather all morning and there was no contact to him from Watts, nor any word from Superintendent Armstrong about Watts being in touch. Hopefully, we’ll find the answer when we call him at home.’

  Daniel and Abigail left Fitzroy Mews and made their way through to Euston Road, where Daniel hailed a hansom cab.

  ‘I thought you said on foot was the best way to travel in London,’ pointed out Abigail.

  ‘Within a set district,’ said Daniel. ‘Mayfair is off this particular patch, and speed has suddenly become essential.’

  If the houses of Regent’s Park outer circle had appeared grand, they were dwarfed by the residences of Mayfair, all of which bespoke wealth. 43 Mount Street was an elegant three-storey house in this exclusive part of town.

  ‘I hadn’t realised there was so much money in publishing,’ observed Abigail as they stepped down from the cab.

  ‘Obviously more than in detective work,’ added Daniel as they made their way to the ornate front door, with its tall marble columns framing a door adorned with highly polished brassware.

  The door was opened by a smartly dressed lady of middle-age, and Daniel was reminded of the similarity to Miss Rose
berry at the publisher’s offices. Mr Watts preferred a certain type to look after him.

  Once again, they went through the introductions, who they were and their reason for calling.

  ‘Would it be possible to talk to Mr Jerrold Watts?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. He’s not here.’

  ‘Not here?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Adding, ‘I’m Mrs Harris, his housekeeper.’

  ‘Was he here earlier?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Harris. ‘It was all very strange. He rushed in, threw a few things into a small suitcase, and said he was going away for a while.’

  ‘Did he say where?’

  ‘No, sir. That was what was odd. Mr Watts always lets me know where he’s going in case anyone needs to get in touch with him. But today …’ She looked at them helplessly. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘I’m afraid there is,’ said Daniel. ‘Mr Whetstone, Mr Watts’ business partner, has been killed. Stabbed, I’m afraid.’

  Mrs Harris stared at them, horrified. ‘Killed? Mr Whetstone!’

  ‘It’s very important that we get in touch with Mr Watts,’ said Daniel. ‘Does he have friends or relatives he goes to stay with on a regular basis that he might have gone to?’

  ‘Not really. He only has two relatives, a brother who lives in Canada and a sister in Harrow. To be honest, he’s very much a home person. There’s just him, you see. He’s a bachelor and his pleasure is his library here. He’s not a great socialiser.’

  ‘Could you let us have the address of his sister? Just in case he might have been in touch with her.’

  ‘Yes, sir. If you wait a moment, I’ll get it for you.’

  She disappeared inside the house.

  ‘Surely, if he’s frightened, he’d go somewhere no one knows him,’ suggested Abigail. ‘Or abroad.’

  ‘True, but that depends on people’s characters. Mr Watts doesn’t come across as the adventurous type, and he has a limited circle of acquaintances. I suggest we start with his sister and see if she can offer any ideas.’

  ‘He’s got a brother in Canada. He could be trying to get a boat there.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Daniel. ‘Too much organising involved.’

  Mrs Harris returned and handed them a piece of paper with an address in Harrow.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘Her name’s Jemima. Miss Jemima Watts.’

  ‘So, what next?’ asked Abigail as they left the house. ‘Harrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘But before we traipse all the way out there with all that entails, getting a train and so forth, I think we need to alert John Feather to this development. If Watts isn’t at his sister’s then the police need to put a manhunt in place for him as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘They’ll need a description of him,’ said Abigail. ‘Can I suggest we might be able to speed things along if I went back to the publishers to see if Miss Roseberry has a photograph of Mr Watts while you go and see if you can talk to Inspector Feather.’

  ‘Yes, good thinking,’ said Daniel. ‘And to avoid getting John into trouble with Armstrong by going to the Yard, I’ll go back to the museum and send him a message asking him to meet us there. I can also look up trains to Harrow. By the time John arrives, you should be there with the photo of the elusive Mr Watts.’

  They caught a cab from Park Lane that deposited Abigail at the offices of Whetstone and Watts, and then took Daniel on to the British Museum. As Daniel walked into the building he was hailed by the man on duty at the main reception desk.

  ‘Mr Wilson! A telegram’s just arrived for you!’

  A telegram? Daniel took the buff envelope from the man and tore it open. Inside was the brief but shocking message from Inspector Feather: Come to Pickerings’. Urgent. Tudder stabbed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Abigail watched as Miss Roseberry studied the framed photographs on the walls of her office, before pointing to one particular picture which showed a round, smartly dressed man, bald except for tufts of hair just above each ear, with a serious expression on his chubby face.

  ‘I think this is the best image of Mr Watts,’ she said.

  In fact, as Abigail observed, there were only two pictures of Mr Watts: this one and one of him standing next to the large and more imposing figure of the late Mr Whetstone. All the other framed pictures adorning the walls were of Mr Whetstone with different people, mostly men.

  ‘I get the impression that Mr Watts isn’t fond of having his photograph taken,’ said Abigail.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Miss Roseberry. ‘He’s basically a very shy person. Mr Whetstone, on the other hand, was only too keen to have his photograph taken with our authors.’

  ‘Was that because he was the senior partner?’

  ‘In part,’ said Miss Roseberry. ‘But mainly it was his nature. He was ebullient, very outgoing. Gregarious with a love for life.’ The memory of him brought tears to her eyes again, and she took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I still can’t believe what’s happened.’

  ‘That’s absolutely understandable,’ said Abigail.

  Miss Roseberry began to take the photograph of Watts from its wooden frame.

  ‘You said about needing the photograph to pass on to the police. Do you believe Mr Watts is in danger?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ said Abigail. ‘But we do feel it’s important to find him. His housekeeper, Mrs Harris, has given us the address of his sister in Harrow, but if he’s not there, or she doesn’t know where he is, the sooner we can put out a search for him the better. His safety is our main concern.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Miss Roseberry. She put the photograph carefully into a stiff envelope and handed it to her.

  ‘You will take care of it?’ she asked. ‘As you’ll have seen, we don’t have many pictures of him.’

  ‘I will guard it with my life,’ Abigail assured her, slipping the envelope into her bag.

  ‘And if you do get news of him from his sister, I’d be most grateful if you could call back and let me know. I am worried about him,’ said Miss Roseberry.

  ‘I will,’ said Abigail. ‘Although I’m not sure what time we will get back from Harrow.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what time, I will be here,’ said Miss Roseberry. ‘I … I’ve decided that I need to send letters to our clients and other associates to let them know what has happened to Mr Whetstone. There are many of them, so it will take me some time to type them all.’ She looked at Abigail in appeal. ‘I feel I need to be here at this time. You do understand?’

  ‘I do,’ said Abigail.

  As Miss Roseberry escorted Abigail to the door to the street, she asked hesitantly, ‘Can I ask, Miss Fenton, how you got into this business? Being a private detective? It’s so unusual for a woman!’

  ‘Through Mr Wilson,’ replied Abigail. ‘He was formerly with Inspector Abberline’s team of detectives at Scotland Yard, and when he left he became a private enquiry agent. We were involved in solving a series of murders at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, and he invited me to work with him.’

  ‘But isn’t it dangerous?’ asked Miss Roseberry, looking at Abigail with a mixture of wonder and awe.

  ‘Everything is dangerous if you do it without proper thought,’ said Abigail. ‘A person can get killed crossing the road if they are careless, run down by a horse.’

  ‘Yes, but, tracking down and facing a murderer …!’

  ‘Caution is the key,’ said Abigail.

  With a smile of farewell, she shook hands with Miss Roseberry, but as she walked away from the publishers she reminded herself of the reality of her previous experience and told herself: Be careful. In a murder case, no matter how cautious you are, there is always danger.

  Joshua Tudder was sitting on a chair at the kitchen table when Daniel arrived. He was bare-chested, a bloodstained shirt thrown to one side on the floor. Mrs Pickering sat on another chair and watched as a doctor finis
hed sewing a wound in his upper arm. John Feather moved towards Daniel when he saw him arrive and steered him out into the passage.

  ‘What happened?’ Daniel asked Feather.

  ‘It was the girl. Elsie Bowler. I’ll let you talk to Tudder and Mrs Pickering once the doctor’s finished with him. He shouldn’t be long now.’

  ‘But why stab Tudder?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Tudder stepped in to defend Mrs Pickering and got the knife thrust intended for her. He’s a brave man.’

  They became aware of the doctor packing his case, then heading for the bathroom to wash his hands. ‘He’s all yours, Inspector,’ said the doctor.

  Feather walked to where Mrs Pickering was helping Tudder put on his shirt. ‘I’ve told Mr Wilson the bare bones of what happened, sir, but if you’re up to it, it would be helpful if you could let him know what happened,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll tell it, Joshua,’ said Mrs Pickering. ‘At least, the first part.’ She looked enquiringly at Tudder as he began to button his shirt. ‘Shall I help you further?’

  ‘No thank you, Laura,’ said Tudder. ‘I’m sure I can manage. You tell the investigators what occurred.’

  Laura Pickering gestured for Feather and Daniel to sit down, and took a seat herself. ‘The girl who called before, Elsie Bowler, arrived on our doorstep and said she wanted to see me. I told our housekeeper, Mrs Arnott, to let her in and I took her into the drawing room. Mr Tudder was here, and I asked him to excuse us while we spoke.’

  Daniel looked inquisitively at Tudder, who winced at the pain in his arm as he continued buttoning his shirt, and said, ‘I went into the library, which is just across the passage from the drawing room.’

  ‘I asked the girl what she wanted,’ continued Laura Pickering, ‘and at first she seemed calm, but suddenly she became agitated. “I want money,” she burst out. “For all the years my mother suffered.” She then became very angry, accusing me of having known about my late husband’s relationship with her mother, and said it was all my fault. I began to tell her that I was sympathetic and I would contact my solicitors and see if any sort of arrangement could be made, but suddenly she started raging, that wasn’t good enough, and then she produced a knife and began shouting that she wanted what she was owed.’