Murder at the British Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘It was the shouting that made me come in,’ said Tudder. ‘I could hear the rage in her voice that was almost hysteria, and I was worried that Mrs Pickering might be in danger. When I saw the girl holding the knife I advanced towards her, asking her to give me the knife. I could tell she was in a deranged state and there was no knowing what she might do. I hoped to calm her down, but suddenly she let out a roar of anger and lunged at me. Fortunately, I managed to dodge to one side so that, although the knife struck me, it only caused a flesh wound. At the same time, I chopped down with my other hand on her hand that was holding the knife, and the weapon fell to the carpet, and I put my foot on it. At that point, she turned and ran out of the house.’

  ‘That was a very brave action, sir,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Do you think it was she who stabbed Lance?’ asked Tudder.

  ‘It seems likely,’ said Feather. ‘We’ll take the knife she dropped to the Yard and compare it with the wounds inflicted on your late husband, Mrs Pickering, but even if they don’t correspond, that doesn’t mean she didn’t do it.’

  Daniel and Feather left the house and waited until the housekeeper had closed the door, before Feather asked, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think that Joshua Tudder is a brave man, and Mrs Pickering shows great control.’

  ‘About the girl. Do you think she did the murders?’

  ‘Pickering, possibly. But I have my doubts. And I don’t think she killed Whetstone, and I think the second murder holds the key to the whole case, especially because we’ve got a new lead.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Jerrold Watts, the publishing partner of Mansfield Whetstone, has vanished,’ said Daniel. ‘I suspect he’s done a runner because he’s scared, and if that’s the case it’s likely he knows something about why Whetstone and Pickering were killed, so we need to find him. Abigail’s gone to the publishers to get a picture of him. We’ve got a possible lead as to where he might have gone, but in case he’s not there we need to mount a search for him …’

  He was interrupted by a hansom cab pulling up at the kerb beside them. The door of the cab opened, and the burly figure of Superintendent Armstrong stepped down from it.

  ‘What’s going on, Inspector?’ demanded Armstrong. ‘I found your message on my desk when I got to my office. First this publisher …’

  ‘Mansfield Whetstone,’ said Feather.

  ‘… stabbed to death this morning. And now Tudder stabbed.’ He swung angrily towards Daniel. ‘And what’s he doing here?’

  ‘As I’ve said before, I’m here at the request of the British Museum,’ replied Daniel. ‘You may not like my involvement, but Professor Pickering and Mansfield Whetstone were both killed on their premises.’

  Armstrong scowled and swung back to Feather. ‘So, what’s happened here?’

  Feather told him, summing up the events culminating in the stabbing of Tudder and the girl fleeing.

  ‘Well that’s it, then,’ said Armstrong. ‘A knife attack on the widow, the same as on the professor and the publisher. Luckily for us, by doing this she’s as good as confessed to both murders. All we have to do now is bring her in. Right, drop everything else and concentrate on finding this girl.’

  ‘What about the murder of Mansfield Whetstone?’ asked Daniel.

  Armstrong frowned at him. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I agree that Elsie Bowler wanted to revenge against Pickering for what he did to her mother, raping her and making her pregnant all those years ago. She came to attack Mrs Pickering for the same reason, claiming that Mrs Pickering must have known what her husband had done, so she was also responsible.’

  ‘Poppycock!’ snorted Armstrong. ‘Mrs Pickering is innocent here.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Daniel, ‘but that’s not how this girl sees it. But it doesn’t give us a motive for why she would attack Mr Whetstone. I don’t think she did that.’

  ‘Two murders and this attack here, exactly the same, stabbing with a knife!’ said Armstrong incredulously. ‘It’s her, Wilson. Elsie Bowler. Who cares why she did them, she’s shown what she’s capable of.’ He turned to Feather. ‘I want a manhunt for this Bowler girl put in place, Inspector.’

  ‘Already in operation, sir,’ said Feather. ‘Posters with her description are being printed, and they’ll be in all the next editions of the papers.’

  ‘Good,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’m going in to see the widow, let her know this case has me at the helm, that no expense is being spared to catch this girl.’ A thought struck him. ‘You’ve arranged protection for the house?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A constable will be on duty twenty-four hours a day until the girl is caught.’

  ‘Good.’ Armstrong nodded. ‘I’ll let the widow and the commissioner know I’ve authorised it. And as I said, nothing else counts. No other line of enquiry is to be pursued. Find this girl.’ He glowered again at Daniel. ‘As for you, Wilson, you have no place here. I shall be contacting Sir Jasper Stone and letting him know that we’ve solved the case, and there’s no longer any need for you. I want you out. Out of the museum. Out of the way.’

  Feather gave Daniel a rueful look as the superintendent headed for the house. ‘Sorry, Daniel.’

  ‘That’s alright, John. But I still have doubts that Elsie Bowler’s our killer. The person who killed Lance Pickering was clever in the way they went about it, the “Out of Order” notice on the door, the business of climbing over the cubicle after they’d locked it. That suggests planning. Same thing with the murder of Mansfield Whetstone. All those people in the museum this morning when he’s stabbed to death, and no one sees anything. Again, that takes planning. But the attack on Mrs Pickering and Tudder by Elsie Bowler today was frenzied, mindless, frantic. Altogether different.’

  ‘She’s still a likely candidate,’ said Feather.

  ‘I agree, I’m just expressing my doubts,’ said Daniel. He let out a sigh. ‘Not that my concerns will stop Superintendent Armstrong from declaring the case is solved once the police have located her. Anyway, we need this search to find Jerrold Watts urgently.’

  ‘Sorry, Daniel,’ said Feather. ‘I can’t do it. You heard Armstrong just now. He’s decided that the killer is Elsie Bowler so he’s just ordered everything to be put into finding her and dropped any other line of enquiry. So, no search for John Kelly. And there’ll be none for this Jerrold Watts. Armstrong wants this wrapped up, and to do that he wants Elsie Bowler brought in fast.’

  ‘But I’m sure she didn’t kill Whetstone!’ exploded Daniel. ‘And I don’t think she killed Pickering. It’s not her style. Those killings were calculated, her attack on Tudder was frantic and out of control. And what about this latest letter? We talked about a nasty surprise. Maybe the killing of Whetstone was it. And from what we know about Elsie Bowler, these letters don’t sound like her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Daniel, those are Armstrong’s orders, and I can’t go against them. You know that.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Abigail saw that Daniel was in a foul mood as soon as he walked into their small office.

  ‘I assume it’s bad news,’ she said. ‘I saw the message you left with John’s telegram, but decided to wait for you here rather than go off chasing to the Pickerings’ house. What happened? Is Joshua Tudder dead?’

  ‘No,’ said Daniel, and he outlined the events for her.

  When he’d finished, Abigail asked, ‘If this girl went there to attack Mrs Pickering with a knife, could she be the one who stabbed Pickering and Whetstone?’

  ‘That’s certainly Superintendent Armstrong’s opinion. But I have my doubts.’

  As he’d done with Feather, he expressed why he wasn’t convinced that Elsie Bowler was responsible for the murder of Professor Pickering, or of Mansfield Whetstone.

  ‘Yes, that’s logical,’ she agreed when he’d finished. ‘But you could be wrong. Perhaps Elsie Bowler did carry out the first murder in the planned way you describe, but afterwards she felt adrift. Yes, Pickering w
as dead, but where was the satisfaction for her? She wanted more. But now she hasn’t got Pickering to direct her anger at, so she casts around. Anyone connected. Mrs Pickering is the obvious first choice.’

  ‘But why be so blatant about it? Why not be careful in her attack, the way she did with Pickering – if it was her who killed him.’

  ‘Because now she wants the reason for the attack to come out. She wants the public to know about the awful way her mother was treated.’

  ‘You’re suggesting she wants to get caught so it will all come out?’

  ‘Possibly. Have you read any of the work of Sigmund Freud?’

  ‘This new-fangled psychiatry stuff.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve heard it mentioned, but I can’t see how it relates to criminal investigation.’

  ‘That’s because you haven’t read it.’

  ‘I don’t have much time to read,’ said Daniel, then smiled. ‘I count on you to draw my attention to things I need to know.’

  ‘And then you ignore them.’

  ‘Not all the time,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Anyway, Freud says that in some cases the culprit’s main desire is to be caught to make them feel valuable.’

  Daniel looked doubtful. ‘I’d have thought they wanted to be caught because they couldn’t cope with the weight of their guilt.’

  ‘Not all people who are guilty of crimes feel weighed down by any conscience over what they’ve done. Some are so proud they want everyone to know and admire them.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ admitted Daniel. ‘I’ve met a few like that. But they’re usually vain and with an inflated view of their own worth. I can’t see Elsie Bowler fitting that mould.’

  ‘You don’t think she feels undervalued?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the same. The people you’re talking about like to consider themselves as some kind of secret puppet-master, pulling the strings and manipulating things behind the scenes. Then they want their cleverness known and acknowledged. Elsie Bowler doesn’t feel clever, she feels abandoned and hurt.’

  ‘You may be right.’ Abigail shrugged. She produced the photograph she’d been given by Miss Roseberry. ‘Anyway, I got a picture of Mr Watts so we can pass that on to John Feather, then he can institute the search for him.’

  ‘No, he can’t,’ growled Daniel. ‘Armstrong’s forbidden it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s convinced that it’s the girl, Elsie Bowler, who is the killer, and every other avenue of investigation is to be shelved. The police have only one job as of now: to find Elsie Bowler.’

  ‘That’s why you’re in such a bad mood.’

  ‘It is. It’s so short-sighted! Watts could be the key to this whole case!’

  ‘So, what’s our next move?’

  ‘Well, since the police won’t look for Watts, it’s up to us to find him. And we start our search for him at his sister’s in Harrow.’

  Euston Station seemed to be in the same chaos as it ever was, masses of people searching for the right train, struggling to find the correct platform. The place was enveloped in low clouds of steam and smoke which drifted across the station from the trains at their platforms, filling the huge building with the intense smell of burning coal. The high ceiling of the station and the ornate stone columns that supported it were black with soot.

  Daniel and Abigail found seats on the suburban train to Watford and journeyed in silence as it trundled northwards. After Wembley the landscape changed from urban to countryside, reverting back to a built-up area as they approached Harrow.

  The house where Miss Jemima Watts lived was just a short walk from the station, and the woman who opened the door to them at their knock was a very different character from either Watts’ housekeeper, Mrs Harris, or his secretary, Miss Roseberry. Jemima Watts was short, thin and with a sharp, fox-like face.

  ‘Miss Jemima Watts?’ asked Daniel, politely doffing his hat.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, looking at them suspiciously.

  ‘My name is Daniel Wilson and this is Miss Abigail Fenton. We’re private enquiry agents employed by Sir Jasper Stone at the British Museum to investigate recent unhappy events there, and we believe your brother may be of great help to us.’

  ‘I’ve no idea where Jerrold is,’ she said. ‘Good day.’ And she began to close the door.

  Daniel slipped his boot in the gap to stop it closing. ‘Please, Miss Watts—’

  ‘Remove your boot at once or I shall call the police!’ she barked angrily.

  ‘Yes, I think that will be a good idea,’ said Daniel quietly. ‘In fact, I’ll go and get a constable now. Miss Fenton will wait here until we return.’ He began to take his boot out of the gap in the door, but before he did, said, ‘The fact is, Miss Watts, we are here to offer protection to your brother. We know he is frightened, but we can prevent the same fate from falling to him that happened to the unfortunate Mr Whetstone.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ she burst out, but they could tell she was flustered. ‘You will please leave!’

  ‘Indeed, we will. But we will return with a constable, as we promised, and he will verify as to who we are, and our role in this situation. But I must advise you, the arrival of a constable will draw attention to this house, and that is the last thing your brother wants or needs if he is to remain safe. Please tell him that. Tell your brother—’

  ‘I told you, I haven’t seen him!’ she hissed angrily at them.

  Daniel ignored her and continued, ‘—that we will return in fifteen minutes without a constable and hope he will agree to see us.’

  ‘I tell you, he’s not here!’ insisted Miss Watts.

  ‘If that is the case, then – as I say – we will return with a constable. But we are here to protect him, Miss Watts. We can ensure his safety.’

  As Daniel and Abigail walked away from the house, Abigail asked, ‘What makes you so sure he’s in there?’

  ‘When we were in the publisher’s offices I noticed the cigar stubs in the ashtray. There was the same smell of cigars when Miss Watts opened the door. I took a guess that she wasn’t the person who smoked them.’

  Inspector Feather sat at his desk feeling angry, but at the same time aware there was little he could do about it. The order for the search for Elsie Bowler had gone out, as it should have done. What angered Feather was the fact that all other lines of enquiry had been abandoned. He agreed with Daniel that it was unlikely that Elsie Bowler had killed the publisher, Whetstone. He was also sure that she had no part in the blackmail letters delivered to the British Museum. Although he also had his doubts if those letters were connected to the murders.

  The hope was that once Elsie Bowler was found, evidence might appear that showed the murders were not connected to her, at which time he could resume his proper investigations. But Feather was also sure that once Elsie Bowler was found, Armstrong would declare the case closed, regardless of what might be uncovered.

  There was a knock at his door, which opened before he could call ‘Come in’. His visitor was Walter Grafton.

  ‘Walter,’ said Feather. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘I’ve come to see what’s happening with John Kelly,’ asked Grafton. ‘Any sightings of him yet?’

  Feather shook his head. ‘The manhunt for him’s been called off.’

  Grafton stared at him. ‘Called off!’ he repeated. ‘Why? On whose authority?’

  ‘Superintendent Armstrong,’ said Feather. ‘He’s given me orders to stop everything else and only follow one lead in the murders at the museum: a seventeen-year-old girl called Elsie Bowler. So, no manhunt for John Kelly.’

  Grafton’s face creased into an angry scowl. Then, without a word, he stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  This time the door was opened to their knock by a short, round bald man with tufts of hair sprouting above each ear.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Watts,’ said Abigail
, recognising him immediately from the photograph.

  ‘You told my sister you can ensure my safety,’ he said nervously.

  ‘Indeed, we did,’ said Abigail. ‘This is Mr Daniel Wilson, formerly with Superintendent Abberline’s squad at Scotland Yard. And I’m his partner, Abigail Fenton.’

  ‘We know why you fled,’ said Daniel. ‘But we do need some more details to ensure you are given proper protection.’

  Watts opened the door wider, glancing nervously over their shoulders as he did so, looking out for potential danger.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  The small terraced house was far different from Watts’ palatial residence in Mayfair, and the stout man seemed to fill the narrow passageway as he led them to a small room at the back of the house. It was neatly if sparsely decorated, a small table and four chairs, bookcases and open shelves with small pottery ornaments.

  ‘I am afraid I cannot offer you tea because I’m unused to making it, and my sister doesn’t wish to be involved in our conversation, so she’s gone to her room,’ said Watts, gesturing for them to sit.

  ‘You fled because you were concerned you might be the killer’s next target,’ said Daniel, seating himself at the table.

  ‘Yes,’ said Watts.

  ‘How did you know that Mr Whetstone had been killed?’ asked Daniel. ‘It was too soon for it to be in the newspapers, and there was no mention of you being at the museum with Mr Whetstone.’

  ‘No, that’s true,’ said Watts. ‘Whetstone had said he’d go alone, but I was curious to see how it went, so I decided to go anyway. But when I got to the museum the police were there, preventing people from going in. I explained who I was to one of the constables on duty and asked what the problem was, and it was he who told me that Whetstone had been stabbed and killed. I panicked. First Pickering, now Whetstone. The connection was obvious: the book and those associated with it.’