Murder at the British Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘You managed to catch the last train.’

  ‘I’d have walked home if I’d missed it,’ said Daniel, hugging her tightly back and kissing her. He sniffed and smiled. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, ‘but my nose tells me there’s a delicious smell coming from the kitchen. You don’t mean you …’

  ‘I do! I went round to Royal College Street and got pie and mash for us both. With parsley sauce. I put them in the oven to keep hot.’ She smiled. ‘This had better be as good as you say it is.’

  As far as Daniel was concerned, it was as good as ever, although he felt he saw doubt rather than enjoyment in Abigail’s face as she ate.

  ‘It takes getting used to,’ he said.

  ‘And I’m sure I’ll get used to it,’ she said. ‘How did you get on in Birmingham?’

  ‘There isn’t much to tell,’ he said. ‘Watts is safe at Ben Stilworthy’s. How about you?’ Daniel asked. ‘Did you get the letters?’

  ‘I did.’

  She took them out of the drawer she’d put them in and gave them to him. As he ate, Daniel read them through, his face clouded. ‘Definite threats,’ he said. ‘We need to talk to him.’

  ‘I’ve already done that,’ said Abigail.

  He stared at her, stunned. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Although he wasn’t there. In fact, he’s dead. He killed himself the afternoon that Pickering was stabbed. Threw himself in the Battlebridge Basin.’

  Daniel stared at her, then tapped the address on the letter. ‘You went to Balfe Street?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On your own?’

  Here it comes, she thought. The lecture.

  ‘You know what I’ve told you about that area!’ he snapped. ‘It’s a hellhole! And to go there unaccompanied to face a man who was quite possibly a murderer!’

  ‘I could have handled myself.’

  ‘Beating him with a shovel you just happen to have to hand?’ demanded Daniel angrily. ‘This wasn’t some Egyptian labourer trying to molest you, it would have been a possible killer! A murderer, desperate to protect himself from arrest!’

  ‘He wasn’t. I told you, the man killed himself.’

  ‘But you weren’t to know that when you knocked at his door!’

  She looked at him, resolute. She’d been practising what to say to him about this subject since she’d returned from Balfe Street, wondering how to broach it without hurting his feelings, and she knew – for her own sake as well as his – it had to be said. It was something that couldn’t be put off.

  ‘Daniel,’ she said, ‘you know I love you. Very, very much.’

  He nodded, a puzzled expression on his face and also slightly suspicious about where this was going. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘And I know you love me and want to protect me.’

  ‘I do,’ he said.

  ‘But all this talk of places I should fear to go is making me nervous of setting foot almost anywhere.’

  He looked at her, unhappy. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s the last thing I would ever want.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Daniel, I am not a young girl any more. I have been looking after myself, and my sister, Bella, since our parents died. I have made my own way in the world. I have been to places that some consider to be dangerous, and I have travelled there alone, as a woman, and been safe. Mainly because I had the confidence to do it. Where I have encountered danger I have handled it, sometimes by confronting it, sometimes by worming my way out of a situation. But it has never stopped me from pushing on, testing myself. I know you mean best when you warn me of which places to avoid, and I promise you I would never willingly put myself in danger. But I am used to viewing myself as a strong person. Someone who does not hide from what life has to throw at me. And I want to carry on being that person. But with you.’

  Daniel sat looking at her, and for a moment she wondered how he was going to respond. Finally, after what seemed like an agonising eternity, he got up and moved towards her, his arms held out.

  ‘My darling Abigail,’ he said. ‘I can only apologise. You are quite right. My love for you, which I intended to be protective, has been smothering. Can you forgive me?’

  She got up, moved into his arms and hugged him close, his face on hers. ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not your fault. I’ve allowed it to happen. But thank you for hearing me out, and for you being the way you are and the way you responded. I love the feeling that you want to protect me. I, in turn, want to protect you.’ She hugged him tightly again. ‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, can I tell you the whole thing of how it went?’

  He hugged her back, then released her with a kiss. ‘Of course. And I promise, no interruptions.’

  They both returned to finish their meals as Abigail told him about her encounter with Mrs Jedding, and then her visit to the rag-and-bone shop at the end of the street and how she’d learnt about Jedding’s suicide.

  ‘Afterwards I thought about it. The letters show that William Jedding was absolutely bereft when Pickering stole his work on Ambrosius and published as his own. He had no recourse against what Pickering had done, he couldn’t sue Pickering because he had no money – and what court would find in favour of a well-intentioned carpenter against the word of a historian of Dr Pickering’s lofty reputation. Pickering coming to the museum to present Jedding’s work as his own was the final straw. So Jedding kills Pickering. But then guilt overcomes him. He can’t live with what he’s done. So that same day, he kills himself.’

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

  ‘Someone very close to Jedding did that. Someone so enraged by the unfairness of what Pickering had done to Jedding, and furious at Jedding then killing himself, then takes revenge on the other person to blame for the situation, the man who published the book: Mansfield Whetstone. Which means whoever this is, must have been aware of the letters between Jedding and Whetstone.’

  ‘So, the graffiti, “Who killed Ambrosius”…?’

  ‘By Ambrosius he means, of course, Jedding, and the people who killed him are Pickering and Whetstone. Both are now dead, so the next stage will be to expose that Pickering stole Jedding’s work, but the concern is that to ensure that gets the most publicity, he’ll carry out another murder to accompany it.’

  ‘Actually, I had another thought on the train on the way back,’ said Daniel. ‘Might it have been Watts who killed Whetstone?’

  Abigail looked at him, bewildered. ‘Why on earth would he do such a thing?’

  ‘From the things Watts talked about on his way to Birmingham, it was pretty obvious that he resented Whetstone. Whetstone treated him as a dogsbody. And I’m fairly sure that Watts knew that Pickering was lying, that he had stolen Jedding’s work. And by keeping quiet and going along with it, Watts was being forced to be complicit in a fraud. It must have hurt him deeply. It makes even more sense now you’ve told me about Jedding killing himself. Watts could well have felt guilty over Jedding’s death, and he’d been forced to play a part in that death by Whetstone bullying him. Watts knows when Whetstone is going to the British Museum, so he follows him and kills him. We know Watts was there around the time that Whetstone was murdered.’

  ‘He kills his own partner?’

  ‘With the outcome that he is now the senior partner. At last he can get out from under Whetstone’s dominance.’

  ‘But why run away to his sister’s and say he was in fear of his life?’

  ‘A smokescreen,’ said Daniel. ‘It makes him look innocent, and a potential victim.’

  ‘It’s very convoluted,’ said Abigail.

  ‘These murders have been carried out with great thought and planning,’ Daniel pointed out.

  Abigail thought this over, then nodded. ‘It’s possible,’ she said. ‘By the way, I got an interesting piece of information from Miss Roseberry at Whetstone and Watts. Professor Pickering lectured part-time on Roman history at University College
London.’

  ‘Yes, David Ashford told me the same, but how does that relate to the case?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Because if he stole this William Jedding’s work and published it as his own, he may well have done the same with the work of some of his students.’

  ‘How can we find out?’

  ‘I know a senior lecturer at the UCL whose speciality is Roman studies.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘His name’s Charles Winter. I knew him when I was at Girton; he was at Trinity at the same time, and our paths have crossed a few times since.’

  ‘How crossed?’ asked Daniel with a frown.

  Abigail laughed. ‘Daniel, are you jealous?’

  ‘No,’ replied Daniel quickly. Too quickly. ‘Possibly,’ he admitted shamefacedly.

  ‘There was never anything between us in that way,’ she said. ‘We were just interested in the same subject, and he was an intelligent and nice person.’

  ‘Nicer than me?’

  ‘No, but more intelligent.’ She laughed as she saw the look of indignation on his face ‘I’m joking, you idiot! Anyway, I thought I’d call on Charles at UCL tomorrow morning. It’s just around the corner from the museum.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Daniel. ‘Do you want me to come along?’

  ‘No need,’ said Abigail. ‘It’d be better if you go to the museum and see if anything happened there today after the murder of Whetstone.’

  ‘Yes, good idea,’ said Daniel. He paused, then asked, ‘Is he handsome, this Charles Winter?’

  ‘Like a Greek god!’ enthused Abigail. She gave a happy sigh. ‘Kind, caring, highly intelligent and beautiful to look at. He’s every woman’s dream, except for one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  She hesitated, then said: ‘He prefers men.’

  ‘He’s homosexual?’ said Daniel.

  ‘Illegal, I know. But there it is.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Charles.’

  Later, cuddled up in bed, she said, ‘By the way, that odious man, Ned Carson, called this evening and caught me letting myself into the house with a key.’

  Immediately, Daniel looked wary. ‘What did he want?’ he asked.

  ‘To talk to you,’ he said. ‘I told him you were away. But he asked me if I’d be here when you got home.’

  ‘The slimy rat!’ snarled Daniel.

  ‘I said nothing more, just shut the door on him.’

  ‘That’ll be enough for someone like Carson. Be prepared for a story to appear. Something like “Ripper Tec’s Secret Love-Nest”.’

  Abigail laughed.

  ‘It’s not a laughing matter,’ snapped Daniel. ‘He’ll ferret out your name and publish it.’

  ‘He already knows it,’ said Abigail. ‘He’s resourceful, I’ll give him that.’ And she chuckled again.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ demanded Daniel. ‘He’s going to be slandering your reputation.’

  ‘I’m just thinking of Bella’s reaction when she reads the story.’ Abigail smiled. ‘I really will be a fallen woman in her eyes!’

  ‘Fortunately, that rag only circulates in London,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Bella has friends in London who’ll be only too happy to make sure she sees a copy,’ said Abigail.

  ‘You’re not angry?’ demanded Daniel. ‘I’m furious! I’m going to see Carson tomorrow and threaten to punch his face in if he prints anything about us.’

  ‘Thus confirming it’s true,’ said Abigail. She shook her head. ‘Why give him the satisfaction? Ignore him.’

  ‘But what about what people will think of you? Sir Jasper Stone?’

  ‘If they ask, we’ll tell them you’re going to make an honest woman of me.’

  Daniel stared at her. ‘You … you’ll marry me?’

  ‘Ah, I didn’t say when,’ she said. ‘Perhaps in ten years or so, if you haven’t tired of me …’

  ‘I’ll never tire of you,’ said Daniel.

  ‘… and I still find you a passable companion,’ finished Abigail.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I did some thinking on the train on the way back from Birmingham.’

  ‘Whenever you say “actually” in that way, it usually means something with serious implications,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Well, this may fit that. I think we need to move house.’

  ‘Why?’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘The outdoor privy. No bath.’

  ‘There’s the tin bath.’

  ‘And all that entails,’ said Daniel. ‘We need a proper bathroom. With inside sanitation.’

  ‘Because of me,’ she said.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for myself.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Daniel!’ You’ve been living in this house for fourteen years.’

  ‘And it took you moving in to make me see it for what it is. Uncomfortable. Fine for a man who was hardly ever here and used it as basically a place to lay his head …’

  ‘And cook on his own coal-fired kitchen range.’ Abigail smiled.

  ‘Yes, well, maybe we need one of those new gas ovens, with a gas hob.’

  ‘Daniel, this is so radical!’ said Abigail. ‘But rest assured, there’s no hurry to move on my part. This house will always be where we began our life together, so it has a special place. And I have lived in harder circumstances than this.’

  ‘You’re about to say, “When I was in Egypt”,’ said Daniel.

  She hesitated. ‘Well, I was. But then I thought, I’d rather kiss you and make love to you.’

  He smiled. ‘That gets my vote every time.’ And they kissed, at first tenderly, gently caressing, then deeply and passionately.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  As they left the house next morning, Daniel announced, ‘I think, after the busy day we had yesterday, we’ll treat ourselves to a cab. We can’t have you calling on your highly intelligent and extremely handsome old friend looking crumpled through being crushed by the crowds on an early morning omnibus or sweating from a fast-paced walk.’

  ‘Remember what the poet said: “horses sweat, men perspire, women merely glow”,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Which poet was that?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘I can’t remember, but I doubt if it was Shakespeare,’ said Abigail.

  They hailed a cab in Camden High Street and settled back to the rhythm of the horse’s clip-clop as they journeyed, planning their day.

  ‘I’ll see you at the museum after I’ve met with Charles,’ said Abigail. ‘What do you plan to do?’

  ‘I thought I’d see Sir Jasper and explain to him why, despite Superintendent Armstrong’s insistence that this Elsie Bowler is the killer, we don’t agree. Otherwise, once the board learn the superintendent’s view, they’ll pressurise Sir Jasper into terminating our employment.’ He scowled. ‘It’s not just the money we’d lose, it’s the fact that the real killer will get away with it that upsets me.’

  ‘Let’s recap on our suspects,’ said Abigail. ‘Top of the list?’

  ‘Possibly William Jedding for the murder of Pickering, and someone close to him for the murder of Whetstone.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Abigail. ‘Mr Ashford?’

  Daniel shook his head. ‘No, I don’t feel it.’

  ‘John Kelly Junior and the Irish Republican Brotherhood?’

  ‘Possibly for the stabbing of Pickering, but not for Whetstone. And as I’m convinced that the murders of Pickering and Whetstone were connected, I think we can discount the Brotherhood.’

  ‘You said last night you thought Mr Watts was a serious suspect.’

  ‘Last night I was tired and my brain was clutching at straws. I can’t see Watts as the killer.’

  ‘Elsie Bowler?’

  ‘Absolutely not. And I shall tell Sir Jasper why.’

  The cab pulled to a halt and the driver called out, ‘University College!’

  Daniel helped Abigail down from the cab and paid the driver.

  ‘I’ll walk f
rom here,’ he told Abigail. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Daniel walked off, and Abigail headed for the massive white building that housed UCL’s history department. Abigail had always held a regard for UCL. It may not have had the long history of the universities of Cambridge or Oxford, having only been established in 1826, but it was the first to have a secular policy and to admit students from any religion, or even none. It also claimed to have been the first university of Britain to admit women as students, although there was some argument about that in academic circles.

  Truth be told, her particular affection for UCL was because of the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology, established just two years before, which had one of the world’s leading collections of Egyptian artefacts. Sadly, she’d only managed to make one visit to view the collection a year after it had opened, and that had been the last time she’d met Charles Winter. She chuckled to herself at the thought of Daniel being jealous of Charles. She was also slightly surprised, thinking of Daniel as a man of great confidence, independent of spirit. She hadn’t thought of him as being jealous. Although she had seen signs of it during their early acquaintance in Cambridge. But then, that had been understandable; she had to admit she’d treated him abominably. And, if their situations were reversed and she felt that Daniel was showing too much affection and interest towards another woman who was beautiful, intelligent and kind, she, too, would feel a pang of jealousy.

  I’d punch her in the face, she decided.

  She tracked Charles down to his office, where he was busy marking students’ papers. ‘Abigail! This is a pleasure!’

  ‘No lectures?’

  Charles looked at the clock. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Students are notoriously late arrivals, so I’ve got an hour before the horde arrive. What brings you to London? I thought you were either a fixture in Cambridge, or busy digging up half of the Middle East.’ Then he remembered. ‘No, wait, you were up at Hadrian’s Wall recently. I read about it in one of the journals. Where were you at?’

  ‘Most of my time was spent at Housesteads. The Clayton family have done wonderful work in clearing the later buildings from the land and getting down to the remains of the actual Roman fort. I was engaged in excavating the underground heating system, the hypocaust. Absolutely fascinating! It just brought home to me what marvels of engineering were lost after the Romans left.’