by Jim Eldridge
‘Proper sanitation,’ said Winter. ‘Decent roads. And it’s taken nearly two thousand years to rediscover those techniques! The stupidity of the human race never fails to amaze me. So, is it your Roman work that’s brought you here, or have you come to see the recent additions to the Petrie Collection?’
‘Neither. I’ve recently taken on a new addition to my work as a historian.’
‘Oh? This sounds intriguing. What kind of addition?’
‘Detective.’
Winter laughed. ‘Oh, really, Abigail! Let me guess, Scotland Yard have got hold of you to help them out.’
‘Not Scotland Yard, but one of their former detectives. Daniel Wilson, he used to be part of Inspector Abberline’s team.’
‘Abberline! The Ripper case!’ He frowned, curious. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘Have you ever known me to joke, Charles?’
‘No, that’s why I’m puzzled. You, and a Scotland Yard detective.’
‘Former detective. He’s a private enquiry agent now, and he brings me in on cases with a historical perspective. For example, at the moment we’ve been hired by the British Museum to look into the killings there. Professor Pickering, and his publisher, Mansfield Whetstone.’
‘A tragedy.’ Winter sighed. ‘I didn’t know Whetstone, but Pickering used to lecture here, you know, on Roman Britain.’
‘Yes, so his publisher told us. Which is why I wanted to talk to you. Were there any problems while he was here?’
‘Problems?’ asked Winter.
‘With using some of his students’ work for his own, for example.’
Winter regarded her cagily. ‘I’m guessing that something has prompted this question?’
‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘We’ve been informed that someone claimed that Pickering stole his research on Ambrosius Aurelianus and used it in his own book.’
‘There’s often an exchange of research between scholars,’ said Winter guardedly.
‘This was done without Pickering giving credit to the original researcher,’ said Abigail.
‘This original research, was it done as part of a thesis, or a history degree?’
Abigail shook her head. ‘It was done by a keen amateur historian, a carpenter. According to what we’ve been told he sent his work to Pickering to ask for his help in getting it published. Instead, Pickering used it in his own book and claimed it as his own.’
‘That’s a very serious allegation,’ said Winter.
‘It is,’ said Abigail. ‘He was only able to get away with it because he took the work from someone with no reputation or published credits. Which is why I thought of his having access to unpublished research by students.’
Winter was thoughtfully quiet for a while, then he said, ‘There was an instance last year. A student called Winston Adams claimed that Pickering had stolen his work on the sacking of Anglesey by Suetonius Paulinus in AD61.’
‘The destruction of the Druids and the sacred oak groves.’ Abigail nodded.
‘And not just the Druids,’ said Winter. ‘At that time Anglesey was the last refuge for rebel Celtic warriors from Gaul and all over the Empire. The massacre of every man, woman and child on the island was intended to eradicate the Druids’ power and complete the domination of Britannia.’
‘Except that Boudicca rose in the east at the same time,’ added Abigail.
Winter gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I keep forgetting that Roman Britain was another of your areas of scholarship.’
‘Tell me about this Winston Adams.’
‘He’d been to Anglesey and carried out an archaeological dig there and discovered some rare artefacts, both Celtic and Roman, and he wrote a very long and detailed study of them as part of his coursework.’
‘Pickering was his tutor?’
‘Just for this one piece of work. He was only a part-time lecturer here. Anyway, three months later, Adams complained to the college authorities that his work had been published in a magazine under Pickering’s name. Pickering, of course, refuted the charge and insisted that he had already been doing his own work on the massacre on Anglesey, but Adams persisted. And, what was more, he produced his own original essay and showed that certain sections of the article that Pickering claimed was his contained word for word sections from Adams’ essay.’
‘So, he had stolen it.’
‘We preferred the term “assimilated”.’
‘Whatever term you used, the fact is that this student was able to prove that Pickering had plagiarised his work.’
‘Yes, that did appear to be the case.’
‘So, what was the outcome?’
‘It was decided that possibly it was time for the professor to relinquish his tenure at the university.’
‘He was sacked.’
‘He retired.’
‘Was this instance with Adams the only one?’
Winter hesitated, then said, ‘After word spread about Adams’ claim, other students came forward and claimed they’d had the same experience.’
‘Why hadn’t they spoken about it before?’
‘Because they said that Pickering bullied them into keeping quiet. He said he would destroy their chances of getting a good degree. So, they kept quiet.’
‘But he didn’t attempt to bully Adams that way?’
‘Apparently, he did, but Adams’ uncle is some very high-powered lawyer, and Adams threatened to sue Pickering and the college.’
‘And so, Pickering took the easy way out to save his skin.’ Abigail scowled. ‘The man was a rat.’
‘He was a noted a historian,’ pointed out Winter.
‘Who apparently based much of his published work that gave him that reputation on the hard work of others who were too powerless to protest.’
‘Yes, well, he’s dead now,’ said Winter. ‘And his faults die with him.’
‘Not all,’ said Abigail grimly. ‘There are people out there who’ve been hurt and abused by him and who want revenge.’
When he arrived at the museum, Daniel made straight for Sir Jasper’s office, determined to press his case for himself and Abigail to be allowed to continue their investigations, but before he could begin to present their evidence, he stopped, seeing the extremely worried look on Sir Jasper’s face. At first, he thought Sir Jasper might be worried because he was about to tell Daniel the difficult decision that the board were discharging them; but instead Sir Jasper held out a sheet of paper to Daniel.
‘Another letter arrived this morning,’ he said.
As before, the letter demanded money, but this time it wanted the money left at Paddington Station, although there was no date or time for the money to be left, just the same message as before that We will contact you and tell you when to leave the money.
‘I’ve compared the writing to the two previous letters,’ said Sir Jasper. ‘It’s different. So, either the extortioner is disguising their handwriting, or this gang is larger than we at first thought.’
As Daniel looked at it, a flash of recognition clicked in his mind. ‘I’ll be back in a moment, Sir Jasper,’ he said. ‘I need to check this against something.’
He picked up the letter and hurried out of the room, He rushed up the stairs to their small office, opened his desk drawer and took out a sheet of paper, which he compared with the letter. His face lit up in triumph.
‘Got him!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Superintendent Armstrong sat at his desk composing the speech he was going to give to the reporters and journalists once the girl, Elsie Bowler, was in custody. A dangerous killer brought to book on his watch. The newspapers would lap it up. Two prominent figures, a learned professor and a publisher, stabbed to death at the British Museum. A leading artist stabbed. And by a seventeen-year-old girl. She was a lunatic, obviously, and that fact alone would strike fear into the papers’ readers: that someone like that could be roaming the capital, killing leading figures in society indiscriminately! But Superintenden
t Armstrong was the public’s saviour. The man who brought in the Lunatic Girl Killer. No, it needed a better name than that. Something snappier. Something the public would remember. Which was why Jack the Ripper had resonated so well, a great name. He smiled smugly as he reminisced that was one thing Abberline and Wilson had never been able to do, bring the Ripper to justice. But he would do it with the Lunatic Girl Killer, once they’d laid their hands on her.
There was a sharp knocking at his door, then John Feather came in.
‘Yes?’ barked Armstrong. ‘What is it?’
‘Those anonymous threatening letters, sir,’ he announced. ‘The ones demanding money from the museum.’
‘Yes?’ queried Armstrong.
‘We’ve got him. He’s in custody at Covent Garden police station. Do you want to question him, or shall I?’
‘Damn right I want to!’ exclaimed Armstrong, getting to his feet. Then he stopped, wary. ‘How sure are you he’s the right one?’
‘One hundred per cent,’ said Feather. Then, as Armstrong strode to the coat hook to put on his overcoat, he added carefully, ‘There’s one thing, sir. It was Daniel Wilson who identified him.’
Armstrong swung round and stared at him, shocked. ‘Wilson!’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve had to bring him and Miss Fenton in to help with the questioning because it’s their evidence that will convict him.’
Armstrong’s face became suffused with anger. ‘How come they did it and not you?’ he demanded hotly.
‘Because they had something in the suspect’s handwriting.’
‘So, they were concealing evidence!’ snapped Armstrong. ‘We can charge them!’
‘No, sir,’ said Feather. ‘At that time, it wasn’t evidence in this case, or the murders. It was from another investigation.’
Armstrong stood, his hand still holding the coat hook where his overcoat hung, a man in turmoil.
‘This suspect, can he be linked to the murders? The stabbings?’
‘Wilson doesn’t think so, sir. And nor do I. It’s just the sending of the threatening letters to the British Museum.’
‘Then you deal with it, Inspector.’ Armstrong returned to his desk and sat down.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather.
‘But we get the credit for it!’ barked Armstrong. ‘We arrested him! Wilson didn’t!’
‘Wilson can’t arrest anyone, sir, except to make a citizen’s arrest,’ pointed out Feather.
‘Yes, I know that!’ said Armstrong irritably. ‘I just want to establish that if the story comes out in the press – and I say “if” because in my opinion there’s no need for this to be of any interest at all, it’ll only muddy the waters of the real case, the fact that this girl Elsie Bowler is our killer – that if it comes out in the press, the Metropolitan police get the credit, not Wilson and this Fenton woman.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, sir, but Daniel’s very popular with some members of the press.’
‘Yes, damn him! And we ought to investigate that! Is there corruption there, do you think? Wilson paying bribes to them to get publicity?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. I’ve never heard of anything like that.’
‘No, you may not, but someone might. He’s a wrong ’un, Inspector, posing as some kind of people’s hero, and one day I’m going to prove that!’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll report back to you after we’ve questioned the prisoner.’
‘We?’ barked Armstrong sharply.
‘As I said, sir, Wilson and Miss Fenton will be taking part in the questioning.’
‘But they’re civilians!’
‘In view of the fact that it’s their evidence, and they brought it to us, and they’ve met the accused before, there’s not much of a way round that if we’re to get a conviction.’
Armstrong scowled and glared at Feather for what seemed like a long time, before he waved a hand in dismissal.
‘Go,’ he ordered. ‘But this is a small story. It doesn’t deserve any press coverage. Remember that.’
Edward Chapman sat at the table in the interview room at Praed Street police station, doing his best to look defiant, but the way his eyes darted from Inspector Feather and Daniel facing him from the other side of the table, Abigail sitting just a short distance behind them, and two uniformed constables standing guard who surveyed him with grim expressions, betrayed his nervousness.
Feather pushed the first letter across the table to him. ‘Have you ever seen this letter before?’ he asked.
Chapman didn’t even look at it. They saw him gulp nervously, then he shook his head and said, ‘No.’
Feather didn’t show any emotions at this reply. He took the second letter and passed that across to Chapman.
‘Have you ever seen this letter before?’ he asked.
Again, Chapman shook his head. ‘No.’
Feather slid the latest letter, the one that had been received just that morning at the museum, across the table to in front of Chapman.
‘Have you ever seen this letter before?’ he asked.
This time, Chapman gave a nervous swallow before giving a stuttering ‘N-n … no.’
Feather then produced the list of names of the members of the Order of the Children of Avalon that Daniel had given him, the list that Chapman had written out.
‘Have you ever seen this list of names before?’ asked Feather.
This time, Chapman nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. And now his old defiance came back as he glared angrily at Daniel. ‘He made me write it.’
‘The writing on this list and the writing of the previous letter I showed you, the latest letter received by the British Museum, are identical,’ said Feather. ‘You wrote this latest letter.’
‘No!’ said Chapman.
‘Yes,’ said Feather. ‘You got two other people to write the first two letters, but you wrote this one. And this one followed the murder of Mr Mansfield Whetstone, and it suggests that the writer is responsible for that murder.’ He looked intently at Chapman. ‘You are the writer. This is an admission that you were behind the murder of Mansfield Whetstone. And the first letter is a confession that the writer of it was behind the murder of Professor Lance Pickering. As I said, we believe you got someone else to write the other two letters and we are confident that we can prove and charge them, but you are the person behind these letters, and therefore responsible for the murders of—’
‘No!’ burst out Chapman. ‘No! This was nothing to do with the murders!’ He pointed a finger angrily at Daniel. ‘It was his fault! The letters were just a prank to get back at him for the way he treated me! Like a criminal! And calling in my parents! My father has cut my allowance!’
‘So, you admit sending the letters?’ said Feather.
‘Yes, but it was just a harmless joke!’ protested Chapman. ‘No one was hurt by them!’
‘You demanded money.’
‘But we didn’t collect it! It was to teach him a lesson for ruining my life!’
‘As I understand it, he apprehended you and your companion when you came to the British Museum to mount an attack on the exhibition. An attack that you and your companion planned, that was nothing to do with Mr Wilson here, except that he stopped you. But then, instead of giving you to the constables, he arranged for you to be released without charge. He saved you from jail. How is that ruining your life?’
‘Like I say, he brought in my parents and my father has cut my allowance! He made my life a misery!’
‘No, you made your life a misery the moment you decided to attack the exhibition,’ said Feather. ‘You’ve made it far, far worse by sending these threatening letters to the museum.’
‘They were a joke!’ repeated Chapman urgently. ‘They didn’t do any damage. They didn’t harm anyone!’
‘They took vital manpower away from the investigation into the murders in order to stake out the place allocated for the delivery of the money. They harmed the murder investigation. They brought fear to the museum and the people wh
o worked here, all of them wondering if they might be the next victim. Because that is what these letters are saying.’ He fixed Chapman with a grim stare. ‘Edward Chapman, I am charging you with demanding money by menaces, and also with interfering with the police in the course of their duty. This time you will stand trial, and you will go to prison.’
‘No, please!’ begged Chapman, and he burst into tears.
‘Who did you persuade to write the other letters?’ demanded Feather.
‘My … my younger sister and my cousin,’ sobbed Chapman. ‘They thought it was for a joke I was playing on someone.’
‘Their names?’ asked Feather.
‘Millicent’s my sister. She’s only fourteen. And my cousin, George Fell.’
Feather wrote down the names, then nodded at the constables.
‘Take him to the cells,’ he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
As Daniel and Abigail left the police station, they found Joe Dalton waiting for them on the pavement.
‘Daniel! Abigail!’
‘Joe!’ Daniel smiled. ‘Are we to believe this is a coincidence?’
Dalton chuckled. ‘If you believe that, then I’ve got plenty of things I think I can sell you. Like Buckingham Palace.’
‘Let me guess, a little bird’s told you that someone’s been brought in.’
Dalton nodded. ‘Related to the events at the British Museum. Is it the murderer?’
‘No,’ said Daniel.
‘In that case it must be the threatening letters.’
‘You know about them?’ said Abigail, surprised.
‘I wouldn’t be much good at my job if I didn’t,’ said Dalton.
‘Joe has contacts inside the police,’ explained Daniel.
‘Inspector Feather?’ asked Abigail.
‘No no,’ said Dalton. ‘John Feather’s too … what can I say?’