by Jim Eldridge
‘Indeed,’ said Daniel. ‘But the problem is, the murderer is still out there.’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Sir Jasper was reading the day’s newspapers when Daniel and Abigail entered his office on their return to the museum.
‘You have seen the statement by Superintendent Armstrong?’ he asked.
‘We have, Sir Jasper,’ said Daniel.
‘But you’re still not convinced that this girl, Bowler, is the one who killed Professor Pickering and Mansfield Whetstone?’
‘We’re not. And neither are Inspector Feather and Dr Hyslop at the Bethlem Hospital, although Dr Hyslop will not say so publicly. But we accept that, in view of the announcement Superintendent Armstrong has given to the press, you won’t be able to keep us on investigating. As far as the general public are concerned, the case is closed.’
Sir Jasper sighed. ‘Sadly, I feel that will also be the view of the board of trustees.’ He hesitated, then looked at them questioningly. ‘How close do you think you really are to identifying the real murderer?’
‘I believe we are very close,’ said Daniel. ‘We’re convinced the murderer is someone who was close to William Jedding. With or without the board’s approval, we’d like to press on. We are aware there will be no further payment, but …’
Sir Jasper held up a hand to stop him.
‘I shall tell the board that you will need a couple of days to bring things to a proper conclusion. Completing your reports for the board, wrapping things up, that sort of thing. It’s only a couple more days …’
‘But very gratefully accepted, Sir Jasper,’ said Daniel. ‘And very much appreciated.’
As they left Sir Jasper’s office and headed down to the main reception, Abigail asked, ‘What next?’
‘I need to have words with Billy Flood,’ said Daniel determinedly. ‘And I think this time I’ll see him on my own, if you don’t mind.’
‘You think I’ll be in the way? Because I’m a woman?’ demanded Abigail.
‘No. But he needs to feel the full extent of my wrath over leading us a dance.’
‘I can cope with that,’ said Abigail.
‘Not if it goes wrong,’ said Daniel.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I believe that Mr Flood is more than just a harmless rag-and-bone man. I suspect he’s at the hub of something more financially profitable. Which could mean he has protection.’
‘What makes you say that? You only met him the once.’
Daniel tapped his nose. ‘This,’ he said. ‘My copper’s nose. I told you once before, I can smell what lies beneath the surface. Before I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. But with the clock ticking, that has gone.’
‘You again!’ Billy Flood scowled as Daniel walked into his shop.
‘Me again,’ confirmed Daniel. ‘You must have known I’d be calling back.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because of that address you sold me. Which was a dud.’
‘I was given that in good faith!’ protested Flood.
‘No, you were told to give that address if anyone came asking for Peg Jedding,’ snapped Daniel. ‘I decided to take a chance, just in case.’
‘Look, Inspector …’
‘I’ve already told you, I’m not in the force any more.’
‘Exactly! And you have no authority any more, so if you don’t like it you can sling your hook! And don’t think about roughing me up, with one whistle I can have my protection here.’
‘I wouldn’t think of roughing you up,’ said Daniel carefully. ‘There’s no need for me to do that. If I want to get my own back on you I’d do it differently. Once a copper, always a copper. Which means I’ve got friends on the force, and at top level, not local beat coppers who take a few shillings to turn a blind eye. You know I was on Abberline’s squad, so you know I’ve got the ears of some good detectives. People who’d be interested in your shop.’
‘What do you mean?!’ demanded Flood.
‘You don’t make a living from buying and selling old rags and broken chairs. I can smell a fence when I meet one. Proceeds of crime, they call it. I was prepared to turn a blind eye if the trade you gave me had been good. But it wasn’t. So be prepared for Scotland Yard to start turning your shop over regularly. You won’t know when. It might be every day, it might be every week. But it makes it difficult to move stolen goods if you don’t know when you’re going to get raided.’ As Flood opened his mouth to protest again, Daniel held up his hand and showed Flood the police whistle he was holding. ‘Just in case you’re thinking of calling your protection and dumping me in the canal to keep my mouth shut, this is an old memento. You surely didn’t think I’d come alone this time around? One blast on this and you’ll be swarming with coppers.’
Flood glared at him, then said sullenly, ‘I don’t know where Peg is. Her family have spirited her away.’
‘So, who else was close to Jedding? Who did he talk to about the book he was writing? The one that got stolen?’
‘He talked to me about it,’ said Flood.
‘So, tell me about Ambrosius,’ said Daniel.
Flood frowned. ‘Who?’
Daniel fixed him with a stony stare. ‘Regular visits from the Yard. And I’m not joking.’
Flood hesitated, then he said, ‘Peg wouldn’t be any use to you. She told me she couldn’t understand what William was talking about half the time about this book of his. Over her head, she said. You’d need to talk to the kids, his son and daughter. They were the ones he talked to about it most.’
‘Where will I find them?’
‘His daughter’s moved away, but his son’s still around.’
‘What’s his son’s name?’
‘Percy.’
‘And where will I find Percy? And I’ve already coughed up once for dud information, so let’s say this is already paid for.’
‘You’re a bastard, you know that!’ grunted Flood.
‘I am,’ agreed Daniel. ‘And you wouldn’t like to find out just how big a bastard I can be. So again: where will I find Percy?’
Flood scowled, then said, ‘The best place is the Wagon and Horses in York Way.’
‘I know it,’ said Daniel. ‘How will I recognise him?’
‘Short and thin with a face like a fox. He usually wears a sailor’s jacket.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. ‘One more thing, if I find you’ve tipped him the wink to do a disappearing act before I get there, I’ll be back.’
With that, Daniel walked away.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Percy Jedding was in his early twenties and seemed very much at home in the Wagon and Horses. He fitted Flood’s description perfectly, short and thin with a fox-like face, and a sailor’s jacket. Daniel plonked himself down at the table where Jedding sat on his own and fixed the young man with a hard stare.
‘Percy Jedding?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Percy.
‘That’s funny, you fit the description I was given perfectly.’
Percy scowled. ‘Copper?’ he asked.
‘Private detective,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m working for the British Museum, trying to find out who killed Professor Pickering.’
Percy spat on the floor at the name. ‘Who cares who killed him! I’m glad someone did.’
‘He stole your dad’s work, I know, and one of the reasons I’m here is because I want your dad to get the proper credit he deserved.’
‘Oh? How?’
‘If I can talk to someone who he might have talked to as he wrote his book, someone who knew what he was doing, they might have papers or letters that prove he was the real author of the book that came out.’
Percy shook his head. ‘I don’t know about that. Dad talked about it to me, but half the time I didn’t pay a lot of attention. It didn’t interest me. My sister Jenny’s the one you want to talk to. She was the one who knew what dad was doing. She used to take him his lunch when he was at work and he’d
tell her all about the latest stuff he’d found out about what he was working on. She was the one he told everything to about this book of his.’
‘And where will I find her?’
Percy looked at him, puzzled. ‘Why, at the British Museum, of course. That’s where she works. I told you she used to take him his lunch at work, well that’s how she got the job at the museum. He was doing some work there and one day when she took him his lunch she heard someone say there was a vacancy coming up, so she applied. She’s smart like that, is our Jenny.’
Daniel frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t come across a Jenny Jedding while I’ve been at the museum.’
‘That’s cos her name ain’t Jedding no more, not since she got married to her husband, Tom, last year. It’s Jenny Warren now.’
‘Miss Fenton!’
Abigail saw the figure of Jenny Warren approaching. The girl looked nervous, which was understandable in view of what she’d been through.
‘Yes, Jenny. And please, call me Abigail.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘No, miss, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.’
Abigail gave an inward sigh at this, reflecting that people would never better themselves, no matter how good they were, so long as they remained in thrall to these supposed levels of society. The trouble was, though, she had to admit, if everyone threw off these conventions it could lead to anarchy.
‘I was wondering, miss, if there was any news. About … about the murder? The one I saw. I know the police say the person who did them has been caught, that girl, Elsie Bowler, but …’
And she gulped and gave a shudder. Poor girl, thought Abigail. She’s not convinced, she’s worried the killer might still be out there and coming after her next. Maybe I can tell her something that might ease her fears, give her a clue that we might be on the trail of the real killer.
‘Actually, Mr Wilson and I feel the same way, that the police might be on the wrong track, but we think we’re close to finding out who the real culprit is,’ she said.
‘Oh?’ asked Jenny.
‘Yes. It’s possible that the murders were done as an act of revenge because of the wrong that had been done to someone.’
‘Who?’ asked Jenny, and Abigail could see the tension in the girl’s face.
‘A man called William Jedding. It seems that Professor Pickering may well have stolen the material for his book on Ambrosius from this Mr Jedding.’
Jenny gaped at her, startled. ‘How do you know this, miss?’ she asked.
‘Mr Wilson and I have seen the letters from Mr Jedding complaining to the publishers that Pickering stole his work. In fact, I went to Mr Jedding’s home to try and talk to him, but sadly, it seems, he killed himself. We think it may have killed himself because of guilt, because it’s likely that he was the one who killed the professor. But the second murder, it couldn’t have been Jedding who killed the publisher, Mr Whetstone, because he was dead by then. We think it’s someone who was close to Mr Jedding who did the second murder, revenge on Mr Whetstone for being in league with Professor Pickering. In fact, that’s where Mr Wilson is at the moment. He’s gone to see Mr Jedding’s family to see if they can throw any light on who it might be. To see if there was anyone he was particularly close to.’
Jenny stared at Abigail, a stunned look on her face. Then she swallowed hard and nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said hoarsely. ‘That makes sense. And that’s what it all means.’
‘What?’ asked Abigail, puzzled. ‘“What it all means”?’
Jenny swallowed hard again, then said in barely a whisper, ‘I found something. I need to show it to you.’
‘What?’ asked Abigail.
The girl shook her head. ‘I need to show it to you,’ she repeated. ‘It proves what you just said. About Mr Jedding.’
Immediately, Abigail was alert. At last! Proof! ‘Where is it?’ she asked.
‘I’ve got it hidden,’ said Jenny. ‘You’ll have to come with me.’
‘Where?’
‘Here, in the museum,’ said Jenny. She looked nervously around. ‘But don’t tell anyone else. Not till I’ve shown it to you.’
Abigail nodded. ‘Lead on,’ she said.
Ned Carson kept back on the stairs that led down to the basement and the conveniences, and watched as the Fenton woman and the girl went through the door marked ‘Storeroom. Staff Only’. Something was up, but what? He knew he’d been on to a winner when he made his decision: forget Daniel Wilson, follow the Fenton woman. Wilson’s lover.
The girl was wearing the uniform of one of the stewards. Carson had been intrigued when he’d seen the Fenton woman and the girl walk together down the stairs that led to the conveniences. There could be a simple reason for it, one of them needing to use the toilet, but why did they go down there together? And now, instead, they’d gone into the storeroom. What on earth were they up to?
Rather than be caught hanging around outside the conveniences, he went back up the stairs and into the main reception area, keeping an eye on the stairs. It was ten minutes before the girl reappeared, and now she was alone. Where was the Fenton woman?
He was tempted to go and engage the girl in conversation, genial chat, and see what turned up. But he noticed there was a tenseness about her. She was looking this way and that, watchful. Any attempt to chat to her would be rebuffed. But there was definitely something going on.
He watched the girl walk to the main reception desk, where she waited until the man on duty’s attention was diverted by a patron asking a question before slipping an envelope on the desk. Then she darted away, heading back towards the stairs that led down to the basement.
Carson sidled to the reception desk and took a look at the envelope. It was addressed to Mr Daniel Wilson.
He was tempted to snaffle it and take a look at the contents, but saw the envelope was stuck down. But he was sure that whatever it was, was to do with the young woman and Abigail Fenton. What was it? Some love tryst? Two women together? And where did Wilson fit in?
He made for the stairs where the girl had disappeared and began to make his way carefully down towards the basement.
There was no one around. He waited for ten minutes, but no one appeared from the ladies’ convenience, nor the storeroom. Finally, he went to the storeroom door, opened it, and peered in. There were shelves loaded with bottles of brooms, dustpans, cleaning fluid, towels, unmarked boxes, but no sign of people.
He noticed a door at the far end of the storeroom and saw beside it a stack of oil lamps and boxes of candles, along with boxes of matches. He made his way to the door and quietly opened it. Immediately, his nostrils were assailed by the smell of damp. Stairs led down into the gloom, and then into darkness.
He stood listening and was fairly sure he could hear voices echoing somewhere in the distance.
So that’s where they were. But what was going on?
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Daniel was haunted by a chill of fear as he hurried back to the British Museum. The additional information he’d learnt from Jenny’s brother confirmed it: the killer was Jenny Warren. William Jedding had shared everything about the book he was writing on Ambrosius with her, and she had shared his excitement in it. It was through her father that she’d got the job at the British Museum. When he was working on the rafters she used to bring him his lunch and sit with him, so she’d been there when word of the vacancy had arisen.
The man Jenny had married, Tom Warren, was a sailor, currently away at sea, so she was on her own most of the time in their small flat. No one to be made suspicious by her actions.
The sick feeling hit Daniel again at the thought that Abigail had been alone with the girl in her flat, questioning her. Even now, Abigail might be at risk if Jenny felt that Abigail and he might be getting close to the truth.
The first person he saw as he hurried into the building was Mrs Sawyer, the woman who’d looked after Jenny after the murder of Whetstone.
‘Mrs Sawyer!’ he call
ed.
‘Mr Wilson?’ she queried.
‘Where’s Jenny Warren?’
Mrs Sawyer frowned.
‘Actually, I don’t know. Normally her station is the Greek and Roman rooms, but I went along there just now, just to check on her after what she’d gone through, but she wasn’t there. Perhaps she’s gone for a break, or something.’
Daniel thanked her, then hurried up to the small office he and Abigail shared. There was no sign of Abigail.
Fighting back a feeling of panic, Daniel ran from room to room, but there was still no sign of Abigail, not had anyone seen her. It was at his last port of call, the exit at the rear of the building, that the guard on duty nodded.
‘Yes, I saw her. She was with young Jenny Warren, that poor thing.’
‘Which way were they going?’
The man frowned. ‘I’m not sure. A member of the public came up and started asking me about the opening times, so that kind of took up my attention.’
‘Did they go outside?’
‘They may have done. I’m not sure.’
With fear and panic definitely mounting, Daniel rushed to the main reception desk. ‘Excuse me …’ he began.
The face of the man behind the desk lit up as he saw Daniel. ‘Ah, Mr Wilson!’ he said. ‘A message was left for you.’
‘A message?’
‘Yes. An envelope with your name on it.’ He rummaged around in the drawer of the table, produced the envelope and handed it to Daniel.
The writing was unfamiliar, and Daniel felt a savage rush of disappointment; he’d hoped it might have been from Abigail. He opened the envelope, and as he read the letter inside he felt sick. It was from Jenny Warren.
Mr Wilson,
You know who I am and why I did it. I want my father’s reputation made good. I am holding your friend. I want a statement put on the front page of tomorrow’s Times and another big national newspaper saying that William Jedding was the one who did all that work on Ambrosius, and Pickering stole it.