Murder at the British Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Dad had done a lot of reading, including some articles in magazines, and he found some by this Professor Pickering who’d written about Ambrosius. Not as well as Dad had done, nor as much, but for Dad it meant that there was this proper professor who would know what he was writing about, and he was sure would help to get Dad’s book into print. So, Dad took a chance. He found out where the professor lived and took his book round to his house, along with a letter which I helped him write, and handed it in to the professor’s housekeeper. And then he waited.

  ‘Nothing happened. He never got a reply. I was a bit worried when after three months he still hadn’t heard, but he said that was the way it was when you were dealing with top people like the professor. They were very busy with their own work and stuff like Dad’s had to be fitted in.

  ‘When months went by and he still hadn’t heard he wrote again, but got no reply. And then, suddenly he hears about this book on Ambrosius coming out by this same professor. He’s shocked. We’re both shocked, but he says, “Let’s not make judgement until we’ve seen it.”

  ‘So, he got a copy of the book, and he read it. Then he gave it to me to read. I can still see him sitting in our kitchen, tears rolling down his cheeks as I read it. It was his book. My dad’s. Every word. Some parts had been changed round, but only a bit.

  ‘We told Percy about it, and he said we should sue and make lots of money. That’s all he was interested in, he wasn’t really bothered about what Dad was suffering. But we knew we couldn’t sue. For one thing, Dad hadn’t made a copy of his book, the one he sent to Professor Pickering was the only copy. Next, who’d believe him: a carpenter from one of the poorest areas of London against the word of some high-up professor. So, Dad wrote to the publisher telling them what had happened and asking for it to be put right.’

  ‘I’ve seen the letters,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Then you’ll know what that crook Whetstone said in reply,’ said Jenny bitterly.

  ‘He was acting on what Professor Pickering told him.’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘He must have known. He was just as bad.’

  ‘Not as bad,’ said Abigail. ‘The professor was the real crook. Whetstone was protecting his investment, the publication of the book.’

  ‘Money!’ snorted Jenny derisively. ‘That’s all either of them was interested in. Not Dad. Dad wasn’t interested in money. All he wanted was to be known as the person who made the connection between King Arthur and Ambrosius. To be accepted!’ Slowly, she calmed down, then resumed, ‘Anyway, what Pickering and Whetstone did destroyed Dad. They took his life away. He carried on with the carpentry because he had to put food on the table, but it was like he was dead already. The exhibition coming to the museum with Dad’s book as the centrepiece – under that lousy professor’s name – was the last straw for me. When I knew he was coming I decided there was only one thing to do to make things right and that was to kill him. So I did. I planned it all out and did it.

  ‘It felt great. Straight after I’d done it I went to where Dad was working and told him what I’d done, that I’d avenged the wrong that had been done to him. To us.’

  Her head dropped, and Abigail realised that Jenny was crying, great heaving sobs. When she raised her head and looked at Abigail, her expression angry, even in the dim light Abigail could see the wetness on her cheeks.

  ‘I thought he’d be pleased. He wasn’t. He stared at me in shock and said “No, no, no.” And then he started crying. I’d never seen him cry as bad as that before. Not even when he realised his work had been stolen. Nor when the babies were born and died. This time … he just wept. And then he put his coat on and went out.

  ‘I should have followed him, but I didn’t know what to do, so I left him alone, thinking we’d talk later and it would be alright. But it wasn’t.’ She started to cry again, and through her tears she said, ‘He killed himself that same day. Because of what I’d done.’

  ‘No,’ said Abigail, ‘because of what Pickering had done.’

  ‘Yes!’ burst out Jenny, suddenly shouting out loud. ‘Yes! That’s what I saw afterwards. It was Pickering, and that publisher, Whetstone! I did what I did because of them and what they did to Dad. They’d killed Dad. Pickering had paid, but that still left that rat Whetstone. And then we were told that he was coming to the museum. It was as if God was sending him to me for punishment.’

  ‘You killed him.’

  ‘I did. And this time I made sure I did it with one stab of the knife. Not like with Pickering. I thought I’d caught Pickering unawares, but he tried to fight me off, so I stuck him and stuck him until I was sure he was dead.’ She stopped, suddenly alert. ‘What was that?’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Ssshhh!’ whispered Jenny sharply. She stood up.

  Ned Carson put his eye to the crack in the wall and saw the girl get up, and saw that she was holding a knife. A bolt of fear went through him and he started to move back.

  ‘There it is again!’ he heard the girl say.

  Carson ran. It was one thing to track them to this place, it was another to face a murderer armed with a knife in these tunnels. He abandoned his unlit oil lamp and ran by the dim glow coming from the recess in the tunnel. He could hear the girl behind him, her feet scrabbling on the gravel and rocks.

  He ran blindly, then stopped as he hit darkness. He felt sick with fear, but forced himself to edge forward, hands held in front of him searching the darkness for sudden walls. Which way? Was he in the tunnel that would lead him back the way he’d come? He couldn’t tell. The blessing was that there was no light coming after him, so no oil lamp. Had the girl given up? Maybe she’d decided to go in a different direction, find an escape route that would take her to one of the old underground rivers. He’d heard about the rivers that ran beneath London.

  Perhaps his best course of action would be to find a recess to hide in. Just wait and let the girl go, then make his way back to the museum when he was sure it was safe for him to move. If he could find his way there, that was. Without a lamp or a candle to light his way, he was blind. His only way was to work along the tunnel by feel, letting his hands be his eyes.

  He began to edge forward, stretching out his hands until they touched rock. Slowly, he shuffled forward, his hands touching the rocky surface. A sound just behind him made him stop. Then he heard the girl say, ‘I learnt to see in the dark when I was down here.’

  The next second a savage pain ripped into his back, then another, and another, and finally he felt the knife blade slice into the flesh of his neck, and then he felt himself tumbling into an even thicker blackness than before.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  As Daniel walked into the main reception area of Scotland Yard, his heart sank as he saw the burly figure of Superintendent Armstrong heading towards the door.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Armstrong. ‘You’re banned from here. Now get out before I have you arrested!’

  ‘I’m here because I know who killed Professor Pickering and Mansfield Whetstone.’

  ‘So do I,’ growled Armstrong. ‘That mad girl in Bedlam.’

  ‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘A man called William Jedding and his daughter, Jenny Warren. We have her written confession to the crime.’

  Armstrong stared at Daniel, then spluttered ‘This is madness! Nonsense!’

  ‘It’s absolutely true,’ said Daniel firmly.

  ‘Where is it?’ snapped Armstrong. He held out his hand. ‘Where’s this supposed confession?’

  ‘Sir Jasper Stone has it at the British Museum. You can see it when we go there.’

  Armstrong looked at Daniel, still obviously bewildered by this turn of events. ‘Why should I go there?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be you, it can be Inspector Feather and a few men, but right now we need Scotland Yard’s assistance to arrest this girl.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s holding Miss Fenton hostage in the tunnels be
neath the British Museum and has threatened to kill her. As she’s already killed, I don’t believe it’s an idle threat.’

  Armstrong stared at Daniel, and Daniel could see the superintendent’s mind was in turmoil.

  ‘Superintendent, I know you don’t like me, but ask yourself: have I ever lied to you or tried to deceive you? Miss Fenton is in mortal danger, and we have the chance of bringing a murderer to justice. If we act fast.’

  Armstrong hesitated, then said, ‘Let’s go and see Inspector Feather.’

  Jenny walked back into the small recess, wiping the knife on her dress.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘That’s another one gone. They’ll hang me for sure now if they catch me.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Abigail. ‘The girl who stabbed Mrs Pickering’s artist friend, her name’s Elsie Bowler, and she’s also the one who was arrested and charged with the murders of Professor Pickering and Mr Whetstone.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I saw it in the papers,’ grunted Jenny. ‘That fool of a police superintendent.’

  Abigail looked at her in surprise.

  ‘But you asked me if there was any news—’ she began.

  ‘Because you’re cleverer than that police superintendent. I couldn’t see you believing the story. I needed to know if I was in the clear. And once you said what you said, I knew I wasn’t.’

  ‘The thing is that Elsie Bowler is in Bethlem Hospital,’ said Abigail. ‘They say she’s lost her mind. She’ll never stand trial. They won’t hang her. They’ll say the same of you. You were driven insane by grief because of what happened to your father. You won’t hang. Mr Wilson and I will see you get a proper lawyer to put your case …’

  ‘Mr Wilson and you!’ spat Jenny, her face contorted with anger. ‘It’s because of you I’m in this spot! If you’d left it alone that mad girl would have got the blame for the killings!’ She glared at Abigail, her expression full of defiant determination. ‘I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in no madhouse, either. I’m gonna make sure your Wilson does what I told him and puts that piece about my dad being the real writer of that book about Ambrosius in the papers for everyone to see, then I’m off. I’ll disappear and start life new as someone else. Somewhere far away. A different country.’

  ‘What about your husband?’ asked Abigail. ‘Your family?’

  ‘What about them!’ snapped Jenny. ‘Tom’s away most of the time, he won’t notice. And as for Ma and Percy, we had nothing in common any more once Dad died. Even before that.’ She advanced towards Abigail, the knife pointed at her. ‘Trouble is, you’re a loose end I can’t leave behind. You know everything there is, and I can’t have that hanging over me.’

  ‘You can’t kill me!’ appealed Abigail. ‘I can help you! I know people. Influential people.’

  ‘So what? Like I say, I ain’t gonna spend the rest of my life in a madhouse. And you’ve only got yourself to blame, really. If you’d left it alone, we wouldn’t be here. So, you’ve got to be shut up, and the only way for that to happen is for you to die.’

  The police van pulled up outside the museum and the party strode purposefully across the concourse led by Superintendent Armstrong, with Daniel, Inspector Feather, Sergeant Cribbens and two uniformed constables following. Sir Jasper Stone and David Ashford were waiting anxiously in the reception area for them and hurried towards them as they walked through the main doors.

  ‘Can I see the letter from this girl?’ demanded Armstrong.

  Sir Jasper took it from his pocket and handed it to the superintendent, who read it through.

  ‘That’s good enough,’ he said. ‘Where’s this way in to the tunnels?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ said Daniel.

  ‘There are oil lamps and candles in the storeroom,’ said Ashford. ‘But it is a maze down there, with tunnels going off in different directions. There’s a fork in two directions shortly after you go down.’

  ‘In that case, Inspector Feather and Sergeant Cribbens will go down one. Wilson and I will search the other. The two constables will wait by the entrance, ready to come if we call.’ He looked questioningly at Daniel. ‘That alright, Wilson?’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ said Daniel.

  Armstrong turned to Sir Jasper. ‘I need to inform you that Inspector Feather and I are both armed, Sir Jasper. This is in view of the fact that we are dealing with a very dangerous person, who I believe must be unstable. Anyone who kills two people in the way she did has got to be unbalanced.’

  ‘This way,’ said Daniel.

  He led the party down the stairs to the basement, and into the storeroom. Daniel, Armstrong, Feather and Cribbens each took an oil lamp, lit it, and went through the rear door to the entrance to the tunnels.

  ‘Damp,’ said Armstrong, sniffing.

  ‘Underground rivers, sir,’ said Cribbens. ‘My uncle was a Thames waterman and he told me about them.’

  ‘I suggest we maintain silence, so we can listen out for the girl,’ said Daniel.

  Armstrong nodded, and the four men began their search, moving at a careful pace over the uneven ground. As Ashford had told them, they soon arrived at a fork where the tunnel split in two directions. Daniel stood and strained his ears, but couldn’t pick up any sounds in either of the tunnels. It was Armstrong who took the decision, heading determinedly down one of the tunnels. Daniel followed the superintendent, while John Feather and Sergeant Cribbens went in the other direction.

  ‘There’s lots of nooks and crannies along here,’ whispered Cribbens.

  John Feather put his finger to his lips to urge his sergeant to keep silent. Even a whisper could get picked up by their quarry and warn her. But it was true about the nooks and crannies and recesses at intervals along this section of the tunnel. They could see scraps of paper and stubs of candles in many of them, but they looked to be left over from some time before and not recent.

  Feather pulled the pistol from his pocket. If they were suddenly attacked, he didn’t want the gun getting caught up in the cloth of his coat and losing valuable seconds. The fact was that he and Cribbens were holding oil lamps which illuminated them and showed any hidden assailant where they were. In contrast, Jenny Warren seemed to be hiding in the safety of the darkness. She could be anywhere, especially as some of the recesses seemed to be quite deep, offering a hiding place.

  He strained his ears, listening for voices, but heard none.

  What had the girl done with Abigail? There was a sick feeling deep in his stomach at the thought that she could already be dead.

  Armstrong continued to lead the way, moving slowly, lamp held high, casting an eerie glow on the floor of the tunnel ahead of them. In the darkness around them, he and Daniel heard the scuttling of rats, which kept well out of the lamplight. Daniel calculated they’d been walking for about fifteen minutes. At their speed he guessed they’d travelled about a quarter of a mile, but there was still no sign of Jenny Warren or Abigail.

  Suddenly Armstrong stopped and gestured ahead. Daniel looked past him, and when he saw the crumpled figure lying in the dim light of their oil lamps he felt sick. He pushed past Armstrong and ran to the still figure, and as he neared it he felt a surge of relief when he saw it was the body of a man. He was lying face down. Daniel lifted his head and recognised the dead man as Ned Carson.

  ‘Carson,’ grunted Armstrong. ‘That man’s been the bane of my life.’

  ‘He’s not going to be anyone’s bane any more,’ said Daniel. ‘But what was he doing down here?’

  ‘Anyway, we’re on the right track,’ said Armstrong, pointing to the vicious open wound in Carson’s throat.

  If she’s done this to Carson, what’s happened to Abigail? Daniel asked himself, petrified at the thought that Abigail had met the same fate.

  Daniel moved forward, keeping the lead, but this time he moved slower, eyes and ears alert. Suddenly, he thought he heard a movement behind him. It could be rats, but …

  He turned and saw the figure of Jenny, her fa
ce contorted with anger, leaping towards Armstrong, who was just behind him, the knife pointing straight at the superintendent’s back. Daniel pushed Armstrong to one side and thrust his lamp at Jenny, but her speed kept her moving forward, and suddenly Daniel felt a savage stabbing pain in his chest. The next second he was falling backwards, and everything began to go black. The last thing he heard was an explosion as a gunshot rang out, the sound filling the tunnel.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Daniel woke, his eyelids flickering. His head felt fuzzy, as if there was a fog in his brain. There was a dull pain in his chest.

  ‘Daniel!’

  He forced his eyes open and looked towards the sound of her voice. Abigail’s. Was he hallucinating?

  No. She was there, sitting beside the bed, looking anxiously at him. Where was he?

  A hospital room. A private room.

  ‘Abigail.’ At least, that’s what he tried to say, but his tongue felt enormous in his mouth.

  ‘Thank God! You’ve been unconscious for two days.’

  ‘How did you …?’ he stumbled.

  ‘John Feather and his sergeant found me.’ She reached out and took one of his hands in both of hers, holding it tightly, and as his eyes adjusted he saw the traces of wet on her cheeks. Tears.

  She released his hand and stood up. ‘I’ll go and tell a nurse you’re awake. Are you in pain?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ He still felt befuddled.

  ‘They’ve kept you dosed up with laudanum,’ said Abigail. ‘I’ll be back in just a moment.’

  She hurried away from his bed. Daniel looked around the room. He’d never been in a private room in a hospital before, only in the public wards. Sir Jasper and the British Museum were paying for it, he guessed.