by Jim Eldridge
‘Why him? Why not Harry Elder?’
‘You said yourself that Harry Elder seems respectable and responsible. That’s the impression I got when I met him, too, yesterday evening at the Fitzwilliam during his night shift. If he’d committed the first murder I think I’d have picked up something from him.’
‘Guilt?’
‘Guilt manifests in different ways with different people. Successful criminals are able to conceal it completely, if they even have any. Respectable citizens, on the other hand, struggle to conceal it.
‘Of course, there could be many other reasons why Ransome was murdered, and he may have been quite innocent, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll go and see his family, see if they can throw any light on the mystery of his death. What can you tell me about him, so I’m prepared when I see them? Was he married? Did he have children?’
‘I’m afraid I was unfamiliar with him outside of work,’ admitted Abigail. ‘Possibly the best person to talk to about him is Harry Elder.’
Daniel nodded. ‘Agreed.’
CHAPTER TEN
Abigail tried to concentrate on the article in the magazine on her lap, but was finding it difficult. The subject matter was so dear to her heart – an article by William Flinders Petrie disproving Piazzi Smyth’s theory of the Great Pyramid – that it should have absorbed her completely, but as she shot a look at her sister on the other side of the hearth, engrossed in a book of her own, the fact that Bella hadn’t told her about the public meeting that coming Sunday irritated and disturbed her. Why the secrecy?
Bella laid down her book with a sigh.
‘Truly remarkable!’ she said.
‘What is?’ asked Abigail.
‘This. A novel, Germinal, by Émile Zola. I’d heard such wonderful things about it, and I’ve been desperate for it to come out in English.’ She gave a happy sigh. ‘It does not disappoint! I recommend it to you, Abigail.’
‘What is the story?’
‘It’s set in a mining community in northern France, where the miners go on strike for justice.’
‘Of course,’ said Abigail drily.
‘But there is much more to it than that!’ burst out Bella. ‘It is a love story, a love triangle!’
‘Is it long?’
‘It is,’ said Bella. ‘Satisfyingly so.’
‘Then I shall leave it until I have more time to spend on relaxation,’ said Abigail. ‘By the way, you did not tell me this public meeting of yours is happening on Sunday. Votes for women.’
‘Did I not?’ said Bella. ‘Actually, it’s not my meeting. It’s being organised by a committee of which Lady Restwood is chair. I just promised to pass on word about it to people I thought might be interested.’
‘Like Dr Keen.’
Immediately, Bella stiffened. ‘Why do you say that?’ she demanded.
‘Because it was Dr Keen who told me about it, saying you had sent him a handbill.’
‘You saw Dr Keen again?’ said Bella, agitated and rising to her feet.
‘For heaven’s sake, Bella, calm down!’ snapped Abigail. ‘I saw him again, with Mr Wilson, because we had yet another dead body at the Fitzwilliam.’
Bella fell, rather than sat, back on her chair.
‘Another …?’ she whispered, aghast.
‘One of the nightwatchmen. He’d been strangled. It was I who found the body when I arrived at the Fitzwilliam this morning. The body was taken to Gonville and Caius for examination, and naturally, Mr Wilson and I, as investigators of the case, accompanied it.’
‘Yet you didn’t tell me!’ said Bella accusingly.
‘I am telling you now,’ said Abigail. ‘Anyway, you do not always tell me everything, Sister. I repeat, this public meeting on Sunday, for example.’
‘One can hardly compare a public meeting about voting with the discovery of a dead body!’ exploded Bella indignantly.
‘Really, Bella, there is no need to be hysterical about this,’ Abigail reprimanded. ‘Anyway, I was about to tell you in order to pass on Dr Keen’s message.’
‘His message?’
‘He thanks you for the handbill and offers his personal support for the cause. However, he offered his apologies, he would have attended but he has another engagement on Sunday.’
‘What engagement? Who with?’ demanded Bella.
‘I have no idea,’ said Abigail. ‘He did not offer the information, and I did not ask. It did not seem relevant.’
‘It may have been relevant to me!’
‘Then I suggest you ask him.’
‘No!’ said Bella, horrified at the suggestion. Then, nervously, she began, ‘This man who died …’
‘The nightwatchman.’ Abigail nodded. ‘A man called Joseph Ransome. I’m sure it will be in the newspaper tomorrow. I’ve asked for the early edition to be delivered here.’
‘You say he was strangled?’
‘Indeed,’ said Abigail.
Bella looked at her sister, horrified. ‘Aren’t you at all frightened?’ she asked.
‘Of what?’ asked Abigail. ‘Dead bodies? They cannot harm me.’
‘Of it happening to you.’
Abigail frowned at her, puzzled. ‘Why would anyone want to murder me?’ she asked.
‘Why would anyone want to murder the nightwatchman?’ countered her sister.
‘That is what Mr Wilson and I are trying to determine,’ replied Abigail.
But as she said it, she thought: Why, indeed? Could it be that there was no logical reason for the latest murder? Or even the first? That someone was killing people inside the Fitzwilliam indiscriminately?
I shall discuss this with Mr Wilson, she determined.
At the thought of Daniel Wilson, another decision came to a head for her. I will escort him around Cambridge and show him the city, she decided. After my traumatic experience with Edgar, I allowed my perception of men as primarily sexual predators to dominate my reaction to his suggestion. Daniel Wilson is not like Edgar.
At least, she thought, I hope so.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
This time, Daniel’s tug at the bell pull of the main door at the Fitzwilliam was opened by a man he didn’t recognise, but a man who wore the same nightwatchman’s uniform as Harry Elder. In fact, Daniel was sure it was exactly the same uniform.
‘I’m looking for Harry Elder,’ he said.
The man regarded him suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘My name’s Daniel Wilson and I’ve been hired by the Fitzwilliam to look into the recent deaths here. I saw Mr Elder here yesterday evening, and I need to continue our conversation.’
The man shook his head.
‘He’s not here. Him and his missus have gone to a wedding of his wife’s cousin in Thetford. He asked me to do his shifts for him.’ He sighed. ‘But with the other bloke getting done in, it looks like I’ll be doing both shifts tonight and tomorrow.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘Sunday morning, he said.’
‘Do you happen to know what time he left for the wedding today?’
‘They were catching the early train.’
Daniel frowned, thoughtfully. If Elder had caught the early train out of Cambridge, he wouldn’t have known before he left that Ransome had been murdered. Unless Daniel had completely misread the man’s character and Harry Elder was the killer, and had now made his escape.
He needed to check if there actually was a wedding, or if it was simply a ruse to buy Elder time to get away.
‘Do you know the name of his wife’s cousin?’ he asked.
The man looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why would you want to know?’ he demanded.
‘Because I am tasked with looking into the recent deaths here, and it’s important I talk to Mr Elder very soon. If necessary I shall travel to Thetford to see him, but to do that I need to know where they will be. The name of the church. Who is getting married. Where Mr and Mrs Elder might be staying.’
The man shook his head.
&
nbsp; ‘Sorry, I can’t help you. I only know Harry casual-like. We go to the same chapel. But who his wife’s cousin is, I’ve no idea. All I know is the wedding’s in Thetford, and he’s coming back early on Sunday morning.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. He was about to leave when he stopped and asked, ‘Is your substitution official? Do the Fitzwilliam know that he won’t be here tonight and tomorrow?’
The man looked uncomfortable.
‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he wanted to upset things for himself by telling them. He’s got a good job here.’
‘So when did he make this arrangement with you? Recently?’
‘Yesterday,’ said the man. ‘Thursday.’
‘Short notice,’ observed Daniel.
‘Yes, well, I don’t think Harry was sure if he should go to the wedding. He’s very duty-conscious.’
‘But he decided to go, and at short notice.’
The man nodded. ‘I got the impression he was under pressure from Ettie, his wife, to go. It can be difficult for a bloke, torn between wanting to keep his wife happy, and doing his duty.’
As Daniel walked away he mulled over this new and unexpected development. Harry Elder hadn’t mentioned anything to him about the wedding, but then, there was no reason why he should.
Was it suspicious? Or was it, as the man had said, that Harry had been torn between duty and his wife, and had chosen to accompany his wife, but kept it a secret from the Fitzwilliam rather than put his job at risk.
The first thing was to call at Elder’s house and make enquiries of the neighbours about this wedding in Thetford, to see if they knew anything about it.
Daniel found the terraced house in Petworth Street that Miss Sattery had given him as the address for Harry Elder. There was no answer to his knock – exactly as he’d expected – so he began knocking at houses on either side. His first calls drew blanks – again, expected because it was a Friday night, and Friday night was traditionally a time for spending the week’s wages in the pub. It was the fourth house he tried where he found a chatty and cheerful woman who was happy to let him have the details he was after.
‘Ettie’s cousin, Victoria,’ she informed Daniel. Then she leant close to him and told him in a confidential whisper, full of scandal in her voice, ‘She’s marrying an Irish bloke and he’s a Catholic!’
‘A Catholic?’
‘Exactly!’ She nodded. ‘Harry swore blind he wouldn’t attend, him being so firmly chapel. But Ettie’s always been so fond of her cousin, Vicky. Like sisters they were, before she lost touch.’
‘So Harry wasn’t going to go to the wedding, but at the last minute he changed his mind?’
‘That’s right,’ said the woman. ‘He did it for Ettie. He knew it would break her heart if he didn’t go. He’s a hard man, but not so hard that he’d upset Ettie. I think he’s going to stand outside the church while Ettie goes in.’
‘And they’ll be back on Sunday.’
‘Sunday morning,’ said the woman.
As Daniel headed back to Mrs Loxley’s, he reflected that – on the evidence – there was no need to consider Harry Elder a suspect. Everything added up.
Unless, of course, when Daniel returned to Petworth Street on Sunday morning, there was still no sign of Harry Elder.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Abigail went into the kitchen to put the kettle on to make a pot of tea. As it was a Saturday, Mrs Standish would not be arriving to make breakfast until half past eight, rather than her usual weekday starting time of seven o’clock.
The kettle on, she went into the hallway. Yes, there it was on the doormat: the Cambridge Gazette, as Horden’s the newsagent had promised. Perhaps she would place a regular order for their newspaper to be delivered as Horden’s had proved efficient.
She unfolded it, and as her eye fell on the headline blazoned across the front page, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in shock, before closing tightly in outrage.
‘This is appalling!’ she fumed.
‘Did you say something, Abigail?’ Bella asked as she came down the stairs.
But her sister had already snatched her coat from the rack, put it on, then stormed out of the house, slamming the door shut behind her.
Daniel sat at the breakfast table he was sharing with Professor Hughes as they tucked into their kippers. Daniel still hadn’t set eyes on the third lodger at Mrs Loxley’s, Mr Barron, the businessman who traded in precious metals. So far he hadn’t appeared at breakfast or for supper, nor been seen in the comfortable lounge.
‘He’s very busy,’ Mrs Loxley had told them, explaining his absence. ‘Lots of important meetings.’
Professor Hughes, however, was a constant presence at mealtimes. Elderly, genial, but with an air of abstraction about him, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Daniel guessed him to be in his late fifties. A pale complexion and slightly round-shouldered, which seemed to go with spending most of his time poring over old books in darkened archives.
‘Are you a Cambridge man, Mr Wilson?’ enquired Hughes, pausing between mouthfuls and happy to make conversation.
‘Er, no,’ said Daniel.
‘I was at Peterhouse,’ said Hughes. ‘Many years ago, although sometimes it seems like only yesterday.’ His face took on a look of pride as he added, ‘It’s the oldest college in Cambridge, you know.’
‘Really?’ said Daniel politely.
‘Founded in 1284,’ affirmed Hughes, and then proceeded to give Daniel a potted history of his old college.
Everyone here in Cambridge seemed to be constantly referring back to the city’s historical past: Professor Hughes with Peterhouse, Abigail Fenton with Gonville and Caius, Sir William at the Fitzwilliam surrounded by the past. It was as if this history was vital to their very existences. No, to their status.
Cambridge was important, and by their association with it, they too were important. Or, felt important.
Professor Hughes’ mini-historical lecture was interrupted by the appearance of Mrs Loxley, who seemed to be slightly flustered.
‘Excuse me, Mr Wilson, but there is a lady to see you,’ she announced.
‘A lady?’
‘A Miss Abigail Fenton.’
‘Ah yes, from the Fitzwilliam Museum.’
‘Which is next door to Peterhouse,’ put in Hughes. ‘One of Cambridge’s oldest buildings next door to one of the most recent.’
‘She says she needs to talk to you, sir,’ said Mrs Loxley.
Daniel nodded and put down his napkin, pleased that he’d finished his breakfast kipper before this interruption.
‘Would it be possible for us to have our conversation in the parlour?’ he asked. As he saw Mrs Loxley hesitate, he said, ‘I know the rules on entertaining ladies, but Miss Fenton has been asked to act on the investigation with me by Sir William Mackenzie, so you can rest assured that this is with his authority and there is no question of any impropriety.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Mrs Loxley hastily, still obviously slightly flustered but keen not to upset Sir William Mackenzie in any way. ‘By all means, I’ll show her into the parlour.’
‘If you’ll pardon me, Professor,’ said Daniel, ‘but business calls.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Hughes cheerfully.
Daniel left the breakfast room and entered the parlour, where Mrs Loxley had installed an obviously very angry Abigail.
‘Miss Fenton.’ Daniel smiled in greeting.
‘Have you seen this?’ she demanded, barely containing her anger as she thrust the newspaper at him.
Daniel took it from her and saw the headline blazoned across the front page: KILLER MUMMY ON THE LOOSE IN CAMBRIDGE.
‘No,’ he admitted.
‘It’s ludicrous!’ exploded Abigail. ‘Absolute rubbish! She snatched the paper back from him and began to read aloud, her voice trembling with indignation. ‘“Is an ancient murderous Egyptian mummy on the loose in Cambridge?”’
‘Perhaps if I read it mys
elf?’ suggested Daniel, but Abigail was so enraged she continued reading aloud, her voice full of scorn.
‘“The horrific murder at the Fitzwilliam of nightwatchman Joseph Ransome was particularly gruesome because of the fact that he was strangled with the bandages of one of the mummies recently brought over from Egypt. According to an eminent Egyptologist who has spoken exclusively to this newspaper, recent acquisitions by the Fitzwilliam include the mummified bodies of an Egyptian princess and her private bodyguard. The bodyguard was buried in the same tomb as the princess to protect her in the afterlife. Could it be that the bodyguard is doing just that, wreaking revenge on those who desecrated the princess’s tomb and brought her to England?”’
‘It’s an interesting thought,’ mused Daniel.
‘It is not interesting at all, it is absolute tosh!’
‘The paper quotes “an eminent Egyptologist”,’ said Daniel. ‘This story of his must be based on something.’
‘Yes, and it’s the plot of a story by Arthur Conan Doyle called “Lot No. 249”, published two years ago in Harper’s, an American magazine. The story’s about a reanimated murderous Egyptian mummy commanded by a vengeful university student.’
‘At Cambridge?’ asked Daniel.
‘No. He was from …’ She hesitated, then said, ‘The other place.’
Daniel gave her a puzzled frown. ‘Hell?’ he asked. ‘The netherworld?’
She looked at him coldly. ‘Oxford,’ she said curtly. ‘The point is that whoever came up with this story obviously read it in the magazine.’
‘An American magazine?’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve already said.’
‘Well, that cuts the list of possible suspects down,’ said Daniel. ‘That suggests we’re looking for an American, or someone who’s been in America recently.’
‘Not necessarily,’ she said. ‘I came across the story while I was in Egypt on a dig. Someone had left a copy of Harper’s there. The story’s not to my taste, but there was very little else to read.’
She handed the paper to Daniel. ‘Ludicrous!’ she said.