by Jim Eldridge
‘So she doesn’t think there’s anything in it?’ said Drabble. ‘That this story’s made up?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Daniel. ‘I was wondering if you think there might be any merit in talking to the people who live near the Fitzwilliam, in case they saw anything during the night, such as people removing an object from the building.’
‘The missing mummy?’
‘It’s just a thought,’ said Daniel.
‘Yes, I had the same thought.’ Drabble nodded. ‘I shall be putting men on to it. Knocking at doors.’
‘And if there’s anything that I can do—’ began Daniel.
‘Thank you, I’m sure we can manage,’ snapped Drabble. ‘We do know what we’re doing here.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Daniel.
As Abigail left the Fitzwilliam for home, she made a promise to herself. For some reason she’d backed away from offering to show Daniel around the city, and she couldn’t understand why. He didn’t seem predatory, like so many men she’d met. Far from it. He was polite, intelligent, thoughtful, and quite possibly the kind of man she’d like to spend some time with. She would ask if he would like her to show him around Cambridge when they met on Monday. Just an invitation from one colleague to another with no ulterior motive. A chance to find out more about him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Daniel knocked again at the door of Harry Elder’s house, louder this time as there had been no reply to his first knocks.
Still no response. So, Sunday morning, and neither Harry Elder nor his wife were at home. Had the wedding in Thetford been a cover after all? Had the murderer been Harry Elder all along?
Daniel was just about to turn and walk off, when the door of the neighbouring house opened and a shirt-sleeved man appeared.
‘If you’re after Harry Elder, he’s at chapel,’ he said.
‘He’s back, then?’ asked Daniel.
The man nodded. ‘Early this morning. Him and his missus. They were hardly back before they were off in their Sunday best. Every Sunday morning without fail, him and the family. Chapel. Very devout.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel.
As he walked back towards the city centre he felt relieved. He believed himself to be a good judge of character most of the time, although his judgement had let him down a few times in the past. Usually, he reflected wryly, with women.
As he neared the city centre, he heard the sound of raised voices, both men’s and women’s. Of course, the public meeting Miss Fenton’s sister had sent the handbill about to Dr Keen.
He wondered if Abigail would be in attendance. Yesterday, after the abortive call at the offices of the Gazette, he’d been tempted to ask her again if she would care to show him the sights of the city, but he’d stopped at the memory of the last time he’d asked.
He wondered what the key was to getting her to trust him enough to perhaps socialise with him. There was no doubt in his heart and mind that he was attracted to her, and he felt frustrated by the fact that he couldn’t allow himself to be at ease with her. But there was a definite shield around her.
It’s often the way, he thought ruefully. The women he took a shine to didn’t seem interested in him. On the other hand, there were women who seemed keen to throw themselves at him, but for whom he – in his turn – chose to keep at arm’s length.
Sometimes he thought the issue lay with him being a policeman; some women enjoyed the frisson of excitement at being in the company of a man who faced death and danger, while others – like Abigail Fenton – seemed suspicious of policemen as agents of a repressive establishment. And although he was no longer in the force, to most people who met him – men or women – he would always be Abberline’s right-hand man, a policeman.
He entered the open square where the public meeting was being held. A middle-aged woman was standing on a soapbox, attempting to make herself heard by means of a megaphone, but her voice was virtually inaudible as she was shouted down by a gang of men, yelling things such as ‘Get back home and look after your husband!’ and ‘Votes for all men first!’
About a dozen women stood beside the woman on the soapbox, holding placards aloft with slogans, mostly saying ‘Votes for Women’, one with the more erudite ‘Women’s Right to Suffrage’, and another, Daniel was pleased to note, that read ‘Votes for All’.
The woman on the soapbox was struggling very hard to make herself heard, but without success, and the woman holding the placard with ‘Votes for All’ stepped forward towards the gang of shouting men and obviously remonstrated with them about their jeering and was urging them to quieten down. In response, one of the men snatched at her placard and tried to take it from her, but the woman held gamely on. The man, his face a mask of anger, suddenly threw the woman violently to the cobbled ground.
A feeling of rage filling him, Daniel rushed forward and grabbed hold of the man and threw him to the ground face first, falling down on him and twisting his arm behind his back to restrain him.
This seemed to be the signal for the other men to launch their attacks on the women with the placards, and Daniel was aware of a melee breaking out around him, the women giving as good as they got, slamming their placards onto the heads of the attacking men.
The sound of police whistles cut through the shouting, and the next moment the square was filled with uniformed officers. The immediate result was that the men ran off as fast as they could, leaving the women clinging onto their battered placards.
Daniel released the man he’d been holding, who pushed himself to his feet and bolted, then turned his attention to the woman the man had knocked to the ground. She was in her late twenties, blonde, and looking very flustered. Her bonnet had been knocked askew.
Daniel helped her to her feet.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked. ‘No injuries?’
‘No, thank you,’ said the woman. She smiled. ‘Thanks to you. I dread to think what might have happened if you hadn’t intervened.’
‘Bella!’
Daniel turned at the familiar voice, and saw Abigail hurrying towards them.
‘Really, Bella, I warned you this might happen!’ she snapped angrily.
‘I can assure you I’m unharmed,’ responded Bella.
‘Thanks to the intervention of a man,’ snapped Abigail pointedly. She turned to Daniel and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Wilson, for rescuing my sister.’
Bella looked at Abigail, and then at Daniel, in surprise, before saying, ‘You two know one another?’
‘Mr Wilson is the private enquiry agent who is investigating the deaths at the Fitzwilliam,’ said Abigail curtly. ‘With my assistance.’
‘I am sure that your sister was very capable of managing the situation,’ said Daniel, doing his best to avert the argument between the two sisters that he saw looming.
‘Thank you, Mr Wilson.’ Bella smiled. ‘And I am sure I would have been up to the situation, but I do express my very grateful thanks to you for your intervention.’
She held out her hand to Daniel. He took it and shook it gently, murmuring, ‘My pleasure.’
‘How is the investigation going?’ asked Bella.
‘It is proceeding,’ said Daniel.
‘As you know well enough, as I have told you so,’ rebuked Abigail.
‘That is not strictly true, Abi,’ said Bella. ‘After the initial reports of the deaths, you have been quite reticent on the subject.’
‘Because there has been nothing to report,’ snapped back Abigail.
‘Is that correct, Mr Wilson?’ asked Bella.
Daniel hesitated, aware that whatever he said would be wrong. ‘There has been nothing of substance to report, Miss Fenton—’
‘Bella, please,’ Bella interrupted. ‘After all, you saved me from the raging mob, so I’m sure that merits first-name terms.’
Daniel nodded. ‘There has as yet been nothing of substance to report, but we are following lines of enquiry which I hope will lead us in the right direction.’
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��How exciting!’ Bella smiled. ‘Perhaps you could come to tea with us and share these lines of enquiry. What do you say, Abi?’ Before Abigail could speak, Bella continued with, ‘Or, as you are a stranger in Cambridge, perhaps we could show you around the city.’
Abigail stared at her sister, unable to stop her mouth falling open. Bella had stolen her words! A sense of rage filled her as Bella prattled on. ‘Parts of it can be like a maze if you don’t know your way around, and it’s very easy to get lost.’
Daniel offered an apologetic smile and said, ‘I would love to, Miss Bella, but at this moment I’m on my way to follow a lead.’
‘Which lead?’ snapped Abigail, still feeling the fury at Bella having stolen her own plans to show Daniel the city from under her.
‘I’m going to talk to Harry Elder,’ said Daniel. ‘You remember, I mentioned that to you.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Abigail forced a smile she did not feel to try and reassure Daniel her anger was not with him.
‘I will, of course, report back to you on my discussion with him when I see you tomorrow at the Fitzwilliam and we go in search of Mr Blades. I suggest late morning, if that’s acceptable to you. That will give me time to make enquiries at the cartage company and for you to continue your work cataloguing. Which might be politic, in case Sir William has questions of you about the collection that the board may raise.’
‘Yes, I had already reached that conclusion on my own,’ said Abigail, her tone curt.
Damn, thought Daniel. I seem to have a talent for offending her.
‘Tomorrow, late morning,’ he said.
After Daniel had made his polite farewell, doffing his hat and departing, Abigail turned to Bella, full of indignation.
‘My God, Bella, could you have been any more forward? I’m surprised you didn’t throw yourself into his arms.’
‘My dear Abi, I was just being polite. The man had come to my rescue.’
‘From the raging mob?’ said Abigail sarcastically. ‘It was one man, one ruffian.’
‘Who threw me to the ground,’ snapped Bella. ‘What next? A boot to the head? We all know of suffragists who have been physically abused for expressing their opinions.’
‘Yes, well, I agree his intervention was timely …’ admitted Abigail.
‘More than timely,’ corrected Bella. She gave a warm smile. ‘I believe he is a hero.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
This time, the door of the terraced house in Petworth Street was opened at the first knock, and Harry Elder, still wearing his Sunday best, looked out warily at Daniel.
‘I apologise for disturbing you on the Lord’s Day, Mr Elder …’
Elder nodded, and Daniel spotted a look of quiet appreciation in the man’s eyes. Good, I’ve said the right thing.
‘… but I’m afraid Mr Ransome has been killed.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Elder. ‘It was in yesterday’s paper in Thetford.’
‘As I say, I’m sorry to disturb you today, but the sooner I can gather information the more likely we are to find out why these things have happened.’
‘I understand,’ said Elder. ‘Do come in. We’ll go into the parlour.’
Daniel followed him into the house, and Elder opened a door and ushered him in.
‘I’ll just tell my wife we have a visitor,’ he said.
He showed Daniel into the parlour while he disappeared towards the back of the house.
The room reminded Daniel of his own parents’ parlour, a room only ever used for certain occasions, such as Christmas or after funerals. The furniture was even the same as in his parents’ parlour: a dark oak sideboard, a small dark oak table and four sturdy upright chairs. The only difference here was the lack of brightly coloured china ornaments, possibly a side effect of Harry Elder’s renunciation of ostentatious adornments that seemed to go with religions at the Nonconformist end of the scale.
Elder returned and gestured for Daniel to take a seat.
‘I appreciate the consideration you expressed for the Lord’s Day, Mr Wilson. Are you a man of faith?’
‘Most of us have faith, Mr Elder.’
‘Some have the wrong faith, and some have none,’ said Elder gruffly. ‘A man’s faith tells a lot about that person. Whether, for example, he’s a blind slave to idolatry, or Godless. I am always interested to know where a man stands before the Lord.’
Quickly, Daniel weighed up the situation. Chapel, Elder’s neighbour had said. Which meant most likely Methodist or Baptist. Nonconformist, certainly. And his sharp words about idolatry and Godlessness meant he would have little time for Catholics, as shown in his reluctance to attend the wedding in Thetford; nor High Church of England, and none at all for atheists or agnostic doubters like Daniel.
‘I was raised in a Quaker house,’ said Daniel. It was a true answer, even if Daniel had moved away from any organised form of religion once he grew to adulthood.
Again, the nod of appreciation from Elder.
‘My reason for calling is because I’d like to ask you some questions about Joseph Ransome.’
At the thought of being questioned about Ransome, rather than just general enquiries, Daniel saw the man’s body stiffen and a look of wariness enter his face.
‘On the night he died, did you notice anything unusual about him when he reported to change shifts?’
‘Unusual?’
‘His manner.’
Elder shook his head. ‘No. He appeared the same as always.’
‘Was he married, do you know?’
‘A widower,’ said Elder.
‘Did he have any children? I’m asking because I intend to see the family, and I don’t want to say anything that might upset them.’
Elder gave a sort of growl, then said, ‘He had a sister. She lives in Sandy Lane. Though I don’t think she had much to do with him.’
‘How about you, Mr Elder?’ asked Daniel, doing his best to make the question sound casual. There was something very wary in Elder’s manner and he didn’t want him to clam up.
‘How about me, what?’ grunted Elder.
‘Did you have much to do with Mr Ransome?’
Elder shook his head. ‘Apart from meeting when we changed over shifts, no. We didn’t socialise.’
‘And how did you get on with him?’
‘Like I said, we didn’t see each other except when we changed shift.’
‘Of course. But what was your impression of him? As a person?’
Again, Elder noticeably stiffened. ‘I didn’t have any impression of him,’ he said tersely.
Daniel nodded in understanding, then he said, ‘Mr Elder, your colleague has been murdered—’
‘I’m aware of that,’ said Elder, curtly.
‘—and I’ve been tasked with finding out who did it, and why. Which means looking into his character for a possible motive for why someone would want to kill him. You strike me as a decent and honest man.’
‘I am, sir!’ said Elder.
‘And I get the impression that there was something about Mr Ransome of which you didn’t approve.’
Daniel studied the man, saw the turmoil and torment in his eyes.
‘There may be something there, something in his character …’
‘He was ungodly and immoral!’ burst out Elder.
‘Yes, I had a suspicion of that,’ said Daniel quietly.
‘You did, sir?’ said Elder, surprised.
Daniel nodded. The truth was, he’d had no such suspicion at all, but Elder’s manner had alerted him to the fact that there was something wrong in the relationship between the two men, and it was just a case of finding out what that was.
‘In what way was he immoral?’ he asked.
Elder hesitated, his face going through various contortions, before he finally burst out, ‘The women!’
‘The women?’
‘He brought women in, sir, at night. For immoral purposes.’
‘I see. Did he tell you this? Boast about it?’
‘Only after I realised what was going on.’
‘And how did that realisation come to pass?’
‘It was one night when I was on first shift. There was a knock at the door at the back. It was eleven o’clock at night and I thought it might be Ransome calling for some reason. But it was a woman.’ His lip curled in anger at the memory. ‘A loose woman, smelling of drink. She asked where Joe was. I told her it wasn’t Joe’s shift, and she laughed and said she always knew she’d get it wrong one day.
‘I demanded to know what she meant, and she told me that Ransome had invited her to the museum for a bit of sport, as she put it. I told her there was no sport to be had, and for her to be on her way.’
‘Did you challenge Ransome about it?’
‘I did indeed! He just laughed, and then boasted about the women he had coming round. Said they liked the thrill of it, being in that place with all those dead bodies. It made ’em excited.’
He shook his head, angry.
‘I was disgusted. I warned him I’d report him, but he laughed again, said I wouldn’t because I was too decent to squeal on someone. That’s what he said, and there was a sneer in his voice as he said the word “decent”.
‘If you ask me, Mr Wilson, Joseph Ransome received his just deserts.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Abigail added to her increasing list of artefacts, but her attention kept being drawn back to the conversation she and Bella had had the evening before, inspired by the events at the suffrage meeting.
‘You were so rude to him, Abigail.’
It had been Daniel Wilson that Bella had been talking about.
‘What do you mean, “rude”?’ demanded Abigail.
‘The curt way you spoke to him when he talked to you about meeting tomorrow at the Fitzwilliam. You almost bit his head off. Honestly, Abi, when you treat people like that, I wonder that they will work with you. I do declare, if I were Mr Wilson I would be reluctant to be in your company, treating him with such contempt as you do.’
‘I do not treat him with contempt!’ exploded Abigail. ‘It is my opinion that Mr Wilson is a fine gentleman: intelligent, courteous, thoughtful—’