by Jim Eldridge
‘And brave,’ cut in Bella. ‘I do hope he takes us up on our proposal to show him Cambridge.’
‘Takes you up on your proposal,’ Abigail corrected her sternly.
‘Very well,’ said Bella. ‘Then if you do not wish to join us, it will be my pleasure to show Mr Wilson the city. At least he will see there is one in this family that considers him worthy of decent treatment.’
I do not treat him with contempt, Abigail told herself fiercely. That is just Bella’s slanted view. I was angry with her, not him.
But perhaps I allowed my anger to pass into my attitude towards him, she thought unhappily. But that was because Bella had stolen a march on her with her invitation. And without even consulting her!
Now I cannot say anything to him because it could be misconstrued.
She heard the sound of footsteps from the doorway, and turned expecting to find Sir William; but instead a tall young man, neatly dressed, sunburnt and with longish curling brown hair, was looking at her.
‘Miss Abigail Fenton?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Edward Hardwicke. Just returned from Egypt.’
Abigail felt a sense of awe as she gazed at him; this was the man who’d sent all these wonderful antiquities that she was handling.
‘Mr Hardwicke!’
‘Sir William said I might find you here …’
She moved towards him, her hand outstretched for him to take. ‘This is such a pleasure, Mr Hardwicke …’
‘Edward, please.’
‘Edward. And please, do call me Abigail.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I have to say, cataloguing the items you’ve sent from Egypt has been one of this job’s particular delights. Such wonderful finds!’
‘With more to come.’ Edward smiled. ‘I only arrived back in England yesterday, ahead of the next consignment.’ His face looked saddened as he said, ‘I’ve just heard about the recent tragedies here. The unknown man found in the sarcophagus, and the nightwatchman. Sir William said that it was you who found both of them.’
‘Yes,’ said Abigail.
‘That must have been terribly traumatic for you.’
‘Everyone keeps telling me that, but I insist that I am not unfamiliar with sudden and violent death. I have spent time in countries where human life is considered cheap, and been exposed to those consequences.’
‘I assume you’re talking of Egypt,’ said Hardwicke.
‘Amongst others. I was also in Palestine and Cyrenaica.’
‘Yes, I was there, too.’ Hardwicke smiled. ‘A very different way of life to that in our own dear Britain. I must tell you, Sir William was full of praise for you, your scholarship and intelligence, and now I’ve met you, I can see why. Forgive my presumption, Miss Fenton …’
‘Abigail.’
‘Abigail … but Sir William has just asked if I would take part in a debate that’s happening here on Friday on the pyramid inch theory.’
Abigail nodded. ‘Sir Geoffrey Morgan and Professor Horst Waldheim.’
‘Yes. Well, it seems that Sir Geoffrey has unfortunately had to pull out – a recurrence of an old illness – so Sir William has asked me if I’d take part in his place. It’s short notice, but I said I’d be delighted to. I owe the Fitzwilliam a lot.’
‘I’m sure not as much as the Fitzwilliam owes you,’ said Abigail.
Hardwicke smiled, pleased at the compliment, then said, ‘Anyway, I wondered if you would consider coming to the debate as my guest?’
‘Me?’ Abigail was stunned both by the suddenness of his invitation, and the fact that he was making it at all. To her!
‘Well, I feel I owe it to you for the invaluable work you’ve been doing cataloguing my finds.’
Abigail studied him, his face, his stance, looking for some sign of mockery or condescension that she had encountered in some other field archaeologists, but found none. He just appeared to be a sincere, intelligent, courteous – and handsome, there was no doubt about that – young man, with a passion for the same subject as her: the ancient world.
‘Mr Hardwicke …’
‘Edward.’
‘Edward, I would be honoured.’
He smiled. ‘Excellent. I would be most interested to get your view on the debate after it’s finished. I know Professor Waldheim’s work, and his views on Piazzi Smyth and the pyramid inch certainly differ from mine, so I would be grateful if you could let me know afterwards if I acquitted myself well enough against him.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Peebles and Co., Cartage, were located outside the city centre in a yard not far from the railway station, with a strong smell of horse manure emanating from the stables somewhere at the back of the small two-storey building that housed the offices. One solitary wagon was parked in the yard, a flat-bed with its large wheels painted red and yellow, with a large metal sign on the side of the wagon bearing the logo PEEBLES AND CO., THE CARTER YOU CAN TRUST. Daniel assumed the other wagons were out making their deliveries.
Daniel followed the directions from a sign at the bottom of a metal staircase bearing the legend OFFICE, and an arrow pointing upwards.
A large man with cropped hair but a voluminous moustache, sitting barely contained in a swivel armchair, looked up as Daniel entered the office.
‘Mr Peebles?’ enquired Daniel.
The man gave an unhappy sigh.
‘Alas, Mr Peebles is no longer with us. He departed from this earth some four years ago, when I took over the business.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Josiah Trussell.’ As Daniel shook his hand, Trussell added, ‘I kept the name because Peebles has such a good reputation in the cartage business, it would have been foolish to change it.’ He gestured at the empty chair across from his desk, and he and Daniel sat down.
‘So, do I assume you want something removed, Mr … ?’
‘Wilson,’ said Daniel. He took a card from his wallet and handed it to Trussell.
‘A private enquiry agent,’ muttered Trussell, and he regarded Daniel with wariness.
‘I’ve been asked by Sir William Mackenzie at the Fitzwilliam to look into recent tragic events there.’
At the mention of Sir William’s name, Trussell relaxed slightly, as Daniel had hoped he would.
‘I understand that your company recently transported some artefacts to the museum?’
Trussell chuckled. ‘Ah-ha! The mummy!’ he chortled. ‘I saw it in the paper.’ He leant forward, smiling as he added, ‘Take my word for it, squire, when that thing was delivered to the Fitzwilliam it gave no indication of being alive.’
‘Yes, that’s what they say at the Fitzwilliam.’ Daniel nodded.
‘No knocking from the inside of the box.’ And he laughed again. ‘Someone’s telling a real corker of a story to the papers. Their idea of a joke, I suppose.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Daniel. ‘But I’d be grateful if you could clarify a couple of things.’
‘You’re surely not giving this story credence!’ burst out Trussell, looking at Daniel with an air of bewilderment.
‘No, absolutely not,’ Daniel assured him. ‘It’s just to clear up one or two questions. For example, from which port was the last consignment collected?’
‘Tilbury,’ said Trussell.
‘You’re sure?’ asked Daniel.
‘Absolutely. The last three consignments for the Fitzwilliam have all come through Tilbury,’ said Trussell.
‘And do you know who your carter collected it from?’
Trussell frowned. ‘The agents, I guess,’ he said.
‘Do you happen to have a name?’ asked Daniel.
Trussell got up, went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a paper file. He opened it and took out some papers, which he returned to the desk with and passed them across to Daniel.
‘Here you are, squire,’ he said.
Daniel looked at the piece of paper headed ‘Collection Note’. It had been crumpled and then smoothed out, but the dates on it were cl
ear enough. It showed the delivery being collected from the ship on the Sunday, then delivered to the Fitzwilliam on the Monday, which tied in with the delivery note that Abigail had shown to him. There were two signatures on the document, one a barely legible scrawl, the other an X.
‘The X is Jim Hoy’s,’ explained Trussell. ‘He can write, but can’t be bothered.’
‘The other signature?’ asked Daniel.
Trussell shook his head. ‘No idea.’
‘Would it be possible to talk to the carter who made the delivery?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m interested in finding out about the man they collected the artefacts from. Mr Hoy may not be able to tell me his name, but a description of him would be enormously helpful.’
Trussell thought it over. ‘Well, seeing as it’s for the Fitzwilliam, and they’re important clients …’
‘I will make sure to tell Sir William how very helpful you’ve been,’ Daniel assured him.
Trussell nodded. ‘At the moment Jim and Bob are away on a long-distance job.’
‘Bob?’
‘Bob Hoy. Jim’s son. He’s like his apprentice. They’re taking a load to Birmingham.’
‘When do you expect them back?’
‘Three days. Maybe four,’ said Trussell.
‘Would you ask them to get in touch with me when they return?’ asked Daniel. ‘I’ll make it worth their while.’ He pointed at the card he’d given Trussell. ‘On the back is the address of where I’m staying while I’m in Cambridge, or they can contact me at the Fitzwilliam.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was approaching noon when Daniel arrived at the Fitzwilliam to collect Abigail for their visit to the offices of the Gazette.
‘How is your sister today?’ he asked. ‘Has she recovered from her encounter with that ruffian yesterday?’
‘It was a push, that was all,’ said Abigail. ‘Bella has a habit of dramatising things that happen to her. I blame it on the fact she reads far too many romantic novels.’
‘Still, she was assaulted,’ said Daniel. ‘That sort of thing is very unpleasant.’
‘True,’ agreed Abigail. ‘But I must warn you, Mr Wilson, that my sister is prone to exaggeration in many areas. She can be fanciful.’
‘Is this a warning to me?’ asked Daniel, amused.
‘Certainly not!’ said Abigail. Then, aware of what Bella had said about her curt manner towards Daniel, she allowed herself a smile. ‘I just thought it worth mentioning so that you might prefer to take things she says with a pinch of salt.’
‘Such as her offer to show me the city?’
‘No, I’m sure she means well in that respect. It’s just that sometimes she expresses passions which seem genuine, but soon evaporate.’
Intriguing, thought Daniel. Is she warning me off getting involved with her sister? Deciding to change the subject, he said, ‘I spoke to Harry Elder at length yesterday, and gained some valuable insights into the character of Joseph Ransome.’
With some slight toning down of what Elder had told him, he appraised Abigail of Ransome’s exploits during his night shifts at the Fitzwilliam. Abigail, predictably, exploded with outrage at the revelation.
‘That is appalling! A desecration! To use those priceless ancient artefacts as an … aphrodisiac!’
‘The question is, is it connected with his murder? Could it be the result of jealousy?’
‘A jealous husband or lover of one of the women?’ asked Abigail.
‘Or perhaps one of the women themselves,’ said Daniel. ‘We know that Ransome had women, plural. Could one of them have felt that he’d betrayed her? Perhaps he’d persuaded her that she was the only one, and when she discovered the truth …’
‘Which could explain the chloroform,’ said Abigail thoughtfully. ‘She knew she wouldn’t be able to strangle him unless he was already unconscious.’ She looked quizzically at Daniel. ‘Do you think that’s a likely scenario?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s a possibility, but personally, I doubt it. The business of the bandage from the mummy doesn’t fit.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Abigail. ‘It sounds as if he was exciting them by showing them the mummies, so they’d have access to a bandage.’
‘But why use it to direct attention towards the idea that a reanimated mummy did the killing? And if, as you say, that was inspired by the Arthur Conan Doyle story, I think it unlikely that one of Ransome’s loose women would have read it, especially as it was published in an American magazine. And remember the phrase in the Gazette that this theory about the deaths being the result of a reanimated mummy came from – and I quote – “an eminent Egyptologist”. Which is why we are on our way to see Mr Blades.
‘But I also think that this business of Ransome letting women in at night answers the question of how the mystery man, and his murderer, gained access to the museum.’
‘You think that Ransome let them in?’
‘It certainly seems easier than visioning them clambering up and down drainpipes and over the roof.’
‘But why would he do that?’
‘Money. Harry Elder seems of the opinion that Ransome had very low moral standards. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to find he’d let the victim and his murderer in for an exchange of cash, not anticipating it would result in murder, of course. They may even have come in together. In the end, it got Ransome killed.’
‘Because he knew the identity of the murderer?’
‘Exactly. My guess is he tried to blackmail the murderer, possibly arranged to meet him or her at the Fitzwilliam during the night to be paid off, and the murderer killed him.’
‘So where does this mysterious Egyptologist fit into it?’
‘He or she could be our murderer,’ said Daniel.
A different man was on duty at the reception desk at the Gazette, this one younger and apparently more eager to please. When Daniel and Abigail presented their cards to the young man, instead of receiving obstacles to their visit as Daniel had expected, the young man invited them to follow him from the reception area and into the main room where the next edition of the newspaper was being prepared.
They followed the young man through a crush of tightly packed desks that overflowed with paper in apparently ramshackle style. Some pieces of paper had been stuck on dangerous-looking metal spikes on the desks. Others just spilt this way and that, while clerks and copyists sat and scrawled on them, their ink-filled pens scuttling across the papers, crossing out words and squeezing others in, at enormous speed. The smell of ink and paper filled the air, making a heady mix. And everyone seemed so intent, so busy.
The young man stopped by a desk where a man in his late twenties, with long locks of thin blonde hair and fingers stained black with ink, was frowning at a piece of prose, his pen poised above it.
‘Mr Blades,’ said the young man. ‘Visitors for you.’ And he laid the cards on the desk before heading back to his station at the reception desk.
Hector Blades looked up enquiringly at Daniel and Abigail.
‘Visitors, eh. What can I do for you, Mr … ?’ He picked up Daniel’s card. ‘Daniel Wilson, private enquiry agent,’ he read, frowning. Then his expression brightened as he remembered. ‘You were Abberline’s assistant! The Ripper!’
Daniel nodded. ‘Correct.’
‘And the Cleveland Street scandal!’ Blades chuckled. ‘What I would have given to have had the inside story on that one! Paid off, eh!’ And he laughed again.
Abigail looked at Daniel, puzzled, and noticed that the expression on his face had become grim.
‘If you are alleging what I think you are,’ snapped Daniel, ‘I would correct you.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Blades smirked. ‘Prince Albert Victor, second in line to the throne, and no charges brought?’
‘Chief Inspector Abberline and I presented our report,’ said Daniel curtly. ‘The decision not to press charges against certain individuals was nothing to do with us
. We had no influence on the prosecution.’
‘Not so good for the telegraph boys, was it,’ said Blades. Then he shrugged. ‘Though they got light sentences, as I recall.’
‘Fascinating though this remembrance is,’ cut in Abigail impatiently, ‘we are here on a more current and local issue.’
Blades picked up her card.
‘Abigail Fenton, archaeologist, care of the Fitzwilliam.’ He smiled. ‘Let me guess. You’re here about the mummy.’
‘In a way,’ she said. ‘We’re here to ask the name of the eminent Egyptologist who gave you the theory.’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘Sorry. That’s confidential.’
‘Why?’ demanded Abigail.
‘We never reveal our sources,’ said Blades.
‘But this is a murder investigation,’ said Daniel.
‘Even if you were a proper copper – and, with respect, Mr Wilson, you ain’t any more – I still wouldn’t tell you. Never revealing our sources is one of the first rules of investigative journalism. If we did, no one would ever tell us anything.’
‘And if you were threatened with prison for refusing to reveal the name?’ asked Abigail.
Blades grinned.
‘I would go to prison, and gladly. Because it would enhance my reputation as The Man Who Keeps a Secret.’ He smiled at them. ‘I’m thinking of adopting that as my byline.’ He looked around to make sure no one was near enough to overhear him, then leant forward and whispered, ‘However, because I do have a sense of public duty, there may be room for manoeuvre in this particular case.’
‘What sort of room for manoeuvre?’ asked Daniel.
‘You’re conducting your own investigation into the murders?’ asked Blades.
‘On behalf of the Fitzwilliam,’ Daniel clarified.
Blades nodded. ‘Now, at the moment, I’m not getting a lot of information from Inspector Drabble, who’s in charge of this case. He seems to disapprove of the press. Maybe that’s because we’ve had cause to point out a few of his errors in the past.’ And he gave his throaty chuckle again. ‘Drabble arrested the editor, Mr Purslane, a year ago on a morality charge, before he realised who he was. No charges were actually pressed, but it got Mr Purslane in deep trouble with his missus, and Mr Purslane has got a long memory and bears grudges.’