Murder at the Fitzwilliam

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘I saw you at the Fitzwilliam yesterday,’ said Hughes suddenly, in between mouthfuls of egg and bacon.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Might I enquire what your area of scholarship is?’

  Daniel gave a rueful smile. ‘No scholarship, I’m afraid. I’m investigating the deaths there.’

  ‘Deaths?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the Fitzwilliam.’

  Hughes frowned. ‘Have there been deaths there?’

  Daniel looked at him, surprised. ‘Yes. Two. It’s been in the newspapers.’

  ‘I don’t keep up with contemporary events,’ said Hughes dismissively. ‘My area of scholarship is the Civil War and the Interregnum. I’m currently writing a book on the subject, and I’m here because Cambridge was at the absolute heart of the struggle. Much of my research so far has been at Sidney Sussex College here. Cromwell was a student there, you know. In fact, his skull is buried beneath the college’s ante-chapel.’

  Daniel nodded politely as Hughes enlarged on his favoured topic of the Civil War, wondering how soon he could appropriately make an excuse to leave without appearing rude. It had never failed to astonish him how some people became so completely immersed in their own area of interest that they were able to completely ignore what was happening around them, even if that involved murder, public strife, or a horrific train crash.

  Abigail was adding to her inventory of artefacts at the Fitzwilliam, and wondering whether Edward Hardwicke might call in as he had the day before, when the sound of footsteps caught her attention. To her disappointment, it wasn’t Edward Hardwicke but Inspector Drabble, and he was brandishing a copy of the Cambridge Gazette.

  ‘Where’s Wilson?’ he demanded.

  ‘Mr Wilson is not here,’ said Abigail. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Drabble scowled, hesitated, then thrust the newspaper at her.

  ‘Your name’s in here as well,’ he said. ‘So I guess you’re also responsible for this … this outrage!’

  ‘And what outrage would that be, Inspector?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Interfering with a police investigation is a criminal offence!’ barked Drabble.

  ‘Would you explain to me how we have interfered with an investigation?’

  Drabble tapped the photograph of the dead man. ‘This asks people to contact you or Mr Wilson if they have any information about this man.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Not the police!’

  Abigail looked at him levelly. ‘If the police felt that line of enquiry was important, I’m sure they would have done something similar. As it was, you dismissed the death of this man as an accident.’

  ‘That was before the second body was found!’

  ‘Then you now agree that the first death was murder?’

  Drabble swallowed.

  ‘That decision is yet to be taken,’ he said.

  ‘But you obviously had no interest in trying to find out the identity of the dead man,’ said Abigail. ‘Otherwise you would have done the same.’

  ‘We have been conducting our own investigation into this man,’ said Drabble defensively.

  ‘And what have you discovered?’ asked Abigail.

  Drabble fell silent.

  ‘As I thought,’ said Abigail. ‘Nothing. Well, rest assured, Inspector, if Mr Wilson and I find out who this man is, we will inform you. Hardly interfering with the investigation, I would have thought.’

  After breakfast, Daniel made his way back to Heffers bookshop in the hope that the stranger who’d worn the noticeable suit of large green check material and had enquired about ‘Lot No. 249’ might have made a return call, and the helpful assistant from Daniel’s previous visit might have been able to find out some details about him. But it was not the case; there had been no further sightings of the man in the green suit.

  Daniel made his way to the Fitzwilliam, and as he did so he felt a sense of pleasure at the thought of seeing Abigail Fenton again. He knew it was ridiculous to feel this way when she’d given no indication that her attitude towards him was anything other than involvement in the case, but he felt that there could be something there. A softening of that austere exterior now and then. Or was it his imagination?

  If she is particularly pleased to see me, she hides it well, thought Daniel as Abigail turned at the sound of his gentle cough, an initial look of expectation on her face replaced instantly by what he was sure was a look of disappointment.

  Who had she been expecting? Dr Keen, perhaps?

  ‘Good morning, Miss Fenton,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to report on my visit to the Lamb and Flag, as promised.’

  ‘Were you able to get any light on Mr Ransome’s activities?’

  ‘I hope to do so later. I’ve arranged to talk to the woman who was here the night that Ransome was killed.’

  ‘And she has agreed to talk to you?’ Abigail frowned.

  ‘I’ve been promised that she will,’ said Daniel. ‘However, I haven’t spoken to her yet, nor even been told who she is. But the landlady at the Lamb and Flag has promised she will be there for me this afternoon.’

  ‘The Lamb and Flag has a bad reputation,’ said Abigail. ‘I recall overhearing Mr Elder talking about it to someone in disparaging terms. Can you be sure this isn’t a trap you are walking into?’

  ‘If it was, I feel sure they would have suggested an evening visit, when it’s dark. I’m fairly sure I shall be safe.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Hey!’ The shout made them turn. It was Hector Blades, obviously angry, and holding a copy of the newspaper. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded.

  ‘It looks suspiciously like a newspaper,’ said Daniel.

  ‘You know what I mean!’ snapped Blades. He opened the paper at the photograph of the dead man and showed it to them.

  ‘It’s an advertisement we placed,’ said Daniel.

  ‘But why didn’t you come to me with it?’ demanded Blades. ‘It’s my story. You know that. I could have given you a lot more space in the paper for it.’

  ‘I wanted the wording to be unvarnished and honest,’ said Daniel. ‘Unlike your “Wilson of the Yard” story.’

  Blades tapped the photograph.

  ‘Who is he?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s what we’re hoping to find out,’ said Abigail.

  ‘He’s the man you found in the sarcophagus, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is,’ she said.

  Blades looked annoyed.

  ‘We should be working together on this,’ he protested.

  ‘I’d be more convinced of that if you told us the name of the person who gave you the story about the mummy,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m sworn to secrecy,’ said Blades.

  ‘But prepared to divulge it in exchange for information.’

  ‘For interesting information,’ clarified Blades.

  ‘Like the identity of this man, for example?’ asked Abigail.

  Blades hesitated.

  ‘That depends who he is,’ he grunted. ‘He could be just a tramp who sneaked into the Fitzwilliam to get warm and got trapped in that sarcophagus thing. Inspector Drabble says it was an accident.’

  ‘And you believe the inspector?’ asked Daniel with a wry smile. ‘Especially in view of what you said about him the last time we met.’

  Blades glared at Daniel.

  ‘I reserve judgement,’ he said primly. ‘Let’s wait and see what this advertisement of yours turns up.’

  With that, he stormed off.

  ‘Well, that visit was only to be expected, I suppose,’ said Daniel.

  ‘It was the second today,’ said Abigail. ‘Inspector Drabble was here earlier, venting much the same indignation.’

  ‘Well, at least our advertisement has provoked two callers into coming,’ said Daniel. ‘Let’s hope that more surface, and with more concrete information. Namely, who
the dead man is.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  This time, when Daniel entered the Lamb and Flag, Lillian Crane was sitting at a table in the main body of the pub with a young woman. Daniel was interested to note that even at this hour, early afternoon on a weekday, the pub was still busy. So, it’s a place of business as well as for drinking, he decided. He wondered how much business was going on right now, then dismissed the thought; that wasn’t why he was here.

  He approached the table and nodded politely at Lillian Crane, then doffed his hat deferentially to the young lady.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

  ‘This is him,’ said Lillian. She got up and said to Daniel, ‘Her name’s Dolly. And buy her a drink, this ain’t a charity shop.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure,’ said Daniel. ‘And perhaps you and Herbert would have one, as well.’

  ‘Now you mention it, we will,’ said Lillian. ‘Ports all round.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I’ll send Herbert over with ’em.’

  As Lillian walked heavily away to the bar, Daniel looked at the young woman. Not much more than a girl, on closer inspection. Late teens, he guessed, and nervous from the way she twisted her handkerchief between her hands and forced a nervous smile at him.

  ‘Thank you for talking to me, Dolly,’ said Daniel gently, ‘and rest assured, you are not in trouble. I can assure you that nothing bad will happen as a result of you talking to me. I’m only interested in finding out as much as I can about Joe. It must have been a big shock for you when you learnt what had happened to him.’

  ‘It was.’ She nodded, and Daniel saw her eyes fill with tears which she wiped away. ‘He was a bit of a rogue, was Joe, but there was no call for anyone to kill him. He liked his fun, but he never hurt no one.’

  ‘Which is why it’s important we know as much as we can about what happened that night in order that we can catch the person who killed him.’

  ‘Will I have to talk to the police?’

  Daniel hesitated. The truth was, if her story led to the killer then it was quite likely she’d find herself embroiled with Inspector Drabble. But he could tell from her tone as she asked the question that any involvement with the police was the last thing she wanted.

  ‘I promise I won’t mention your name,’ he said. ‘Now, would you mind telling me what happened that night, from the time that you arrived at the Fitzwilliam. What time was that, do you recall?’

  ‘It was half past two in the morning,’ said Dolly. ‘I know that because there was a big clock on the wall outside the room where the bodies are kept.’

  ‘The bodies?’

  ‘The mummy things. The ones wrapped in bandages.’

  ‘And is that where you and Joe … stayed?’

  She nodded. ‘I’d brought a bottle with me so we could have a drink – that was Joe’s suggestion – then, after he’d showed me the bodies, we … well, we had a bit of sport.’

  Daniel nodded.

  ‘Then afterwards, we had a bit more drink, just being sociable.’

  ‘And … that was it?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Well, yeah,’ said Dolly. ‘I mean, we talked, of course.’ She smiled as she remembered. ‘Joe was full of this big thing he was doing.’

  ‘What big thing?’

  She winked. ‘He had some dodge going.’

  ‘What sort of dodge?’ asked Daniel.

  She hesitated, as if unsure whether to reveal Joe’s obviously criminal scheme.

  ‘Whatever you say can’t come back on Joe now,’ prompted Daniel gently. ‘And it might even help nail his killer.’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah. Maybe it could. The thing was, he’d met this professor bloke and was selling him something worth a bit of money. Something to do with Oliver Cromwell.’

  Immediately, Daniel was alert. ‘Did he say a name for this professor?’

  ‘No. Just that he was mad about Cromwell. Joe reckoned he’d pay good money to get his hands on something that belonged to Cromwell.’

  ‘What was Joe going to sell him?’

  ‘Joe didn’t say.’ She grinned. ‘I got the impression he didn’t actually have anything really; it was pretend. He’d told this professor that there was something that’d belonged to Cromwell in storage at the Fitzwilliam that he reckoned the museum had as good as forgotten about, and he’d agreed a price for it with this professor.’

  Well, this was a new development, and no mistake. She could only be referring to Professor Hughes. So had Hughes turned up to collect this item, recognised it as a fake, and – furious – killed Ransome?

  ‘Abigail.’

  At the sound of that once so familiar voice, Abigail turned from the ornamental scarab she was inspecting, her heart beating with deep shock. Yes, it was him: Edgar Bruton, the man who’d taken her, claimed to have loved her, and then abandoned her. He looked at her now, a picture of remorse, a hangdog expression on his face.

  ‘Edgar! What … what are you doing here? I thought you were in London.’

  ‘I was until yesterday, but a friend sent me a copy of the local paper.’ He produced a rolled-up copy of the Gazette from his pocket. ‘And when I saw today’s edition, I was even more worried.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you, of course! My God, two murders!’

  Abigail felt her rapidly beating heart settling down, and now she fixed him with a cold stare. This was the man who’d ruined her. This was the man who’d abandoned her, who’d broken her heart, destroyed her trust, and now he had the audacity to turn up and claim to be worried about her.

  ‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you,’ she said icily. ‘You’ve no need to worry. Thank you for your concern, but you can safely return to London.’

  He stared at her, bewildered by her reaction.

  ‘Abigail, this is me!’ he protested, his voice a bleat.

  ‘I am fully aware it is you, Edgar. I had hoped that I wouldn’t see you again, after the abominable way you treated me. But you are here. I now wish you to go.’

  ‘But … I’ve come all the way from London. By train.’

  ‘Do you wish me to refund your train fare?’ asked Abigail.

  Suddenly, his manner changed. The ‘poor little boy lost’ look that had become bewilderment now took a venomous turn.

  ‘Is that meant to be funny?’ he growled, and she was now aware of the menace in him. Menace she hadn’t been aware of before. I will not let him frighten me, she decided grimly.

  ‘There was absolutely nothing funny about what happened between us,’ she said firmly.

  The menacing posture vanished, as if he was a balloon that had just been punctured. He bowed his head, ashamed.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I admit it. I was weak.’

  ‘No, I was weak. I let you take advantage of me. And then you abandoned me.’

  ‘I didn’t know what I was doing!’ Edgar burst out. He moved towards her, appeal writ large on his face. ‘Please, Abigail, I’ve come back because I want to be with you. Protect you.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘From whoever’s doing these murders, of course!’

  ‘There’s no need,’ she said crisply. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. I faced far worse dangers when I was in Egypt.’

  ‘Egypt!’ he exclaimed scornfully. ‘Always Egypt!’

  She looked at him, her turn now to be bewildered.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What is wrong with Egypt?’

  ‘It took you away from me!’ He moved towards her now, reaching out for her, and she backed away and moved swiftly behind a stone sarcophagus. He stopped and glared. ‘Always damned Egypt! Why do you think I left?’

  ‘Because you had used me and wanted to move on to pastures new,’ said Abigail tersely.

  ‘No, because I couldn’t compete with your obsession with Egypt. I wanted a woman I could share things with …’

  ‘Horse racing and playing cards were never my idea
of entertainment,’ said Abigail.

  ‘You know what I mean!’

  ‘Edgar, please don’t pretend you wanted someone who was content to be just a wife. If you did then you misjudged me. I always intended to make my mark in the world of archaeology. What we had was an interlude, something that I hoped would continue and develop into – yes – into a proper marriage. But I never intended to abandon my interest or ambitions in archaeology.’

  ‘And does this new man in your life give you satisfaction in that way?’ Edgar demanded, and once again menace returned to his manner.

  Abigail stared at him. ‘What new man?’

  Edgar looked at the newspaper and read out: ‘“Anyone with any information, please contact Daniel Wilson or Abigail Fenton at the Fitzwilliam Museum.”’

  ‘Mr Wilson is a private enquiry agent hired by the Fitzwilliam to look into the deaths,’ said Abigail, tight-lipped. ‘And he is more than capable of giving me protection, if any were needed.’

  ‘And he’s nothing more to you?’ demanded Edgar.

  ‘That is no business of yours,’ snapped Abigail.

  ‘So he is something to you!’

  ‘Edgar, you will leave these premises immediately.’

  He stood, hesitant, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he burst out, ‘He will not have you, Abigail. You are mine! Never forget that!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Daniel headed for Mrs Loxley’s house, his mind in a whirl. Professor Hughes! Was it possible that every morning Daniel had been sat breakfast with the murderer he’d been hunting?

  One of the murderers, he corrected himself. If Hughes had killed Ransome in a rage over the fraudulent Cromwellian artefact, Daniel doubted if he’d also killed the unknown man in the sarcophagus.

  But so many things didn’t fit with Hughes being the killer of Ransome. The traces of chloroform, for one thing. Unless Hughes had left with the relic, found it to be a fake, and then returned later, armed with chloroform to overpower the younger and stronger Ransome.

  Then there was Hughes’ attitude, no traces of guilt or fear of discovery. Garrulous, an easy conversationalist – attributes Daniel had experienced in some professional criminals, but not what he expected in a professor who’d just committed a murder completely out of character.