Murder at the Fitzwilliam

by Jim Eldridge

  I’d rather hit myself over the head with a hammer, thought Daniel at the idea of spending an evening listening to two Egyptologists yammering on about – what was it Hardwicke had said – The Pyramid Inch? What on earth was that? And who was Piazzi Smyth? But aloud he said, ‘I will be delighted.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to meet me at my house and walk with me to the Fitzwilliam?’ asked Abigail.

  To deliver you to your precious Mr Hardwicke, thought Daniel bitterly. But he forced a smile and said, ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When Daniel entered the Lamb and Flag the following day, Wednesday, there were only a few customers in the bar. Herbert Crane was behind the bar, wiping glasses, and he scowled at Daniel as he approached.

  ‘Lillian’s not in,’ he said curtly.

  ‘That’s alright, I want to talk to Dolly.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Herbert suspiciously.

  ‘I have a question I want to ask her.’

  ‘Didn’t you bother her enough yesterday?’ growled Herbert.

  ‘The question’s very simple,’ said Daniel. ‘When she was with Joe Ransome, did he ever use chloroform as a drug?’

  ‘She wouldn’t do something like that,’ snapped Herbert. ‘She’s not stupid.’

  ‘I’m asking if Ransome ever did,’ said Daniel patiently.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Herbert.

  Daniel looked at him levelly. ‘Mr Crane, we can do this the easy, informal way, or I can ask Inspector Drabble to take Dolly in for questioning, and he can ask her.’

  ‘You’ve given Dolly’s name to the police!’ growled Herbert, anger flashing in his eyes.

  ‘No,’ replied Daniel. ‘And I’d like to keep it that way. So, would you pass on the message to Dolly that I need the answer about Ransome and chloroform, or any other drugs he might have used, as quickly as possible.’ He took a piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket and wrote down the address of Mrs Loxley’s boarding house. ‘She can find me or leave a message for me at the Fitzwilliam, or here.’

  He passed the piece of paper and then nodded goodbye to Herbert. He could feel the man’s angry glare on his back all the way to the door.

  Where to now? thought Daniel. There was nothing more he could do about Professor Hughes until Drabble brought him in. Assuming that the professor had returned to Colchester and not really been called to see his ill sister.

  He would return to Mrs Loxley’s and see if there had been any results from the photograph of the dead man in the Gazette.

  He could dig deeper into Harry Elder, talk to Harry’s sister who worked at the chemist and ask her about chloroform, but Daniel had a feeling that Harry Elder was not their killer. It was almost a sixth sense about people he’d picked up during his years in the police, an intuition about whether someone was guilty or not, despite whatever the physical evidence suggested. It was as if some people gave off an aura that Daniel picked up, whatever their outward demeanour. So often innocent people appeared shifty or suspicious because of nerves when finding themselves in a situation that was alien to them. And equally, others who appeared open and honest could do that because they were well practised in the art of deceit. But to Daniel, after years of looking into people’s eyes, and their hearts, he felt he could see beneath the surface.

  Like Edward Hardwicke, for example. He seemed so right, so open and upstanding, but Daniel had a feeling about him. There was something wrong there.

  Or was it simply jealousy on his part?

  Daniel was attracted to Abigail, and every now and then he felt that attraction may be mutual. But then this Edward Hardwicke appeared, and it was obvious that Abigail had eyes only for him.

  It was understandable, of course. They were both immersed in ancient Egypt, both working archaeologists, both obviously highly intelligent and ambitious in their sphere, both single.

  What could he offer Abigail, by comparison? A former policeman, now a private enquiry agent, whose sole ambition was to protect the vulnerable from criminals. A laudable aim, but hardly a match for unearthing precious remains from ancient sites in far-flung exotic places.

  Lost in thought this way, he was unprepared for the attack on him as he pushed open the gate to Mrs Loxley’s front garden, although an inner sixth sense alerted him to something close behind him. He started to turn, but before he could do so something smashed into the back of his head and he felt himself falling and crashing to the pavement.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Instinctively, he threw his hands up to protect his already throbbing head. He felt an agonising pain surge through him as a boot thudded into his ribs, then a man’s voice snarled at him, ‘Leave her alone!’

  A woman’s scream cut through his pain, then he heard Mrs Loxley’s panic-stricken voice shouting, ‘Leave him alone! Police! Help! Murder!’

  There was the sound of boots clattering hastily away, and then Mrs Loxley was kneeling beside him, lifting his head up and cradling it in her lap.

  ‘Be careful, his neck might be broken,’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘No, just my head,’ Daniel heard himself say, his voice thick and slurred to his ears.

  ‘Can you stand?’ asked the man.

  ‘Martha! Martha!’ called Mrs Loxley urgently.

  As Daniel pushed himself up into a sitting position he saw the young housemaid come running out of the house.

  ‘Martha, go and get Doctor Bunyan. And then find a policeman and bring him back here.’

  ‘Yes, mum.’ Martha nodded, and she hurried off.

  ‘Let’s get you indoors,’ said the man, and he helped haul Daniel to his feet, then put his arm around him to support him.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  Daniel was about to nod, but the pain in his head stopped him.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sure I’ll be alright.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see what the doctor says,’ said the man.

  Between them, the man and Mrs Loxley guided Daniel down the path and into the house.

  ‘Into the parlour,’ said Mrs Loxley.

  They settled Daniel down into an armchair.

  ‘Thank heavens Mr Barron was here,’ said Mrs Loxley.

  So this is the mysterious Mr Barron, thought Daniel. He forced a smile at the man, a portly figure in his fifties.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Barron. And you, Mrs Loxley. I dread to think what might have happened if you hadn’t shouted at him.’

  ‘I was dusting in the front parlour when I looked out of the window and saw that man attack you,’ said Mrs Loxley.

  ‘Did you get a look at his face?’ asked Daniel.

  She shook her head. ‘He had a scarf pulled up around his face.’

  ‘Hair colour?’ asked Daniel. ‘Long? Short?’

  Again, she shook her head. ‘He had a hat on. One of those woolly ones that sailors wear, and it was pulled right down.’

  ‘Clothes?’ asked Daniel. ‘Well-dressed? Rough?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Mrs Loxley.

  ‘Neither,’ said Barron. ‘Not well-dressed, but not a down-and-out either. Jacket and trousers. But working men’s boots, by the look of them.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what it felt like,’ muttered Daniel, aware of the pain in his ribs. He was sure that one of them was cracked.

  Dr Bunyan arrived, his single-horse carriage pulling up outside Mrs Loxley’s house.

  ‘Your maid’s gone to find a policeman,’ he said as he came in, toting his bulky surgeon’s bag.

  ‘You’ve received a blow on the head,’ he announced. ‘The skin’s broken at the back. I’ll have to shave around it and sew it up.’ He then helped Daniel remove his jacket, shirt and undervest, the procedure a slow one because of the pain in his ribs.

  Dr Bunyan did an inspection, probing with his fingers – a gentle touch, Daniel was relieved to find – and stethoscope.

  ‘A cracked rib?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Yes.’ Bunyan nodded. ‘But fortuna
tely not completely fractured, otherwise it could have punctured your lung. But your lungs sound alright. You’ll survive. I’ll put some ointment and a bandage on your ribs first, then I’ll sew your scalp. It’s a pity you weren’t wearing a hat; it would have softened the blow.’

  ‘I shall be wearing one from now on,’ Daniel told him. ‘Rather than walk around with the back of my head shaved for all to see and causing comment.’

  As the doctor was putting the stitches in the back of Daniel’s scalp, Martha arrived with a police constable.

  ‘If you can wait to question him until I’ve finished,’ said Bunyan.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care for a cup of tea while you’re waiting,’ Mrs Loxley suggested to the policeman. ‘I saw what happened so I can tell you, and so can Mr Barron.’

  While Mrs Loxley and Mr Barron talked to the constable in the kitchen, Dr Bunyan put the finishing touches to patching Daniel up. Stitches completed, and a bandage wrapped around his ribs, Daniel put his clothes back on, relieved to feel that it didn’t seem such an effort as removing them.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he said. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘I’ll send you my bill,’ said Bunyan. As he put his equipment back in his case, he said, ‘You’re the detective who’s investigating the deaths at the Fitzwilliam?’

  ‘I am,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Do you think this attack on you is related to that?’

  ‘It must be,’ said Daniel. ‘I can’t think of anyone I’ve upset over anything else during the short time I’ve spent in Cambridge. Am I alright to start moving?’

  ‘I’d rest for the remainder of the day,’ advised Bunyan. ‘Just in case there might be concussion, and to let your body recover from the cracked rib.’

  After the doctor had left, the constable joined Daniel to ask his questions. Daniel admitted that he couldn’t help much with a description of his attacker, but the constable assured him he’d already got a description from Mrs Loxley and Mr Barron.

  ‘Can I suggest you make sure that Inspector Drabble knows about this attack,’ said Daniel. ‘It may be connected with a case he’s working on.’

  The constable promised he’d make sure Inspector Drabble had a report about the incident, then left.

  After he’d gone, Daniel’s thoughts turned to Abigail. Daniel was sure the attack was the result of his asking for Dolly during his most recent visit to the Lamb and Flag, in which case he’d be seeking out Herbert Crane. But just in case it was related to the overall investigation, he needed to warn Abigail to be on her guard.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Mrs Loxley’s young housemaid, Martha, was sent to the Fitzwilliam with a note from Daniel for Miss Abigail Fenton, with instructions that if she wasn’t there to deliver it to her home address. As it turned out, Martha caught Abigail just as she was on the point of leaving work.

  Abigail opened the note and felt a frisson of alarm as she read: Have been attacked. No need to be alarmed, a doctor has stitched me up, but it is advisable I see you. Please can you come and see me at Mrs Loxley’s.

  Attacked! Who by? Then she remembered her encounter with Edgar, and his threats against Daniel, and her alarm was replaced with a feeling of anger, and of humiliation. If it was possible that Edgar had carried out this attack, she would have to tell Daniel why.

  A short time later, Abigail was seated in Mrs Loxley’s front parlour opposite Daniel, having first examined the surgical stitches in the shaved area of his scalp.

  ‘The doctor did a good job,’ she said. ‘It looks like a nasty gash.’

  ‘I expect you saw a lot worse in Egypt,’ said Daniel.

  She had been about to say that indeed she had, when she stopped herself.

  ‘You are making fun of me,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘Only in a gentle way, to show you that I’m not badly affected. The reason I asked you to come is to warn you.’

  ‘You think I might be attacked, too?’

  ‘I hope not. I’m fairly sure this is a result of my poking around at the Lamb and Flag today. Providing you avoid doing that, or anything like it, you should be alright. But I’ve sent a message to Inspector Drabble about the attack, so I think it worth you talking to him, especially if you feel anyone is following you at any time.’

  ‘I can take care of myself,’ she said.

  ‘I thought I could as well,’ said Daniel ruefully.

  ‘Why do you think the attack relates to today’s visit to the Lamb and Flag?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Because when he attacked me, he growled “Leave her alone.” I’ve only questioned two women in relation to this case: Lillian Crane, the landlady of the Lamb and Flag, and the woman called Dolly, who spent time with Joseph Ransome at the Fitzwilliam on the night he died. So, the man who attacked me has to be connected with one or both of them and is protecting them.’

  ‘There is another possibility,’ said Abigail awkwardly.

  Daniel caught the note of hesitation in her voice, and looked at her quizzically. She looked towards the door to make sure she couldn’t be overheard, then dropped her eyes and said, ‘Some time ago I formed a … friendship with a gentleman. It did not end well.’

  Did you abandon him, or he you? wondered Daniel, watching her, aware of her efforts to try and remain emotionally detached as she told the tale, but failing.

  ‘I thought I would not see him again, but yesterday he arrived at the Fitzwilliam. He said he’d come because he’d read about the events in the newspapers, and was worried about me. He offered his protection.’

  ‘Thoughtful of him,’ commented Daniel carefully.

  ‘Yes.’ Abigail nodded. ‘However, I informed him that would not be necessary. I told him that the Fitzwilliam had employed a private investigator, a man of renown and resource, and he was more than capable of protecting me.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’ Daniel smiled.

  Abigail didn’t return his smile. ‘I’m afraid he appeared to interpret my words to mean that there was more between us than just a professional association. Obviously, I did my best to dissuade him that was the case …’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Daniel

  ‘But …’ She sighed.

  ‘He is jealous,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he a man capable of violence?’

  ‘I had not thought so before, but his last words before he left were certainly threatening.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘Possibly. Or to you.’

  ‘This man’s name?’

  ‘Edgar Bruton.’

  ‘And where would I find him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Abigail admitted. ‘When I knew him he lodged with a cousin of his. The cousin’s name is Ernest Bruton.’

  ‘With your permission, I shall go and see this Ernest Bruton and see if I can track down your gentleman friend.’

  ‘He is no friend of mine!’ she said firmly. ‘And he is no gentleman.’ Then, concerned, she asked, ‘But say he attacks you again. You have a cracked rib. You’ll be no match for him.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ Daniel assured her grimly. ‘Next time, I will be watching out.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  That evening, and the next morning at the Fitzwilliam, Abigail found it difficult to concentrate on her work in hand. Her mind kept turning to Edgar. Was it he who’d attacked Daniel? Should she have elected to call on Edgar’s cousin, Ernest, to face Edgar, rather than letting Daniel do it? But if she did, Edgar would simply deny being the attacker. It would also drive his jealousy of Daniel even more, even though there was nothing for him to be jealous of.

  She wondered how Daniel viewed her, now that she’d told him about her relationship with Edgar. As a fallen woman? No, Daniel wasn’t that kind of bigoted, judgemental person.

  It was odd; she and Daniel came from such different backgrounds with such different life experiences that they should have nothing in common, yet she felt very much at ease with him.

  Most of the t
ime, she corrected herself abruptly. There were still many things that irritated her about him.

  Well … perhaps not many. Some.

  As she was sure there were things about her that upset or irritated Daniel. Was she really rude and curt to him, as Bella had said?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a middle-aged woman, respectable in appearance, holding a copy of the Gazette.

  ‘Am I addressing Miss Abigail Fenton?’ she asked.

  ‘You are,’ said Abigail.

  ‘The man at the desk said I’d find you here,’ said the woman. ‘My name’s Mrs Edwina Bristow.’ She opened the newspaper to show the photograph of the dead man. ‘This says for anyone who recognises this man to come and see you or Mr Daniel Wilson.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Wilson’s out at the moment. But do I gather that you know this man?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Mrs Bristow. ‘I’ve got a small cottage that I let out. Very respectable. Visiting lecturers who might want somewhere nice to stay for a month or so. That sort of thing.’

  ‘And this gentleman took it to rent?’

  ‘Yes. He arrived about a week and a half ago, the Monday before last. An Egyptian gentleman. Very cultured. Spoke really good English. He said he’d just arrived from Egypt on business, and needed somewhere to stay for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Dr Ahmet Madi.’

  ‘Did he say what he was a doctor of?’

  Mrs Bristow looked puzzled.

  ‘A doctor’s a doctor,’ she said. ‘They cure people.’

  ‘Not all,’ said Abigail. ‘Some people are doctors of theology, or literature. Different strands of learning.’

  ‘Oh. I never knew that. I just thought he was the normal sort of doctor. Anyway, because the fortnight’s nearly up, I went round to see if he wanted to carry on renting, but he was gone, and so was all his stuff.’ She gestured at the photo in the paper. ‘This is him, but in this photo he looks dead. Was he the man they found here? The mystery man?’