by Jim Eldridge
‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘Have you got anyone else in the cottage?’
‘No, there hasn’t been time yet. I wanted to see what had happened to him first, in case he wanted to stay on. But when I saw all his stuff was gone …’
‘Would you mind if I came with you to look at the cottage? In case he might have left something behind.’
‘He didn’t,’ said the woman. ‘He had a small suitcase with him when he arrived, but that’s gone. There’s no clothes, nothing.’
‘He might have left a scribble on a piece of paper,’ said Abigail. ‘Something small.’
‘I didn’t see anything,’ said Mrs Bristow.
‘Please, I promise I won’t mess things up,’ said Abigail. ‘And it won’t take long.’
The one thing that Abigail hadn’t mentioned about Ernest Bruton was that he was a minister of the church. Daniel wasn’t sure which church, and the grim look on Bruton’s face as he stood on the top step of his large house and scowled down at Daniel didn’t appear to be welcoming to those kind of questions. The clerical collar he wore so proudly said it all, as did his pugnacious stance. A fire and brimstone preacher, Daniel guessed, the sort who would call down the wrath of the Lord on sinners. And that included his cousin, Edgar Bruton, Daniel thought, because this pugnacious posture, chest thrust out, chin forward, a scowl that involved not just his mouth and eyes but seemed to even include his ears, had come about when Daniel had said he was calling to enquire after the whereabouts of Edgar Bruton.
‘You are a bailiff?!’ thundered Bruton, and once again Daniel reflected he was right in his fire-and-brimstone assessment. This man would be a terrifying accuser of his parishioners.
‘No, sir,’ said Daniel. ‘My name is Daniel Wilson and I have been hired by Sir William Mackenzie at the Fitzwilliam Museum to make enquiries about certain incidents that have happened there.’
‘Thefts?’ The emphasis that he gave to that one brief word, extending it beyond the single vowel and giving it a feeling of disgust, disgrace and utter degradation, spoke volumes of Ernest Bruton’s powers as an orator.
‘No, sir, but sadly there have been some tragic deaths there recently which the Fitzwilliam have asked me to look into.’
For the first time, Bruton seemed taken aback. ‘Deaths? And you suspect that Edgar might be involved?’
‘Not with the deaths, sir, but there have been associated activities which we are looking into.’
‘And why do you come to my door?’ demanded Bruton.
‘Because I was given information that Mr Edgar Bruton lodged with you while he was in Cambridge.’
‘He did, sir! He was a wastrel and a drunkard, yet when he appealed to me for shelter I did what the Good Lord would have done: I gave him succour. I invited him into my own home. This home!’ Bruton’s voice rose a tone as he suddenly roared out, ‘And how did he repay me?!’
Not well, Daniel guessed. Bruton’s next words verified his assumption.
‘He defiled this house, sir! He made advances to our serving maid. He even did the same to our cook, a respectable lady of advancing years! And he stole from me! The man is a degenerate, a loathsome creature, a serpent, a Judas …’
‘I assume you asked him to leave?’ enquired Daniel, doing his best to avert a lengthy list of metaphors describing Edgar Bruton.
‘No, sir, I ordered him to leave!’ thundered Bruton. ‘And never to darken my door again!’
‘When was this?’
‘Three months ago.’
‘And you have not seen him since?’
The scowl on Bruton’s face grew darker. ‘On the contrary, sir. You can imagine my surprise – nay, shock – on being told by my maid that he was here not yesterday lunchtime, asking to see me.’
‘Yesterday?’
‘Indeed, sir! I came out to see him, as I am here on this step to see you, today, thinking that perhaps he had come to repent and apologise and open his heart to me. But NO!’
The ‘no’ was so loud that Daniel wondered if it would alarm the neighbours and bring them to their doors, but then he reflected that they must be used to such explosions.
‘The blackguard had come to ask if he could borrow money from me! Borrow! Ha! The wretch!’
‘Did he say why he needed the money, sir?’
‘I did not give him a chance to unload a pack of lies for the reason. It would have entailed some false story of illness. The truth is that my cousin has always run up debts, usually related to unsavoury activities such as gambling, or unsuitable women.’
‘So you did not give him the money.’
‘I certainly did not! And then he had the temerity to ask if he could lodge with me at my house for the night, after all that had gone before. I tell you, sir, if it wasn’t for the fact that I am a man of God, I would have smote him there and then, as our Good Lord smote the money-lenders and chased them from the temple.’
‘So he had nowhere to stay in Cambridge?’
‘That’s how it would appear, and I wasn’t surprised – he has used up his goodwill as he abused people’s good intentions towards him. He pleaded that no one here in Cambridge would give him shelter and all he asked for was a bed for the night. I told him he could not stay here, but – as a Christian – I would not let him spend the night shivering on the streets of Cambridge.’
‘So where did you send him?’
‘I did not send him, sir, I took him. To the railway station.’
‘The railway station?’
‘I told him that Cambridge was no place for such a person as him. I have a good reputation in this city, and to have that loathsome creature here and known to be related to me is intolerable. I told him I would buy him a single ticket to that cesspit of vice and corruption that seems to suit him so well: London. And there may he look to God to guide his steps in the right direction in future.’
‘And what time of day was this, sir?’
‘He caught the 1.20. I remember because I checked the time on the station clock with my watch as the train drew out.’
‘And Edgar was on that train?’
‘Absolutely, sir. With my instructions for him not to return until he has found salvation.’
So, thought Daniel as he left Ernest Bruton’s house, it was not Edgar Bruton who attacked me yesterday afternoon. It was also unlikely that he would have had the money to hire someone to do his dirty work.
Which brings us back to someone protecting Lillian Crane and Dolly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The inspection of the small cottage didn’t take long. It was on its own at the end of a lane on the outskirts of Cambridge and consisted of a living room and a small kitchen, with a bedroom upstairs. Outside was a wooden privy.
‘There are no neighbours nearby?’ asked Abigail.
‘No,’ answered Mrs Bristow. ‘It’s very private, which is one of its attractions.’
So, no neighbours who might have seen any comings or goings at the cottage, thought Abigail.
The furniture was basic: a table and three chairs along with an armchair in the main room; a range in the kitchen fired with coal and wood for cooking and hot water; a single bed and a bedside table in the bedroom.
The shelves were empty. There were no books, no pieces of paper, no sign of anyone having been at the cottage.
‘Would you mind if I returned with Mr Wilson?’ asked Abigail. ‘He’s a former detective with Scotland Yard and he might be more expert in seeing things that I may be missing.’
‘Providing he doesn’t start messing things up and taking things apart. I know what the police are like when they’re looking for something.’
‘I can assure you that Mr Wilson is not like that,’ said Abigail. ‘As you’ll see when you meet him. You can watch him the whole time he’s here.’
Mrs Bristow looked doubtful.
‘Yes, well, I can’t do that today,’ she said. ‘I promised my sister I’d go and see her.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘If you really think
he can be trusted, I could leave you the key and you can show him over, and drop the key in to me later.’
‘That would be excellent!’ said Abigail.
Mrs Bristow dipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out a small card, which she gave to Abigail.
‘This is my address.’
‘Thank you,’ said Abigail. ‘I’ll see the key is returned to you this afternoon.’
‘Good,’ said Mrs Bristow. ‘The sooner I can start cleaning the place, the sooner I can let it.’
Abigail found Daniel waiting for her when she returned to the Egyptian Room at the Fitzwilliam. He had a piece of paper and pencil in hand, and, as he explained, was just about to leave a note for her on the desk in her office.
‘It was not Edgar Bruton who attacked me,’ he told her.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. His cousin, Ernest, told me that he escorted Edgar onto the London train yesterday lunchtime, so it could not have been him who was my assailant. So I shall be returning to the Lamb and Flag to seek out the real attacker.’
‘You know who it is?’
‘I suspect it was a man called Herbert Crane, the husband of the pub’s landlady.’
‘He was protecting her?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘No. I feel he was protecting the woman I questioned, Dolly. I saw the way he looked at her. I believe he is in love with her.’
‘Will you have him charged?’
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘Providing he gives me the information I’m after. I’m off there now.’
‘Before you do, I’ve found out who the mysterious dead man was, and where he was staying,’ said Abigail.
She reported to him what Mrs Bristow had told her, and her visit to inspect the cottage.
‘She left me with the key. I thought it would be a good idea if you took a look to see if it affords any clues. You are more expert in these matters than I.’
‘This is excellent!’ said Daniel. ‘This is the best lead we’ve had so far!’
‘I don’t know if it will help us find his killer,’ said Abigail.
‘It moves us a major step nearer,’ said Daniel. ‘Now we know who he is and where he was staying, we can build a trail on his movements and find out who he came into contact with.’
‘I don’t think that will be easy,’ said Abigail. ‘There was nothing of his left in the cottage, and the cottage itself is quite isolated. No neighbours to report on anything.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Daniel. ‘But you never know what might be revealed.’
Daniel stood in the small living room, having just completed his inspection of the cottage with Abigail.
‘Well?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘You’re right, there’s nothing left to give us any clue to him or what he was here for. But that alone is valuable information.’
‘Because someone came in after he was killed and took everything away?’
‘Exactly,’ said Daniel.
‘The person who killed him?’ suggested Abigail.
‘Possibly, but that would mean they knew where he was staying. The other possibility is that Dr Madi had a companion.’
‘Mrs Bristow didn’t mention anyone else staying with him at the cottage.’ She gestured at the sparse and empty rooms. ‘And there’s no hint of anyone else being here.’
‘Let’s see what the outside may tell us,’ said Daniel.
‘Outside?’ queried Abigail. ‘There’s nothing except a privy.’
Daniel smiled at her. ‘Am I really having this conversation with an experienced archaeologist, who spends her life discovering what the soil might hide?’
He led the way out to the back of the cottage, and approached the privy slowly, scanning the ground carefully.
‘There,’ he said.
In between the back door and the privy could be seen the imprints of two sets of footwear: the marks of neat shoes, and those of a larger pair of studded boots.
‘Two people,’ said Daniel. ‘These prints were made during rain, and once the rain stopped the impressions remained when the ground dried.’
‘The last time it rained in Cambridge was the Monday and Tuesday, just before I found the body in the sarcophagus.’
‘So we have two people here on that Monday and Tuesday, one wearing shoes and one wearing boots. I think the imprint of the shoes look similar to the shoes Dr Madi was wearing, but I think we ought to return to Dr Keen and check. So the boots are those of his companion.’
‘Why his companion?’ asked Abigail. ‘Why not his killer?’
‘If that was the case, why wait to kill him at the Fitzwilliam? Why not kill him at the cottage? Much easier.’
He went back into the cottage and returned with a sheet of newspaper and a pair of scissors, with which he proceeded to carefully cut out silhouettes of the shapes of the boots, and the shoes.
‘There,’ he said, standing up. ‘Now we hope that Dr Keen is still available.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dr Keen studied the pieces of cut newspaper Daniel handed to him.
‘Prints of shoes,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘Thanks to the photograph you took, we’ve been able to identify the dead man.’
‘He was a Dr Ahmet Madi,’ said Abigail. ‘Egyptian.’
Dr Keen smiled.
‘So the little exercise we had here in Sherlock Holmes deductive reasoning was right,’ he said.
‘It would seem so,’ said Daniel. ‘Our next task is to find out if he had a companion.’ He pointed at the pieces of newspaper. ‘I feel sure that the smaller one will match the shoes Dr Madi was wearing when he came in. We’re hoping the other might lead us to his mysterious companion.’
‘Working men’s boots, by the look of it,’ murmured Keen. ‘It’s not going to be easy to identify who they belonged to.’
‘Checking it against Dr Madi’s shoes and making sure the boots weren’t his will be a step forward,’ said Daniel.
Keen nodded and went out, returning shortly afterwards with the shoes they’d taken from Dr Madi. They put the soles of the shoes against the newspaper cut-outs.
‘Yes, the shoes are definitely his. The boots are much larger and belong to a bigger man.’
‘Do you think it could be a local man?’ asked Abigail. ‘That would explain why there’s been no trace of him at the cottage.’
‘But if Dr Madi knew someone local, then surely he’d have stayed with him rather than rented the cottage.’ Daniel frowned. Suddenly, he burst out angrily, ‘I am a fool!’
As Abigail and Keen looked at him in surprise, he said to Abigail, ‘Mrs Bristow said she was contacted by Dr Madi on the Monday, right?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Abigail. ‘He moved into the cottage that same day.’
‘And on Wednesday morning you found him dead in the sarcophagus at the Fitzwilliam, after he was killed some time during Tuesday night.’
‘Yes,’ said Abigail.
‘I’d bet money that he arrived on the Sunday, the same day the latest consignment of Egyptian artefacts for the Fitzwilliam arrived at Tilbury!’
‘You think he was on the ship that brought them?’
‘I do! He and his companion. And if we check the passenger list I’m sure we’ll find their names on it. I need to go to Tilbury to check the list.’
‘When?’ asked Abigail, wary.
‘The sooner the better,’ replied Daniel. ‘I can leave for Tilbury in the morning and be back on Saturday.’ As he saw the look of disappointment flood her face, he stopped himself. Of course, his promise to escort her to the debate the following evening. Even if it was to take her to meet another man. ‘No, it would be better if I went on the weekend,’ he said, and smiled. ‘I don’t want to miss the debate tomorrow.’
His heart swelled inside his chest as he saw the look of disappointment vanish, replaced by a warm smile. Maybe there is a chance for me, he thought.
‘I shall be coming to the debate as
well,’ said Dr Keen. ‘I must say, it sounds as if it’s going to be quite a lively contest. Professor Waldheim can be quite a fierce character and he doesn’t like being challenged, especially by younger people.’
‘He’s an old-fashioned reactionary,’ said Abigail, showing her temper. ‘I read an article he wrote in one of the journals about the reasons the pyramids were built, and he was harking back to theories that had been discredited years ago.’
So, thought Daniel, a heated contest with the rivals at each other’s throats, the intellectual equivalent of a prizefight. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be boring, after all.
‘Mr Wilson?’
They turned and saw that a police constable had appeared.
‘Yes?’ said Daniel.
‘They said at the Fitzwilliam I might find you here,’ he said, and he took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Daniel.
‘From Inspector Drabble,’ he said.
Daniel read it, then passed it to Abigail.
‘Professor Hughes has arrived and is in custody,’ she read aloud.
‘And he wants me to question him,’ said Daniel.
‘Professor Hughes?’ questioned Keen.
‘I’ll leave Miss Fenton to explain where he fits in, while I go and talk to him,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Doctor. And thank you again for the photograph – without it we’d still be in the dark.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Drabble was waiting expectantly in his office when Daniel arrived.
‘My man found you,’ he said. ‘Good. I was worried you might be off somewhere, and the sooner we can get this business of Professor Hughes dealt with the better.’
He rose, but Daniel gestured for him to sit down again, and settled himself into the empty chair across the desk.
‘Before we talk to Hughes, we’ve found out the identity of the dead man in the sarcophagus.’