Murder at the Fitzwilliam

by Jim Eldridge

There was no sign of Lillian Crane or Dolly as Daniel walked into the Lamb and Flag, but Herbert Crane was in his usual place behind the bar. He scowled as Daniel walked up to him.

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ muttered Herbert.

  ‘We can talk privately outside, or I can call your wife from the back and we can talk in front of her about you and Dolly.’

  It was as if he’d punched Herbert, who swallowed and cast a nervous look towards the door in the wall behind the bar.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide!’ he whispered in an attempt at bluster.

  ‘That’s fine. Then I’ll just call Lillian out. I assume that mirror behind the bar is two-way glass and she’s watching us, even though she can’t hear us.’

  Daniel raised his arm as if to signal a secret watcher, and Herbert grabbed Daniel’s arm and pulled it down.

  ‘How do I know you won’t beat me up?’ he demanded hoarsely.

  ‘You have my word,’ said Daniel.

  Herbert hesitated, then said, ‘I can’t leave and go outside. She’ll get suspicious.’

  ‘You left before, when you followed me and attacked me.’

  Herbert stood, a man torn apart. Then he gestured to an empty table away from the few drinkers in the bar.

  ‘Over there,’ he said.

  He lifted the flap of the bar, and he and Daniel walked to the table and sat. Herbert kept casting nervous glances towards the door behind the bar.

  ‘I’ll make it quick,’ said Daniel. ‘You’re in love with Dolly. I saw that in the way you looked at her. I’m guessing she doesn’t know?’

  ‘No,’ muttered Herbert.

  ‘You attacked me to protect her,’ Daniel continued. When Herbert didn’t answer, just looked down, unable to meet his gaze, Daniel added, ‘I’m not going to have you arrested, or beat you up. But only if you get me the answer to the question I asked you about Joe Ransome using chloroform as a drug.’

  ‘He didn’t,’ mumbled Herbert. ‘Dolly was in here last night, and I asked her.’ His head went up and he looked defiantly at Daniel. ‘Not because of you, but because I was worried about her and what she might have been led into by Ransome.’

  ‘And?’

  Herbert shook his head. ‘She said he didn’t use drugs with her, they just drank.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘Good. That’s all I needed to know. Except one other thing: you hated Joe Ransome because he was with Dolly.’

  ‘He used her!’ burst out Herbert. ‘She thought he loved her, but he didn’t.’

  ‘But you did. So, did you kill him?’

  Herbert stared at Daniel, shocked.

  ‘No. No. Never,’ he burbled. ‘On my life!’ He swallowed again. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you, but I was worried about her. You asking questions might drive her away from here, and I couldn’t bear that.’ He paused, then asked nervously, ‘You gonna hurt me?’

  ‘I’ve already said I wouldn’t,’ said Daniel. ‘But if I find you’ve lied to me, I’ll tell your wife, and she’ll hurt you a lot worse than I could.’

  There was an envelope waiting for Daniel when he arrived back at Mrs Loxley’s.

  ‘It’s from Miss Fenton,’ said Mrs Loxley. ‘She came to see how you were.’

  The note from Abigail said much the same, with the addition of an invitation for him to call on her that evening so they could exchange information. She added, Bella will be out this evening at one of her meetings, so we will have privacy to talk.

  Abigail greeted him with a look of concern when she opened the door to him.

  ‘I’m still not sure you should have been so busy today,’ she said. ‘There is always the risk of concussion after a nasty bang on the head, even the day after.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve been fine,’ he assured her.

  ‘We’ll go into the parlour,’ she said. ‘I’ll get Mrs Standish to bring tea for us. Would you like some cake? I believe we have some fruit cake.’

  ‘No thank you, tea will be fine,’ said Daniel.

  Abigail hurried off to order tea from Mrs Standish, then joined Daniel in the parlour.

  ‘How did it go with Professor Hughes?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fairly sure the professor is innocent of the murders. His only crime was gullibility, allowing himself to be duped by Ransome over a leather cap that he claimed had belonged to Oliver Cromwell. Hughes fled at the thought that I might discover his involvement with Ransome.’

  ‘He admitted as much?’

  ‘He did.’ Then, his face adopting a more sombre expression, he told her, ‘I have other news. Hector Blades is dead.’

  She stared at him, shocked. ‘Dead?’

  ‘While I was with Inspector Drabble, a report came of a body being found in the Cam by Magdalene Bridge. Inspector Drabble asked me to accompany him. It was Blades. He looked like he’d been beaten.’

  ‘So … it’s murder?’

  ‘It looks like it. Unless he fell in and received the injuries from a passing punt.’

  ‘How horrible! Who … who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Inspector Drabble seems to think it may be connected with Blades’ lifestyle. Apparently he was a heavy gambler and had run up large debts to some dubious people. But there is always the possibility that he may have been killed to stop him revealing the identity of his so-called Egyptology expert.’

  She sat, taking this in, and didn’t immediately seem aware of Mrs Standish coming in bearing a tray laden with a pot of tea, a jug of milk and cups and saucers.

  ‘Tea, Miss Abigail,’ she said, putting the tray down on the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Abigail absently.

  ‘There is another thing to report,’ said Daniel, as Abigail set to pour the tea. ‘I’m fairly confident that Ransome did not use the chloroform on himself.’

  ‘How did you discover that?’ she asked.

  ‘I had a discussion with the barman at the Lamb and Flag. It was he who attacked me yesterday.’

  ‘You should have him arrested!’ burst out Abigail.

  ‘No, it’s better to keep him where he is,’ said Daniel. ‘He’ll be a useful informant.’

  ‘Can he be trusted?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ said Daniel. ‘But he’s afraid of his wife finding out that he’s in love with the woman Ransome spent part of the night with at the Fitzwilliam.’

  ‘My God, it sounds like the plot of one of the trashy romantic novels Bella reads,’ said Abigail in disgust.

  ‘I’m afraid that real life often seems like a romantic novel for many people,’ said Daniel wryly.

  ‘Are you referring to my admission about my friendship with Edgar Bruton?’ she asked, her tone icy.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Daniel. ‘And I apologise if you felt that was my intention. I just meant that I’ve worked on many cases of murder and serious assault, and a great many seem to have resulted from an affair of the heart, or a tangled romantic life.’

  ‘Which could still be the case over the death of Mr Ransome,’ mused Abigail. ‘Do you think the barman at the Lamb and Flag could be the guilty one?’

  ‘No,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Then we are no further forward.’ Abigail sighed.

  ‘On the contrary, we have moved forward,’ said Daniel. ‘I feel we can eliminate Professor Hughes and the barman from our list of suspects. We also now know the identity of the first man, Dr Madi, and I feel that once we have the passenger list of the boat he arrived in England on, we might be able to identify his mysterious companion who cleared out the cottage after he died.’

  ‘There will be hundreds of names,’ said Abigail.

  ‘I believe we’re looking for another Egyptian, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed his name will be near that of Dr Madi on the list, if – as I hope – they booked together. Fortunately, Inspector Drabble seems to be on side with the idea. In fact, he’s taken on the responsibility of getting hold of the passenger list from the shipping company’s offices at Tilb
ury. Hopefully, we should have it this weekend.’

  She sipped at her tea, then gave him a look that was part question, part heartfelt appeal.

  ‘How did you manage to do this for so long?’ she asked.

  ‘Do what?’ asked Daniel, puzzled.

  ‘Investigate crimes.’

  He smiled. ‘I don’t think there’s much difference between what we both do. You don’t only catalogue, you enquire: where did this object come from? How did this mummified body meet their end?’

  ‘Yes, but mine involve long-departed people. Yours is full of questions involving those who live – the relatives and friends of someone who’s been murdered, who suffer terrible anguish – and they look to you to provide them with the answers to their pain.’

  ‘Which is why I came into the force,’ said Daniel. ‘Someone needs to be there for them, and not just in a sympathetic way, but practically working to give them help to deal with what they are suffering.’

  ‘Some clergymen would say they are doing the same thing,’ said Abigail.

  ‘It’s very different,’ said Daniel. ‘They’re trying to maintain people’s faith in God. I’m trying to maintain their faith in the law, and justice.’

  ‘But you’re both on the side of the angels,’ said Abigail.

  Daniel laughed. ‘If angels exist,’ he said, ‘which, as an agnostic, I have doubts about. Although I accept the idea of humans as ministering or protecting angels, in a non-figurative sense. The difference is that some of us have to deal with the Devil to get the just result.’

  She smiled at him and said, ‘I didn’t realise you could be so loquacious. You put out the image of the pedestrian policeman, but you are not at all. You are a deep-thinking philosopher, taking in theology as well as the new sciences of psychology.’

  ‘Or, “sound and fury signifying nothing”,’ said Daniel, returning her smile.

  ‘Who also quotes Shakespeare. You are a surprising man, Mr Wilson, with hidden depths.’

  And so are you, too, Miss Fenton, Daniel wanted to say. But instead, he said, ‘I had better go. Mrs Loxley will have my supper ready for me, and she does tut discreetly but disapprovingly if it’s allowed to congeal.’

  He stood up and put his hat on. Abigail also rose to her feet.

  ‘You’re quite sure you’re not in pain?’ she asked. ‘Not just from your head, but your ribs.’

  ‘I will be fine,’ said Daniel. ‘I shall rest tomorrow, unless something comes up that needs looking into. And I shall call tomorrow early evening to escort you to the debate at the Fitzwilliam.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘I assume you’ll be at the Fitzwilliam today, Abi?’ asked Bella, taking a pause from munching on a piece of buttered toast as the two sisters ate their breakfast.

  ‘Of course,’ said Abigail. ‘Sir William has asked me to take responsibility for preparing the room for the debate. It is to be in the larger of the Egyptian rooms, so I shall be working with the porters and stewards to clear the main room, but leaving enough artefacts around to create the right atmosphere and hopefully stimulate the topics that will be raised.’

  ‘Will that include mummies?’ asked Bella. ‘In view of the recent reports, I’m sure the mummies will add a certain frisson to the occasion, with people wondering if one of them will suddenly rise up and launch an attack on the gathering.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ snapped Abigail. ‘In fact, there’ll be no room in where the debate is to be held to have mummy cases on display. We are expecting quite a large crowd, so most of the space will be taken up with chairs.’

  ‘And who will be chairing the debate?’ asked Bella. ‘You?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! That will be Sir William.’ She gave a wry frown. ‘I doubt if Professor Waldheim would be pleased if a woman was to chair the debate; he’s been quite forthright in some of his views on the nature of women, especially in the sciences.’ She smiled. ‘I think he’s a likely candidate for some of your leaflets on rights for women.’

  ‘You think I should bring some with me when I come this evening?’ asked Bella.

  ‘Absolutely not!’ said Abigail. ‘The Fitzwilliam is not a political arena.’ Then she looked at her sister, puzzled. ‘I did not realise you were planning to come to the debate. You haven’t mentioned it.’

  ‘My dear, that’s because I’ve hardly seen you. You’re either at the Fitzwilliam or traipsing all over Cambridge in search of this murderer. But tonight, we can go together.’

  Abigail hesitated momentarily, then said, ‘Yes we can. I’ve asked Mr Wilson to accompany me to the Fitzwilliam …’ Seeing the look of look of anger that clouded her sister’s face, and before Bella could say anything, Abigail added hastily, ‘Where I am to meet Mr Hardwicke, who has asked me to be his companion for the occasion to discuss how the debate went.’

  Bella’s face brightened. ‘So Mr Wilson is purely coming to accompany you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he can accompany us both!’ Bella beamed.

  As Abigail walked to the Fitzwilliam, her mind was filled with Bella’s reaction to Daniel Wilson, and despite herself she had to admit to feelings of jealousy. Not that she had anything to feel jealous about: Mr Wilson had made no advances towards her, and although she did feel an attraction to him she wasn’t sure how well they might be suited. But of one thing she was sure: Bella was totally unsuitable for Mr Wilson. For all Bella’s pretensions at intellectual pursuits, Daniel Wilson was far too intelligent for her. And too polite to say so. And because he’s an honourable man, if he’s not careful, Bella will ensnare him, she thought angrily.

  Honourable. Caring. Intelligent. Thoughtful. And brave.

  How had he managed to stay single for so long? Or, was he single? He seemed to be alone, but had there been someone in his life? A wife, or fiancée, now dead, for whom he still grieved?

  She shook her head. Enough of this wild speculation.

  As she arrived at the Fitzwilliam she saw that Edward Hardwicke was on the entrance steps, talking to one of the porters. He stopped as soon as he saw her and smiled in greeting.

  Such a nice smile! she thought.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Fenton – Abigail,’ said Hardwicke. ‘I came to offer my services, if I can be of assistance in preparing the room for the debate. Plus, I have to see Sir William about the form for the evening, so I thought it would be two birds with one stone.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Edward,’ said Abigail. She walked into the museum, Hardwicke following her. ‘But fortunately, I have enough assistance in preparing the room. And I would think you would need the time to marshal your opinions in preparation for whatever Professor Waldheim may unleash at you.’

  ‘I believe I’m prepared for him,’ said Hardwicke. ‘By the way, any news on the case?’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ said Abigail. ‘We discovered the identity of the man who was found in the sarcophagus.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘His name was Dr Ahmet Madi. An Egyptian. He was staying in a cottage on the outskirts of Cambridge.’

  ‘How strange! What was he doing here, do you have any idea?’

  ‘No. I wondered if you’d come across him while you were in Egypt?’

  ‘Me? No.’ He laughed. ‘We had our own medic with the team.’

  ‘I don’t think he was that sort of doctor,’ said Abigail.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘When we examined the body, we worked out that his hands showed all the signs of an academic. Ink-stains on his fingers, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You examined the body?’

  Abigail looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, not exactly examined it. We went along to see Dr Keen, who did the post-mortem, and he let us look at it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Mr Wilson and I.’

  ‘Ah. The detective.’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, the evidence suggested an academic, so we think he might have been a doctor of archaeology. That would explain his p
resence here.’

  ‘But does it?’ queried Edward. ‘If he was a genuine doctor of archaeology interested in what you have here, he’d have come during the day, made his presence known. The suggestion, as I understand it, is that he crept in during the night.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Abigail. ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘That suggests a burglar more than an academic,’ said Edward.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ said Abigail thoughtfully. ‘I’m intending to ask Sir William if he’s ever heard the name. He has a lot of contacts with the Egyptian end, and if this man was an academic, at least we’d know one way or another.’

  ‘Yes, true.’ Edward nodded. ‘Although I know at the moment Sir William is very tied up with the debate. As I said, he’s asked me to see him to finalise details.’ He smiled. ‘Tell you what, why don’t I mention it to him? That way you can get your answer quicker.’

  ‘Would you?’ said Abigail. ‘Why, that’s lovely of you.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help,’ said Edward. ‘What was his name again? Madi?’

  ‘Dr Ahmet Madi.’

  Edward nodded. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll let you know what Sir William says.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  That evening found Daniel sitting between Abigail and Bella in the front row of the audience in the larger of the Egyptian rooms at the Fitzwilliam. Dr Keen was sitting on the other side of Bella. The room was packed, leaving very little space for displays of ancient artefacts, so most of those that Abigail had carefully positioned had had to be removed to the inner room.

  Professor Waldheim and Edward Hardwicke sat on two chairs at one side of the room, on either side of Sir William Mackenzie, who stood at a lectern. Waldheim was a big man in every respect, tall and with a bulging paunch that suggested a man of hearty appetites for good food and wine. With his thick, unruly hair, and particularly his spectacularly bushy beard, he reminded Daniel of paintings he’d seen of zealous Old Testament prophets.

  As Daniel looked around at the audience, he found to his surprise that there was just as much an air of excited anticipation amongst them as there would have been at a boxing match in some of the dingier halls in East London.