Murder at the Fitzwilliam

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Surely someone in Cambridge would be better fixed to fill you in on that.’

  ‘No. He’s been away in Egypt for a while, working on a dig. I’m not sure how much time he spends in Cambridge.’

  ‘I don’t see why you need me, Daniel. You’re a better detective than I ever could be.’

  ‘Come off it, George! If you’re too busy …’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Pegg. ‘I’m just wondering why you need someone else to nose around. You were the best at sniffing out if things were iffy.’

  ‘Because I’m stuck in Cambridge,’ said Daniel. ‘And I’m not asking for any favours. This is a paying job.’

  Pegg nodded. ‘Very well, Daniel. I’ll put my best man on it. What have you got on this bloke?’

  Daniel took a sheet of paper from his pocket on which he’d written the details he’d gleaned from his interview with Sir William.

  ‘Here you are, George. According to the Fitzwilliam, this was his last address in London, along with the names of his last two employers: one a firm of civil engineering contractors, and the Great Western Railway. He also claims to have studied at the Mannering Institute of Engineering in Greenwich.’

  ‘Claims?’ commented Pegg, amused. ‘You don’t believe him?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Daniel. ‘I’ve just got a feeling about him.’

  ‘You want all this a bit sharpish, I suppose.’

  ‘I’d be grateful, George.’ He gave Pegg his address in Cambridge. ‘Send it to me there. With your bill.’

  As Daniel walked away from Newgate Street and headed back to Euston, he mulled over what George had said.

  No plans for marriage and fatherhood? Pegg had asked. No plans. Wishes, possibly. But it had seemed to Daniel that it didn’t fit with the job of being a detective. Out at all hours. Rarely at home. What sort of marriage was that? But it worked for others. George Pegg, for example. And the guv’nor, Abberline. As George had said, Abberline had married twice. First Martha, who’d died of TB after just two months of marriage. And then Emma, nearly twenty years ago, and still happily together. No kids, admittedly, but Abberline hadn’t let marriage stop him being the best detective that Daniel had ever worked with.

  No, Daniel, the problem isn’t being married, the problem is you. You’re afraid of being hurt.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  As Daniel came out of Cambridge Railway Station, he saw the billboard by the news-stand with the words: ANOTHER DEADLY ATTACK IN CAMBRIDGE, and underneath in smaller letters: Fitzwilliam Killer Strikes Again?

  He took a copy and felt shock go through him as he read:

  Edward Hardwicke, prominent Egyptologist and the Fitzwilliam’s own star archaeologist, recently returned from Egypt, was brutally beaten on Saturday night and is currently in a coma in Addenbrooke’s Hospital.

  Witnesses heard shouts and sounds of the assault, and arrived in time to see the unknown attacker run off, but not before leaving Mr Hardwicke unconscious and fighting for his life on the pavement.

  Only twenty-four hours before, Mr Hardwicke had been entertaining a large audience at the Fitzwilliam during a lively debate with the German Egyptian expert, Professor Waldheim. Now he lies at death’s door.

  Has the curse of the Fitzwilliam, which has already seen two murders recently, struck again?

  So was I wrong about Hardwicke? thought Daniel as he hurried in the direction of Abigail’s house. Is he not a culprit, but a victim? If so, why?

  It was Bella who answered the door to Daniel’s knock.

  ‘Mr Wilson!’ she exclaimed. Then her expression changed to one of distress. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘About Mr Hardwicke? Yes. I’ve just returned from London and saw the newspaper when I got off the train. Is your sister in?’

  ‘Abi’s at the hospital. She went there as soon as she saw the story in the newspaper. Who would do such a terrible thing? Do you think it’s the same person who killed those two men?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I haven’t had a chance to talk to the police, or anyone else. I shall go to Addenbrooke’s Hospital and see what I can find.’

  ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Trumpington Street?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. Then her worried expression softened, to be replaced by a smile. ‘By the way, Mr Wilson, because you left so suddenly, you won’t have heard the news.’

  ‘The news?’

  ‘Dr Keen and I are to be married. He asked me on Friday, after the debate.’

  Daniel gave her a smile. ‘That is wonderful news, Miss Bella. My congratulations to you both.’

  He left the house and hurried towards Addenbrooke’s, taking in this latest romantic development. Dr Keen and Bella Fenton. How fast things moved in the world of romance. There had been no hint of anything between Bella and Dr Keen at the evening of the debate, no little looks or light touches of the hands. Or had there been and he just hadn’t seen them? But Abigail hadn’t seemed aware of any relationship between the two, or if she had she hadn’t mentioned it to Daniel. In fact, her only real mention of Bella’s romantic intentions had been to warn him away from her sister as ‘flighty’.

  He entered through the main door of Addenbrooke’s and found Abigail sitting in a chair in the main reception area. She got to her feet as she saw him.

  ‘Mr Wilson!’

  ‘Miss Fenton. I had to go to London last night, and I’ve only just got back and heard the dreadful news. How is he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Abigail. ‘I haven’t been allowed to see him. It’s outside visiting hours. Also, he’s still unconscious, they tell me. I thought I’d wait here and see if there are any developments.’

  He could see that although she was trying to present a brave front, her hands were clenched tightly together, twisting nervously, and there was a tremor in her voice. He gestured for her to sit, and she sank gratefully down onto the chair, Daniel taking a seat on the one next to her.

  ‘Do you know what actually happened?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Only what it says in the newspaper.’

  ‘Perhaps Inspector Drabble will have more information,’ he suggested.

  ‘If he has, I doubt if he will pass it on to me,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t like me and he feels I shouldn’t be involved in the investigation.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not the case,’ Daniel tried to reassure her.

  ‘Oh yes it is!’ she said. ‘Otherwise why would the constable he sent only ask for you?’

  ‘For me?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘A constable arrived about an hour ago. He’s one I saw with Inspector Drabble, so he knew who I was and my connection with the case. He saw me waiting and asked if I knew where you were. I told him I didn’t. He said that if you arrived, Inspector Drabble wanted you to go and see him, urgently. I asked him what it was about, but he refused to tell me.’ She looked at Daniel inquisitively. ‘What were you doing in London?’

  ‘Following up a line of enquiry.’

  ‘Investigating Edward?’ she demanded, her anger obvious.

  ‘Amongst other things,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Well, I think you can safely say that he is not a suspect, not in view of what happened to him. He is another victim.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Daniel. ‘From the reports, it appears that this attack is different from the other two. The first, Dr Madi, was one blow to the back of the neck, possibly with an iron bar, the body then hidden. The murder of Joseph Ransome was very calculated. The chloroform, the strangulation. If the newspaper account is to be believed, this attack on Mr Hardwicke was frenzied. That suggests it was done by someone else.’

  She shook her head, her expression bitter. ‘I see you are fixed in your intention to find Mr Hardwicke guilty, regardless of what’s happened.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Daniel. ‘At this moment I have an open mind. Perhaps Inspector Drabble will be able to furnish me with more details than the sparse few in the newspap
er. Do you wish to come with me?’

  She shook her head. ‘I shall wait here in case there is any news on Edward.’

  ‘Very well. Then I’ll see if I can arrange for you to see him.’

  She looked at him, startled and puzzled.

  ‘How?’ she demanded. ‘The rules on visiting hours are very strictly observed, and rightly so. The medical staff need to be able to do their work without visitors blundering about interfering with their work.’

  ‘I agree, but this is an exceptional case,’ said Daniel.

  She shook her head. ‘I appreciate the gesture, Mr Wilson, but there is no reason for the hospital to make an exception in this case, and I wouldn’t expect them to.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t object to my trying?’

  She hesitated, and he saw her lips tremble as she said, ‘No. Not at all. In fact, I would be most grateful if it could be arranged.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The senior nursing sister who came to meet Daniel at the main desk, following his request, was in her forties and with a no-nonsense expression on her face. Daniel sensed at once that this was a woman very used to being appealed to, cajoled, threatened and bullied as people tried to get past the outer defences of the hospital, and her firm look as she regarded Daniel showed she had no intention of allowing rules to be broken.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sister,’ he said. ‘And I apologise for taking you away from your work. My name’s Daniel Wilson. I’ve been hired by Sir William Mackenzie at the Fitzwilliam to work with Inspector Drabble and the local police to investigate the recent murders at the museum, and also this attack yesterday on Edward Hardwicke.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Wilson. I’m aware of your position. I read about it in the newspaper.’

  ‘How is Mr Hardwicke?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘He’s still unconscious, as he’s been ever since he was brought in. We suspect he may have a fracture of the skull.’

  ‘Will he live?’

  She hesitated, then said, ‘I’m a nurse. The diagnosis is for the doctor to decide.’

  ‘But a senior nurse with lots of experience,’ said Daniel. His attempt at flattery was met with a look of scorn, so he changed his tone to that of formal efficiency. ‘If he dies it will be another murder to investigate, which is why I’m eager to find out his prognosis.’

  ‘At the moment he is alive and unconscious,’ said the sister. ‘He was very badly beaten. We shall know more as things progress.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. ‘I also need to talk to you about a Miss Abigail Fenton who’s waiting in the main reception to see Mr Hardwicke.’

  She nodded. ‘As I explained to Miss Fenton, our visiting hours are very strict, necessary for the proper running of the hospital,’ she said. ‘And as she is not a relative …’

  ‘She is not a relative, but she is engaged by the Fitzwilliam as my colleague in the investigation, working along with the police. I am on my way to see Inspector Drabble, but while I’m gone I need her at Mr Hardwicke’s bedside in case he should wake and say anything that might help us identify his attacker, who we believe may also be the killer of the other victims.’

  She frowned, uncertain.

  ‘This is very unorthodox …’ she began.

  ‘Unfortunately, murder is unorthodox,’ said Daniel politely. ‘If you like I can get verification from Sir William. I believe the Fitzwilliam are great sponsors of this hospital. But it is vital we get any information we can, and it would be unfair to ask one of your staff to sit by his bed waiting. I do know how busy you are here.’

  She hesitated, then nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll get one of the porters to show her to his room.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister. We appreciate your cooperation in this matter, and if we do manage to find the culprit, I will make sure it’s known that it wasn’t done without your invaluable help.’

  ‘There is no need for false flattery or meaningless silver-tongued words, Mr Wilson,’ she said sharply. ‘I do not respond to it, and you do yourself and me a disservice by attempting to use it. I have already agreed to your request because it is my civic duty, not to curry favour with anyone.’

  Daniel gave an apologetic nod. ‘You’re right, and I apologise,’ he said.

  ‘Tell Miss Fenton to report to this desk and I shall see she is escorted to Mr Hardwicke’s room,’ said the sister.

  ‘Which is his room?’ asked Daniel. ‘For when I return.’

  ‘Room 35 on the third floor. Sir William arranged for a private room for him.’

  With that, she left, leaving Daniel feeling embarrassed by her stinging rebuke. Sometimes it works and sometimes it bounces back and kicks you, he thought ruefully.

  He returned to the main reception area where Abigail was still sitting.

  ‘I’ve persuaded the sister in charge to let you stay beside Mr Hardwicke’s bed. Officially, you’re there in your role as my co-investigator, waiting in case he wakes and says anything.’

  Abigail rose to her feet, taking his hand in hers and gripping it tightly. ‘Thank you, Mr Wilson. Daniel. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say nothing, but just remember to act as if you’re there officially, not as a concerned friend. Be very formal.’

  She gave a wry smile. ‘No fawning over him. I can assure you, Mr Wilson, that was never my attention. I do not fawn.’

  But in Edward Hardwicke’s case you’ll make an exception if the opportunity arises, thought Daniel with a tinge of jealousy.

  ‘I’ll go and see Inspector Drabble and report back,’ he said. ‘I hope Mr Hardwicke recovers while you watch over him.’

  Drabble was at the main reception desk at the police station when Daniel arrived.

  ‘At last!’ he said with a mixture of anger and relief. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I told you I was going to London,’ said Daniel.

  ‘You heard about Mr Hardwicke being badly beaten?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just come from the hospital. He seems to be in a very bad way. Touch and go, according to the doctors.’

  ‘Yes. If he dies, we’ll have another murder on our hands.’ Drabble groaned. ‘There’s never been anything like this in Cambridge before. People are getting afraid to walk the streets!’

  ‘You sent a constable to the hospital with a message for me to contact you urgently. Has something else happened?’

  Drabble nodded uncomfortably. ‘Something’s come up that sounds mad. It is mad.’

  Daniel waited, and he could tell by the unhappy expression on Drabble’s face that whatever he was about to say was said with great reluctance.

  ‘We’ve had two witnesses come forward who say they saw the attack on Hardwicke.’

  ‘Why, that’s excellent news! Were they able to give a description of his attacker?’

  Drabble grimaced. ‘That’s the thing. They said they didn’t see him clearly, but they could have sworn he was draped in bandages.’

  Daniel stared at Drabble, stunned. ‘Bandages?’

  Drabble nodded, a miserable and tormented expression on his face. ‘You can see where this is leading.’

  ‘The mummy,’ said Daniel. He shook his head. ‘It’s madness. Either they were drunk, or it’s a practical joke …’

  Drabble shook his head. ‘Believe me, they didn’t come in like it was a joke. They said they didn’t want to come in at all because they didn’t think they’d be believed and might be locked up for wasting police time.’

  ‘Inspector, you don’t really believe—’ began Daniel.

  ‘No, of course I don’t!’ burst out Drabble. ‘But they do! Or they appear to! So what I want you to do is have a word with them. See if they’re lying. Or if not, press ’em to find out what they really saw.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because they’re more likely to feel intimidated by Wilson of the Yard than by me.’

  ‘I didn’t give that story to the paper,’ said Daniel. ‘I never described myself as Wilson of the Yard.’

  ‘
The fact is, whoever did it, it may come in useful. We don’t want a panic over some raised-from-the-dead mummy roaming around murdering people. It’ll lead to armed vigilantes out on the streets, and there’s nothing more dangerous than armed vigilantes.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The two men were both in their twenties, both students at Trinity: Jeremiah Bingley and Erasmus Carstairs. They were sitting at a wooden table in the interview room looking very miserable and, indeed, frightened, and they leapt to their feet as Daniel entered the room with Inspector Drabble, anxiety on their faces.

  ‘This is Inspector Wilson, formerly of Scotland Yard,’ Drabble barked at them gruffly. ‘Wilson of the Yard, as the newspapers call him. You won’t be able to pull the wool over his eyes.’ He turned to Daniel, grunted, ‘They’re all yours, Inspector,’ then marched out.

  The two students looked at Daniel, both swallowing in fear.

  ‘We didn’t have to come in!’ blurted out Bingley in a burst of defiant bravado.

  ‘No, indeed, you didn’t,’ said Daniel gently. ‘Please sit down, gentlemen, and we’ll talk.’

  The two young men looked at one another in surprise, nervously wary. They’d obviously expected heavy-handed treatment from Daniel, severe bullying, and Daniel wondered what exactly Drabble had told them about this ‘Wilson of the Yard’.

  ‘I understand you saw the attack on Mr Edward Hardwicke in the town on Saturday evening.’

  ‘Yes.’ Carstairs nodded. He hesitated, then said, ‘We’re worried about getting into trouble. You know, for being there.’

  ‘The college doesn’t approve of us going into taverns,’ added Bingley.

  ‘Were you in a tavern?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘No!’ said Carstairs. ‘We were … outside.’

  ‘And it was early,’ added Bingley. ‘Not eight o’clock.’

  Immediately, Daniel realised what their fear was about. College authorities barred their students from what it called licentious activities: excessive drinking, fornication, and most things which young men came to Cambridge to seek out. Ironic, reflected Daniel, as Bingley and Carstairs were both at Trinity, the alma mater of Lord Byron, the most licentious of people, and Daniel was fairly sure Byron hadn’t kept to a teetotal and celibate lifestyle while he was a student. He was in no doubt that the two young men in front of him had gone to that area in search of excitement and forbidden pleasure, and were fearful that if they were uncovered, their places at Cambridge would be at risk, along with extreme parental displeasure. As Bingley had said, they needn’t have come to report what they saw to the police, but they had. As such, they deserved protection, but Daniel also wanted the truth of what they’d seen.