‘I hope you won’t accuse him of anything untoward,’ said Lonsdale. ‘His health is poor, and I’m not sure he’d have the strength to … How did Dickerson die, exactly?’
‘We’ll have to wait for Bradwell to tell us that,’ said Peters, and turned as his superior approached. ‘Superintendent Hayes, this is Alexander Lonsdale, who was so helpful to us earlier this year.’
Hayes’s handshake was warm and firm, giving Lonsdale the impression of confidence and strength. ‘You did good work. However, I recommend you leave Dickerson’s murder to us. Bradwell says the attack was frenzied, and I shouldn’t like to think of you in danger.’
His tone was avuncular, and Lonsdale was under the impression that his concern was genuine. Lonsdale nodded, although he would explore the matter if he wanted, especially if Roth was a suspect. The two of them might have grown apart since they had left Africa, but he knew that Roth was a gentle man, who would never hurt a soul.
‘Wait for me in the dinosaur section, Lonsdale,’ ordered Peters, when Hayes had gone. ‘You too, Miss Friederichs. I may have more questions for you once I’ve spoken with Roth.’
Lonsdale nodded agreement and, with Hulda at his side, returned to the public part of the museum. Someone was waiting by the door.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Voules. ‘I tried to get inside, but a policeman stopped me. Have you done something to precipitate all these official comings and goings?’
‘Yes,’ replied Hulda flippantly. ‘We found a new dinosaur.’
‘Really?’ breathed Voules, reminding Lonsdale that he always had been credulous, especially where Hulda was concerned.
She began to elaborate. ‘It was much newer than the others, leading Mr Owen to conclude that they still roam the plains of Argentina. They survive by scoffing cattle.’
Voules was agog, but Lonsdale was in no mood for jokes. He left them to it, and ascended the magnificent staircase, leaning his elbows on the rail at the top, to look down on the sea of heads in the main hall.
Here and there, reporters clustered around famous visitors, some of whom he recognized. One was Francis Galton, the eminent polymath, cousin to Darwin and one of the greatest thinkers of the age. Another was Clements Markham of the Royal Geographical Society, whose undercover mission to Peru was responsible for breaking the South American monopoly on malaria-preventing cinchona plants, and who had been the driving force behind Britain’s polar expeditions. Then there was Thomas Henry Huxley, known as ‘Darwin’s Bulldog’ for his support of the theory of evolution. And finally Samuel Baker, the African explorer, opponent of the slave trade, and ruthless slaughterer of big game on four different continents.
It appeared that Lord Carlingford was unwilling to return to the Palace empty-handed – he had cornered Owen, and was clamouring at him, fists clenched at his side. Fleetwood-Pelham was trying to stop him, although with scant success. All the while, Burnside hovered, tugging on the courtiers’ sleeves whenever there was a lull in the conversation.
After a while, there was a shout, followed by a concerted move to the explorers’ section, where Baker was to give a lecture on the elephants he had bagged. Carlingford and Owen did not follow the herd, nor did Burnside, who continued to linger in the hope of putting his case to a member of the Royal Household. Then someone joined Lonsdale at the railing. It was the courtier with the peculiarly shaped head – Fleetwood-Pelham.
‘Burnside won’t leave us alone,’ he said, seeing where Lonsdale was looking. ‘We’re afraid to leave the Palace these days, because if he catches so much as a glimpse of a courtier, he’s after us like a pack of hounds.’
‘Because his business is failing and he’s desperate,’ said Lonsdale, sympathetic to a man down on his luck – he had been in that position himself before The Pall Mall Gazette had given him a job.
‘I know, but there’s something unsavoury about performing a heroic act and then expecting to be rewarded for it,’ said Fleetwood-Pelham. ‘We’re grateful to him, but as far as the Queen is concerned, he did no more than his patriotic duty. She expects the same of all her subjects.’
‘Owen said she refused to open the museum,’ said Lonsdale, glancing at Fleetwood-Pelham. Close up, the courtier had kind eyes, and Lonsdale recalled that he had been popular with his troops when he had been in the army, although less so with his fellow officers, who disliked his flapping tongue. ‘Is it because Maclean’s on the loose, and she’s afraid he might shoot at her again?’
‘Not at all – she had a prior engagement with Monsieur Grévy, the French President; as Owen refused to change the day of the opening, she had no choice but to send her regrets. She was very disappointed, which is why we’re here – to arrange for her to visit when Grévy leaves today.’
‘Has Owen agreed to it yet?’
Fleetwood-Pelham smiled. ‘No, but no one denies Carly for long. He’ll have his way before we leave, and Her Majesty will have her tour today.’
Lonsdale was more interested in Maclean. ‘I can’t imagine he’ll remain free much longer, not when the whole country is looking for him.’
Fleetwood-Pelham grimaced. ‘I thought he’d have been caught already, and I’m amazed he’s still at large. His escape beggars belief. Broadmoor is meant to be a secure facility. I said as much to my friend Archbishop Tait, not a month ago.’
‘Tait was your friend? Then may I offer my condolences? I wrote his obituary in The PMG the day after he died.’
He did not add that it had been a difficult task, because the late archbishop had been a man of firm opinions, many of which had infuriated or alienated his colleagues. Lonsdale had not wanted to pen anything derogatory about a man who was not in a position to defend himself, but nor had he been willing to extol virtues that had not existed. In the end, the obituary had been what Stead had called a ‘masterpiece of obfuscation’.
‘He’ll be missed,’ said Fleetwood-Pelham sadly. ‘Especially by his daughters. It’s hard to lose a loved one so close to Christmas. But we’ve grown maudlin, so let’s talk about something more pleasant. How will you spend the holidays?’
Lonsdale told him that he would be entertaining his future in-laws, which would give him a foretaste of what it would be like to be married. He experienced a lurch of the disquiet that had been dogging him ever since he had woken up – the uncomfortable sense that his life was no longer completely under his control.
‘I’d have liked a wife,’ confided Fleetwood-Pelham wistfully, ‘but it was difficult to meet suitable ladies in the army. However, now I live in St James’s Palace – all Grooms-in-Waiting have rooms there – I hope to encounter some lasses who might accept a lonely old warrior.’
Lonsdale was not sure his current position would provide better hunting grounds than the military, but Fleetwood-Pelham was rubbing his hands in happy anticipation, and Lonsdale did not like to disillusion him. Fortunately, he was spared from devising a tactful reply, because Carlingford began to yell at Owen, obliging Fleetwood-Pelham to hurry away before there was an unedifying scene.
Not long after, Bradwell emerged from the staff area. He was in a hurry, his battered medical bag under his arm, and his coattails flying behind him. Never a tidy man, he appeared even more dishevelled than usual in the bright light of the museum.
‘I can’t tell you more than you know already,’ he said hastily, when he saw Lonsdale and Hulda. ‘Which is that Professor Dickerson looks to have been dead for at least a week, although you’ll appreciate that these things are never an exact science. However, there was an unused train ticket in his pocket, which suggests he never made the journey to Devon.’
‘Roth said he might’ve jumped off before it left,’ recalled Lonsdale. ‘He’d done it before, apparently, and he didn’t want to make the journey anyway.’
‘The clothes on the body were the same as the ones he wore on Thursday, suggesting that he returned to the museum the same day,’ Bradwell went on. ‘Peters believes he was killed here, as it would’ve been difficul
t to lug a body inside without being seen.’
‘How did he die?’ asked Hulda.
‘Multiple stab wounds.’ Bradwell frowned. ‘Surely you noticed? Neither of you are surgeons, but you still have an aptitude for anatomical matters.’
By that, thought Lonsdale wryly, he meant they did not swoon at the grisly things he did in the name of his so-called art.
‘We didn’t want to destroy evidence by poking about where we had no right to be,’ explained Hulda virtuously. ‘Can you tell us anything else?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Bradwell, ‘because a dark basement is no place for a proper examination, so I didn’t attempt one. I’ve asked for the body to be delivered to my domain, and I’ll assess it tomorrow. You may watch if you like. Come at noon.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hulda, although Lonsdale could think of better things to do on a Saturday and had intended to decline. ‘It will be our pleasure.’
Bradwell lowered his voice. ‘It seems that the professor smuggled cannibals into the city, and they killed him. A glance at the wounds told me they might well have been caused by a weapon of the kind on display in the Empire and Africa exhibition, which these cannibals use at home. Of course, that’s confidential information, so don’t repeat it.’
It was then that Lonsdale became aware of a shadow behind one of the exhibit cases and cursed himself for a careless fool when he saw the distinctive shape of Voules. And The Echo man had clearly heard every word.
Time ticked past, and it was mid-afternoon by the time Peters emerged. He was with Hayes, who nodded an absent greeting to the reporters as he passed, then went to Owen to give a personal report of his findings. In his wake were uniformed policemen and plain-clothes detectives, all murmuring to each other in low voices.
‘Do you have more questions for us?’ Hulda asked the inspector. ‘Or may we quiz you instead, beginning with who killed Dickerson?’
‘Owen says the cannibals did,’ replied Peters. ‘Roth says they didn’t, and Flower wants to keep an open mind.’
‘But what do you think?’ pressed Hulda.
Peters rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’m generally of the opinion that the simplest explanation is usually the right one. In this case, the cannibals went missing on the day the victim was last seen alive – it transpires that no museum staff saw Dickerson after Roth left him on the Devon train.’
‘Roth didn’t see him either, once he left Dickerson at Paddington Station,’ said Lonsdale quickly. ‘He was shocked to see him dead in the basement. I could tell.’
Peters inclined his head. ‘He’s not a suspect at this stage of the investigation – we’ll pursue the cannibals first. Of course, Bradwell doesn’t think any of the victim has been eaten, but we’ll know for certain tomorrow. Meanwhile, let’s hope no one else finds out that we have cannibals on the loose. It would put the city in a dreadful panic.’
‘Unfortunately, Voules overheard someone talking,’ said Lonsdale, tactfully not mentioning that it had been Bradwell. ‘He works for The Echo and won’t stay his hand. Or his pen. You saw what he wrote about Maclean’s escape, and he’ll incite the same panic over the Kumu.’
Peters swore softly under his breath. ‘Poor Dickerson! He’d have hated all this.’
Lonsdale frowned. ‘You speak as if you knew him personally.’
Peters nodded. ‘I met him once at the Albemarle Club. We conversed on topics as wide-ranging as botany, sport and music. He was very knowledgeable – kind and likeable, too.’
‘Tim Roth never really recovered from the sickness that nearly killed him in West Africa,’ said Lonsdale. ‘He told me that Dickerson was very understanding of his limitations. The professor doesn’t sound like the kind of man to excite a murderous attack.’
‘Especially one as ferocious as this,’ agreed Peters. ‘Indeed, its sheer brutality makes me want to look no further than the Kumu, for the simple reason that they’re fearsome warriors. At least, that’s what Owen told me.’
‘I doubt he knows,’ said Lonsdale. ‘His areas of expertise are zoology and palaeontology, and it sounded to me as if he didn’t want the Kumu here in the first place. And now his reservations are borne out.’
‘Should you decide to probe this matter yourselves,’ said Peters, ‘please be sensible. The culprit or culprits are extremely dangerous, no matter whom they transpire to be, so take the utmost care. And if you do uncover anything pertinent, tell me first – before publishing.’
‘Of course,’ said Hulda, offended that he should think otherwise; then she grinned mischievously. ‘What do we get in return? You sharing information with us?’
Even the lugubrious Peters was unable to suppress a smile. ‘I doubt Superintendent Hayes will agree to that. What you’ll get, Miss Impertinent, is me looking the other way while you interfere with a police enquiry. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Not really,’ replied Hulda audaciously. ‘Who else is on your list of suspects, besides the Kumu?’
‘No one – yet. However, Mr Roth informs me that the Kumu are devoted to Gilbert and Sullivan, and there’s a performance of Iolanthe at the Savoy this evening. Perhaps you’ll go and see if you can spot them. It shouldn’t be difficult.’
Lonsdale regarded him sceptically. ‘You don’t really think they’ll be there, but you feel obliged to follow what might be a lead, so you’re sending us, rather than wasting your officers’ time. Am I right?’
Peters laughed. ‘I’m afraid so. But if you go, I’ll be spared the ordeal myself – I’ve never forgiven Gilbert for his parody of the police in The Pirates of Penzance. You’d be doing me a favour.’
‘And in return?’ fished Hulda.
Peters laughed again. ‘You never fail to astound me! All right, in return, I’ll tell you something that you absolutely can’t publish yet. Do I have your word that you’ll treat the information with the utmost discretion?’
They nodded, and Peters took the precaution of ensuring that no one else was within earshot, especially Voules. Only when he was sure they were alone did he speak.
‘Dickerson isn’t the only prominent figure to be hacked to death this month. The Archbishop of Canterbury – Archibald Tait – didn’t die a natural death either.’
Lonsdale stared at him. ‘But the official bulletin said he died peacefully in his bed at Addington Palace. Are you claiming he was murdered and the fact hushed up?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Who was behind the cover-up?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘His family? The police? The Church?’
‘Not his family – they want the matter explored. Not the police either, because my colleagues from W Division were very eager to investigate. I attended the scene of the crime with them, but we’d barely finished writing our preliminary reports before we were told that a “higher authority” had “deemed the situation resolved”.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’ asked Hulda.
‘We assumed it meant that the culprit was a churchman who objected to some of Tait’s more dramatic reforms. After all, Tait did upset a lot of vicars.’
‘He did,’ agreed Lonsdale, recalling the thin line he had trodden between truth and defamation in the man’s obituary. Tait had not been a bad man – just one with intractable views, which had resulted in the Church suffering something of a battering under his command. Many clerics were relieved the post would now be in safer hands.
‘Are you saying that Tait and Dickerson were killed by the same individual?’ asked Hulda. ‘This rogue churchman?’
‘No one told us it was a churchman – it was a conclusion we drew with no evidence, although with hindsight, I rather think that was what this “higher authority” intended. And as to whether it’s the same culprit – well, that’s a question only Bradwell can answer, and we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out.’
‘But you’re inclined to suspect it is?’ pressed Lonsdale.
Peters nodded. ‘I only hope I’m not barred from seeing justice served with Dickerson, too.’
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‘What made you go to the scene of Tait’s death?’ asked Lonsdale curiously. ‘He died in Surrey, well outside your area of jurisdiction.’
‘Superintendent Hayes took me – Commissioner Henderson wanted his best detective involved, given the identity of the victim. We were both astonished to learn that the murder was to be quietly forgotten.’
Lonsdale eyed him thoughtfully, aware of the anger beneath the unruffled exterior. Ignoring an unlawful killing went against everything Peters believed, and telling the reporters about it was the only way he could rebel. In other words, he aimed to encourage The PMG to do what he had been forbidden.
‘We’ll find the truth,’ declared Hulda, eyes gleaming at the prospect of a challenge. ‘Just leave it to us.’
A brief smile of satisfaction flashed across Peters’s usually impassive features. ‘Thank you. However, you must promise to be careful. I have a feeling that something very dark and dangerous is in play.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Hulda airily. ‘But nothing we can’t manage.’
Lonsdale hoped she was right.
The D’Oyly Carte Opera Company was based in the new Savoy Theatre, off the Victoria Embankment. It was an imposing building of red brick and Portland stone, while the interior was all Renaissance style, with gold and pale yellow plasterwork, red boxes, and dark blue seats. The first public building in the world to be lit entirely by electricity, its 1,200 incandescent lamps were powered by a 120-horsepower generator. The electricity not only meant that the stage and seating areas were much cooler than they would be using gaslight, it also allowed new innovations in the performances; the most recent was electric wands for Iolanthe’s fairies, which had audiences gasping in amazement.
Lonsdale hurried home to change, then met Hulda outside the theatre. He felt his jaw drop when he saw her. Gone were her neatly practical skirts and jacket, and in their place was an evening dress of silk satin trimmed with tulle. The front was cream with pink trimming around the bodice and matching panels on the skirt. Her fair hair was released from its austere bun, and formed ringlets around her face. He was sharply reminded that she was very pretty when she had a mind to let it show.
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