by Jim Eldridge
Grimley shot Daniel a look of disapproval and was about to protest, but then Wainwright nodded.
‘Very well,’ he said. And he walked through the doorway into his study.
‘I wanted him in handcuffs,’ Grimley growled at Daniel in a whisper.
‘And you’ll have him like that,’ Daniel whispered back. ‘But this way, with a confession about why he did it.’
‘I get the credit?’ asked Grimley.
Daniel nodded. ‘You do.’
Grimley turned to the two constables. ‘You two stay outside this door and make sure no one comes in. If we want you, we’ll shout.’
Grimley and Daniel walked into the study and shut the door. Wainwright had already seated himself in a leather armchair by the window. Daniel lifted a wooden chair and carried it over to face the general, placed it down and sat.
‘I’ll stand,’ said Grimley. ‘This is your shout, Wilson. You ask the questions.’
Daniel nodded and turned his attention to Wainwright. ‘Kathleen Donlan, stabbed to death in the back in the museum. Eileen O’Donnell killed there, her face sliced off and her body hidden in the cellar,’ he said. ‘Both killed by you. And all because of Peterloo.’
Wainwright said nothing, just glared at Daniel.
‘Who was it you were protecting?’ asked Daniel. ‘Your father or your grandfather?’
‘My grandfather wasn’t at Peterloo,’ said Wainwright.
‘Father, then,’ said Daniel. ‘But Peterloo was almost eighty years ago. With respect, sir, if you are his son …’
‘I was a late arrival,’ said Wainwright. ‘My father was in his middle fifties when I was born. He married three times. My mother was his third wife.’
Daniel nodded. ‘I’m guessing it was the Irish aspect that triggered it,’ he said. ‘We’ve just returned from Ireland where we got part of the story. Enough to fill in the pieces.’
‘Damned Irish!’ said Wainwright venomously.
Daniel stayed silent, watching him, waiting.
Finally, Wainwright said, ‘About ten years ago I received a visit from an Irishman who called himself a journalist. His name was Fergal Walsh. He said he’d been researching a story about Peterloo and he had enough information to go into print. The story, he told me, featured my father, the late General Walter Wainwright,’ and here Wainwright glared defiantly at them. ‘A true soldier with one of the greatest war records ever known in the modern army. He led troops in Crimea at every major battle there: Alma, Balaklava, Inkerman, Sevastopol. He survived the disaster that was the Charge of the Light Brigade, and he did it with honour. He was a hero!’
‘But not at Peterloo,’ murmured Daniel.
Wainwright dropped his gaze. ‘The only blot on his record, and unknown to almost everyone. When he was in his early twenties he led a troop at Peterloo. Walsh had found evidence, including witness statements, that suggested my father had hacked down women and children at Peterloo, killed civilians.’
‘Did he show you this evidence?’
‘He did, and it seemed to bear out what he was saying. However, you must remember that Peterloo was a complete shambles from a military point of view, and my father was barely twenty and following orders.’
‘He was ordered to attack civilians?’ asked Daniel.
Wainwright fell silent. Then said, ‘It was obvious Walsh had come to blackmail me. Pay up or my father’s reputation as one of the bravest soldiers this country has ever produced would be tarnished for ever.’
‘Did you pay?’
‘No. One lesson I’ve learnt in life is that blackmailers never release their grip on you. They squeeze you till you are dry, and then, when no more money is forthcoming, they put the information out anyway.’
‘You sound as if you speak from personal experience,’ Daniel commented.
‘But not my own,’ said Wainwright. ‘It happened to a great friend of mine. He paid for years, until he could pay no more, and when his secret was made public, he shot himself. That would not happen here. I would not allow my father’s reputation to be ruined.’
‘How did you deal with it?’ asked Daniel, but he already knew the answer.
‘I silenced him,’ said Wainwright. ‘Then got rid of the body and destroyed the evidence he’d gathered. I thought that was the end of it, until that Irish girl and that other woman turned up, asking questions at the barracks. I may be retired, but I visit the barracks to meet up with old friends, and I was there when they arrived. I heard the accent and what she was asking about, and straight away I knew she must be a relative of Walsh’s.’
‘What did she actually ask?’
‘She said she wanted to find out who the soldiers had killed at Peterloo. I knew at once that somehow she’d got hold of what Walsh knew and had come to make trouble.’
‘So you killed her. You killed both women.’
‘My father’s reputation was at risk!’ insisted Wainwright. ‘He didn’t deserve that!’
‘A bayonet in the back?’ asked Daniel. ‘How did you know she was going to be at the museum that day? Did you find out where she was staying and follow them both to the museum?’
Wainwright shook his head. ‘I saw Wentworth, who told me he was due to have a meeting at the museum, but he had to cancel at the last minute. I told him I was going into town so I offered to deliver the note for him.
‘When I got to the museum I saw the young woman who’d called the day before, and I heard her asking someone there where she could find records about the army and Peterloo, so I knew she was on to things. I killed her. And as I was leaving I ran into the other woman on the stairs, the one who’d been with her when they called at the barracks. I knew I had to get rid of her as well. It was a matter of seconds. No one was around. A bash on the head and down to the cellar.’
‘Why cut off her face?’
‘To confuse things. Buy me time.’
‘Do you always carry a weapon when you go out?’
‘I’ve always worn a sheathed bayonet on my belt. It’s part of who I am. A soldier.’
‘A soldier who shoots at unarmed women,’ snapped Daniel. ‘That was you at the museum taking a shot at Miss Fenton, wasn’t it.’
‘I aimed to miss her, and I did!’ barked Wainwright. ‘I needed to frighten you both off.’
‘And the police uniform you wore so you could get away?’
Wainwright lowered his gaze and muttered awkwardly, ‘That was arranged for me.’
‘By RSM Bulstrode,’ said Daniel grimly. ‘I understand he has connections with the local police station.’
Wainwright glared at Daniel, angrily defensive. ‘I did what I did to protect my father’s good name! His reputation!’
‘All this was nothing to do with your father, or his reputation,’ said Daniel. ‘Kathleen Donlan hadn’t come to blackmail you, or anyone else. She had nothing to do with Walsh. Her grandfather had been a soldier at Peterloo and he’d killed civilians too. Afterwards, he fled back to Ireland, where he kept his secret shame. But before he died he asked that his family seek out the relatives of the people he’d killed and ask their forgiveness. That was why she was here. To find out the names of the people her grandfather had killed and ask their forgiveness. The other woman, Eileen O’Donnell, only came with her to the barracks to show her the way because she was a stranger in the city.’
Wainwright stared at him, then at Grimley, before saying, his voice full of begging, ‘I thought she was part of it.’
‘There was nothing to be part of, except someone carrying out a promise to ask forgiveness for something dreadful that had happened. You murdered two innocent women.’
‘And now you’re coming to the police station to pay for it,’ said Grimley. He produced a set of handcuffs.
‘Are those really necessary?’ demanded Wainwright.
‘It’s not often I get to arrest a murderer,’ said Grimley.
Wainwright rose to his feet as Grimley approached him.
‘It used to
be accepted that a gentleman was to be left alone with a glass of whisky and a pistol to deal with things in an honourable manner,’ said Wainwright.
‘You’re no gentleman,’ snapped Grimley. ‘You murdered two innocent, defenceless women and you’re going to hang for it. Now hold out your hands.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Their train had left Manchester behind some hours before, and now they were passing through Staffordshire, with fewer large towns, the train had emptied enough for them to have a compartment to themselves and they felt able to reflect on their recent experience.
‘A satisfactory outcome, I feel,’ said Daniel. ‘General Wainwright to be tried for the murders of Kathleen Donlan, Eileen O’Donnell and also Fergus Walsh. RSM Bulstrode being charged as an accessory. William Bickerstaff to be tried for attempted murder, which will go some way to getting justice for the cruel way he treated Etta Harkness. And Brigadier Wentworth sending a letter of apology to Mr Steggles once the involvement of Wainwright and Bulstrode was revealed, which means they will be resuming discussions about the army exhibition at the museum.’
‘And Jonty Hawkins is to retain his position at the museum,’ added Abigail.
‘Thanks to your power of persuasion, speaking on his behalf,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m still not sure that Mr Steggles will ever trust him completely again.’
‘He will,’ said Abigail confidently. ‘It was a moment of madness on Mr Hawkins’s part, driven by his rage and grief over what Bickerstaff had done to Etta. I’m sure it won’t happen again.’
‘A fascinating city, Manchester,’ mused Daniel. ‘A clash of contradictions: the old and the new crashing together.’
‘With the new rising to dominance,’ added Abigail. ‘And not just the technological revolutions. With social reformers pushing for change, I’m sure they will create better living conditions for the poor, the mill workers. It will be interesting to come back to Manchester in a few years’ time and see what changes have been made.’
‘And when we do we’ll time our visit for this Christie Cup you and Creighton talked about,’ said Daniel. ‘See the rugby squad in action. Who knows, by then perhaps Jonty Hawkins will have abandoned poetry and returned to the pack.’
Abigail looked out of the window at the countryside, the fields and the rolling hills.
‘I think someday I’d like to live in the country,’ she said. ‘Away from the smoke and hustle and bustle of the city.’
Daniel looked thoughtful as he considered this. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps it’s time for a change.’
Abigail looked at him in surprise. ‘Daniel Wilson leave London?’ she said, shocked. ‘Never! It’s part of you.’
‘Surely life is about adapting,’ said Daniel. ‘Broadening our horizons. You said that’s what’s happening with Manchester, a city changing and adapting so it will flourish. Isn’t that the same for us?’
Abigail smiled at him and took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. ‘My heavens, Daniel, you’re turning into a philosopher.’
‘Oh no, my love. I leave things academic to you. I’m just a copper.’
She squeezed his hand again. ‘You’re much more than that, Daniel Wilson.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank everyone at Allison & Busby, especially my wonderful editor, Kelly Smith, and Susie Dunlop, who commissioned the Museum Mystery series. It may be my name on the cover, but it has been a team effort; they have guided me gently through the creative process of producing them. My thanks also go to Jane Conway-Gordon, whose advice and guidance as I switched my career from scriptwriter and children’s author to adult crime fiction has been like gold dust, worth more than I can say.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JIM ELDRIDGE was born in central London towards the end of World War II, and was blown up (but survived) during attacks by V2 rockets on the Euston/Kings Cross area of London where he lived. He left school at sixteen and did a variety of jobs, before training as a teacher. In 1971 he sold his first sitcom (starring Arthur Lowe) to the BBC and had his first book commissioned. Since then he has had over 100 books published, with sales of over three million copies. He lives in Kent with his wife.
jimeldridge.com
By Jim Eldridge
Murder at the Fitzwilliam
Murder at the British Museum
Murder at the Ashmolean
Murder at the Manchester Museum
COPYRIGHT
Allison & Busby Limited
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First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2020.
This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2020.
Copyright © 2020 by JIM ELDRIDGE
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–2454–3
