“When can I see her?” Louise asked anxiously. Caroline raised questioning eyebrows at Beech and he nodded.
“I’ll take you up there now,” said Caroline. “She’ll be awake soon.” She led Louise down the corridor, with Beech trailing behind.
As they came through the reception area, Beech could see that one of the Whitechapel men was there, accompanied by a uniformed policeman.
“Chief Inspector!” he said, “Message from Mr Tollman!”
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” was Beech’s response, then he turned to Caroline. “I’m going to have to break the rules of this wonderful establishment,” he said, pointing to the sign that said NO MEN ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT, “as Mrs Wood has now been charged by me and will have to be taken to Scotland Yard. So, this policeman here will have to accompany you upstairs.”
Caroline said she understood. Beech summoned the uniformed police officer and took him over to a quiet corner to explain that he had charged Louise Wood with double murder and, once she had seen her daughter, she was to be taken down to Scotland Yard to the cells and processed. Beech would summon transport to be waiting outside the hospital. The policeman nodded, and Beech turned back to the man from Whitechapel for his report.
“Mr Tollman said that Albert Wood is cornered in University College in some museum. He is trapped and there is no way out for him. Tollman is going to try and negotiate the lady’s release and he says could you please come, and could you requisition a rifle and ammunition from King’s Cross Police Station for Constable Rigsby.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A Modest Little Museum
Albert Wood had now gone beyond desperation as he realised that he was cornered, with no way out. He had chosen the wrong staircase, thinking that it would lead him to a floor where he could traverse the building and go out of an exit that was not being watched by police. He had misjudged and ended up at the top of the university building, under a bank of skylights, in the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology. Now he was sitting on the floor, with the woman he had kidnapped, looking down the hallway at the stairwell, where the police had gathered. And as if that wasn’t enough of a humiliation, he was being talked to by Arthur Tollman – a detective he had always loathed.
Wood looked around at all the bizarre exhibits in their glass cases. There were rows and rows of glass cases, with endless, neatly labelled pots… pots as far as the eye could see.
“Who cares about bloody pots!” he said loudly, to no one in particular.
“I expect the man who dug them all up cares about them very much,” Tollman’s voice echoed from the stairwell.
“You’ve always got a bloody answer for everything, haven’t you, Tollman?” Wood said wearily.
Tollman said nothing in return, realising that he was getting on Wood’s nerves.
Mabel was lying on the wooden floor, gratefully. She was exhausted and had curiously gone beyond fear. She knew that her wrist was broken, and the pain was keeping her alert. She felt frustrated that her usually analytical and scientific brain had let her down, in a situation that had needed quick thinking, physical agility and strength. Those things had always been beyond her capabilities. Even as a child she had been slow and methodical and had loathed sport. She decided to speak.
“Could I have a glass of water, please?” she said quietly, and Wood looked at her with surprise.
“Well! Aren’t you the posh one! What are you? You’re too posh to be a nanny.” Wood looked at her with suspicion.
“I’m very thirsty.” She was not going to engage him in conversation.
“D’you hear that, Tollman?” called Wood. “Her Highness here says she’s thirsty and she wants some water. I think that’s down to you, mate,” he laughed.
“We’re on it!” Tollman called back and Wood could hear some muffled exchanges on the stairs and then some movement.
“So, you’re working out of the Yard these days, Tollman,” said Wood. “What’s it like, working at headquarters?”
“It’s all right.” Tollman began to feel a small amount of hope that Wood was co-operating. “I’ve worked at HQ before – when I was in Special Branch.”
“Oh, of course,” Wood said sarcastically, “I forgot what a high flyer you were. Arthur Tollman, he who knows everything and everyone.”
Tollman didn’t rise to the bait. One of the Whitechapel men came back with a curious-looking leather water bottle, with two metal cups, all attached to a leather belt.
“We’ve got the water and cups,” called Tollman. “Are you going to let one of my men bring it to you?”
“As long as it’s not you!” was the answer. “I don’t trust you, Tollman. You’re a devious bastard. You send a youngster, stripped down to his vest. No jacket where he can hide a handgun. I want to see his hands above his head.”
Tollman nodded at a young copper. “You heard him. Take everything off. Leave your trousers and vest on. And, lad,” he said in his sternest voice, “no bloody heroics. That woman in there is in a bad way, Wood knows that there is no way out. He could start shooting if you make him nervous. Just take the water and put it down.” The man nodded. “Coming up!” yelled Tollman.
The young policeman picked up the water bottle and cups and gingerly raised himself up, with his hands above his head. Then he walked up the steps and into the corridor.
Wood pointed his gun straight at the policeman as he slowly advanced.
“Bring it to the doorway, put it on the floor and then back away.”
The policeman did as he was told and put the water bottle and cups on the ground in the open doorway.
Wood looked at them and laughed. “What the hell is this? Something that fell off the back of a camel?”
“This is the Petrie Museum of Egyptology. That water bottle likely belongs to Professor Petrie. Something he takes to Arabia with him when he’s digging in the desert,” Tollman replied.
“Get away!” called back Wood, as he scrabbled for the bottle, all the while keeping his eye and his gun fixed on the retreating policeman. “I might keep this as a souvenir!”
Wood unscrewed the top of the leather flask and poured some water into a cup, which he gave to Mabel. She drank greedily and mumbled, “Thank you.”
Wood gave her a funny look. “Like I said before, you’re no nanny,” he declared, in a menacing tone of voice. “No, you’re so posh, you even say thank you to the man who’s got a gun trained on you. So, come on, love. Stop messing me about and tell me what you really are.”
There was a silence while Mabel weighed up her options, then realised she had none, so she said quietly, “I’m a pharmacist.”
“A what?”
“I’m someone who makes medicines…”
“I know what a pharmacist is! I’m not stupid! So why were you dressed up as a nanny and pushing a baby carriage?” There was a silence and Wood’s face changed from curiosity to fury. “Tollman!” he bawled. “You’ve gone back on your principles!”
“What?!” Tollman was genuinely confused.
“I remember…” shouted Wood, “I remember you making some speech to us all when we were preparing to police a suffragette march… and in that speech you said that women would work in the police force over your dead body. So why is this bloody woman here, sitting next to me, working as part of your team?”
Tollman’s heart sank. Wood had worked out that Mabel was working undercover and now he truly feared for her life.
***
When Beech arrived with the rifle, he stepped out of the car to find Rigsby pacing up and down, reading the riot act to his mother and aunt. Also, some small, middle-aged woman was constantly buzzing around Billy, tugging at his sleeve and trying to get his attention.
“What’s happening, Constable Rigsby?” he asked. “Anything I can help with?”
“Yes!” the smal
l woman said forcefully. “There most certainly is!” She introduced herself as Margaret Murray, assistant to Professor Petrie and the woman in charge of the museum currently being occupied by the fugitive. “The museum has, literally, only just opened. The artefacts in there represent several lifetimes of dedicated work. Frankly, I’m terrified at the damage that may be caused by this madman in there.”
“Madam, this madman, as you call him, has a female hostage and is threatening to kill her. We will do our best to avoid any damage, but we cannot guarantee it. What is more important is saving a life.”
Margaret Murray looked embarrassed and dwindled into a few ineffective protests but had to content herself with waiting and watching, like everyone else.
Beech turned to Rigsby. “You seemed to be having words with your family, when I arrived. Is there a problem?”
Billy made a sound of exasperation, “No, sir, no problem – except that I can’t get them to go home. Women, eh?”
Beech smiled and handed over the rifle. “What’s your plan, Rigsby?”
“Matey has boxed himself in. He’s sitting on the floor in a room opposite the stairwell. Tollman and the boys are sitting on the stairs. He’s getting desperate and he could do something stupid. We think that Miss Summersby has broken her wrist…”
“Oh God! Poor Mabel.” Beech was devastated that things were going so badly.
“Anyway, sir,” said Billy confidently, as he held up the rifle, “I am taking this up on to the roof. The whole room where Wood is holed up is in the roof up there…” – he pointed at the south end of the building, past the great dome over the entrance – “and it is covered with skylights. I should be able to pick off Albert Wood without him even knowing I’m there. It will have to be a kill shot though, sir. We can’t risk him being wounded and still being able to shoot.”
“And you can do that, Rigsby?” Beech was surprised.
Billy grinned. “Army Rifle Association medallist four years running, sir. I can do it.”
“What about your hand?” Beech looked at Billy’s rigid left hand, covered in its usual black glove.
“As I tried to tell the Army when they discharged me, it doesn’t make any difference. It’s not my trigger hand. But they wouldn’t listen.”
Beech agreed to the plan and Billy marched over to his mother and aunt, planted a kiss on both of their cheeks and told them to keep quiet, no matter what they saw. “Mabel’s life depends on it,” he said firmly. Then he tapped the professor’s assistant on the shoulder and she led him into the building to show him where to access the roof.
About five minutes later, Beech saw a hatch open near the dome, and Rigsby appeared. He slung the rifle across his back, lay down on the roof and began pulling himself slowly forwards, using his forearms to drag himself forward. At that point, Beech decided to go inside and see if Tollman needed any support.
***
“Anyone’s entitled to change their mind, Albert,” said Tollman, in response to Wood calling him a hypocrite. “Forget the suffragettes. What they did is history now. It’s what women are doing now that’s important. Look at them, man. All over London – taking over the jobs left empty by men who’ve gone off to war. You can’t deny that they’re doing a good job.”
“Ach!” Wood was scornful. “Tisn’t right. Women should be at home, looking after a husband and kids! What happens when all these blokes come back from war to find women have taken over their jobs, eh? What happens then?” He was getting more belligerent by the minute and Tollman decided that he should try to end this discussion.
“You and I both know that a lot of those men are never coming back, Albert. The Prime Minister said in February that over one hundred thousand men were killed in the first six months of the war. That’s just the British and those figures were for four months ago, before the Germans started gassing our troops in April, so I can’t imagine how many more have been killed.”
There was a silence while Wood digested this, and then he said, “Yeah, well, I don’t suppose I’ll be around either. You’ll have me hanging at the end of a rope, won’t you, Tollman?”
Beech had arrived and was crouching next to Tollman. He decided to speak.
“Mr Wood, this is Chief Inspector Beech…”
Wood laughed, “Oh, we’ve brought the heavy brigade in now, have we? Pleased to meet you, sir. I would salute but I’m not in the police force any more, as you very well know.”
“What you were saying earlier, about hanging,” Beech continued. “It may not be so. The courts have, er, been advised to, er, limit death sentences during time of war. Convicts are more useful making things in prison to contribute to the war effort.” Beech was being creative. He had a feeling that someone had mentioned such a policy at a headquarters meeting but it had been nothing more than a proposal.
Wood gave another sardonic laugh. “Nice try, Chief Inspector, but you and I both know that there’s nothing the public loves more than a good hanging. I’m for the end of a rope and I know it. The thing is…” – he raised his voice – “I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb… so which one of you am I going to take with me? Eh? The lady here? Or one of you coppers? Or both?”
“Don’t be hasty, Wood! Think about it, man. What about your daughter?” Beech added.
“Is she alive?”
“Very much so.”
Beech heard Wood panting, presumably trying not to shed any tears.
“Maybe it would be better if she had died,” Wood said. ‘Cos she’s going to spend a long time in prison and her mother and me won’t be there for her.”
***
Billy had crawled into a position where he could see the back of Wood, who was facing towards the open doorway. He could also see Mabel, who had given in to her pain and was now lying prone on the floor. He realised that he would have to compensate for the bullet going through the glass in the skylight and make the shot good, before Wood had a chance to react and shoot. But it was a short distance and the bullet, he reasoned, should not be too affected by passing through glass. There was no way of opening the skylights from outside. He would just have to risk it.
To get a decent shot meant that he would have to stand up. He had a ten-round box magazine on the rifle, which was standard Lee-Enfield, but he doubted whether he would be able to get off a second shot.
He slowly stood up and balanced himself. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and looked down the sight, balancing the barrel in between the first finger and thumb of his rigid gloved hand. As he adjusted his aim and applied his finger to the trigger, Wood appeared to have staggered to his feet. He could hear him shouting but he couldn’t quite make out the words. Billy realised that Wood was aiming his handgun straight down the corridor.
***
“So, I’ve decided to take you with me, Tollman, you bastard!” Wood shouted angrily. “I’ve decided to rid the world of one know-it-all copper who gets right up my nose and always has! So, come out from your hiding place, Detective Sergeant Tollman! Don’t be a coward, man. Give your life instead of the lady’s here.”
Tollman was about to stand up, despite Beech trying to drag him down, when suddenly there was a sound of a shot, almost simultaneous with shattering glass and a thud.
“Man down!” shouted Rigsby, from up on the roof, and Beech thought he could hear some cheering and whistling from outside the building. All the policemen stood up to see Albert Wood lying, dead, face down on the wooden floor of the museum with a perfect bullet hole in the back of his neck.
“Well done, lad!” shouted a grateful Tollman, who thought he had been about to face his Maker, and he ran to help Mabel.
Beech looked up at Rigsby, standing, rifle in hand, on the roof. The skylight had shattered from the close range of the bullet and shards of glass were scattered all over the display cases of precious Egyptian artefacts. But no harm seemed to have
been done. “Yes, well done, Constable Rigsby,” he called up and smiled. Billy gave a casual salute and disappeared.
Mabel was carried downstairs by one of the Whitechapel men, even though she protested that there was nothing wrong with her legs, and, once downstairs, was taken by police car to the Women’s Hospital, accompanied by Sissy.
Elsie declared herself ‘worn out’ by the ‘goings-on’ of the day. Timmy was exhausted, as the little dog had been walked for the best part of eight hours, and he had slept through all of Billy’s heroics on the roof.
Margaret Murray, the keeper of the Petrie Museum collection, was almost in tears with relief that the precious artefacts were unharmed, save for one pot shard that had detached itself from its display position, fallen to the bottom of the case and cracked.
“Bloody thing was already broken, wasn’t it?” muttered Tollman under his breath to Billy. He was not a man who was impressed by the detritus of antiquity.
The men from Whitechapel departed, with a promise from Beech that they would all be commended in his report to their divisional chief inspector.
Students and staff began returning, hesitantly, to the building. Some of them, those who had watched events from a distance in the quadrangle, paused to pat Billy on the back as he retrieved his boots from the bottom of the staircase.
A body wagon arrived to remove the corpse of Albert Wood and another vehicle arrived to transport those remaining to Scotland Yard. Elsie and Timmy were loaded in, with the promise that the vehicle would carry on to Belgravia. As they all sat in weary silence, Beech suddenly remembered, with a jolt, that Victoria was still at Scotland Yard, supervising Lady Patrick and, hopefully, taking note of anything the woman said or did.
When Beech finally rescued Victoria from the depths of the Yard cells, he was profusely apologetic and reassured her that everyone else was safe and sound.
“Did she say anything?” he asked, indicating towards the cell where Lady Patrick appeared now to be taking a nap.
A Death in Chelsea Page 23
