Murder at the Natural History Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Perhaps not, but he and Lady Fortescue have got it in for Miss Scott and are trying to get rid of her so that Watling can replace her. That strikes me as wrong. So, a visit to him letting him know – in the most subtle way possible – that we have suspicions about the death of Mr Hardwicke might make him back off.’

  ‘It might have the opposite effect,’ cautioned Abigail. ‘It might make him even more determined in his efforts to get her job.’

  ‘In which case we’ll be watching and we’ll snaffle him.’

  ‘It’s not what we’re being paid for,’ Abigail said.

  ‘No, but it’s about doing the right thing,’ Daniel replied. ‘Say he did murder Hardwicke, is it right that he gets away with it?’

  ‘No, but proving that is going to be difficult, and we don’t have the resources the police have, and they found there was no case.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Daniel. ‘But it rankles with me when there’s injustice done to good people and the perpetrators get away with it.’

  ‘You remind me of those old time Knights Errant, the figures of chivalry,’ Abigail mused fondly.

  ‘Knight Irritant might be a better description,’ said Daniel. ‘I certainly want to irritate Watling enough to make him stop his persecution of Miss Scott.’

  ‘You have a soft spot for her?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘I admire her, but not in any romantic fashion,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s just that she seems defenceless in the face of attacks from Watling and Lady Fortescue.’

  ‘I think you’re misjudging her,’ said Abigail. ‘I believe she’s much tougher than you think.’ She smiled. ‘Still, I agree with you about confronting Mr Watling. However, as he doesn’t approve of women, do you think it’s a good idea for me to be there?’

  ‘I think it’s an excellent idea,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m counting on your presence unsettling him, rattling him in some way.’

  Their journey had now brought them back to the Natural History Museum, and they made their way in and through the large Grand Hall, then up the stairs to Miss Scott’s office. The curator was at her desk, going through papers, when Daniel and Abigail knocked and entered.

  ‘Mr Wilson, Miss Fenton. Do you have news?’

  ‘We do,’ said Abigail.

  Scott gestured them to two chairs.

  ‘Two pieces of news,’ added Abigail. ‘First, Dolly and Tess Tilly were taken into Scotland Yard for questioning early this morning.’

  ‘Dolly and Tess Tilly,’ exclaimed Scott. ‘Why?’

  ‘Superintendent Armstrong believes they were the ones who murdered Raymond Simpson.’

  ‘Absolute nonsense,’ said Scott.

  ‘We agree, and fortunately we were able to prove they were not the culprits, so they’ve just been released,’ said Abigail. ‘However, we were only able to do that by identifying someone else as a more likely suspect.’

  ‘Oh? Who?’

  ‘One of your trustees, Mason Radley.’

  Scott stared at them, bewildered.

  ‘Mason?’ She shook her head. ‘No, that’s impossible. I know him. He’s incapable of that kind of violence.’

  ‘We’re afraid the evidence points to it being him,’ said Daniel. ‘It appears he was being blackmailed by Simpson about the deaths of some of his plantation workers at the hands of hired thugs. Simpson got hold of the letter naming Radley’s managers in India as being responsible for the deaths. And on the morning when Simpson was killed, we now know that Radley was here at the museum at that time, from what Mr Turner said about seeing him.’

  ‘But … h-have you spoken to him?’ stammered Scott. ‘There could be some explanation.’

  ‘We tried to see him, but we discovered that he’s vanished. Possibly fled the country, according to his housekeeper, and gone to India. But the police are checking that. There is a possibility that he’s still in the country and this claim of him going to India is a smokescreen intended to put us off looking for him. So, we wondered if you could suggest any places where he might hide out. Other properties he may have in addition to his house in Marylebone. Friends in London or the country he might be staying with.’

  Scott stared at them, obviously shocked.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Mason Radley is the last person I would have thought of. He’s such a gentle man.’ She gave a deep and unhappy sigh. ‘But, from the evidence, it must be true.’ She looked at them and shook her head. ‘As for knowing where he might be, I’m afraid I can’t help. I don’t spend time with him socially, we just meet at museum events: trustee meetings and exhibition launches.’

  ‘Is he married?’ asked Abigail. ‘Does he have family?’

  ‘He’s a widower,’ said Scott. ‘His wife died two years ago, I believe. As far as I know, he has no family living. His parents are dead, and I understand he was an only child, so there are no siblings.’

  ‘Aunts and uncles? Cousins?’ hazarded Abigail.

  Again, Scott shook her head. ‘If there are, I’ve never heard mention of them. But then, his business takes up all of his time and what little there is left he devotes to the museum.’ She looked at them, quizzically. ‘How much of this is common knowledge? About Mr Radley being a suspect?’

  ‘So far only we and the police are aware of it,’ said Daniel. ‘Although, as there’s a search on for him, I don’t know how long it will be before the news becomes public.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if, for the moment, we keep this to ourselves,’ said Scott. ‘For the reputation of the museum. Mr Radley is a highly respected member of the trustees.’

  Abigail nodded. ‘We understand.’

  ‘However, be aware that some newspaper reporter might pick up the story and want to write about it,’ advised Daniel. ‘Most reporters make a point of paying serving police officers for snippets of information on their rivals.’

  ‘If they do, I’ll make sure all enquiries are referred to me, and I’ll deal with them.’

  ‘What will you say?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘I’ll tell them that at the moment everything is speculation and we don’t respond to gossip.’

  ‘It won’t stop them publishing the story,’ warned Daniel. ‘I’d advise offering them a sop. Tell them that at the moment it’s all speculation, but promise them that, as long as they respect the museum and refrain from writing their story, as soon as anything is confirmed, you’ll give them an exclusive interview with the full story.’

  ‘I can’t give them all an exclusive interview,’ pointed out Scott.

  ‘You give them separate interviews,’ said Daniel. ‘They’ll put their own individual touch to what you say to them.’

  Scott nodded. ‘I’d better alert Mrs Smith,’ she said. ‘She’ll be the first one who gets asked any questions.’

  Inspector Feather looked up as the door of his office opened and Sergeant Cribbens walked in.

  ‘How did you get on at Paddington nick?’ asked Feather. ‘You were longer than I expected, so I’m guessing you turned something up.’

  ‘I did,’ said Cribbens. ‘It turns out the Tilly women did know about their Tom and Raymond Simpson.’

  Feather frowned, his brow darkening showing his concern as he asked: ‘Are you sure?’

  Cribbens nodded. ‘My mate, Jim Bunn, he’s a sergeant there, remembered the case and he told me about how a neighbour of the Tillys, a Mrs Henrietta Chapman who lives on the floor below them, had reported Tom and this bunch of lads for what they did on the stairs of the house outside her door.’

  ‘And what did they do?’

  ‘According to Mrs Chapman they were getting up to homosexual acts.’

  ‘On the stairs?’ said Feather, incredulous. ‘Anyone could have seen them.’

  ‘They did. This Mrs Chapman.’

  Cribbens then related Jim Bunn’s story about warning the lads and threatening them. ‘But as he had no proof except what Mrs Chapman said she saw, and it would be her word against theirs, he said there wasn’t a lot he could do. Bu
t his warning led to Tom Tilly leaving the house, and then all the messing about stopped.’

  ‘And you’re sure Raymond Simpson was involved?’

  Cribbens nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Me and Jim Bunn went to see Mrs Chapman, and when I mentioned Raymond Simpson she got furious. It seems she knew him by sight because she’d seen him taking an apple from a display at the local grocer’s and she gave the alarm, but he got away before the grocer could lay a hand on him. The grocer said to her, “That’s that Raymond Simpson. He’s a bad lot. I had cause to find out his name when he stole an apple from me before. If I knew where he lived I’d send the police round. He should be in jail.” She recognised Simpson as one of the lads who used to hang around on the stairs with Tom Tilly and the others.’

  Feather looked thoughtful. ‘Did you see Dolly and Tess Tilly while you were at the house?’

  Cribbens looked at him, puzzled. ‘How could I? They’re locked up here.’

  Feather shook his head. ‘The super ordered them released.’

  ‘Why? I thought he was dead sure they were the ones.’

  ‘He was, until some new evidence turned up.’

  ‘About the Tilly women?’

  ‘About a new suspect who turns out to be a more likely candidate. A man called Mason Radley, a trustee of the Natural History Museum who was being blackmailed by Simpson. Radley was at the museum at the time when Simpson’s body was found, and now he’s vanished. Gone abroad, so his housekeeper says.’

  ‘Done a runner.’

  ‘It certainly looks like it.’ He gave a sigh. ‘But now, thanks to this latest from Mrs Chapman, it looks like we may have let the Tilly women go too soon.’ He got up and reached for his overcoat. ‘So, let’s go and have another word with them.’

  ‘Are you going to tell the super?’ asked Cribbens.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Feather. ‘His day’s been upset once already. If it turns out it was them after all and we let them go, he’s not going to be in a good mood.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alf Dobbs returned home from his weekly inspection of his properties to find a letter on his doormat in handwriting he didn’t immediately recognise. Curious, he opened it. It was from Mrs Simpson.

  Dear Mr Dobbs,

  I am now able to have my furniture and possessions. Please have them delivered to the address below on Saturday, when I shall be here to receive them. The money I paid you should be enough to cover it, but if the cost is extra, please advise and I will pay the carter.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mrs Nora Simpson

  It was short notice. Today was Thursday, and it was already late in the afternoon. However, the address she gave was in Brompton Road, not too far away from her old house, so he was sure he could find a carter to handle the removal.

  Dobbs weighed up his options. He could do as she instructed him and possibly add a couple of pounds to the carter’s charge for his trouble, or he could do as that Scotland Yard detective had ordered him and pass the information on to the police. He was well aware what his civic duty told him his decision should be, but civic duty didn’t pay bills and put food on his table. But then again, disobeying instructions from the police could be dangerous. Especially because the instructions came from Scotland Yard, not just the local cop shop.

  He needed to think about it. In the meantime, he put the letter back in its envelope and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. The first thing he needed to do was make an arrangement with a reliable carter. It was short notice, but Nora Simpson was paying for it.

  Miss Scott knocked at the door of her secretary’s office and entered to find Mrs Smith putting on her coat.

  ‘Ah, good, I caught you before you went home,’ she said.

  ‘I was coming in to tell you I was off,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘As I always do.’

  Scott caught the tone of defensiveness and slight reproof, and gave her a reassuring smile.

  ‘I know, and for that I’m very grateful,’ she said. Inwardly, she thought, But you weren’t here when I called in an hour ago. Nor when I called again twenty minutes later. For the first time, Scott began to wonder about her secretary’s absences. There had been that recent occasion when she’d gone to the British Museum to deliver some papers and had been gone for most of the day. And there were other occasions when Mrs Smith seemed to have disappeared for a length of time, only to reappear later and be found at her desk. I need to keep an eye on her, she decided. Something is going on.

  Aloud, she said: ‘Mrs Smith, I have some news that is quite shocking. It seems that one of the trustees is suspected of being the person who killed Raymond Simpson.’

  Smith stared at her, as horror-struck as Miss Scott had been when she was first told.

  ‘One of the trustees? Who?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say at the moment. I’m telling you in case you’re approached by anyone, particularly anyone from the newspapers, asking about it. If that happens, please refer them to me.’

  ‘But … why would one of the trustees want to kill Raymond Simpson?’

  Scott hesitated, weighing up how much to tell her. Then she decided she owed her secretary at least that much. ‘It seems that Simpson may have been blackmailing them. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that, and even that must remain between us.’

  ‘I understand,’ Smith assured her. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Not at the moment, but I just thought you ought to know.’

  Mrs Smith nodded, but Scott noticed that this latest news had rattled her secretary very much indeed by the way she stood quivering, her face white.

  There is definitely something going on, thought Scott, as she headed back to her own office.

  Feather and Cribbens knocked again at the door of the Tillys’ home, but there was still no answer.

  ‘I’d have thought they’d have been back by now,’ said Feather.

  ‘Maybe they’ve done a runner,’ suggested Cribbens. ‘Everyone else connected with this case seems to have: Erskine Petter, Mrs Simpson, that trustee bloke.’

  ‘I hope not,’ grunted Feather. ‘We’ll have a word with your Mrs Chapman downstairs, see if she’s seen them.’

  Mrs Chapman opened her door at their knock and looked out at them through the narrow gap, before opening it wider when she saw who it was.

  ‘Mrs Chapman, I’m Inspector Feather from Scotland Yard. You’ll remember Detective Sergeant Cribbens.’

  ‘Yes, he was here earlier,’ said Mrs Chapman. ‘With Sergeant Bunn. They was asking me about Tom Tilly and Raymond Simpson.’ She leant expectantly towards the two policemen and asked eagerly: ‘I know you arrested them two upstairs. Have they confessed? Did they do it? Kill the Simpson boy?’

  ‘The murder of Raymond Simpson is still being investigated,’ said Feather. ‘Mrs and Miss Tilly weren’t arrested; they came voluntarily to answer some questions about the case. In fact, they were released not long ago.’

  The expression on Mrs Chapman’s face showed her extreme disappointment.

  ‘Released?’ she echoed, bitterly.

  ‘Yes, and we’d like to talk to them some more, but there’s no answer at their door. Did you see them return?’

  She glared at him. ‘What do you think I am, a snoop who has nothing better to do than watch what my neighbours are up to?’ she demanded.

  ‘No—’ began Feather, but he was cut off by the angry woman.

  ‘I’m a busy, law-abiding woman, I am. Someone who’s always done her best to help the police, but did I get any thanks for that? No. If you’ve let ’em go it means you’ve been taken in by them, like everyone else seems to be. Well, I’m washing my hands of it. As far as I’m concerned you can sling your hook.’

  With that, she closed the door firmly, but not before giving them a final glare.

  ‘Well, that’s told us,’ said Feather, ruefully.

  ‘What are we going to do, sir? Wait and see if they turn up?’

  ‘
No,’ said Feather. ‘With luck, they’ve maybe just gone to get some shopping. If so, we know where they’ll be tomorrow morning first thing. It’ll be an early start for us, Sergeant. Six o’clock at the Natural History Museum.’

  William Watling’s house was one of an expensive-looking terrace of grand houses in Bayswater, with a classical portico in Portland stone framing the dark oak front door. Daniel pulled the bell-pull, and the door was opened by a maid wearing a cotton cap and a white apron over her dark dress.

  ‘Yes?’ she enquired.

  ‘Is Mr William Watling at home?’ asked Daniel. ‘My name is Mr Daniel Wilson, and this is Miss Abigail Fenton. We’d like to talk to him about the Natural History Museum.’

  ‘Who is it, Millie?’ boomed a loud voice from inside the house.

  ‘It’s a Mr Wilson and a Miss Fenton, sir,’ called Millie.

  The figure of William Watling appeared behind the maid. He was tall, neatly and expensively dressed in formal wear, even though he was in his own home. His dark hair was pulled back from his slightly flushed face and kept in place with pomade. The same, or something similar, had also been applied to his large bushy moustache, which curled back from his mouth and across his cheeks to merge with his hair.

  ‘I’m Watling,’ he snapped, his tone and posture aggressive and challenging. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’re sorry to disturb you at home, Mr Watling, but we’ve been asked by the Natural History Museum to look into recent disturbing events that have taken place there,’ said Daniel, calmly. ‘A dinosaur skeleton being smashed, and a murder.’

  ‘So?’ growled Watling. ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with me.’

  ‘We’re investigating the possibility that it may be part of a wider vendetta against the museum,’ continued Daniel. ‘Following as these events do on the recent tragic demise of Mr Danvers Hardwicke, the late curator of the museum.’

  Watling stared at them, and there was no mistaking his anger and indignation.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he demanded. ‘There was nothing deliberate about that. It was an accident. I know because I was with him when it happened.’