Murder at the Natural History Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s what we’ve been told. Do you mind if we come in and discuss it?’

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ barked Watling. ‘Please leave.’

  ‘Indeed, we will, Mr Watling. But we just want to ascertain the facts from the one person who was there: yourself. He fell into the canal, we understand.’

  ‘Yes. The towpath on that stretch of canal is notoriously unstable.’

  ‘But you didn’t jump in to try and save him?’

  They could tell that Watling was having difficulty controlling his temper at their continued questions, but he forced himself to maintain his decorum. ‘No,’ he told them curtly through gritted teeth. ‘The canal water is very thick. He disappeared from sight straight away, and there was no way of knowing where he was.’

  ‘The police said you told them you didn’t go into the water because you can’t swim,’ said Abigail. ‘But someone who knew you at Ampleforth told us you were a very keen swimmer. In fact, a champion.’

  Watling’s mouth fell open in outrage, before snapping shut. ‘How dare you?’ he thundered. ‘You’ve been talking to my friends about me? And the police.’

  ‘As we said, the museum has asked us to investigate the death of one of their attendants and damage to a fossil,’ said Daniel, calmly.

  ‘And how is the death of Danvers Hardwicke anything to do with that?’ demanded Watling.

  ‘Perhaps it isn’t,’ said Daniel. ‘Or perhaps his death may not have been an accident.’

  Watling’s face began to turn purple with rage and he pointed an angry finger at them.

  ‘Are you daring to suggest—?’ he began.

  ‘That it may have been deliberate,’ said Daniel, smoothly. ‘Suicide?’

  Watling swallowed, then forced his reply through gritted teeth: ‘It was an accident. Just as I told the police.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Daniel. ‘But we do owe it to the museum to make a full investigation.’

  He looked towards Abigail, and they gave polite smiles at Watling.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Watling,’ said Abigail.

  They waited until they heard the door shut firmly behind them before Daniel said: ‘Well, that was interesting. A man with a very short fuse. And I think we upset him.’

  ‘I think we did,’ agreed Abigail. ‘The question is: did we upset him because he’s naturally like that, very aggressive, or because he’s worried about us asking questions?’

  Daniel smiled. ‘For that, we shall have to wait and see.’ He pulled out his watch and looked at it. ‘My stomach is right. It feels like suppertime is upon us, and my watch confirms that. So, I suggest we head home, and on the way collect a bowl of pie and mash. What do you say?’

  ‘If that’s the best you can come up with, I suggest we consider employing a cook part-time on days when neither of us has time to prepare a meal,’ said Abigail, tersely.

  ‘When I was in the workhouse I used to dream about pie and mash. With parsley sauce,’ said Daniel.

  ‘You are not in the workhouse now, and you left it behind you more than twenty years ago,’ said Abigail, shortly. Then she relented. ‘However, far be it from me to decry a hard-working man his childhood dreams. Pie and mash, it is.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Dawson Turner sat in the luxurious leather armchair in the smoking room of his club, the Egerton in Pall Mall, savouring the superb cognac in between draws on his cigar and reflecting on his day. He looked at the ornate clock on the wall and saw that it was almost eight. He should be getting home to his family, a peck on the cheek for his four children in their beds, then a peck for his wife, Emmeline, to whom he would recount the events of the day. Not all of them, of course, but the notable ones. His meeting with Sir Derek Draber, Chairman of the Charity Commission, who’d complimented him on his charitable work and, with a subtle nod and a wink, had indicated that so far the application for a knighthood on his behalf had met with gracious approval. Sir Dawson Turner. He almost salivated at the mere thought of it.

  And then, of course, there had been the afternoon of delight with Penelope, snatched secret moments of sheer ecstasy.

  ‘Dawson.’ The jovial greeting cut into his reverie. He looked up and recognised the figure of Jefferson Thwaite, a member he hadn’t seen for ages. A journalist, he recalled. Someone who might be useful in getting a mention of his name in the court pages of the newspapers just to aid his quest.

  ‘Jefferson.’ Turner got to his feet and shook the hand that was offered. ‘How are you? It’s some time since I last saw you.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been up north for the past six months. In Sheffield. I was appointed editor of a new newspaper there.’

  ‘So, you’re back in London for a visit?’

  ‘No. I got an offer to become editor of The Star here in London. Sheffield was good, but I fancied being back in London.’

  ‘Back in the Smoke.’ Turner smiled.

  Thwaite chuckled. ‘Believe me, Sheffield has smoke enough for two cities.’ He grinned. ‘No, the offer to edit The Star was too good to turn down.’

  ‘I must admit, I don’t often catch The Star,’ said Turner. ‘I’m more of a Times and Telegraph man myself.’

  ‘It’s true we’re mainly middle market,’ said Thwaite. ‘But I’ve been given the brief to change that. Expand our readership. Give them hard facts, not just gossip. Which is why, when I saw you, I thought, “There’s just the man.”’

  ‘Oh?’ asked Turner, curious. ‘In what way?’

  ‘You’re still on the board of trustees at the Natural History Museum?’ asked Thwaite.

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ said Turner. ‘One of the many trusts to which I’m proud to bring my charitable experience.’

  His hope that Thwaite might ask him to enlarge on the other charities to which he was a party disappeared as the journalist asked his next question: ‘Then you know about this murder?’

  ‘I do,’ said Turner. ‘In fact, I was there on the morning the body was discovered. I was in the Grand Hall there, in conversation with Sir Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry, when suddenly Bram Stoker – he’s the business manager at the Lyceum Theatre—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know of him,’ said Thwaite.

  ‘He rushed in and told us a dead body had been found.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that. And I also heard – from a source within the police, someone I knew when I was in London before – that they have a suspect.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. One of the trustees.’

  Turner’s mouth fell open, shocked. ‘One of the trustees?’ he repeated. ‘Who?’

  Thwaite gave a grimace. ‘That’s the problem: he refused to elaborate. Said he’d lose his job if he disclosed the name. My guess is he doesn’t know it, so when I saw you, I thought: “There’s the man who’d know.”’

  Turner shook his head. ‘No, absolutely not. Until you mentioned it, I had no idea they thought it might be one of the trustees.’ He looked stunned. ‘To be frank, the idea’s unthinkable. I know them. They’re all decent people.’ He looked earnestly at Thwaite. ‘Are you sure about this? I thought the police believed it was connected to the damaged dinosaur skeleton.’

  Thwaite frowned, puzzled. ‘What dinosaur skeleton?’

  ‘You must have heard about it. The day before the man was killed, a dinosaur skeleton that was on display was found smashed to pieces.’ He leant forward and added: ‘I heard that it was to do with some financial skulduggery over the purchase of dinosaur skeletons from America.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard about that,’ said Thwaite. He shrugged. ‘But then, a murder tops a broken dinosaur skeleton.’

  ‘But I was under the impression they were connected,’ said Turner. ‘The damage to the skeleton was the first threat against the museum and the killing of the attendant took it a stage further.’

  ‘More than a stage,’ grunted Thwaite.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll have a word with the curator’s secretary,�
� said Turner. ‘I’ve always found her very helpful. I’ll see what light she can shine on this business of a trustee being a suspect.’ He shot a glance at the clock again and gave an apologetic look. ‘Sadly, I have to go. Children to say goodnight to. Got to keep in with the family.’ He gave a chuckle and added: ‘With all my charitable work I sometimes think they might forget who I am.’

  The following morning as Dolly and Tess Tilly arrived for work at the Natural History Museum, they found Inspector Feather and Sergeant Cribbens waiting for them on the museum steps. Tess shrank back from the two men, but Dolly took her daughter firmly by the arm, intending to steer her towards the open main doors. However, the two women found their way blocked by the two policemen.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Feather. ‘We need to ask you some more questions.’

  ‘We’re busy,’ said Dolly, curtly. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  ‘We can talk here, or we can take you back to Scotland Yard,’ said Feather. ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘No,’ moaned Tilly. ‘Not there.’

  The figure of Ada Watson appeared from inside the museum, brought out by Tilly’s distress.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’m Inspector Feather from Scotland Yard,’ said Feather.

  ‘Yes, I know who you are.’ Ada scowled. ‘What are you doing upsetting my workers?’

  ‘We just need to ask them some questions.’

  Ada Watson shot a look at Dolly, who shrugged.

  ‘It’s all right, Ada,’ she said. ‘We can deal with this.’

  Ada looked back at Feather and Cribbens. ‘They’ve got a job to do,’ she said.

  ‘So do I, ma’am,’ said Feather. ‘If you’d prefer me to take them away—’

  ‘No,’ said Ada, quickly. She looked at Dolly and Tess. ‘You sure you’re all right?’

  ‘We’re fine,’ said Dolly.

  Ada gave Feather and Cribbens a last sour look of disapproval before she moved off.

  ‘It would be better inside,’ said Feather. ‘Too many interruptions if we stay here.’

  Dolly marched into the museum, still with a grip on Tess’s arm, and walked into the Grand Hall, the two policemen following them.

  ‘Right,’ said Dolly, aggressively, turning to glare at Feather. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Raymond Simpson,’ said Feather.

  ‘We told you about him yesterday,’ said Dolly. ‘We didn’t know him before he was here.’

  ‘That’s not what one of your neighbours says,’ said Feather. ‘She says that Simpson used to hang around on the stairs outside your home with your son, Tom, and some other boys. In fact, she called the police on them because they were making a nuisance. So, Raymond Simpson used to come to your place to hang around with your Tom.’

  ‘He never came in the flat,’ said Dolly.

  ‘But you saw him on the stairs,’ said Feather.

  Dolly hesitated, then she gave a shrug and said: ‘I might have. I didn’t know who Tom was hanging about with. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t like ’em.’

  ‘But Raymond Simpson must have knocked on your door at least once to call for Tom,’ pressed Feather.

  ‘Maybe he did,’ said Dolly. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘He did,’ muttered Tess, in what was barely above a whisper. ‘I opened the door. He didn’t give his full name. Just asked if Tom was in. He said to tell him it was Raymond.’ She looked at her mother in unhappy appeal. ‘Remember, you came to the door to see who it was. You told him Tom wasn’t in.’

  ‘I can’t remember, but I suppose I must have done,’ said Dolly.

  ‘But you saw him,’ pushed Feather. ‘You saw his face. You must have recognised him when he started here.’

  ‘No,’ said Dolly. ‘The stairs are dark, and there’s no gas lamp there; I didn’t see his face properly. And I wasn’t interested in the boys who used to come calling for Tom. They weren’t a good crowd, and I told him so. That’s why he left, in the end.’

  Ada Watson reappeared. ‘You still here?’ she demanded crossly of Feather. ‘We’ve got work to do. This place has to be cleaned and got ready for when the people come in.’

  Feather nodded to her. ‘We’re just going,’ he said. He turned back to Dolly and Tess. ‘Thank you for that. We might need to talk to you again, so please don’t go anywhere.’

  ‘Where would we go?’ demanded Dolly. ‘We’re either here, at home or shopping.’

  Feather tipped his hat to them in goodbye, then walked off accompanied by Sergeant Cribbens.

  ‘What do you think, sir?’ asked Cribbens.

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Feather. ‘What they said sounds reasonable, but in this case, it seems to me that nearly everyone’s covering up something.’

  ‘Inspector.’

  The two men stopped at the sound of the call and turned to see Miss Scott approaching them.

  ‘Miss Scott?’

  ‘I came in early to arrange some things before I travelled to Scotland Yard to see you.’

  ‘Then it’s fortunate we are here to save you the journey,’ said Feather. ‘I assume that Mr Wilson and Miss Fenton have told you about Mr Radley.’

  ‘Indeed, they did. And also about your taking Mrs Tilly and her daughter in for questioning. Although I understand that they were later released.’

  ‘They were, once we received the information about Mr Radley.’

  ‘But I saw you talking to the Tillys just now.’

  ‘We just needed to clarify something,’ said Feather.

  ‘And have you clarified it?’

  ‘We have,’ Feather confirmed.

  ‘So, everything is satisfactory as far as Dolly and Tess Tilly are concerned?’

  ‘At the moment we are satisfied that Mr Mason Radley should be our main course of enquiry,’ replied Feather, diplomatically.

  ‘You’re sure it is he who was responsible for the murder of Raymond Simpson?’

  ‘We won’t be sure until we get the chance to talk to him,’ said Feather. ‘And, at the moment, that’s difficult. We had a report that he’d left for India, but we can find no mention of him on any passenger lists that have sailed from these shores in the last few days.’

  ‘Miss Scott!’

  The booming voice cut through the museum and they turned to see Lady Fortescue bearing imperiously down on them, waving a sheet of paper.

  ‘It looks as if someone else is after your attention,’ said Feather. ‘We shall leave you.’

  ‘No,’ said Scott. ‘This is one of our trustees, Lady Elizabeth Fortescue, and what she has to say may have a bearing on the case.’

  Feather forced a reluctant smile as they were joined by the obviously angry Lady Fortescue.

  ‘Lady Fortescue, allow me to introduce Inspector Feather from Scotland Yard and his colleague, Sergeant Cribbens. They are investigating the death of young Mr Simpson.’

  ‘And a complete hash they are making of it,’ snapped Fortescue. She thrust the sheet of paper at Feather. ‘Read this, Inspector. Aloud, please, so that Miss Scott is made aware of the contents. I received it through my letterbox yesterday evening.’

  ‘“To the trustees of the Natural History Museum,”’ read Feather. ‘“This is to inform you that we have taken over the matter of the dinosaur skeletons from Messrs Petter and Wardle. We must advise you that if you do not insist on removing all fossil remains not supplied by the Bone Company of America from your exhibition, personal retribution will result. You have been warned.”’ He frowned, puzzled. ‘It’s not signed, and there’s no company name on it. Who’s it from?’

  ‘That is for you to find out!’ thundered Fortescue. ‘It is a threatening letter! Personal retribution will result. Personal! My safety is at risk!’

  ‘May I keep this, Lady Fortescue?’ asked Feather. ‘We will examine it in detail at Scotland Yard and see if we can identify whoever has sent it.’

  Fortescue hesitated and seemed on the point of reaching ou
t and taking the letter back, but then she gave a disapproving sniff and nodded. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But I insist on police protection. I am a widow, and as such I’m in a vulnerable situation.’

  ‘I will certainly arrange that, Lady Fortescue. I assume Miss Scott has your address?’

  ‘Yes, which is why I am here. I assume they can only have got hold of my address and the fact that I am a trustee through the museum. It shows a laxness, Miss Scott, that anyone can find out personal details and send out threatening letters in this way.’

  ‘I can assure you, Lady Fortescue, the information about you did not come from within this museum,’ said Scott.

  ‘Where did they get it from, then?’

  ‘The names of the trustees are a matter of public record,’ said Scott. ‘As most of them are people of high profile I should imagine it would not be difficult to find out their addresses.’

  Lady Fortescue was obviously not appeased by this response, as she made clear.

  ‘I find your reply fatuous and wrong,’ she said, firmly. ‘It is obvious to anyone that the museum must be held responsible for this. And that means you, Miss Scott. I will raise this matter at the next board meeting of the trustees.’

  With that, she turned on her heel and marched off.

  ‘Are all the trustees like that?’ asked Feather.

  ‘Fortunately not,’ said Scott. She looked enquiringly at the inspector. ‘What do you think? Do you consider the museum is responsible in any way for this letter?’

  ‘As you rightly say, anyone could easily find out who the trustees of the museum are and their addresses,’ said Feather. ‘However, there has to be a question as to how they know about Petter and Wardle’s involvement. How many people knew about their threatening letter?’

  ‘At the museum, just myself and my secretary, Mrs Smith,’ said Scott. ‘Then Mr Wilson and Miss Fenton, and the police.’

  Feather looked thoughtful. ‘This latest letter suggests others were also aware,’ he said.

  ‘Well, obviously the people who sent it knew about it,’ said Scott. ‘This sounds very similar as a threat, so possibly it’s the same people again.’