Murder at the British Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘I thought the police were already doing that,’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘They are, and we are working closely with Inspector Feather,’ replied Daniel. ‘But the museum has its own concerns that the professor’s death may have had something to do with his work on the exhibition they are currently presenting. We understand that the attack on him happened when he’d gone there to deliver a talk connected to it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  The young man suddenly moved from the window into the room.

  ‘I can see this is a difficult time,’ he said. ‘I’ll take my leave for the moment.’

  ‘I’m sorry if we are interrupting anything,’ said Daniel. ‘We will be very happy to come back later.’

  ‘No, no, Mr Tudder was just leaving.’ She turned to the young man and said, ‘I’ll show you to the door, Mr Tudder.’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine,’ said Tudder. ‘Once again, Mrs Pickering, my condolences.’

  He bowed his head and held out his hand to her. She shook it, giving him a wan and grateful smile; then he left.

  With Tudder gone, she gestured for them to sit. ‘I’m still not sure what else I can tell you that I haven’t already told the police,’ she said.

  ‘I promise we won’t keep you long,’ said Daniel. ‘Did your husband say anything to you before he went to the museum to suggest that he was apprehensive about anything?’

  ‘To be honest, I didn’t see my husband on that morning. I had another engagement that day, and I left for it while my husband was in his study preparing for the talk he was to give.’

  ‘Was this other engagement local?’ asked Daniel.

  She gave him a glare. ‘I don’t see that is relevant,’ she said curtly.

  ‘No,’ agreed Daniel, ‘but it may be. Say someone was watching the house, for example, in preparation for the attack on your husband.’

  ‘But why would they do that?’ she demanded. ‘I understand it was just some lunatic, that he was just a victim chosen at random. At least, that’s what Superintendent Armstrong informed me.’

  ‘That may be right, Mrs Pickering, but we and the police are also looking into the possibility that your husband was deliberately chosen. We now have evidence to suggest that his death was quite carefully planned.’

  Mrs Pickering’s face had gone white, and now she said angrily, ‘That is a ridiculous thing to say! Who would want to murder my husband?’

  ‘That is why we’re asking questions,’ said Daniel.

  She fell silent for a moment, then asked, ‘You say you have been hired by the British Museum?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. By Sir Jasper Stone. By all means you can contact him to verify that.’

  She shook her head. ‘There is no need,’ she said. She looked at Daniel and Abigail, her expression fearful. ‘You say that my husband was deliberately targeted. Do you think that I might also be at risk from this … this person?’

  ‘I would hope that’s unlikely, ma’am,’ said Daniel. ‘As I say, at this moment we’re just trying to put together the professor’s movements on the day of the tragedy. You say you had another engagement on that day. Did you notice anyone loitering outside when you left the house?’

  ‘No. But then, I wasn’t paying that much attention.’

  ‘If you’ll pardon me, Mrs Pickering, where was your other engagement?’ asked Abigail.

  Mrs Pickering fixed her with a cold glare. ‘It was a private matter and nothing to do with this.’

  ‘With respect, Mrs Pickering, at this moment everything may be to do with what happened,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I can assure you that is not the case here,’ she said curtly. She stood up. ‘I’ve told you all that is relevant. I did not see my husband before he left for the British Museum. The first I heard of what had occurred was when I returned home and received a visit from Superintendent Armstrong to inform me of the dreadful news. I now wish to be left alone.’

  Daniel saw that Abigail was about to say something more, most likely to press her for detail of this other engagement, so he rose quickly and said, ‘Absolutely, Mrs Pickering. And we apologise for taking up your time.’

  After they left the house and walked towards Albany Street, Abigail said, ‘We should have insisted on getting details of this other engagement from her. She’s obviously hiding something.’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ agreed Daniel, ‘but pressing her would have had no effect except to get us thrown out of the house. We are not the police. And, even if we were, she could still have us thrown out of the house. The wealthy and those with titles live by different rules.’

  ‘No one is above the law,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Tell that to a policeman trying to arrest an MP, or a lord or lady, or magistrate,’ said Daniel ruefully. ‘What did you make of Mr Tudder?’

  ‘The young man? She’s having an affair with him. Did you see the way she stroked his arm when they shook hands goodbye?’

  ‘Yes, the same thought struck me.’ Daniel nodded. ‘And the fact she didn’t see the professor that morning suggests they don’t share sleeping accommodation.’

  ‘She may not even have been in the house that morning,’ said Abigail.

  ‘No, indeed. Did you notice the religious images and items on the walls and shelves? A small picture of the Bleeding Heart. A rosary. Catholics.’

  ‘So, if Mrs Pickering and Mr Tudder wished to make their union official …’

  ‘They couldn’t, not while the professor was alive. There’s no divorce for Catholics.’

  ‘I can’t see either of them wielding a knife that way.’

  ‘Nor can I,’ said Daniel. ‘But there are plenty who will, for a price.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The offices of Whetstone and Watts publishers, were in Fitzroy Mews, a small cobblestone cul-de-sac not far from the busy junction of Euston Road and Tottenham Court Road, and very near to the outer circle of Regent’s Park.

  ‘Just a few moments’ walk from the Pickerings’ house,’ observed Feather. ‘Very convenient.’

  He rang the bell beside the highly polished black door, and the door was opened by a smartly dressed woman of middle-age.

  ‘Detective Inspector Feather from Scotland Yard. This is Sergeant Cribbens,’ Feather introduced them. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Miss Roseberry,’ said the woman. ‘Is this about what happened to poor Professor Pickering?’

  ‘It is, indeed. We wonder if it would be possible to speak to the person who worked with him most closely on his book on King Arthur?’

  ‘That would be Mr Whetstone,’ said Miss Roseberry.

  ‘Mr Whetstone?’

  ‘Mr Mansfield Whetstone. He’s the senior partner. The book of King Arthur was as much his pet project as it was the professor’s. They were both inspired by the subject.’

  ‘Would it be possible to talk to Mr Whetstone?’

  ‘He’s in his office. I’ll go and see if he’s free. If you’ll just step inside and wait in there.’

  She guided them to a small and comfortably furnished waiting room whose walls were adorned with paintings and caricatures of distinguished-looking people, mostly men, before heading up a flight of stairs.

  ‘Is this a sort of art gallery?’ asked Cribbens, looking at the pictures.

  ‘I would suspect they are the firm’s authors,’ said Feather.

  Cribbens frowned as he examined the pictures. ‘I can’t see everyone being impressed by them,’ he observed. ‘Some of these cartoons make the subject look … well … idiotic.’

  ‘Never underestimate the vanity of authors,’ said Feather. ‘For some, being mocked in a caricature is the height of flattery.’

  There were the sounds of heavy footsteps crashing down the stairs, then Mansfield Whetstone appeared. He was a big man in every respect: tall, broad-shouldered, and with a large stomach that suggested a man of healthy appetites. With his full beard, he reminded Feather of actors he’d encountered, particularly those who played the large
r-than-life Shakespearean roles such as Lear or Falstaff. His booming voice when he spoke added to this image.

  ‘Scotland Yard, I presume! I have been expecting your visit ever since this tragedy happened. You have come to ask me about poor Professor Pickering.’

  ‘We have, sir. I’m Inspector Feather and this is Sergeant Cribbens.’

  ‘Welcome to the offices of Whetstone and Watts, specialist quality publishers,’ said Whetstone. He gave a long and theatrical sigh, then a tortured, ‘Lance Pickering! One of the greatest historians of our generation! The world is a lesser place for his tragic departure, and in such a cruel way! Who could have done such a thing, Inspector?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir. You must have got to know him during the preparation of his book.’

  ‘We were like brothers! Kindred spirits!’

  ‘In which case, we’re hoping you might be able to cast some light on whether he had any enemies.’

  ‘Enemies? Lance? Never! The man was universally loved. And respected, not just by his peers in the sphere of historical research, but by everyone who knew him. Have you met his wife, Laura, Inspector?’

  ‘I have, sir.’

  ‘Never was there a more loving couple! That will tell you the kind of man Lance was. A devout husband with a loving wife who doted on him. A marriage made in heaven!’

  ‘What about in his profession? Were there any rumours of professional jealousy? From other historians, or other authors?’

  ‘None!’ thundered Whetstone. ‘Lance was revered! In the halls of academe, in the corridors of archaeological establishments, the name Lance Pickering shone like a beacon of integrity and benevolence! The man had no enemies at all!’

  ‘What did you think of that, sir?’ asked Cribbens as he and Inspector Feather walked out of Fitzroy Mews.

  ‘That I’ve never heard such tosh in all my life,’ said Feather. ‘You’ve met Mrs Pickering, Cribbens. Did she strike you as someone stricken by grief at the loss of a marriage made in heaven?’

  ‘I must admit, she didn’t, sir,’ said Cribbens. ‘But then, some people are very successful at hiding their feelings. Maybe she’s one of them.’

  ‘You may well be right,’ said Feather. ‘The question is, what feelings is she hiding?’

  That evening Daniel served the supper he’d made for them: a roasted chicken, roasted potatoes, carrots and cabbage.

  ‘You must let me cook a meal for you,’ said Abigail as Daniel laid the plates heaped with food on the table in the kitchen.

  ‘A kitchen range takes some getting used to,’ said Daniel. ‘And, as a single man, I cooked for myself for many years, while you always had a cook.’

  ‘I can learn,’ said Abigail.

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I shall start with something simple,’ said Abigail. ‘Sausages.’

  ‘Sausages need to be cooked right through, it’s not enough that the outside skin is brown.’

  ‘I have seen sausages cooked before,’ responded Abigail primly.

  ‘Very well,’ said Daniel. ‘I suggest sausages and bacon with eggs for tomorrow. With bread on the side.’

  ‘Why not potatoes?’

  ‘You can try potatoes, if you wish, but if you boil them too much they can turn to mush.’

  ‘If that happens I shall make them into mashed potato. Or I could roast them, as you’ve just done.’

  ‘The oven part of the range is the one that takes most getting used to,’ cautioned Daniel. ‘It’s experience of using it that tells you when something is cooked right the way through.’

  ‘But how does anyone get experience without using it?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Daniel nodded.

  ‘It seems to me you are very protective of your kitchen range,’ Abigail observed.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ admitted Daniel. ‘It took me a long while to get used to it, and I was very proud of the first meal I cooked successfully on it. It was about getting the right amount of coal in the grate, not too hot, not too cool. Knowing which shelf in the oven was the hottest.’

  Abigail smiled. ‘I promise I shall only do it under your watchful eye until you are confident in me.’ As she ate, she asked, ‘Why did you not employ a cook?’

  Daniel laughed. ‘When I was a working police officer, there wasn’t the money to pay for one. Nor could I guarantee what time I’d return home for meals.’

  ‘And when you became a private agent?’

  ‘Again, I was never sure what time I’d be home for meals, or if at all. And also, there didn’t seem any need, having looked after myself all these years.’ Then, rather awkwardly, he added, ‘I suppose it’s a class thing, as well. This is Camden Town. You must have noticed it’s one of the poorer districts. People here are employed as cooks in better houses; they don’t employ them. That’s for the middle classes and upwards.’

  She smiled and said, ‘Is that a dig at me for being middle-class?’

  ‘No, no dig. Just an observation.’ He smiled as he said, ‘I’m just so grateful that you’ve settled in here as you have. And turned a house – and a rather cold and austere one – into a home.’

  ‘I’m grateful that you’ve allowed me to. Many men would resent a woman coming in and changing things. Bringing in paintings and ornaments to decorate. Cushions for the chairs.’

  ‘Much more comfortable,’ said Daniel. ‘I should have done it before.’

  ‘But you didn’t. I did.’

  ‘You’ve made it our house.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s your house. I’ve just brought some of me into it.’

  ‘You’ve brought everything I could ever want.’

  ‘Oh really, Daniel, you’re getting sentimental!’

  ‘I suppose I am. But then, I haven’t felt this way about anyone before.’

  ‘I’m surprised you never married. Most men are married by the time they’re thirty.’

  ‘I could say the same about you,’ countered Daniel.

  ‘Perhaps we never met the right person before,’ said Abigail. ‘But it is strange, isn’t it, how two people from very different walks of life should find themselves in this situation.’

  ‘I will always be grateful to the Fitzwilliam for bringing us together so we could discover that,’ he told her.

  ‘And you don’t mind that I still go off on digs?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘It’s what you do,’ said Daniel. ‘What you are. Why would I want to change you?’

  ‘Most men want their wives to fit into their pattern.’

  ‘Ah-ha! You said wives!’

  ‘We are husband and wife in all but name. Don’t you feel that?’

  ‘You know I do. I missed you terribly while you were up at Hadrian’s Wall.’

  ‘You could have always come with me,’ she said.

  ‘And done what? Watched you dig?’

  ‘You could have dug with me.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not what I do. I’m a detective. That’s what I do.’

  ‘There are mysteries to be solved in archaeology,’ she said.

  ‘But no culprits to be brought to book. You may find evidence of an ancient murder from two thousand years ago, but there won’t be any arrests made.’

  ‘This case may prove you wrong,’ she said. ‘If the exhibition is at the heart of the murder of Professor Pickering, then we might have to dig back into ancient history to find out why.’

  ‘If,’ said Daniel doubtfully. ‘At the moment I feel we should concentrate on the living.’

  ‘You mean Mrs Pickering and her lover?’

  ‘Her assumed lover,’ Daniel stressed. ‘I think it’s time to pool our resources with Scotland Yard and see what they have.’

  ‘I thought you were persona non grata at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I am. So, I suggest we invite John Feather to meet us at the museum tomorrow. It’ll be good for you two to meet. I think you’ll like him.’

/>   CHAPTER SEVEN

  As Superintendent Armstrong entered through the main doors of Scotland Yard the next morning, he was surprised to see one of the Yard’s messengers get off his stool beside the main reception desk and scurry towards him.

  ‘Superintendent!’ said the messenger, a small wiry man. ‘The commissioner says he wants to see you as soon as you arrive.’

  Armstrong was bewildered. He looked at the clock to confirm that he wasn’t late. No, it was half past eight. He’d rarely known the commissioner to arrive at the Yard before nine-thirty, except for an emergency. This was obviously such an emergency.

  He didn’t stop to go to his own office, but hurried up the wide staircase to the first floor, and along the wide passageway to the commissioner’s office. As he mounted the stairs various thoughts ran through his mind, none of them good. What disaster had brought the commissioner in at this hour? And was he being summoned because he was involved – and therefore in trouble – or because he was needed to solve a difficult situation?

  The commissioner’s secretary looked up as he entered the outer office.

  ‘Ah, Superintendent,’ she said. ‘The commissioner’s expecting you. Please, go straight in.’

  The commissioner looked up from his desk as Armstrong entered. He wasn’t smiling. There was no welcome in his look; instead he glared at Armstrong in an accusing manner.

  What have I done wrong? thought the superintendent.

  The commissioner gestured for Armstrong to take the seat across from him on the other side of his wide desk.

  ‘My cousin, Sir Cheriot Windrush, is on the board of the trustees at the British Museum,’ he intoned.

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. The murder of Professor Pickering. Rest assured that my men are working on it at this very moment.’

  ‘I am not assured, Superintendent,’ snapped the commissioner. ‘Sir Cheriot informs me that the museum has brought in a private enquiry agent to investigate the murder.’