Murder at the British Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  Feather repeated what he’d told Abigail about Special Branch and young John Kelly.

  ‘Typical Special Branch,’ grunted Daniel. ‘Not just playing their cards close to their chest, but not letting on if they’ve got any cards in the first place.’

  ‘Where’s this latest letter?’ asked Feather.

  Daniel laid it on the table for him to look at.

  ‘It doesn’t say when they want the money paid over,’ he mused thoughtfully. ‘I wonder why?’

  ‘If it’s serious, maybe they’ve got something in mind to spring on us,’ suggested Daniel. ‘Some nasty surprise.’

  Suddenly, the sound of a woman screaming echoed up the stairs from below. They stared at one another, shocked, then Daniel, Abigail and Feather ran as fast as they could out of the small office and down the stairs, towards the source of the sound.

  ‘There!’ said Daniel, pointing towards the anteroom beside the exhibition. Museum stewards were already rushing to the spot. The sound of screaming changed to loud sobbing. Daniel, Abigail and Feather rushed through an arch and found themselves in the room.

  A young woman in a museum steward’s uniform was kneeling by the body of a man. She looked up as people arrived, her mouth open in shock, the agonised expression on her face showing she was having difficulty understanding what was happening. Her hands and arms and the front of her uniform were drenched in blood. In her hand she held a knife. The body of a bearded man lay on his back, blood still pumping from a wound in his chest.

  ‘I saw the knife and … and pulled it out,’ sobbed the young woman. ‘I thought I’d save him, but instead …’ And she let out a howl of despair, the knife falling from her fingers and clattering to the stone floor.

  ‘You take care of the body, I’ll look after her,’ Abigail said to Daniel. She hurried forwards, knelt down beside the sobbing young woman and put her arm around her, ignoring the blood. ‘Come on,’ said Abigail. ‘Let’s get you up and away from here.’

  The young woman allowed herself to be helped to her feet by Abigail. David Ashford appeared, his face showing horror when he saw the blood-soaked man on the ground, and the young woman and her bloodstained outfit.

  ‘Where are the stewards’ private quarters?’ asked Abigail.

  Ashford turned to one of the female stewards standing transfixed in horror. ‘Mrs Sawyer, take them to the female stewards’ room,’ he said hoarsely.

  Feather had dropped to his knees beside the prone man and felt for a pulse in his neck, then pulled out his fob watch and held the face to the man’s mouth, examining it for signs of breath. He looked at Daniel and shook his head.

  ‘The stab was right into the heart,’ he said.

  ‘If Jenny hadn’t taken the knife out …’ began one of the stewards unhappily.

  ‘He’d have died anyway,’ said Daniel. ‘All that did was open the wound so the blood could spray out. Poor girl.’ He looked down at the man and wondered aloud, ‘I wonder who he is?’

  ‘He’s Mansfield Whetstone,’ said Feather. ‘Pickering’s publisher.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jenny had managed to stop crying but she still shook as Abigail and Mrs Sawyer helped her out of her blood-soaked uniform. Then, while Mrs Sawyer put the uniform in a sink and went to get clean clothes for the young woman, Abigail sat down with her. Now she saw her up close she realised she was only about seventeen, little more than a girl.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she stressed.

  ‘But if I hadn’t taken the knife out …’

  ‘He’d have died anyway. The way the blood pumped showed the knife had gone deep into his heart—’ She stopped as the girl began crying again at the vivid memory. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it worse for you.’

  Mrs Sawyer returned with a clean uniform. ‘It’s only an old one of mine,’ she said. ‘But it’ll do while we get yours cleaned.’

  Jenny stood up and allowed the two women to dress her. ‘What happens now?’ she asked, her tone showing her feeling of utter helplessness.

  ‘I’ll take you home,’ said Mrs Sawyer. ‘Mr Ashford says we can get a cab and the museum will pay for it.’

  ‘She’ll need to talk to the police first,’ said Abigail.

  ‘No!’ said the girl, frightened. ‘I can’t bear to talk about it. Not yet.’

  ‘Surely, she can talk to them later,’ said Mrs Sawyer. ‘She’s terrified. And in shock. Whatever she says won’t make any sense.’

  Abigail weighed this up, then said, ‘I’ll have a word with the police inspector and with Mr Wilson. They’re both very kind and won’t want her to suffer more than she has done.’ She asked the girl gently, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jenny,’ said the girl. ‘Jenny Warren.’

  ‘I’m Abigail Fenton and I’m working with Mr Wilson to investigate the …’ She hesitated. ‘What’s happened here at the museum.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘Mr Ashford sent a note round to everyone telling us about you.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see if the inspector agrees for you to talk to me later, rather than them. Would that be alright?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice just above a whisper.

  ‘In that case I’ll accompany you, with Mrs Sawyer, to your home, and we can talk there, once you feel a bit better.’

  ‘It still might be too soon for her,’ said Mrs Sawyer doubtfully.

  ‘It might be, but we’ll see how it goes,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Alright,’ said Mrs Sawyer. ‘I’ll make Jenny a cup of strong tea while you talk to the inspector and Mr Wilson. Tea’s good for shock.’

  Abigail was tempted to retort, ‘Not as good as brandy,’ but decided against it in case Mrs Sawyer was of the temperance persuasion. Instead, she left Jenny and Mrs Sawyer in the stewards’ room while she went in search of Inspector Feather and Daniel. John Feather was directing two police constables who’d arrived in to taking statements from the people who claimed to have seen what happened but weren’t able to add anything new.

  ‘So far everyone just says they heard screams and rushed to the scene, and saw the girl crouched by the dead man,’ Feather told Abigail. ‘They saw her pull the knife out of his chest and the spray of blood. But that’s about it. Exactly what we saw. I’m going to go back to the Yard and bring in my sergeant and a couple of detectives to take statements. The constables are doing their best, but detectives know the kind of things we’re looking for.’

  ‘Where’s Daniel?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘He’s taking statements, so at least we’ve got one detective who knows how the game works. How’s the girl?’

  ‘In a state of shock,’ said Abigail. ‘So, I wondered if it would be alright if I talked to her. The museum has arranged a cab to take her home. One of the other female stewards is going with her. I know you need to talk to her, but I don’t think you’ll get much that’s useful out of her at the moment.’

  Feather looked doubtful. ‘She’s the one most likely to have the answers,’ he said. ‘Who else did she see just before she discovered the body? Was there anyone around acting suspiciously? Who exactly did she see, and can she describe them?’

  ‘I can ask her those things,’ said Abigail. ‘But at the moment she’s still too petrified to be able to talk about it properly. Once I get her back in her home surroundings and settle her down, she might find it easier to talk.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Feather. ‘You’re right that often people only really remember details later. Very well, take her home.’

  ‘I’ll report when I get back.’

  Daniel appeared and asked Abigail, ‘How is she?’

  Once again, Abigail described Jenny’s state of shock and told Daniel that she was taking her home. When Daniel also began to express the same doubts about this as Feather had, saying they needed to talk to her while everything was still fresh in her mind, Abigail told him that Feather had given his approval.

  ‘She’s in no fit state to
give proper answers at this moment. But once she’s settled down in her own home, I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘You don’t know what questions to ask,’ said Daniel.

  ‘John’s given me some pointers. And later you’ll be able to talk to her, and maybe get better answers.’

  ‘Alright,’ said Daniel. ‘I suppose it makes sense.’

  ‘How have you got on?’ Feather asked him.

  Daniel groaned. ‘Nothing to add to what we saw ourselves.’

  ‘Same for me,’ said Feather. ‘I just told Abigail, I’m heading back to the Yard to dispatch a team of detectives here to start taking statements. My sergeant’s pretty good, and if there is anything extra to find, I’m sure he’ll nose it out.’

  ‘I’ll get back to the girl and take her home,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Remember to write down whatever she tells you,’ said Daniel. ‘When we’re clutching at straws the way we are now, we need everything written down so we can keep going through it.’

  ‘You can leave that to me,’ Abigail assured him.

  She left the two men looking at the place where the murder had taken place. Screens had been hastily erected after Feather had given instructions that he didn’t want the bloodstains or anything else removed or disturbed until his detectives had had the chance to make a proper examination of the scene.

  ‘And I’m off to the Yard,’ said Feather. ‘I’ll make sure Sergeant Cribbens introduces himself to you when he arrives.’

  ‘Thanks, John,’ said Daniel.

  As Feather made his exit, Daniel saw David Ashford approaching.

  ‘This is dreadful!’ moaned Ashford. ‘One tragedy after another! I’m beginning to wonder if this exhibition isn’t cursed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought of you as a man who believed in superstitions like that,’ remarked Daniel.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Ashford. ‘But you will admit it’s been one thing after another. ‘Two murders. The attack by those vandals from the so-called Children of Avalon. The red lead paint. The extortion letters. All in such a short space of time!’

  ‘How many of your staff knew that Mr Whetstone was coming to the museum today?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘All of them,’ said Ashford. ‘I sent a note round to all the staff to ensure Whetstone was received cordially.’ He looked at Daniel unhappily. ‘You don’t think a member of the museum staff did this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Daniel. ‘But everything that’s happened so far does suggest someone with a knowledge of the operation of the museum.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Mrs Sawyer had returned to the British Museum, leaving Abigail with Jenny Warren in her small two-roomed flat above an ironmonger’s shop in Chapel Street. Even here, at home, Abigail noticed the girl couldn’t relax properly. Which was hardly surprising, she reflected; the sight she’d seen had been enough to unsettle even the toughest of people.

  ‘I can make you a cup of tea,’ suggested Abigail. ‘Unless you have something stronger that you’d prefer.’

  ‘There’s some rum in the cupboard,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t like it much myself. It’s only here because my husband, Tom, got a taste for it, being in the navy.’

  ‘The navy?’ said Abigail, pleased to find a subject to talk about away from the murder.

  ‘Yes. He’s at sea at the moment.’

  ‘Don’t you get lonely when he’s away?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘I used to at first, but I got used to it.’

  Abigail went to the mantelpiece above the small fireplace and looked at the photographs there. There were two, one of a young man in a sailor’s uniform, standing stiffly to attention; the other of Jenny herself standing with an older man in a smart suit and hat who stood with his arm around her shoulder, both of them smiling at the camera.

  ‘I assume this is Tom,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘And the other one I can see is you.’

  ‘Me with my father,’ said Jenny. Abigail heard the crack in her voice and turned to see the girl wipe away tears. ‘He’s just died.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Abigail sympathetically. ‘You look very happy together.’

  ‘We were,’ said Jenny. ‘My dad was the greatest man I ever knew. Clever. Kind.’ She dabbed at her eyes again, then asked abruptly, ‘Have you ever seen anyone who’s been murdered, miss? I’ve seen dead people before, like my gran and others when they died, but not someone who’s been murdered.’

  ‘Sadly, yes,’ said Abigail. ‘Two in England and two in Egypt.’

  ‘Is that from you being a detective?’

  ‘No, all of them happened at a time before I began working as a detective with Mr Wilson. The two in England were also killed at a museum, the Fitzwilliam in Cambridge. The ones in Egypt happened while I was working at a dig there. I’m an archaeologist, really. It’s only recently I’ve added being a detective to it.’

  ‘Yes, one of the other stewards told us, the one who does the Egyptian rooms.’

  Abigail sat down on a chair near to Jenny and looked at her sympathetically, but at the same time with purpose.

  ‘Inspector Feather agreed that you could come home at once, rather than talk to him, on the understanding that you’d talk to me about what happened.’

  ‘Yes, miss. I remember you said. And I’m very grateful. I don’t know if I could have coped with his questions. Not then.’

  ‘Can you cope with mine now?’

  Jenny hesitated, then nodded. ‘I’ll try, miss.’

  Sergeant Cribbens was sitting at a desk, puffing at his pipe with a puzzled frown on his face as he scanned the reports, when Inspector Feather walked in.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you, Sergeant,’ said Feather. ‘There’s been another murder at the British Museum.’

  ‘Another?’ gasped Cribbens. ‘Who?’

  ‘Do you remember that publisher we met? Mansfield Whetstone? Him.’

  ‘How was he murdered? Do we know who did it?’

  ‘The answer to do we know who did it is no, we don’t. But as he was stabbed to death it seems highly likely that whoever killed Professor Pickering may have struck again. Although there is a difference: Pickering was killed with seven stab wounds, Whetstone was killed with just one, straight into the heart. So either it’s a copycat crime, or our killer is becoming more efficient at wielding the knife.

  ‘I was there when it happened, so I’ve already talked to most of the people who were there at the time, but so far we haven’t got much to go on. No one saw the actual killing, and no one saw anything they could describe as suspicious. I want you to go to the museum, taking two of the best detectives with you – and I leave it to you to choose who you take – and talk to everyone again. It doesn’t matter if we end up with duplicate statements; sometimes people only remember things later.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll join you as soon as I’ve seen Superintendent Armstrong and given him my report.’

  ‘Actually, sir, he’s not in’

  ‘Oh? Where is he?’

  ‘His secretary says he had to go to Parliament for something. Some top level meeting.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll go and leave a note on his desk telling him about Whetstone’s murder. You head for the museum and start taking statements. I’ll see you there. Oh, and make a point of introducing yourself to Daniel Wilson.’

  ‘Is that the man the superintendent doesn’t like?’

  ‘The very same.’

  Cribbens looked doubtful. ‘Will it go badly for me if the superintendent thinks I’ve been hobnobbing with someone he doesn’t like?’ he asked unhappily.

  ‘As Daniel works for the British Museum and was one of the first people on the scene when the murder took place, you can’t really avoid questioning him, can you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ agreed Cribbens.

  ‘Right, off you go. Did the superintendent give any idea of when he’d be back?’

  ‘No, sir.’

 
; Feather sighed. ‘Very well. As I said, I’ll leave my report on his desk and meet you later at the British Museum.’

  Daniel sat with Ashford in the man’s office, going through the list of employees.

  ‘All of these people got the note to say Mansfield Whetstone was coming today?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ashford.

  ‘And do you know if any of them had any prior contact with Mr Whetstone?’

  ‘None, as far as I know,’ said Ashford. ‘He came here to observe the exhibition being set up, mainly to check the display of the professor’s book, but he hasn’t been back since.’

  ‘And on that first visit, who did he encounter?’

  ‘Just myself and Sir Jasper,’ replied Ashford. ‘We had been told what time he would be arriving, so I was in reception to greet him on his arrival and sent a message to Sir Jasper, who joined us. We showed him the exhibition, and he expressed his pleasure at it, and then he left.’

  ‘Professor Pickering didn’t join you?’

  ‘No. He was giving a lecture that day. He used to lecture occasionally on Roman history at University College.’ He gave Daniel another unhappy look. ‘I do hope you’re wrong about it being someone connected to the museum. I know all these people and would trust them implicitly.’

  ‘I hope it isn’t someone from the museum either, Mr Ashford, but we have to accept that possibility. By the way, how many female stewards do you have?’

  ‘Six. You met Jenny Warren and Mrs Sawyer. There are four others and, as with most of our staff, they rotate their duties, so only two will be on duty at any one time. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was just curious. I hadn’t been aware that museums employed female stewards.’

  ‘We didn’t ourselves, at first, but then it was drawn to our attention that we had a great many women visitors who might find themselves in need of assistance of a kind they would feel reluctant to approach a man about. The initiative has proved very successful, so much so that I believe other organisations are following suit.’