Murder at the British Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Why?’ asked Daniel. ‘Who would have a reason for killing Professor Pickering and your partner?’

  ‘I thought it might be to do with the letters.’

  ‘Letters?’

  ‘After we published Lance Pickering’s book on Ambrosius, we received a letter from a man who claimed that Pickering had stolen his work for his book. To be honest, every publisher and author gets this when a new book comes out, someone claims that they had the idea first, or that that the author stole their work from them. Unfortunately, it often happens that many people will have the same idea at the same time, whether it’s for a novel or a book of scholarship. Just look at the number of people in Shakespeare’s time who claimed he stole their plots from them.’

  ‘So, you thought this was just a coincidence?’

  ‘Well, yes. Especially because we asked Professor Pickering about it, and about this man, and he said he’d never heard of him, or seen his work.’

  ‘Can we see the letter?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘The letters are at the office,’ said Watts.

  ‘Letters?’ asked Abigail. ‘There were more than one?’

  Watts nodded. ‘The correspondence became angrier, the more it went on. Threatening. I said we ought to take them to the police, but Whetstone was adamant about not doing that, insisting the bad publicity would harm sales of the book.’

  ‘Who were the letters from?’

  ‘A man called William Jedding.’

  Daniel looked thoughtfully at Abigail, then turned back to Watts and said in a serious tone, ‘Mr Watts, think for a moment about how quickly we were able to track you to your sister’s house. If someone is after you – and I stress if – they could trace you to here just as quickly. I would suggest you find refuge somewhere else. Somewhere where you’re not known and where you don’t know anyone. A place with which you have no connection, so no one will think of looking for you there.’

  Watts looked at them helplessly. ‘Where?’

  ‘Have you ever been to Birmingham?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘No,’ said Watts.

  ‘Do you know anyone in Birmingham?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Watts.

  ‘Then I suggest you go there for a while until we lay our hands on the person who killed Professor Pickering and Mansfield Whetstone.’

  ‘But I just said, I don’t know anyone in Birmingham!’ burst out Watts. ‘I wouldn’t know where to stay!’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ll escort you there by train and introduce you to someone who’ll be able to put you up. His name’s Ben Stilworthy, he’s a former policeman who now runs a small bed and breakfast establishment, so you’ll be perfectly safe. We’ll register you under a false name as added protection. I would suggest we leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘Absolutely!’ said the nervous Watts. ‘At once!’

  ‘We’ll also need a letter from you authorising us to go to your offices and collect these letters from this Mr Jedding.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Watts. ‘I’ll let you have that immediately. I’ll also go and see my sister and explain what is happening.’

  Watts went in search of a piece of paper, a pen and ink. Daniel turned to Abigail. ‘Can you take charge of the letters while I escort Mr Watts to Birmingham? I feel this could be the first piece of concrete evidence we’ve had giving a motive for the murders.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Abigail nodded. ‘Will you be back tonight?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Daniel. ‘The train service between London and Birmingham is frequent, but I’m not sure what time I’ll be home.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Abigail checked the time with the large clock that hung in the centre of the station as she got off the train at Euston. Five minutes before six. Miss Roseberry had told Abigail she would be working late typing letters to inform the firm’s business associates about the tragic death of Mr Whetstone, and she seemed to be a woman of her word. Even if Miss Roseberry had had a change of heart and had left work already – which would be understandable in view of the shocking events of the day – it was just a short five-minute walk from Euston to Fitzroy Mews, so there would be no inconvenience for her. And Abigail felt it was important to get sight of these threatening letters. As Daniel had said, it could be the first piece of concrete evidence revealing a motive for the murders.

  When Abigail came out of the station she saw an omnibus waiting at a bus stop on the other side of Euston Road and she considered getting on, but then she reflected that, with the frequent stops the bus made, the slow plodding of the horse, and especially the traffic congestion there always seemed to be at the junction with Tottenham Court Road, she could walk to Fitzroy Mews quicker than the bus.

  Her instinct was proved right when she arrived at Tottenham Court Road. A horse pulling a cart had collapsed in the centre of the road and lay between its shafts on the cobbled road, leaving buses, carts and hansom cabs unable to move in any direction.

  Abigail arrived at the offices of Whetstone and Watts and pulled the bell. The door was opened almost immediately by Miss Roseberry.

  ‘Miss Fenton!’ cried Miss Roseberry, her manner anxious. ‘Do you have news?’

  ‘I’m pleased to tell you that we have spoken to Mr Watts, and he is well. May I come in?’

  ‘Of course!’ said Miss Roseberry. She showed Abigail through to the reception area and the two women sat. There was no disguising the relief on Miss Roseberry’s face. ‘I’m so grateful you returned! Thank heavens he’s safe! I’ve been so worried! Especially after what happened to Professor Pickering and Mr Whetstone.’

  ‘For that reason, Mr Watts has decided to take some time off and go away until things die down and return to normal.’

  ‘You think he is in danger?’

  ‘We hope not, but the truth is that Mr Watts feels he is. So my partner, Mr Wilson, has taken him to a place where he will be very safe. In the meantime, he’s asked us to look into the letters he and Mr Whetstone received from a Mr William Jedding.’

  ‘Oh, those!’ said Miss Roseberry unhappily. ‘Yes, I typed the replies from Mr Whetstone.’

  Abigail produced Watts’ handwritten note and handed it to her. ‘As you can see, he’s allowing us to take possession of those letters so that we can look into this matter further.’

  ‘You think this Mr Jedding might have been the one who … who harmed Mr Whetstone and the professor?’

  ‘At the moment, we don’t know. It’s just an avenue we are exploring.’ Then a thought struck her, and she asked, ‘Did this problem arise over any other books Whetstone and Watts published by Professor Pickering?’

  ‘Actually, the book on Ambrosius was the first book of his we published. He had been published before, but they were academic works published by UCL.’

  ‘University College London?’

  ‘Yes. He lectured there part-time, you see, on Roman Britain. But Mr Whetstone got the impression the professor was interested in publishing outside the academic world, hence his book on Ambrosius came to us.’ She smiled and added, ‘I’ll go and get the letters for you.’

  As Miss Roseberry left the room, Abigail smiled to herself. University College London. This was one she could follow up. Charles Winter, a friend she’d known when they had both been students at Cambridge – she at Girton and he at Trinity – was now a senior lecturer at UCL. His speciality had been Roman studies, which meant that he might well have had some sort of acquaintance with Pickering. She hadn’t seen Charles for a while, but he’d always been friendly and inviting when their paths had crossed in the years since their student days. First thing tomorrow she’d call on him at UCL and ask Charles about Professor Pickering.

  Daniel and Watts had changed trains at Watford, leaving the slower suburban line, and were now on the main route to Birmingham. Watts had insisted on buying seats in a first-class carriage, which had pleased Daniel, who was more used to travelling in second or third. Not only was there more space for th
em, but they were able to find a compartment to themselves, which meant they could talk freely.

  Watts certainly seemed more relaxed now that Daniel was with him, acting as his protector.

  ‘I know of your reputation of course, Mr Wilson,’ said Watts. ‘A sterling career working with Superintendent Abberline. So many successes. So many villains brought to justice. I remember the Cleveland Street scandal, in particular, because Cleveland Street is literally just around the corner from our offices at Fitzroy Mews, and there was a certain panic amongst one or two of our authors when the news about the – ah – brothel became public.’ He shook his head. ‘Dreadful!’

  Sooner or later, everyone asked Daniel about the two most famous cases he and Abberline had worked on: the search for Jack the Ripper, and the Cleveland Street scandal, eager for inside information, morsels they could trade in gossip. Keen to divert Watts’ attention back to the present case, Daniel said, ‘Tell me more about these letters. The ones from Mr Jedding.’

  Watts gave a little shudder at their mention. It was obviously not just a subject that was distasteful to him, but it reminded the publisher of why they were heading for Birmingham, apparently now fleeing for his life.

  ‘The letters.’ He sighed. ‘To be honest, we ignored the first one, but when the second one came repeating the allegation, Whetstone replied to it saying that he had raised the matter with Professor Pickering, who had assured us that he did not know Mr Jedding, nor had he seen any of his work. That produced a further letter from Mr Jedding which was very angry indeed. In it he said he had delivered a parcel of his own manuscript personally to Professor Pickering’s house, and it had been taken in by the Pickerings’ housekeeper.’

  ‘You showed this letter to Professor Pickering?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘We did,’ said Watts. ‘As we had done with the earlier letters. He insisted that his housekeeper did not give him any such parcel.’

  ‘A simple matter to question the housekeeper, I would have thought,’ said Daniel.

  Watts looked uncomfortable. ‘I did suggest that to Whetstone, but he was adamant that there would be no such questioning. It would put our relationship with Pickering at risk.’

  ‘So, he was prepared to accept the Professor’s denial at face value,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Yes,’ said Watts.

  ‘And after the professor was killed, you didn’t think of showing these letters to the police?’ asked Daniel. ‘They surely suggest a possible motive for his murder.’

  Again, Watts looked uncomfortable. ‘I did suggest as such, but Whetstone was against it. He said that if word of the letters got out it could adversely affect sales. And, with the book in high demand because of the exhibition at the British Museum, it would be foolish to put such good sales at risk. The book trade can be notoriously unstable, and one never knows if a book will sell well or not.’

  ‘You could have overridden him in the interests of justice and finding the killer,’ suggested Daniel. ‘The name of your firm is Whetstone and Watts. You are a partner, after all.’

  ‘A very junior partner.’ Watts sighed. ‘Whetstone was the senior partner and he took the major decisions.’

  ‘And you abided by them?’

  ‘Yes. I did most of the selecting of which books to publish, but he was the one with the most commercial experience. So, I bowed to his judgement.’

  ‘How did you get on with Professor Pickering?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Well enough,’ said Watts. ‘We didn’t really have a lot to do with one another. He dealt mostly with Whetstone.’

  ‘So, as you are the one who selects which to publish, I assume he brought it to you first.’

  ‘Er … no, actually. He gave it to Whetstone, after they’d met socially. Whetstone read it and liked it, then gave it to me for my opinion.’

  ‘Which was favourable?’

  ‘Oh yes. There’s a great demand for anything with an Arthurian connection, especially following in the footsteps of Tennyson and the paintings of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. I agreed with Whetstone that it could be a commercial success. Especially once the British Museum decided to put on its “Age of Arthur” exhibition.’ He gave a long sigh. ‘How tragic that it should end up like this.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Abigail read through the letters, Miss Roseberry watching. The first letters were upset and angry in tone, but still formally polite.

  Dear Mr Whetstone,

  I was shocked to receive your letter in which Professor Pickering claims he does not know me, nor had he ever seen any of my work. This is a blatant lie.

  As I said in my earlier letters, I have spent the past four years of my life researching the person of Ambrosius Aurelianus as the real-life model for King Arthur. I have visited places where he is said to have been, and have read the works of early historians, Gildas, Bede and Nennius, as well as medieval writings of William of Malmesbury and Geoffrey of Monmouth. I also researched the persons of Rothamus and Vortimer, who have also been identified as being possible models for the person of King Arthur. Earlier this year I had finished my piece that concludes that Ambrosius Aurelianus and King Arthur were one and the same person and I was keen to get my work into the public domain. However, being just an ordinary carpenter with no contacts in the world of history scholarship, I decided to send my work to Professor Pickering, as I understood he was one of the acknowledged experts on Roman Britain, in the hope that he could recommend my work to a publisher.

  I know he received my work because I delivered it personally to his house in Park Square East, Regent’s Park, my parcel being taken in by his housekeeper who promised to pass it on to him.

  Unfortunately, the copy I left at Professor Pickering’s house was my only copy of my work, but I still have my original notes which will prove that large sections of the book you published on Ambrosius Aurelianus which Professor Pickering claims to have written were directly copied from my work.

  I am a poor man and cannot afford to go to law on this, so I would ask you, as honourable gentlemen, to give me justice and put my name on this book, which Professor Pickering claims as his.

  Professor Pickering may have done some research on Ambrosius, but the work linking Ambrosius with Arthur is mine.

  I demand and will have justice in this matter.

  Yours sincerely,

  William Jedding

  In the later letters, however, rage had taken over, and politeness was dropped, with overt threats: You have stolen everything that is precious to me. You will pay the price, and The Angel of Vengeance will fall upon you unless you give me the credit for my work that was stolen from me.

  ‘“The Angel of Vengeance”,’ murmured Abigail.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Roseberry unhappily.

  ‘The tone is very threatening,’ mused Abigail. ‘I can see why Mr Watts is worried. Did Mr Jedding ever call at these offices to put his allegations face-to-face?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Miss Roseberry.

  ‘And neither Mr Whetstone nor Mr Watts thought about showing these letters to the police?’ asked Abigail. ‘Jedding’s address is on them, so he could have been warned.’

  ‘No,’ said Miss Roseberry. ‘It was when that last one arrived, about the Angel of Vengeance, that I said to Mr Whetstone he really should show them to the police, but he dismissed the threats as having no substance. “A lunatic, Miss Roseberry,” he said. “Or some charlatan trying to gull money out of us.”’

  ‘Was that also Mr Watts’ opinion?’

  ‘No. Mr Watts said they should be shown to the authorities. I heard him and Mr Whetstone having an argument about them, but Mr Whetstone insisted the bad publicity would harm the firm.’ She paused, then asked, ‘Do you think this Mr Jedding is the one who killed them?’

  ‘At the moment, we don’t know,’ said Abigail. ‘It does look probable, but we’ll need to look into it further.’

  ‘Will that involve talking to Mr Jedding?’

  ‘I bel
ieve it will.’

  ‘From his letters, he sounds like he might be dangerous. You will not be confronting him?’

  Abigail gave a smile as she said, ‘I may well wait until Mr Wilson returns before doing that. But, then, I might. I shall weigh up the situation.’

  It was eight o’clock when their train pulled in to New Street Station, making Daniel determined to get Watts safely lodged at Ben Stilworthy’s place as soon as possible in order for him to catch a train back to London before services stopped for the day, stranding him in Birmingham overnight.

  ‘Fortunately, we won’t need to take a cab, Ben’s place is an easy walk from here,’ Daniel told Watts.

  Then he realised that Watts wasn’t listening to him but was gazing upwards at the station’s vast roof.

  ‘Isn’t it magnificent!’ said Watts in a tone of reverential awe. ‘Over the years I have read about this roof, but never seen it. And here I am! Do you know much about architectural engineering, Mr Wilson?’

  ‘Not really,’ admitted Daniel. ‘The work of Isambard Brunel, obviously.’

  ‘We published a book on the work of Edward Cowper, the man who designed this very roof,’ said Watts. ‘Birmingham New Street Station was completed in 1854, and this roof was rightly seen as the jewel in its crown. It was the largest single arched span with a glass roof in the world, until St Pancras opened in 1868. Look, can you see any supporting pillars in the middle?’

  ‘Er, no,’ said Daniel, taken aback by the fervour which Watts was lauding the structure.

  ‘That’s because there aren’t any!’ said Watts. ‘It’s 840 feet long, 211 feet wide and 80 feet high, and all the support pillars are at the side. There is nothing keeping that roof up but brilliant engineering.’

  ‘Yes.’ Daniel nodded, taking Watts’ arm to steer him towards the exit. ‘But we need to get on. I do have to catch a train back to London today.’