Murder at the British Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  Reluctantly, Watts tore himself away from admiring the wondrous roof, but even then, as they headed for the exit, he continued to wax rhapsodic. ‘Edward Cowper previously designed the Crystal Palace, and you know what a marvellous creation that was!’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Daniel. ‘I assume Mr Whetstone shared your enthusiasm for Mr Cowper’s work.’

  ‘Alas, not to the same degree,’ said Watts. ‘The book on Cowper was one I had to fight for. Whetstone seemed doubtful if it would find a readership, but I proved him wrong. The book was one of our successes.’ He gave a rueful sigh, then added, ‘It’s sad to say, but perhaps poor Whetstone’s tragic loss may pave the way for more of the kind of books we should have been publishing. For example, I would love to do one on George Gilbert Scott. I assume you know his work?’

  ‘The Albert Memorial,’ said Daniel. ‘St Pancras Railway Station.’

  ‘Actually, that is a proper misconception,’ said Watts. ‘Scott designed the Midland Grand Hotel that fronts St Pancras; the actual station was designed by William Henry Barlow.’

  Thank heavens I’m returning to London rather than staying with Watts at Ben’s place, thought Daniel gratefully. Now, away from the terror of being in London, Watts had revealed his passion for architectural structural engineering and seemed determined to unleash his knowledge on all and sundry.

  Abigail walked along Euston Road, the letters from William Jedding safely stored in her bag. Jedding’s address on the letters was in Balfe Street, one of the tangle of small streets at the back of King’s Cross Station, and King’s Cross was just a few minutes’ walk. The trouble was that Daniel had warned her about going alone in that particular area.

  ‘It’s a rookery,’ he’d said. ‘Not as bad as somewhere like Seven Dials or Whitechapel or Shoreditch, but that’s because it’s smaller. The people who live there are nearly all crooks, thieves, burglars. It’s not a safe place for a woman on her own, or even accompanied by another woman, or strangers.’

  According to Daniel, people took their life into their hands when they entered one of these narrow-alleyed, back-lane areas. Police constables would only enter them if ordered to do so, and then only in twos or threes. The canal that ran through the area added to the danger. ‘Evidence ends up there, and that includes dead bodies.’

  For a moment, as she passed Euston Station she faltered, tempted to instead turn left and walk up Eversholt Street towards Camden Town and their home. But then she steeled herself. No, her inner voice said. I will not be intimidated. Daniel doesn’t let himself be deterred, and if I am to be his equal partner in this, then neither shall I.

  And she continued along Euston Road, heading firmly towards King’s Cross.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The face of Ben Stilworthy broke into a smile of warm welcome as he opened his front door to Daniel’s knock and saw who his visitor was.

  ‘Mr Wilson! It’s a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘My feelings exactly.’ Daniel smiled.

  ‘Come in!’ said Stilworthy, and Daniel and Watts squeezed past him into the narrow passageway.

  ‘This is a client of mine. Mr … Smith,’ said Daniel.

  Stilworthy smiled and shook Watts’ hand.

  ‘Good afternoon to you, Mr Smith. Any client of Mr Wilson’s is very welcome here.’

  ‘He needs somewhere to stay for a few days, until a certain London issue is resolved,’ said Daniel. Carefully, he added, ‘I suggested Birmingham because he’s not known here, and it’s unlikely anyone will come calling for him.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Stilworthy. ‘Come through to the kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on and make a pot of tea. I’m guessing you’ll be parched after your long journey.’

  They followed him along the passage and into the spotlessly clean kitchen.

  ‘Rest assured, Mr Smith, you will be perfectly safe while you’re at my establishment,’ said Stilworthy as he filled a kettle and put it on the hob.

  ‘I can echo that sentiment,’ added Daniel. ‘Before he retired from the police force, Ben was one of their most diligent officers. Intelligent, perceptive and brave.’

  Stilworthy let out a chuckle. ‘Careful, Mr Wilson. You’ll be giving me a swollen head.’

  ‘This is the first time Mr Smith has ever been to Birmingham, and I believe he’s particularly pleased to be here because he was able to see New Street Station.’

  ‘And isn’t it magnificent!’ enthused Watts. ‘That roof!’

  ‘One of the marvels of the world!’ agreed Stilworthy. ‘I saw it being constructed, you know.’

  Watts gazed at Stilworthy, his mouth dropping open in awe. ‘You saw it being built!’

  ‘I was only a nipper at the time,’ said Stilworthy. ‘Early fifties it was. The foundations had all been done, but I used to go along and watch as they started to put the roof together. The sense of excitement …’

  ‘I can imagine!’ burst out Watts, barely able to contain his delight. ‘Mr Stilworthy, it is indeed fortunate that Mr Wilson has brought me to your place, because I would love to hear from you all about what you remember of that construction. I waxed lyrical to Mr Wilson about the roof on the way here, a veritable marvel of architectural engineering, but to hear from your own lips the story of its construction …’

  ‘It will be my pleasure,’ said Stilworthy. ‘Ah, the kettle’s boiled. I’ll make the tea, then I’ll take you to your room and show you the usual offices.’

  ‘Actually, I need to get back to London tonight, so I’ll pass on the tea. Thanks, Ben,’ said Daniel.

  ‘An urgent case?’ asked Stilworthy. Then he added quickly, ‘Not that I’m prying!’

  ‘You never pry, that’s why I know Mr Smith will be safe with you. So, I’ll be off. As soon as the issue in London is resolved, I’ll send you a letter, Ben.’

  ‘And I’ll let Mr Smith know the coast is clear,’ said Stilworthy.

  They shook hands all round, and then Daniel slipped out to head back to the station. The last words he heard as he closed the front door behind him were Watts asking how many men had worked on the roof, and how it had been put into place.

  As she passed King’s Cross Station, Abigail once again remembered Daniel’s warnings about the area at the back of King’s Cross. Squeezed between York Way and the Caledonian Road, it was notorious for prostitutes of both sexes, as well as gangs of muggers waiting for unwary travellers, especially those new to the city, just off the train and making their way from the two termini of King’s Cross and St Pancras. And here she was, going right into the heart of the York Way–Caledonian Road hellhole, according to Daniel.

  He will be furious when I tell him, she thought. He’ll give me a lecture on walking around London safely. It is ridiculous, she told herself sharply. I have walked through the backstreets of Cairo and been perfectly safe, with no fear for my safety, and yet I am made to feel ill at ease in the capital city of my own country.

  Children are born in these backstreets. They run and play. They survive. They do not all live in fear. And neither will I.

  Often she’d found in the past that when she entered a new area, or a new city, it was about striding through with an air of confidence. Muggers and bandits looked for the signs of fear marking out their victims. Well, I will not be a victim.

  She crossed a bridge that ran over the canal, the smell from it rising, filling her nostrils with a nauseating stench and she almost reached for a handkerchief to cover her nose; but then decided against it. It would mark her as weak. She’d smelt worse in the tanneries of Egypt. All she had to do was harden herself to it.

  She entered the warren of backstreets and found herself looking at groups of children sitting on the pavement kerbs, playing a game with small stones. They looked at her as she passed, and she could feel their eyes on her as she continued down the street. Curtains in the windows of some of the houses twitched as she walked and she knew she was being watched because she was so obviously a stranger.

>   She found Balfe Street, a short, narrow road with terraced houses on either side, and despite her determination to approach this with confidence, she wavered.

  Say it was this William Jedding who’d carried out the murders. How would he react if she confronted him? Might he attack her? Stab her? If it was he who’d already killed two strong men, how could she defend herself against him?

  Possibly it would be better to wait until Daniel was with her, or possibly Inspector Feather and some constables.

  But no, she decided. You can still face him if you use your brain. Don’t let him know the real reason you want to talk to him.

  But what reason, then?

  Pretend it’s about the book. Yes, that was it. Say she’d been sent by Whetstone and Watts to talk about publishing an apology for the way he’d been treated by them about Professor Pickering’s book. See how he reacted when she mentioned those names. Would he invite her in? If so, she’d decline. She’d tell him that this was just an initial courtesy visit, and she would return later with the paperwork to … to what? To deal with giving him credit for his work and compensation. Yes, that was the way. The important thing was to see the expression in his eyes when she mentioned the names, and the book. And to watch his hands to make sure he wasn’t armed when he opened the door.

  Despite her determination to be full of confidence, her heart was beating wildly as she knocked at the door. I shouldn’t have come alone, I shouldn’t have come alone, she told herself. But I have to if I’m to play my full role as Daniel’s partner in this enterprise. I have to be as strong as he is.

  The woman who opened the door was in her forties and dressed in mourning black. A recent death. The expression of deep anguish and grief on the woman’s face confirmed it.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m very sorry to trouble you at what is obviously a difficult time, but I’m looking for William Jedding.’

  The woman’s face tightened, and tears sprang into her eyes.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded angrily. ‘And if you say it’s a difficult time, you must know why. So why are you coming here asking for my husband when you know he’s dead!’

  Abigail gave her a look of deep apology. ‘I am sincerely sorry, Mrs Jedding,’ she said. ‘But I did not know your husband had passed away. I saw the black of mourning, but never thought it was for him. When did he—?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you!’ she burst out. ‘And I don’t have to talk to you! Go away and leave me in peace!’

  With that, she slammed the door.

  Abigail stood looking at the closed door and wondered whether to knock at it again, but the expression on the woman’s face, and the tone of her voice, had been very firm. There were no answers there.

  She looked along the road and saw a shop at the corner. As she approached it, she saw that the pavement outside was laden with broken bits of bric-a-brac, chairs with wooden slats missing, chipped items of crockery, rusted tools. A rag-and-bone shop, the detritus of society thrown away and discarded, gathered up by the rag-and-bone man on his cart, and assembled for sale. Here, even the poorest could buy a chair or a stool or a teapot.

  The owner of the shop seemed to be moving his stock from the pavement to safety inside the shop, so it was obviously approaching closing time.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. My name’s Abigail Fenton and I’ve been employed by the British Museum to investigate the recent deaths there.’

  ‘Oh aye! The murders! Grisly, eh!’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Abigail. ‘The thing is, I wanted to talk a William Jedding because someone said he might have information that might be of use, but I’ve just learnt that he’s passed away.’

  The man gave a sad nod. ‘Last Monday, it was.’

  Last Monday. The same day that Pickering was attacked and killed.

  ‘Poor old William,’ continued the man. ‘Topped himself, didn’t he.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Terrible, it was. He loaded stones into his pockets, then threw himself in Battlebridge Basin.’

  ‘Battlebridge Basin?’ queried Abigail.

  ‘Just up the canal. The water’s so murky at that point it’s a wonder they found him. They wouldn’t have if someone hadn’t seen him throw himself in.’ He shook his head. ‘Terrible way to go, drowning in all that muck.’

  ‘Last Monday, you said. Do you know what time of day it happened?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Late afternoon, from what I can gather.’

  ‘Does anyone know why he did it? Killed himself, I mean.’

  The man looked at her, puzzled. ‘I thought you said you was from the British Museum.’

  ‘I am,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Then you oughta know it was that exhibition there what killed him. With that book. William told me what happened, how he did all that work on it and that bloke stole it from him, and there the book was, with all William’s work, there for all to see, but without his name on it.’ He shook his head. ‘Criminal, it was. If you ask me, the bloke what got killed got what he deserved.’

  Daniel sat in the compartment, glad he’d managed to catch one of the last trains back to London. The thought of an evening in the company of Jerrold Watts and Ben Stilworthy swapping memories of the construction of New Street Station filled him with dread and a feeling of gratitude he was able to escape. But there was something nagging him about Watts. For all his nervousness and claims of being in fear of his life, there was something that jarred.

  Daniel ran over their conversation during the train journey in his mind and realised what it was: Watts had positively disliked his partner, Whetstone. Daniel wondered if Abigail had picked up any gossip from Miss Roseberry about the two men’s relationship when she went to get the letters. Had she even managed to get hold of the letters? If so, he was looking forward to reading them, seeing if they would contain the motive for the murder of Pickering and Whetstone. If they did, the next move was to confront this Mr Jedding.

  He couldn’t resist a small smile at the thought that Abigail would be waiting for him at home. Sometimes he wondered how he’d managed to be so lucky as to find her and to have her as his – what? Wife? Partner? Lover? It didn’t matter. The happy fact was that they were together, and he was determined that this was a relationship he wanted to last. Which meant that he had to do something about moving on from the house in Plender Street.

  He should have talked about it to Abigail before, once she’d said she’d be moving in with him. But once she’d begun decorating the house, hanging pictures, adding cushions and changing it from the austere, almost monastic place it had been, turning it from a house into a home, he’d been so happy with her in the refurbished surroundings he’d let it slide. But the fact was that Abigail had been used to such things as piped plumbing: an indoor toilet and a bathroom with hot and cold water on tap. Daniel’s house in Camden Town still had an earth closet in a privy outside. And bathing meant filling up a large copper in the scullery with water from the cold tap and lighting a fire under it, then drawing the hot water off and emptying it by means of a bucket into a tin bath, brought in from where it hung in the backyard and putting it in front of the coal-fired kitchen range so the bather wouldn’t catch cold.

  And emptying the bath afterwards was equally laborious, filling buckets with the waste water and emptying them on the small patch of soil in the backyard.

  Not that his house was any different from most of the others in Camden Town; most had an outside privy and no piped water inside the house. But Abigail deserved better. Perhaps they could even take on a house which had this new electric lighting system instead of gaslights.

  We have to move, he decided. A better house in a better part of town. It was time for a change.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  As Abigail put her key into the lock to let herself in, a voice behind her called, ‘Excuse me!’

  She turned and saw the small thin newspaper reporter, Ned Carson, approa
ching her. As before, he had a beaming grin on his face.

  ‘We met with Mr Wilson at the museum a few days ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘I remember.’

  ‘I’ve since learnt your name is Abigail Fenton and you’re working with Daniel Wilson on the murders at the British Museum. Strange he didn’t mention it. Why?’

  ‘You’d have to ask that question of Mr Wilson,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was hoping to do,’ said Carson. ‘That’s why I called.’ He smiled again. ‘I notice you have a key to his house.’

  ‘Mr Wilson is not at home at the moment and he asked me if I’d look in and check on things for him,’ said Abigail.

  ‘You mean he’s away?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But when he returns, I’ll let him know you called and you wish to speak to him.’

  ‘Will you be here when he returns?’ asked Carson. ‘At home?’

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’ demanded Abigail.

  ‘The personal aspect.’ Carson smiled. ‘It’s what our readers like.’

  ‘I wish you good evening, Mr Carson,’ said Abigail curtly. And she shut the door.

  It felt very late for Daniel when he finally arrived home. It had been a long day with lots of action and stress, made worse by the seemingly endless train journey to and from Birmingham. And he realised, as he opened the front door, that he was starving. He should have got some food from one of the stands at Euston, but he had seen the way some of it was produced. He’d been doubtful about the provenance of some of the food ever since he’d seen a rat being skinned by one of the purveyors.

  ‘I’m home!’ he called, shutting the door and heading for the back kitchen, and as he did so a delicious aroma came to greet him, along with Abigail, who threw her arms around him and hugged him close.