Murder at the British Museum

by Jim Eldridge

  He wondered how badly he’d been hurt. He remembered being stabbed, the pain in his chest. Not in his heart, obviously, or he’d be dead. Had the knife penetrated his lung? He took a breath in and let it slowly out again. No sharp pain. He took a bigger breath, and this time felt a dull ache, a throbbing inside his chest. But no sharp pain. Was that a good sign?

  A movement at the door caught his attention, and he saw that Abigail had returned with a nurse and a doctor, a bearded man in his forties.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Miss Fenton, I’ll need to examine Mr Wilson,’ said the doctor.

  ‘I’ll wait in the corridor,’ said Abigail.

  She left and pulled the door shut behind her.

  ‘You have a rare ministering angel there, Mr Wilson,’ said the doctor as he pulled the bedclothes down and began to undo the bandage around Daniel’s chest. ‘She’s been by your bedside since you were brought in two days ago.’

  Yes, thought Daniel. She’s rare indeed.

  ‘Where am I?’ stumbled Daniel, his voice hoarse and croaky.

  ‘You’re at Charing Cross Hospital.’

  ‘How … how badly am I injured?’

  ‘You were lucky,’ said the doctor. ‘The person who did it missed your vital organs, thanks to the blade being deflected by your ribs. But the knife still went in quite deep, and your flesh needed some sewing together. With plenty of rest you should make a good recovery.’ With the nurse supporting Daniel, the doctor peeled the bandage away, then removed the gauze beneath. Daniel looked down at the gash, which had been sewn up and was surrounded by a large bruise coloured yellow and purple.

  ‘It looks poisoned,’ said Daniel.

  ‘On the contrary, this is an anti-poison. We’ve treated the wound with carbolic acid, a compound of coal tar, which acts as an antiseptic. More people used to die during surgery from infection than from the surgery itself, but thanks to the work of Joseph Lister those deaths from infections have been seriously reduced. It’s thanks to Dr Lister you’ll be making a full recovery.’

  ‘And thanks to you,’ added Daniel.

  ‘We all play a part,’ said the doctor. ‘We’ll put some more carbolic acid on, to make sure, and clean you up, and then Miss Fenton can come back in.’

  It was some hours later. Daniel had drifted off to sleep under the effects of more laudanum, waking to find Abigail still beside his bed.

  ‘You should go home and rest,’ he said, pushing himself up to a sitting position in the bed.

  ‘I will, now I know you’re going to be alright,’ she said. ‘But I wanted to be here when you woke.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. He took a sip of water, his tongue feeling less like a dry sponge in his mouth. ‘What happened to Jenny Warren?’

  ‘Superintendent Armstrong shot her. She’s dead.’

  ‘She killed that reporter, Ned Carson. She must have found him down there.’

  ‘She did,’ said Abigail. ‘I think he must have followed her, trying to get a story.’

  ‘But she didn’t kill you.’

  ‘No,’ said Abigail. ‘She said she was going to. Then she appeared to change her mind. I don’t know why.’ She looked at the clock. ‘It’s six o’clock. I shall go home now, but I’ll return tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I love you, Abigail Fenton,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Then don’t ever do that to me again,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Nearly get yourself killed.’

  As she stood up, Daniel said, ‘Can you send a telegram to Ben Stilworthy, the man whose bed and breakfast place in Birmingham Jerrold Watts is staying at, telling him that it’s safe for Mr Smith to return to London.’

  ‘Of course. What’s his address?’

  Daniel told her, and she wrote it down.

  ‘Consider it done,’ she said. She leant down and kissed him. ‘Sleep well tonight, my love.’

  Evening came, and Daniel was just preparing to slide down in the bed and drift off to sleep – the drowsiness an effect of the laudanum he was being given, he suspected – when the bulky figure of Superintendent Armstrong entered his room. He stood in the doorway, surveying Daniel for a moment, then he walked in and stood by the bed.

  ‘You’re awake,’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ said Daniel.

  ‘They thought you might not make it when you first came in.’

  ‘I didn’t know much about it,’ admitted Daniel.

  There was pause, then Armstrong grunted, ‘I’ve come to thank you. You saved my life. If you hadn’t pushed me aside it would have been me who’d got stabbed. I owe you my life.’

  ‘If you hadn’t shot her, she might well have stabbed me again,’ said Daniel. ‘So I’d say we’re equal.’

  ‘No, you don’t, Wilson,’ growled Armstrong. ‘You took the knife that was meant for me.’

  Daniel hesitated as he wondered how to respond. Then he said, ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And you were right about the killings. It wasn’t that mad girl.’

  ‘No,’ said Daniel.

  This time it was the superintendent’s turn to hesitate before speaking. ‘You were right, and I was wrong. I respect you for that. It doesn’t mean I have to like you, but I respect that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel.

  ‘The big thing is, you saved my life at the risk to your own. For that, I’ll always owe you one. So, this is to say you’re not barred from the Yard.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel again.

  ‘Just so long as you don’t take advantage of it,’ added Armstrong. ‘I don’t want you cluttering up Inspector Feather’s office and taking up his time. He’s a good copper, but he’s got a soft spot for you.’

  ‘He’s a very good copper,’ said Daniel. ‘The best there is on your squad.’

  ‘Even better than me?’ demanded Armstrong.

  Daniel forced a smile. ‘I’m hardly likely to say in case I get barred again.’

  For a moment Daniel thought Armstrong was going to respond with a snarled insult, but instead he was sure he saw the corner of the superintendent’s mouth twitch, almost a smile.

  ‘Get back on your feet soon, Wilson.’

  Daniel’s first visitor the next morning was John Feather.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked, coming in and settling himself down on the chair beside Daniel’s bed. Daniel noticed he was holding a paper bag.

  ‘Recovering,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m hoping they’ll kick me out today.’

  ‘I wouldn’t rush it,’ cautioned Feather. ‘By all accounts, the stab wound was pretty deep. You were lucky.’

  ‘I was lucky Armstrong was carrying a revolver,’ said Daniel.

  ‘He’s not as bad as you think,’ said Feather. ‘He’s going to have to make a statement to the press about Jenny Warren being the real killer.’

  ‘Any bets he blames you and his staff for wrongfully identifying Elsie Bowler?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘He’s the boss.’ Feather shrugged.

  ‘He came to see me last night,’ said Daniel. ‘He told me I’m no longer barred from the Yard.’

  ‘Quite right. Let’s face it, you saved his life.’

  Daniel nodded at the paper bag. ‘I’ve been told that visitors bring patients nice things when they’re in hospital. Grapes. Sweets. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard that, too,’ said Feather. ‘And that was my intention, so grapes it was. But as I sat on the bus coming here I thought, “Maybe the hospital don’t want Daniel eating things while he’s recovering. Especially with pips in them.” And it seemed a pity to waste them.’

  ‘You ate my grapes?’ said Daniel, scandalised.

  ‘Technically speaking, they weren’t your grapes,’ said Feather. ‘I bought them, so they were mine. But you can have them.’

  He handed over the bag. Daniel opened it and looked in. There were five grapes left.

  Daniel sighed. ‘I suppose it’s the thought that counts.’

  After Fea
ther left, one of the nurses brought Daniel some newspapers to read. Daniel had hoped that Abigail would have put in an appearance, but he guessed that something must have detained her. She arrived with the answer shortly before eleven.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m later than expected, but I went to the museum first to tell Sir Jasper how you’re doing. And also, to thank him for paying your hospital bills.’

  ‘I thought it must be him,’ said Daniel.

  ‘He said he felt it was the least the museum could do, and it had the full support of the board.’

  ‘Only after he’d nagged them, I expect,’ said Daniel.

  ‘And this arrived at the museum this morning.’ Abigail produced a telegram and passed it to Daniel. ‘It’s a response from Mr Watts to the one I sent yesterday to your friend Ben Stilworthy.’

  Daniel read it. Returning to London. Will see you on my return. Will be republishing Ambrosius book as ‘By William Jedding; edited by Professor Lance Pickering’. Yours, Jerrold Watts.

  ‘Well!’ exclaimed Daniel. ‘Well done to Mr Watts. Vindication and justice for William Jedding at last.’

  ‘A pity he couldn’t live to see it,’ said Abigail. She sat down on the bed and took Daniel’s hand in hers. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘What was the question?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘The one you asked me some time ago. Would I marry you. The answer’s yes.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘When I thought I’d lost you after you were stabbed, I felt absolutely bereft. I know it won’t change things between us, I don’t think I can love you any more than I already do, but I don’t want us to be separated again.’

  ‘You mean you won’t be going off on any more archaeological digs?’ asked Daniel, surprised.

  ‘Well, yes, I will, of course. That’s what I do,’ said Abigail.

  ‘So, what do you mean about not being separated?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ admitted Abigail. ‘It’s about feeling separated. If we’re married I don’t think I’ll have that feeling.’

  ‘If?’ queried Daniel.

  ‘Of course I meant “when”.’

  ‘When?’ asked Daniel.

  Abigail thought about it. ‘Not immediately,’ she said.

  Daniel laughed. ‘You’re having second thoughts already?’

  ‘No, absolutely not,’ said Abigail. ‘But there are things to think about. Practical things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like finding a house for us that’s both of ours, as you talked about. I’d like to do that first.’

  Daniel smiled. ‘So would I,’ he said.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JIM ELDRIDGE was born in central London towards the end of World War II, and was blown up (but survived) during attacks by V2 rockets on the Euston/Kings Cross area of London where he lived. He left school at sixteen and did a variety of jobs, before training as a teacher. In 1971 he sold his first sitcom (starring Arthur Lowe) to the BBC and had his first book commissioned. Since then he has had over 100 books published, with sales of over three million copies. He lives in Kent with his wife.

  jimeldridge.com

  By Jim Eldridge

  Murder at the Fitzwilliam

  Murder at the British Museum

  Murder at the Ashmolean

  COPYRIGHT

  Allison & Busby Limited

  11 Wardour Mews

  London W1F 8AN

  allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2019.

  This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 by JIM ELDRIDGE

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–2391–1