Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic

by John Rowland

  “Did he always buy them at one particular shop? A man with the habit of eating some particular kind of sweetmeat often does, you know,” Shelley explained.

  “Yes, he did. He always bought them from a shop in the High Street here—a Mr. Martin sold them. I think they were some special brand that weren’t obtainable elsewhere. Father always said that he couldn’t get almonds from anywhere else that tasted half as nice.”

  “Mr. Martin, High Street,” murmured Cunningham, writing the address down in his notebook.

  “Did every one know that your father had this little peculiarity—this fancy for sugared almonds?” asked Shelley.

  “He didn’t make any secret of it, if that’s what you mean,” she replied. “I should imagine that anyone who knew him at all well would be aware of it.”

  “Anyone such as Dr. Wilkinson, for instance, or Mr. Baker,” Shelley suggested.

  “Why, yes…But I don’t understand. Why all this interest in father’s taste in sweets?” She looked puzzled at the trend of the conversation.

  Shelley thought that this was another occasion when brutal frankness was indicated. A little shock might make her give away further facts. And that she was hiding things which were better revealed he felt very certain. So he said: “Because those sugared almonds brought your father to his death, Miss Arnell. He was poisoned by an almond containing potassium cyanide.” This was mere guesswork, but Shelley thought he was quite safe in anticipating the findings of the medical men.

  “Poisoned. How dreadful!” In despite of the words, however, she did not seem more shocked than she had been before. Her tongue seemed now to be uttering the correct sentiments unconsciously, while her mind was far away.

  “Yes, poisoned, Miss Arnell,” said Shelley. “And my job—unpleasant though it may be—is to find out who poisoned him. That’s a job that you may be sure I shall carry out to the end, no matter where it may lead.”

  Precisely how this conversation might have proceeded it would be difficult to say, for at this moment the telephone bell rang, and, with a brief “Excuse me,” Violet Arnell lifted the receiver.

  “Hullo,” she said. “Yes. Who is that, please? Yes; I will tell him.”

  She turned to Shelley, and held the receiver towards him. “It’s for you, Mr. Shelley,” she explained. “A message from Scotland Yard.”

  “Thanks,” he said briefly, and spoke into the receiver. “Shelley speaking,” he snapped. “What is it? Who?” Then he paused for a moment, obviously listening to a long piece of conversation from the other end. Cunningham strained his ears, but was unable to understand a word, being able only to hear a subdued buzz.

  “Yes,” said Shelley again. “Fairhurst. Yes. What? The devil he has? Who? Wilkinson? Right. I’ll be back right away.”

  Cunningham and Miss Arnell sat in silence while Shelley banged down the receiver, and turned towards them, an air of almost desperate eagerness about him.

  “Important information has just come through from the Yard, Miss Arnell,” he said. “I shall have to get back to London right away. I hope that if I want any more information from you I shall be able to get hold of you at any time. Shall I? Good. Then come along, Cunningham. We’ve no time to waste. Must get on without delay.”

  In the High Street again, Shelley grasped Cunningham’s arm tightly. “Listen,” he said. “Wilkinson is dead. Fairhurst found it out.”

  “Fairhurst?” Cunningham was amazed. “That little worm couldn’t be a murderer, surely.”

  “He’s been dead for months, apparently,” said Shelley. “I couldn’t get much sense out of them, though. I must get back to the Yard to sift this information, and I want you to get hold of this man Baker. Grill him all you can, and see if he has any sort of alibi for yesterday. That’s not vitally important, as anyone might have put the poisoned sweet in Arnell s packet at any time, knowing that he’d be certain to eat it sooner or later. Still, it’s a point worth investigating. Hope to God he isn’t on the ’phone. Still, you must try to get him before the fair Violet has had time to warn him.”

  “Any particular points, chief?” asked Cunningham eagerly. This was a great rise for him, to be given the job of questioning the man who was at any rate temporarily the principal suspect.

  “No. I leave that to your discretion entirely. You know my methods, Watson,” said Shelley with a grin. “I must get back to the Yard. I must hie me to London.”

  “And I must hie me to Baker,” said Cunningham. “Wonder what he’ll have to say.”

  “Not much,” said Shelley. But he was wrong.

  Chapter V

  Cunningham Investigates

  It was with some trepidation that Cunningham approached the entrance to the school. It was a boarding-school, and some of the staff, including Mr. Henry Baker, “lived in.” Cunningham felt both elated and worried, for this was the first occasion on which he had undertaken such an onerous task. However, as soon as the bright maid who answered the door had seen him comfortably seated in the neat little sitting-room, and had promised to go in search of Mr. Baker, he felt his wonted air of quiet confidence returning to him, and planned out in his mind the way in which he proposed to tackle this important witness.

  Soon Mr. Baker came in. He was a man of medium height, his hair was dark, his eyes, if a trifle too close-set, were of a pleasant brown colour, and in their depths a sense of humour sparkled and twinkled.

  “Well, Sergeant,” he said jovially as he approached, his hand held out in candid friendship; “what’s the trouble, eh? What am I to be run in for this time?”

  “Nothing, I hope, sir,” replied Cunningham, smiling in his turn. “It is only that I want some information from you. We understand that you know something about a case which we have under investigation.” Cunningham did not often play the “heavy detective,” but he felt that the present was one of the few occasions when such a rôle would be suitable.

  “Right ho!” responded Baker. “Fire away! Can’t think what crook I can number among my acquaintances, but I dare say that you know more about the criminal classes than I do.”

  “It’s in connection with the death of Professor Arnell,” Cunningham began, and paused. Baker looked at him with an air of absolute astonishment that seemed too genuine to be “faked.” This man, Cunningham told himself, couldn’t possibly be the murderer. Or, if he was, he must also be a consummate actor in order to assume this appearance of complete surprise, not unmixed with consternation.

  “Did I hear you say the death of Professor Arnell?” asked Baker.

  Cunningham nodded. “Yes,” he said bluntly. “Professor Arnell died in London today.”

  “Poor old chap!” exclaimed Baker. “Of course, I know that he’s had a groggy heart for years. Still, this will be a hell of a shock for Violet.” Then he paused suddenly, as if a new idea had suddenly come into his head. “But—I say, Sergeant,” he asked. “What are you doing here? I mean to say, there’s nothing fishy, nothing suspicious about the old man’s death, is there?”

  “Only too suspicious, I’m afraid, sir,” answered Cunningham with a gloomy nod.

  “You don’t say! Too bad! Poor old Violet will feel it terribly that her father has committed suicide.”

  “Did I mention suicide, sir?” Cunningham asked quietly.

  “No, now I come to think of it, you didn’t. But…but…you can’t mean,” asked Baker, his eyes opening widely, “you can’t mean—murder?”

  “I’m afraid, sir,” Cunningham explained, “that we have only too sure grounds for suspecting that the professor was murdered. He died in the British Museum Reading Room. We have every reason for thinking that he was poisoned with a dose of cyanide.”

  “Good God!” If Baker had been surprised before he was doubly astonished now. His face had gone white as a sheet, and now the blood was slowly flowing back into his countenance. Cunningham thought that this
was too genuine to be assumed. Although, of course, he told himself, it was possible that the man had committed the murder, and had imagined that he was going to get away with it. It was possible that the sudden realisation that the police were on his track was sufficient shock to bring about this air of astonishment and horror. Anyhow, Cunningham had thought out his plan of campaign, and he was determined to follow it to the bitter end.

  “I shall have to ask you a few questions, sir, as you will, of course, realise,” he said.

  “Of course,” said Baker; “though what the devil you expect me to tell you about him I’m damned if I know. I wasn’t exactly a bosom pal of his, as I expect you’ve found out already.”

  “We know that you were engaged to his daughter, sir,” Cunningham explained.

  “And I expect you’ve also discovered that he didn’t precisely weep on the shoulder of his prospective son-in-law,” added Baker, with a somewhat sheepish grin.

  “Yes; we’ve discovered that.”

  “What else do you wish to discover? If there’s anything I can tell you I’ll do so like a shot—although I don’t for a moment expect that there is.”

  “Well, we can but try, sir. First of all, merely as a matter of routine, can you give me an account of your own movements today? You understand, I expect, that this is the sort of question that we have to put to every one who is at all likely to be connected with the case—and, after all, some evil-minded people might be inclined to suggest, if you had no alibi, that you had a motive for getting rid of the professor.” Cunningham gave himself a mental pat on the back. He thought that he had managed that in quite diplomatic fashion.

  Baker chuckled. “And you yourself would be the first of those evil-minded people, I think, Mr. Cunningham,” he said. “Right. My movements today. Nine-thirty to twelve-thirty, teaching a group of foolish youngsters the rudiments of chemistry—rudiments which they have no doubt forgotten again long before this moment. Twelve-thirty to two, lunching in the company of said boys. Two-thirty to four-thirty, umpiring a cricket match on the school playing-field. Four-thirty, having tea until five-thirty. May seem a long time, but we lingered over cigarettes afterwards. Five-thirty to seven, correcting rottenly written exercise-books. Seven to the moment of your arrival, having dinner and then playing billiards with one of my companions in iniquity, the mathematics master. How’s that, Sergeant?”

  “A hundred not out, I should think, sir,” said Cunningham, not showing by a single movement of a muscle that this neat recital of times had impressed him not a whit. He was remembering Shelley’s remark that really this matter of alibis was of no vital importance, it being likely that the poisoned sweet had been placed in the packet at some earlier date, the murderer being sure that the Professor would eat it sooner or later.

  “Good. And the next question, please.” Cunningham did not altogether like the flippant way in which this young man was treating the murder of his prospective father-in-law, but he realised that he must not allow a dislike of the young man’s manner to make him in any way suspicious of Baker. Outward appearance, Shelley had often said, was the one thing which the good detective had perforce to school himself to distrust.

  “Another routine one, I think, sir,” he said briskly. “Can you suggest anyone who would wish to kill the professor? Had he, in other words, any enemy or enemies who would wish him out of the way?”

  Baker thought. “The law of libel or slander or whatever the legal lingo is may be disregarded on this privileged occasion, I take it?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Cunningham with a grin. “If you have any suspicions, though they’re only vague, I should advise you to bring them out into the daylight.”

  “Number one,” said Baker; “if I were in your shoes I should interview a young man called Moses Moss. He is, as his name should indicate, a Jew. He is also a nephew of Professor Arnell. He is also, if I am not mistaken, Professor Arnell’s principal heir.”

  “Why,” exclaimed Cunningham in surprise, “won’t the professor have left all his money to his daughter?”

  “I think not,” answered the young man. “You see, the professor was always threatening to cut her off with a farthing if she didn’t give up her penniless suitor. And she was always asserting her right to marry whoever she damned well liked. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the professor, in a fit of temper, had left all his money to Mr. Moss. Mind you, I may be quite wrong. But I have my suspicions. Anyhow, that’s a little hint.”

  “Where can I find this Mr. Moss, sir?” asked Cunningham, producing his note book for the first time during this interview.

  “I don’t quite know where he hangs out—somewhere in Bloomsbury, I fancy,” answered Baker. “But you can find him any afternoon in Sally’s Club, in St. Martin’s Lane.”

  “Sally’s Club, St. Martin’s Lane,” murmured Cunningham. “What sort of club is that, sir?” he asked. “Social, literary, what?”

  “Just a place where one can drink when the pubs are shut,” said Baker. “I’ve only been there once in my life. My screw doesn’t run to gin—good old beer is about all that I can manage, and the beer there is awful stuff.”

  “I see,” said Cunningham. “Sally’s Club. Right. We will see Mr. Moss tomorrow. What sort of terms was he on with the professor?”

  “Outwardly friendly,” said Baker. “In fact, he was always ‘sucking up,’ as my boys would elegantly express it. But I have long had a suspicion that he was not so fond of the old man as he so often pretended. Personally, I think that he was just eagerly anticipating the future, if you follow me.”

  “Did he know that the professor had rather strong feelings about his daughter’s fiancé?” asked Cunningham.

  “Yes,” answered Baker with a cheery grin. “Everyone who came into contact with the old man knew all about that. After all, when one feels something as strongly as he felt my ineligibility, one is apt to let the feeling come to the surface at any time.”

  “I see.” Cunningham paused, and racked his brains for the next question, which he knew must be hiding its gentle head somewhere. “But,” he added, suddenly remembering a previous remark, “I think you said that he was suspect number one, didn’t you, sir?”

  “I did,” answered Baker rather grimly. “Suspect number two is Dr. Crocker, an old snob from Oxford.”

  “Why do you think he is a suspect, sir?”

  “Because he hated Arnell like poison. Absolutely loathed the sight of him, and didn’t make any attempt to hide the fact, either.”

  “What was the reason for this hate of his?”

  “Just professional jealousy, I think.” Baker smiled. “Some years ago Dr. Crocker produced some patent theory of his own about the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays. You know, some cryptogram or cipher idea, like the Baconians produce so proudly. Something completely crazy, and yet logical in a silly sort of way, if you understand.”

  “I understand,” said Cunningham, who had so far been fortunate enough not to meet with this particular brand of literary lunacy.

  “Well,” Baker went on, “Arnell read the book which the Oxford johnnie produced, and reviewed it for some learned journal or other. Previous to that they had been very good friends, but now he simply chewed up Crocker’s theory, so that the man absolutely hadn’t a leg to stand on. And Crocker wrote nasty letters to all the literary papers—letters which they usually refused to publish—pointing out what an utter old fool Arnell was. After that little episode, of course, their friendship just faded away and died.”

  “When did this happen, sir?” asked Cunningham. “Have you got any idea of the dates?”

  “It would be some time last summer, I should think,” was the reply. “July or August, or thereabouts. At any rate, if you say about twelve months ago, you wouldn’t be far out.”

  “And did this enmity go on, sir?”

  “Oh, yes. In fact, it showed every s
ign of getting worse. And Arnell was working on a book of Shakespearian criticism, in which he proposed, I believe, to destroy every Shakespearian critic of past and present, from Sir Edward Durning-Lawrence and J. M. Robertson, down to G. B. Harrison and Dr. Crocker. Not that Crocker was really a Shakespearian critic. Marlowe and Greene and all those lesser Elizabethans were really his province, just as they were Arnell’s.”

  “But I understood from Miss Arnell that Dr. Crocker was a friend of the professor,” Cunningham objected.

  “Oh, did she say that?” Baker smiled once more. “Arnell was one of the real old-fashioned brigade where women were concerned. I expect that accounts for her not knowing about this quarrel. He held that a woman’s job was in the home, looking after man’s worldly needs, and taking care of the children, if the good God saw fit to give her any. He always said that a man’s job was his own affair, and that a woman shouldn’t expect to share his interests. So I suppose, although he talked to me endlessly about the iniquities of the scholar from Oxford, that he never bothered to mention the subject to her at all.”

  “H’m.” Cunningham didn’t think that this sounded at all convincing, though he was well aware that, even in this modern world of ours, there were still people who held such old-fashioned views.

  “Did Professor Arnell ever correspond with Dr. Crocker?” he asked.

  “In the past quite a lot,” answered Baker. “Not since the quarrel, however. I remember he had a letter from Crocker saying that in view of his discourteous and unscholarly conduct he could consider their friendship at an end. He spoke of getting the letter framed, as a proof that he was one critic who did not spend half his time boosting his friends’ books, like so many of them seem to do.”

  “I see.” Cunningham paused again. “Well, sir, does that exhaust your suspicions?”

  “I think so,” said Baker slowly. “Unless I suspect Violet and myself, as I’m sure you must be doing inside that discreet mind of yours, Sergeant.”