by Jim Eldridge
‘I have no idea,’ he sighed.
Just before they reached the doors, he stopped and crouched down to retie his shoelaces, keeping his eyes on the reception desk. As he finished his second shoe, he saw the constable returning down the stairs, holding a piece of paper in his hand. The constable was about to go to the reception desk, when he caught sight of Daniel. The constable handed him the small, folded piece of paper. ‘From Inspector Feather.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. He unfolded the paper and read: Freddy’s. Ten minutes.
‘Hopefully we’ll find out what’s going on,’ he said as he led Abigail out of the reception area and into the street.
Daniel and Abigail had taken a table at Freddy’s Coffee Shop, opposite Scotland Yard and ordered three coffees. Their coffees had just been delivered to their table by the waitress, when Daniel saw the figure of John Feather emerging from Scotland Yard and crossing the road. The fog was thinning and now consisted of light grey fronds hanging in the air just above head height.
‘Here he comes,’ he said.
He and Abigail both stood and shook Feather’s hand as he joined them. Feather sat down, lifted his cup and took a sip. He was a short, slim and genial man in his early forties; clean-shaven, but his dark hair was already turning grey at the sides. The result of having a harsh boss as his superintendent, as well as the responsibility of a large family to provide for.
‘I needed that,’ said Feather.
‘So, going on?’ asked Daniel. ‘Are we persona non grata again at Scotland Yard?’
‘Superintendent Armstrong’s orders,’ said Feather. ‘If he knew I was here with you I’d be getting a rocket.’
‘Why?’
‘There was an article in one of the cheaper tabloids a couple of days ago, The Whistler. I don’t know if you saw it?’
Both Daniel and Abigail shook their heads.
‘It questioned how much of Scotland Yard’s success in recent murder cases at museums in London was actually due to you two, or “The Museum Detectives”, as it calls you.’
‘That was nothing to do with us,’ said Abigail.
‘We have no control over what the papers say,’ added Daniel.
‘Be that as it may, the super was furious, so he’s given an order that neither of you are allowed into Scotland Yard, and no one in the police force is to have any contact with you. Not in a positive way, at least. I expect he’d be quite pleased if someone arrested you.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ said Abigail. ‘Aren’t we all supposed to be on the same side? Fighting crime! Catching criminals?’
‘The super doesn’t see it that way,’ said Feather. ‘As far as he’s concerned you’re competition, and he’s compared unfavourably to you.’ He sipped his coffee and looked anxiously at the door. ‘I’d better not stay too long in case anyone comes in and reports back to Armstrong that they’ve seen me with you.’
‘What will you do if that happens?’ asked Abigail.
‘I’ll say that I was in here for a coffee, and you two sat down at my table.’ He looked at them quizzically. ‘So, you must have wanted to see me for a reason?’
‘The murder this morning at Madame Tussauds,’ said Daniel.
Feather shook his head. ‘That’s not my case.’
‘Why not? You’re Armstrong’s best detective, and this is a famous museum, so it’ll be high-profile.’
‘Armstrong wants me on something else that he feels is more important. As far as he’s concerned, the Tussauds murder is straightforward. He’s sure that Bagshot killed Dudgeon and then did a runner. He’s instituted a search for him.’
‘What’s this case he’s put you on that’s more important than a murder?’
Feather hesitated, looked around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard, then whispered. ‘Officially I can’t tell you, but I’m fairly sure it’s going to made be public very soon. In recent weeks there have been a series of bank robberies where the criminals have broken into the vaults at night, through the cellars of adjoining premises.’
‘I haven’t seen anything in the newspapers about that,’ said Daniel.
‘There hasn’t been …so far,’ said Feather. ‘The banks and the government have kept it secret because they don’t want panic to spread about their security measures. Otherwise people might start to take their money out, which could lead to a run on the banks. But your reporter friend, Joe Dalton, has uncovered the story and I believe it’s going to be in The Telegraph tomorrow. Armstrong hasn’t only got the banks on his back, but the Bank of England and the government as well. Originally the robberies were in the hands of Fred Calley, but he fell off the back of a lorry and broke his leg. He’s going to be out of action for a good while. The superintendent put me in charge just a few days ago.’
‘So who is in charge of the Tussaud case?’
‘Jim Jarrett.’
Daniel groaned. ‘Is he still around?’
‘Armstrong likes him. Jarrett does what he wants.’
‘Badly. What do you know about the man who was killed, and the other nightwatchman – Walter Bagshot?’
‘Apart from their names, nothing. Like I said, Armstrong’s keeping me away from the case; he wants all my attention on these bank robberies. And he’ll want something by the end of the day so he’s got some kind of answer when the article comes out.’ He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘If I do hear anything, I’ll put a note through your letterbox at home.’
‘And we’ll meet up?’
‘If we do, I suggest somewhere other than here. Too many coppers calling, eager to pass on things to Armstrong so they can get a leg up the ladder.’
‘Like Jim Jarrett?’
‘Exactly like Jim Jarrett.’
He tipped his hat to them, and left.
‘It looks like we’re out in the cold,’ observed Daniel.
‘We’ve been here before,’ Abigail pointed out.
‘Yes, but at least we had someone inside. With John being cut out of the Tussauds case, that’s gone.’
‘What’s this Jim Jarrett like?’
‘Inspector Jarrett,’ sighed Daniel. ‘Narrow-minded. Bigoted. Thick as a brick. Couldn’t find his backside with both hands. But he follows orders.’
‘Will we meet him?’
‘I’m sure we will, sooner or later. But don’t expect any scintillating conversation.’ He finished his coffee. ‘Right now, I suggest we set about our separate tasks. You go and research the Tussaud family.’
‘And you find out about the two sets of nightwatchmen.’
CHAPTER THREE
A middle-aged lady wearing an apron opened the door to Daniel’s knock at the Marylebone address John Tussaud had given him.
‘Mrs Pershore?’ enquired Daniel with a smile.
‘Yes.’
‘I believe this is where Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot live?’
‘Yes,’ she replied again. ‘But they’re not in at the moment.’
Daniel hesitated. He’d have expected that the police would have made the men’s address their first port of call, but obviously that hadn’t been the case. Inspector Jarrett at fault, he suspected.
‘Then the police haven’t been, I assume,’ he asked.
Mrs Pershore gave a worried frown. ‘No? Why would the police be calling here?’
‘I’m afraid there’s been an incident at the museum,’ said Daniel. He produced one of his business cards and handed it to the woman. ‘My name’s Daniel Wilson and I’m a private investigator. I’ve been asked by Madame Tussauds to look into the tragic death of Mr Dudgeon and the disappearance of Mr Bagshot that occurred some time during the night.’
Mrs Pershore’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Dead? Mr Dudgeon’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘What happened? Did he have an accident?’
Again Daniel hesitated before answering; then, sure that the murder would be in the next day’s newspapers, he said, ‘It appears he was murdered.’
‘Murder
ed?! How? Who did it? Surely not Mr Bagshot!’
‘That’s something the police are looking into.’
‘No!’ she burst out. ‘I can’t believe Mr Bagshot would harm Mr Dudgeon in any way. There must be some mistake.’
‘There may be about Mr Bagshot’s disappearance, but I’m afraid there’s no mistake about Mr Dudgeon being killed.’
‘How?’ she repeated, more insistent this time.
‘Someone cut his head off and left it beside the guillotine in the Chamber of Horrors at the museum.’ As Daniel saw Mrs Pershore sway, he said, ‘I’m sorry to be so brutal. Please, shall we go inside and you can sit down.’
Dazed, Mrs Pershore walked into the house and down the short passageway to the kitchen, where she stumbled to the table and sat down heavily on one of the wooden chairs.
‘Are you …are you sure it wasn’t an accident?’ she asked weakly. ‘He might have been playing a joke and the blade slipped?’
‘According to Mr Tussaud, the blade has been made deliberately blunt,’ said Daniel. ‘Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said, still stunned. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Some time last night. Mr Tussaud discovered it when he opened the museum at eight o’clock this morning.’
‘But no one came to tell me!’ she said, angry.
‘I expect Mr Tussaud thought the police would be doing that. Look, I can see you’re upset, so I’m happy to come back later. All I’m trying to find out is something about the two men. What they were like. People they mixed with.’
‘They were lovely,’ she said. ‘Absolute gentlemen. It’s not always the way with men who’ve been in the army, or who is involved in building work, but Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot were two of the nicest men you could ever find.’
‘How long had they been with you?’
‘Two years, and never a hint of trouble. Always paid their rent on time.’
‘You say they were in the army.’
‘Yes, although they left it some years ago. Mr Dudgeon took a bad injury to his leg in some foreign place, and got invalided out. He had a limp when he walked, but it didn’t stop him working. Oh no, he was a worker, Mr Dudgeon was. As was Mr Bagshot.’
‘Do you know which section of the army they were in?’
‘The Royal Engineers. They were always very proud of their regiment. They had a little kind of flag from it hung on their mantelpiece.’
‘Would you mind if I went and looked around their room. I’m hoping to find something that might tell us why Mr Dudgeon was killed, and where Mr Bagshot might have gone. I promise I won’t make a mess. You can watch me, if you like.’
She shook her head. ‘No. You go ahead. I’ll sit here and get myself sorted out. It’s a lot to take in. It’s the first door on the right upstairs.’ She went to a dresser, took a key from a hook and gave it to him.
The first thing Daniel saw when he entered the room was the small cloth banner hanging from the mantelshelf bearing the legend Ubique Quo Fas Et Gloria Ducunt. He took out his notebook and made a note of it, intent on asking Abigail for a translation later. Then he set to search the dressing table and the wardrobe. One thing was sure, if Walter Bagshot had gone missing of his own volition, he hadn’t thought to take anything to carry his belongings in; there were two military-style knapsacks in the wardrobe, one bearing the name ‘Bagshot’, the other ‘Dudgeon’. It also looked as if Bagshot had left his clothes behind as well. Again, like many former army men, they’d had their names inked inside the collars. There were two jackets hanging up, worn but of reasonable quality, which Daniel guessed were the men’s best for Sundays and special occasions. There were also two pairs of trousers hanging in the wardrobe.
If Walter Bagshot did a runner, he did it without coming back and picking up his belongings, mused Daniel. No, something else happened to him. But what? If whoever killed Dudgeon also killed Bagshot, why didn’t they leave his body in the Chamber of Horrors, as they had Dudgeon’s? Could Bagshot have given chase to the killers and caught up with them away from the museum, and then been killed? But if so, the same question remained: why didn’t they leave his body behind?
He finished his inspection of the room, then went back downstairs.
‘Thank you,’ he said, handing the key back to Mrs Pershore. ‘I’m sure the police will want to do the same.’
She shook her head, still in a state of shock.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Who’d want to do such a thing?’
‘That’s what we’re hoping to find out,’ said Daniel. ‘One last question: was there any particular local pub that Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot used to go visit?’
‘Yes. The Railway Tavern. They liked that one because of the name. They used to work on the railways, see.’
‘Yes. I was told they were labourers.’
‘I think they were a bit more than that. You know, proper building work. It came from them being engineers when they were in the army, I suppose.’
As Abigail walked between the towering Roman columns that fronted the British Museum, she felt that same thrill she’d always experienced. The British Museum, along with the Fitzwilliam in Cambridge, felt like a home to her. Every time she visited, the displays in the Egyptian, Greek and Roman rooms brought back memories of her time before she’d become, almost accidentally, a full-time detective alongside Daniel. All those periods in Egypt, months at a time, exploring newly opened pyramids, joining in the digging of the sites around the pyramids and examining the items unearthed. She felt a tinge of sadness when she realised how long it had been since she’d been ‘in the field’. Four years. Too long an absence for any archaeologist. Her time at the Fitzwilliam, curating their exhibition of Egyptian artefacts, had been intended as a stopgap before she embarked on another expedition, but then she’d met Daniel, and her life had changed completely. The newspapers still referred to her as ‘the noted archaeologist’, but only when writing about her current exploits solving murders with ‘Daniel Wilson, famed as one of Inspector Abberline’s team of Scotland Yard detectives during the hunt for the notorious Jack the Ripper’. Her career as an archaeologist had been cut short, and she felt sad that it was unlikely to resume, even though that sadness was very much tempered with the happiness of her life with Daniel. I may have lost a career, but I have found love, she reminded herself.
It had been on one of those archaeological digs that she’d first made the acquaintance of Erasmus Black. They’d both been part of a team led by Flinders Petrie at Hawara, but with different areas of expertise. For Abigail it had been items made of clay, votive offerings; for Erasmus it had been the wax figurines used in funeral rites and buried with the pharaoh. There was no one else who knew as much about wax figures as Erasmus did. Not just those from ancient Egypt, but throughout history, and right up to the present day. If anyone could tell her about the Tussauds and any family intrigues, it was Erasmus.
The Railway Tavern was nearly empty, just a few drinkers at the tables and the barman wiping glasses behind the bar. Daniel looked at the clock. Twelve o’clock, noon. The pub was close to Marylebone railway station, and Daniel guessed that much of the business would be railway workers. It had all the hallmarks of a pub for working men, rather than one with a middle-class clientele, such as office clerks. There were even spittoons by the bar, and some at the far wall. All it lacked was sawdust on the floor.
Daniel strode up to the barman, who regarded him warily. They don’t get many strangers here, thought Daniel. This must be a pub for regulars.
‘Good afternoon. I believe Eric Dudgeon and Walter Bagshot are customers here?’
The barman shrugged and scowled at Daniel while he continued to wipe the glasses.
‘Never heard of ’em,’ he grunted.
‘That’s a pity,’ said Daniel, ‘because I have news of them. Tragic news.’
The barman stopped wiping the glasses and looked at Daniel warily.
‘Police?’ he
asked.
‘I was,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m now a private investigator. I’ve been hired by Madame Tussauds museum to look into the murder of one and the disappearance of the other.’
The barman stared at Daniel, his mouth falling open in shock. Then he recovered himself and leant forward, keeping his voice low, at the same time shooting an urgent look past Daniel’s shoulder towards the tables by the wall. Daniel looked into the mirror and saw a woman sitting on her own, a glass of port in front of her, a vacant look on her face. She was in her forties, Daniel guessed. Her frilled blouse displayed ample cleavage which, along with her dyed hair and excessively-applied make-up, marked her out as a lady of the night, though it was early afternoon.
‘Who got murdered?’ asked the barman in a whisper.
‘Eric,’ said Daniel, also keeping his voice low.
‘And Walter?’
‘Vanished. I’m trying to find out what happened to them, so I need to get some background on them.’
‘You’re looking for Walter?’
‘Eventually. The police are. I’m just trying to find out what they were like and what they were involved in.’
‘They’re good blokes,’ said the barman. ‘How was Eric killed?’
‘His body was found this morning at Madame Tussauds, next to the guillotine in the Chamber of Horrors. His head had been cut off.’
The barman gave a shudder.
‘It can’t have been Walter who did it,’ he said firmly.
‘That’s Mr Tussaud’s opinion as well,’ said Daniel. ‘He said they were like brothers.’
‘They were.’ The barman nodded. ‘Rock solid.’
‘But brothers can fall out.’
‘Not Eric and Walter.’
‘How close were they?’ asked Daniel carefully.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the barman suspiciously.
‘When Eric had to leave the army because he was injured, Walter went with him. They seemed to do everything together. They shared a room. I get the impression they were …particularly close.’
The barman glared at Daniel, angry.
‘There was nothing like that!’ he snapped. ‘If you don’t believe me, ask Elsie over there.’
