by Jim Eldridge
Walter was Hector Bullard’s brother, a senior civil servant who Feather had once helped escape from an embarrassing situation in Whitehall, when one of his juniors had been accused of embezzlement and he had tried to implicate Walter Bullard. Feather’s investigation had cleared Walter Bullard of any involvement and exonerated him completely. ‘If I can return the favour in any way, you only have to ask,’ Bullard had told Feather at the time. And so, on learning that Walter Bullard’s brother was a writer on the Financial Times and privy to inside financial information, Feather had asked the civil servant for his assistance in some enquiries he was making into the dealings of a certain Charles Dixon.
‘Yes,’ said Feather. ‘It’s part of a wider enquiry we’re conducting.’
‘The recent bank robberies,’ said Bullard.
Feather looked at him in surprise, and Bullard chuckled.
‘If anyone wants to meet me, I like to know who they are and what they might want, so I make enquiries. I discovered from the newspapers that Inspector Feather is currently investigating the recent spate of bank robberies. It’s very simple. As you can imagine, those of us interested in financial matters are also keen to find out why this recent outbreak of bank robberies is happening, especially as they appear to involve very large sums indeed, which will have an impact on the country’s economy if they continue.’ He took a further sip of his whisky. ‘Walter mentioned that you are interested in the financial affairs of Charles Dixon, but I can’t believe that he would have had any involvement in these robberies as he died before they started.’
‘I’m interested in the source of his wealth,’ said Feather.
Bullard nodded thoughtfully, then said carefully, ‘Of course, the term “wealth” is relative. To a pauper, ten shillings is wealth. To the very rich, a million pounds is barely adequate.’
‘And where did Mr Dixon sit on this scale?’ asked Feather. ‘Everyone I’ve spoken to describes him as very rich.’
‘He was well enough off to afford a very good lifestyle,’ said Bullard. ‘But that was when he was a single man. Before he married. Running an establishment can be quite expensive.’
‘So Mrs Dixon’s financial demands were a drain on his resources?’
‘She was – is – a woman with ambitions, mainly social. But to support those ambitions – especially to be seen and be highly respected as a major sponsor of something as high-profile as the Nightingale Fund – calls for lots of money.’
‘I understand she holds fundraising events to raise the money.’
‘But those fundraising events themselves need capital if they are to be the sort of glittering occasions that attract the rich and famous.’
‘So Mrs Dixon needs more money than she had when she first married Charles Dixon.’
‘In my opinion, as a mere observer,’ said Bullard. ‘But I am not privy to her financial affairs. For all I know, she has private investments.’ He paused, then said, ‘I believe the insurance money she received on the death of Mr Dixon was not as much as she’d hoped for.’
‘But you would describe her as rich now?’ asked Feather.
‘Oh yes, certainly,’ said Bullard. ‘I know she has deposits in various very reputable banks. None of which, interestingly, were victims in the recent bank robberies. I believe most of her money is kept in branches out of town.’ He smiled. ‘Mrs Dixon is a very canny financial operator.’
Daniel mounted the stairs of the house in Whitechapel, aiming for the second floor after spotting the hand-written sign in the entrance which informed callers that the office of the Pure of Heart could be found there. He was wearing a set of old clothes he kept as a disguise for when he had to circulate among the poorer elements of society without creating suspicion. The jacket and trousers were worn and patched, but neatly to show a man who was poor but careful about his appearance.
The smell of damp and decay pervaded the air as he continued up the rickety wooden staircase, which creaked and gave slightly under his weight. This whole place could come down and collapse in a heap of brick dust and rotting timbers. He reached the second floor and saw the handwritten sign saying ‘The Pure of Heart’ on a door which the green paint was flaking off, exposing the wood beneath.
Daniel knocked at the door and stepped inside.
Two men were in the office, one in his twenties and the other in his late forties, sitting facing one another at a desk that overflowed with papers. They both looked at Daniel suspiciously.
‘Yes?’ demanded the older man.
‘A friend of mine said he thought you might be able to help me,’ said Daniel.
‘Who is this friend?’ asked the older man.
Daniel hesitated, then said, ‘He would prefer not to have his name bandied about. But my name is Joe Dawkins. I have a grievance, and I hope you can help me right a wrong.’
The older man gestured for Daniel to join them and pushed a chair forward for him to sit with them at the desk.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Camden Town,’ said Daniel. Apart from his false name and occupation, he’d decided to keep everything else as it was. It was always safer, when going undercover, to keep your story as near the truth as possible to avoid being caught out. Camden Town was known to be a slum area of north London, which would go down well with the Pure of Heart. ‘I have told you my name; will you give me yours so I know who I’m talking with?’
‘Smith,’ said the man.
A lie, thought Daniel, but that didn’t matter.
‘Thank you, Mr Smith.’
‘Brother Smith,’ the man corrected him.
‘Brother Smith.’ Daniel nodded apologetically.
‘What is your grievance, Brother Dawkins?’
‘My father had always promised me that when he died he would leave me his gold watch.’
‘A gold watch?’
‘Well, it may not actually be real gold, but it looks like it. It’s one he was left by an uncle. It has a chain and everything and is certainly worth four pounds. Possibly five. But now my father tells me he’s changed his mind and is going to leave it to the Nightingale Fund.’
‘The Nightingale Fund?’
Daniel nodded. ‘I have found out it’s an organisation set up by Florence Nightingale to train nurses. Personally, I suspect some trickery has taken place here to persuade him to bypass me and leave the watch to them.’
‘A watch?’ repeated Smith, weighing up the question.
Again, Daniel nodded, the very picture of a man injured by injustice. ‘When I told my friend about it, he told me that if there was ever a fund to be set up for the Crimea nurses it should be in the name of Mary Seacole. I don’t know her, but according to my friend, Mary Seacole did just as much for the soldiers in the Crimea as Nightingale, if not more.’
‘Your friend is right. Did he serve in the Crimea?’
‘No, but his brother did, and he said that Mary Seacole saved his brother’s life.’
‘What is your friend’s name?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘As I said before, he has asked me not to put his name about. He believes there are forces in this country that would dearly like to get evidence against him of his political opinions and put him behind bars again.’
‘He has already been in prison?’
‘He has, but some years ago, when he was younger. Since then he’s been …careful.’
‘And you yourself, Brother Dawkins? Have you been a prisoner of this state?’
‘I have been apprehended, but never jailed,’ said Daniel warily.
‘Apprehended? Why?’ asked Smith.
‘A neighbour overheard me talking badly about the way we poor are treated by the rich and powerful.’
‘You were questioned?’
‘I was.’
‘Who by?’
‘They did not tell me who they were, but I could guess. Special Branch.’
‘And they let you go?’
‘There was no proof against me.’
; ‘How long ago was this?’
‘Four years,’ said Daniel. ‘Since then, I’ve been careful to guard my tongue when amongst strangers.’
‘And now you come because of a watch.’
‘Because I am to be cheated out of my watch, my rightful inheritance, all that my father has of any value.’
‘And how do you think we can be of help?’
‘My friend suggested that you might know of the truth of this Nightingale Fund. That the money it has might not all be gained honestly. If I can show my father that there have been dark dealings by those who provide its funding, he may well change his mind about leaving them his watch.’
‘Did your friend mention any examples of dark dealings?’
‘He only mentioned some names of people he said were financing the fund for their own ends, and in some cases to hide money that was the result of ill-gotten gains, and that by putting it into the fund they avoided awkward questions about where the rest of their money might have come from.’
Smith nodded thoughtfully. ‘And whose were the names he mentioned?’
‘Lord Cairns,’ said Daniel. ‘Admiral Yelland. And Jeremiah Case, a businessman.’
Again Smith nodded. ‘Examples of the brutal rich hiding behind fake auras of respectability, living off the backs of the poor. Jeremiah Case makes his money from slum housing in which mothers and babies die from cold and starvation.’ He frowned. ‘But I’m not sure if he gives money to the Nightingale Fund. I haven’t heard it to be so. And we keep a close watch on the Fund and its subscribers, because one day we will call them all to account when we raise Mary Seacole to her rightful place in history and point the finger at these arrogant people for deliberately downplaying her role in the care of the sick.’ He scowled as he added, ‘I despise all this reverence for Nightingale. Nightingale was from a wealthy elitist family, with palatial homes in Italy and across England. Grand places, mansions. Mary Seacole, on the other hand, was a woman of the people.’ And he fell silent, fuming with indignation.
‘There was another person my friend mentioned,’ said Daniel. ‘A woman called Caroline Dixon, who has a house in Lowndes Square. I believe she’s the widow of a wealthy man called Charles Dixon, who made his money on the backs of the poor.’
‘Ha!’ burst out Smith scornfully. ‘Your friend has been misinformed. Charles Dixon made his money by crime.’
‘Crime?’
‘Robbery. Blackmail. Extortion.’
Daniel stared at Smith. ‘You’re not serious!’
Smith scowled. ‘I knew someone who worked for Charlie Dixon. Dixon was always a thief, but he enlarged so that he had a gang working for him.’
‘Including your friend?’
‘At first,’ said Smith. ‘But then there was talk among the gang that there was an informer among them, and for some reason, my friend was named. Wrongly.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He died,’ said Smith bitterly. ‘They said it was an accident; he fell from a roof during a break-in. But I know better. Dixon’s men killed him.’
‘Why were no charges made?’
‘Dixon had the police in his pocket.’
‘And his widow? Was she involved?’
Smith shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I feel she must have known how he made his money, but since he died I’ve had nothing to do with her or anyone associated with Dixon.’ He looked intently at Daniel. ‘They were always dangerous people, Dixon’s gang. If you are asking questions about them, or about Dixon’s widow, I would advise you to watch your back.’
Abigail sat, unable to really concentrate as she scanned her old diaries of previous expeditions, along with her treasured books on the religions and histories of ancient Egypt, because her mind was filled with how to raise her concerns with Conan Doyle when she next met him without upsetting him. Doyle was worried about his wife, that was clear, and worried people when faced with the unthinkable will turn to almost anything in order to find a solution. Had she the right to crush his beliefs?
A knocking at the front door interrupted her thoughts, and when she opened it she was surprised to see the figure of Maurice Greville standing there, looking distinctly unhappy.
‘Miss Fenton,’ he said apologetically, removing his hat. ‘I am so sorry to call on you at home, but is Mr Wilson here?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Abigail. When she saw his deeply crestfallen expression at hearing this, she offered, ‘But if it’s to do with the case we’re working on, the murders at Tussauds, I’ll do my best to help, if you’ll let me.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Greville.
‘Perhaps you’d like to come in.’ And Abigail ushered him into the nearest thing they had to a parlour, the one comfortably furnished room reserved for special visitors. Greville sat himself down on one of the armchairs, while Abigail settled herself on another. She could tell that something was troubling the wax museum owner deeply and she was intrigued by what it could be. It had to be something of great concern to lead him to call on them at home.
‘It’s about Mr Michaels,’ he said, but she noticed that he kept his gaze averted from her face, looking down instead at the carpet.
‘The Mr Michaels who was killed?’ asked Abigail.
Greville nodded. ‘And whose body was left facing my museum.’ He looked up at her and Abigail saw the fear in his face. ‘I’m sure it was deliberate, and I’m concerned that I could be next.’
‘To be killed?’
He gulped nervously and nodded. ‘Someone must have found out that …that I did some business with Mr Michaels.’
‘What sort of business?’
‘It was a year ago. I was having difficulty finding people good enough to work on my models. And then Michaels came to me with a proposition. Tussauds were getting rid of some of their older mannequins, Michaels knew one of the attendants at Tussauds, and, for a price, he told me he could get me some of the ones they were getting rid of. What happens is, when a model has served its time, the wax gets melted down and re-used. It seemed a great waste of some marvellous work. So, although the majority were taken and melted down, Michaels was able to pass on six of the heads and arms to me.’
‘Just the heads and arms?’
‘As you’ll have seen, the bodies are hidden beneath clothes, so they are bulked up with wooden frames, with the heads and arms fixed to the frame.’
‘And you used the heads that Michaels sold you.’
‘With some subtle changes. I swear, it’s the only time I’ve ever done anything like that, and only because we were desperate for new models to put on display quickly.’
‘Why would that be a reason to kill you?’ asked Abigail, puzzled.
‘I don’t know,’ said Greville nervously. ‘But something is happening, and these murders are to do with wax. The two nightwatchmen were killed in ways that indicated wax was involved, certainly in the case of the second man, encased as he was. And then Michaels being suffocated with plaster of Paris. Again, something which is used in the wax business.’
Abigail noticed that this time he called it the wax business, as opposed to the artistry.
‘And it hinges on Tussauds. And Michaels sold me the wax models he’d stolen from Tussauds.’
‘Which were going to be melted down anyway,’ said Abigail.
‘Yes, but these people know,’ insisted Greville.
Abigail shook her head. ‘Mr Greville, I think I can assure you that the murders are nothing to do with anything unorthodox happening in the wax business. Mr Wilson has ascertained that they are connected to the recent series of bank robberies that have been taking place. You may have read about them in the newspapers.’
‘Bank robberies?’ repeated Greville in bewilderment.
‘Mr Wilson discovered the beginnings of a tunnel in the cellar at Tussauds, which had been dug out by the two nightwatchmen who were killed. It was intended as a way of breaking into the vault of a bank a few doors away, and Mr Michaels was instrumental
in arranging for the tunnel to be dug.’
‘But …the wax?’ said Greville, baffled. ‘One nightwatchman beheaded, one encased in wax, and Michaels suffocated?’
‘Done, I expect, to throw any investigators off the scent. They are connected with the bank robberies. As long as you had nothing to do with those …’
‘No! I swear!’ exclaimed Greville passionately.
‘Then I don’t think you have anything to fear.’
‘You’re sure of this?’ asked Greville desperately. ‘Mr Wilson thinks so, too?’
‘And Scotland Yard,’ said Abigail. ‘Mr Wilson is out with some of Scotland Yard’s detectives following that exact line of enquiry.’
‘Then I have nothing to fear?’ And Greville looked at her, his mouth open, hope replacing the miserable haunted look he had worn when he arrived.
‘No,’ Abigail assured him, though inside she cautioned it with I certainly hope not. But if I’m wrong …
‘Thank you!’ said Greville, leaping to his feet. ‘I cannot tell you what a weight has been lifted off me!’
Abigail rose. ‘Rest assured, Mr Wilson and Scotland Yard are as one in that opinion. You will not be a target for whoever committed these murders.’
Greville almost crushed her fingers as he took her hand in gratitude and thanked her profusely all the way to the front door, and then out into the street.
Across the road from the house, Marion watched as the portly man shook Abigail’s hand and then walked away, a happy smile on his face. Abigail went back inside and closed the door.
Where is Daniel? thought Marion. Who was that man? Is he Abigail’s lover? Her heart lifted at this thought. If Abigail had a lover then Daniel would abandon Abigail and be free for her. Daniel and Marion.
Once again, she mentally kicked herself for being stupid and pushing Abigail into the road. The way to get Daniel for her own was to keep Abigail safe and alive and gradually persuade him that she was the wrong woman for Daniel, and Marion was the right one. He’d see that soon enough, especially once she went to Egypt on this expedition. How could she? thought Marion, shocked at the idea. If she really loved Daniel she couldn’t go far across the world and leave him on his own.
