by Jim Eldridge
‘What about the other nightwatchman?’
‘She hit him hard on the head again to finish him off. Then she told us to take him down to the carriage.’
‘Who was driving the carriage?’ barked Abigail.
‘Ernie,’ mumbled Abbott. ‘Ernie Richmond. He’s her regular coachman.’
‘Was he the one who drove the carriage when you abducted me?’
Abbott nodded. ‘Ernie does all the driving.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Abbott. ‘He left after he delivered us to Mrs Dixon’s.’
‘Where does he keep the carriage and the horse?’ asked Feather.
‘At a stable in Green Park,’ said Abbott. ‘He’s got a room there over the stables.’
Feather pushed a piece of paper and a pencil to Abbott. ‘Write down his name and the address of the stable,’ he said.
They waited while Abbott wrote the address and pushed the paper back to Feather. Feather called the constable over and handed him the paper. ‘Take this to Sergeant Cribbens in my office. Tell him to locate this man and bring him in.’
The constable nodded, and left. Feather turned to Abigail. ‘Yours again, Miss Fenton,’ he said.
Abigail looked at Abbott and Wallace. ‘You took me to a bedroom in Mrs Dixon’s house, tied and gagged me and put me on a bed, while you sat watching over me, both of you with your pistols at the ready. Mrs Dixon had informed me that I was to be shot dead. Which of you was to kill me, or was it both of you?’
‘No!’ protested Abbott and Wallace simultaneously.
‘Not us!’ continued Abbott. ‘That wasn’t our job.’
‘No, we was just there to keep an eye on you,’ added Wallace.
‘So who was going to kill me?’
‘Mrs Dixon,’ said Abbott.
‘And you were going to be accomplices to my murder,’ stated Abigail.
Both men looked uncomfortable.
‘We don’t do murders,’ mumbled Abbott, averting his eyes from Abigail’s stern gaze.
‘Taking part in any murder carries the same penalty,’ said Armstrong. ‘Hanging.’
‘No!’ howled Wallace. ‘We haven’t killed anyone!’
‘What about the two bank clerks?’ asked Feather. ‘Derek Parminter and Arthur Crum?’
Abbott and Wallace looked at him, at first bewildered, and then in fear, gulping nervously and now sweating.
‘They were accidents,’ mumbled Abbott.
‘And young Thomas Tandry?’ put in Daniel. ‘The thirteen-year-old boy.’
‘That was Dixon!’ cried Wallace. ‘She did him! We only got rid of the body.’
‘Where?’ asked Daniel.
‘There’s an old cesspit at the bottom of her house,’ said Wallace. ‘It’s not used any more since they put the main drains in, but it’s still there. We used to tell her she ought to fill it in, in case anyone fell in it, but she said she still had a use for it.’
‘Who else went in it?’ asked Armstrong.
The two men looked even more uncomfortable, and Wallace mumbled something.
‘Speak up!’ barked Armstrong. ‘Who else went into the cesspit? How many more bodies will we find there?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Wallace.
‘If there are more, we didn’t put them there!’ defended Abbott. ‘We only know about the boy. And she did for him. Mrs Dixon.’
‘What about Harry Michaels?’ asked Jarrett, speaking for the first time.
‘Who?’ asked Abbott nervously.
‘The gent found dead in Piccadilly Circus with plaster of Paris stuffed down his throat.’
Abbott suddenly pulled himself up in his chair, all resistance gone, although he tried to show defiance. ‘I’m not saying any more,’ he said. ‘It was her, not us. We was just her helpers.’
‘Yes,’ said Wallace. ‘That’s all we were. Her helpers.’
Abigail turned to Armstrong.
‘I’m finished with them for now, Superintendent,’ she said. ‘If you or your inspectors would like to question them?’
‘No,’ said Armstrong. ‘I think we’ve got enough to be going on with. We’ll talk to them more later. Constable, take them down to the cells.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
After Abbott and Wallace had been taken away, Armstrong turned to Daniel and Abigail. ‘I think we can take it from here,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything more you can think of that will help us prosecute, let us know, but I think we’ve already got enough to get our convictions.’
Daniel and Abigail nodded and rose to their feet.
‘Perhaps you’d show our guests out, Inspector Feather,’ said Armstrong. ‘There are one or two things I need to go over with Inspector Jarrett.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said Feather.
As Daniel, Abigail and Feather walked away from the superintendent’s office, Feather remarked wryly, ‘He doesn’t trust me. He thinks I’m too close to you.’
‘We’re glad you are,’ said Abigail.
‘Actually, this gives me an excuse to talk to you,’ said Feather. ‘In private.’
‘Your office?’ asked Daniel.
Feather shook his head. ‘Sergeant Cribbens could return at any moment with Ernie Richmond, if he’s found him. Or the superintendent could decide he needs to have a word with me. We’ll go to the stables. Less chance of interruptions.’
They walked down the stairs to the main reception area, then out the back way into the yard where the police vans were parked and the horses that pulled them were stabled. A strong smell of horse manure hung in the air.
‘I’m guessing this is about Marion,’ said Abigail.
‘Yes,’ said Feather with a sigh. ‘Sooner or later the superintendent is going to ask me why my wife and niece were at the raid on Caroline Dixon’s house.’
‘And what will you tell him?’
‘I’ll say that Marion was making a social call on you at your house, and when she arrived she saw the two men taking you away at gunpoint. So she ran home and told Vera what she’d seen.’
‘And he’ll believe that?’ asked Abigail.
‘What’s there to question?’ asked Feather. ‘He’s just glad that it turned out all right, and a coup for Scotland Yard.’
They stopped by a police van parked close to the exit. Feather stood in thought, silent, weighing what he was going to say.
‘So, Marion?’ prompted Abigail.
‘Yes,’ said Feather. ‘My sister, Emily, sent Marion to us because she was having problems with her.’
‘What sort of problems?’
‘Emily’s a widow; her husband died two years ago and Marion was really upset by his death. About six months ago she began to get besotted with the vicar at their local church in their village.’
‘Besotted?’
‘It didn’t seem that way at first. In fact, initially Emily encouraged Marion to go and talk to the vicar about her grieving over her father. She thought an older man, someone in that position, might be able to help her. And at first it appeared he had helped her. But then she began calling at the vicarage to see him more and more, and it was as if she chose the times when she knew his wife would be out. Emily discovered later that Marion used to watch the vicarage and wait for the vicar’s wife to leave. And it wasn’t just to talk about her father; she wanted to talk about everything …especially about love.’
‘She was in love with him?’
‘She told Emily she was. And she also told the vicar.’
‘How did they take it? Though I guess I know the answer to that already: that’s why she’s here with you.’
Feather nodded.
‘Did anything happen with the vicar? You know, between him and Marion?’
‘No. Nothing like that, although it might have if he hadn’t been a decent sort of chap. The Reverend Wattle is a good man. He expressed his concerns to Emily that Marion was becoming too – as he put it – forward, and he’d be happy to talk to
her, but only in the company of his wife, or Emily, and that he would be telling Marion that.’
‘I’m guessing that didn’t go well.’
‘No.’
‘Rages? Anger?’
‘No, Marion took to her bed in floods of tears, refusing to eat. She blamed Mrs Wattle, said the vicar’s wife was determined to destroy the relationship that she and the vicar had.’
‘Relationship?’
‘In her mind he and she were in love. Soulmates.’
‘Even though nothing had happened between them?’
‘Once, when she was distressed, he put his arms around her to comfort her. That was all.’
‘According to him,’ commented Daniel.
‘I believe him,’ said Feather. ‘As I said, he’s a good man, devoted to his wife. They’ve been married for over twenty years and there’s never been a hint of scandal about him.’
‘Any children?’
‘They had two, both of whom died in infancy. When I saw the way she was looking at you, Daniel, I worried we might have the same problem, It was the same way she used to look at the Reverend Wattle. And older man, kind, caring. I didn’t expect her to actually physically attack Abigail in the way she did to try to get rid of her.’
‘We don’t know for sure she did,’ said Abigail.
‘Yes, we do,’ said Feather. ‘You know it, I know it, Vera knows it.’
‘But if her aim was to get rid of Abigail, why did she come to her rescue?’ asked Daniel, puzzled.
‘Because reality was intruding on her fantasy,’ said Abigail.
‘I think the reality might be more mundane,’ said Feather. ‘If she saved you, or at least tried to, then Daniel would be for ever grateful to her. And, with you going away to Egypt …’
‘I see.’ Abigail nodded. ‘Yes, it makes sense. What will you do now, about her?’
‘Warn her off Daniel, and you,’ said Feather. ‘I think Vera will be more watchful of her after this. And I think we’ve got to talk to my sister about Marion going back home.’ He looked at them apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry this happened. After what happened with the Reverend Wattle, I should have been more on my guard.’
‘You can’t be everywhere,’ said Daniel. ‘And Vera’s got a lot to handle with the household, let alone having Marion to deal with. We’ll stay away from calling on you for a while, see if things settle down.’
Feather held out his hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
They each shook his hand firmly, then Daniel gestured towards the rear exit from the stable yard. ‘I think we’ll head out the back way,’ he said. ‘That way we’ll avoid running into Armstrong or Jarrett. Everything may seem harmonious at the moment, but somehow I feel it won’t last.’
It was when they got home and were finally able to relax that Daniel asked, ‘By the way, I meant to ask how Mr Doyle reacted when you told him the pyramids don’t have life-giving powers. With everything that’s happened, all other thoughts were driven out of my head. My only thought was to find you.’
‘Yes, it has been rather fraught,’ she admitted. ‘And as for Mr Doyle, I never went to see him. I thought about what you said, and decided you were right. The only thing he and his wife have in regard to his wife’s illness is hope. It would be wrong of me to take that away from them. And, I agree, sometimes hope can achieve the most astounding results that fly in the face of logic. When I was in Egypt once, there was a man who was so seriously ill his village prepared for his death, which was expected the very next day. But, to my surprise, but not to theirs, the next day he rose from his bed as if nothing was wrong with him.’
‘Did he die later?’
‘I don’t know. He was still alive, and very active, when I left the site two months afterwards. No one explained how he’d come to recover; they simply said it was the will of Allah.’ She looked at Daniel and sighed. ‘So, in that case you and Mr Doyle were right.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
This time there was no William Melville in the room at 10 Downing Street, just Superintendent Armstrong with Lord Salisbury and Sir Matthew White Ridley. Even the secretary who had taken the minutes of the previous encounter was absent. So this is an off-the-record meeting, thought the superintendent. Completely deniable. Both the prime minister and the home secretary looked very uncomfortable, as well they might, thought Armstrong; one of their own was the villain behind everything that had happened.
‘You’re absolutely sure that Mrs Caroline Dixon was responsible for the bank robberies, and the murders at Tussauds wax museum?’ asked White Ridley.
‘Absolutely,’ said Armstrong. ‘My Inspector Feather found the evidence at Mrs Dixon’s home, including many of the documents that were taken from the safety deposit boxes from the bank vaults.’
‘There is no chance that she was an unwilling and unwitting accomplice?’ asked White, desperate to find anything that would exonerate her and her reputation.
‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ replied Armstrong. ‘We have confessions from her accomplices who carried out the bank robberies stating that she masterminded them. And also from these same men detailing how she herself committed the murders, including the beheading of one of the nightwatchmen, and the suffocation of a man called Harry Michaels, who was also planning to rob banks. They also said that she had murdered a thirteen-year-old boy who helped her wrap one of the men she murdered in wax, the body of the nightwatchman that was subsequently found returned to Tussauds wax museum. There is also the evidence from Gerald Carr, the notorious gangster who shot and killed Mrs Dixon, claiming it was in self-defence because she was planning to kill him.’
The prime minister and home secretary exchanged deeply unhappy looks.
‘This must never get out,’ said Salisbury. ‘Mrs Dixon was a pillar of the community, her support for the Nightingale Fund applauded through all levels of society, right up to the royal family.’ He looked at Armstrong with mournful eyes. ‘I assume that is where most of the money that was stolen went? To the Nightingale Fund?’
‘Only a certain amount, we believe. It seems that Mrs Dixon kept much of the proceeds of the robberies.’
‘Then we should be able to recover part of the money that was lost,’ said the home secretary hopefully.
‘That will depend on her lawyers,’ said Armstrong. ‘Inspector Feather will be examining her bank accounts, but there could be some doubt as to whether it can be proved beyond question that the money deposited in her account came from specific robberies, and particularly whose money it was. Her lawyers have intimated that they will question any attempt to have that money removed from her estate. In which case, it may well result in a court case to decide the outcome, which would result in unfortunate publicity revealing her role in these criminal activities.’
Salisbury and White Ridley fell silent, an oppressive, heavy silence. Finally, Salisbury said, ‘For the same reason, the man who shot her …’ He struggled for the name.
‘Gerald Carr,’ said Armstrong.
‘Yes, Carr.’ Salisbury nodded. ‘He cannot go to trial for her murder because his defence would reveal her involvement in the bank robberies and the murders.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said the Superintendent.
‘And the same applies for the men you say carried out the bank raids under her direction,’ added Salisbury.
‘It would seem that is the case, sadly,’ agreed Armstrong.
‘So what is the answer?’ appealed White Ridley. ‘What explanation can we offer to tell the public that the bank robberies have been stopped and the villains apprehended, and the murders at Tussauds caught, whilst at the same time maintaining Mrs Dixon’s reputation as one of our finest citizens?’ A horrifying thought struck him because he suddenly blurted out, ‘What about these Museum Detectives? Daniel Wilson and Abigail Fenton. Do they know the truth of the situation and the extent of Mrs Dixon’s guilt?’
‘Sadly, they do. We have a statement from Miss Abigail Fenton in which she says that she was hel
d captive by Mrs Dixon, who told her she was going to kill her and then frame Mr Carr for her murder. And Mr Wilson was with Inspector Feather when they arrived at Mrs Dixon’s house and it was he who found Miss Fenton being held prisoner at gunpoint.’
‘They must be ordered to stay silent about those events,’ stated Salisbury firmly. ‘I shall tell them so myself, as their prime minister. I assume they are respectable and responsible persons who will agree.’
‘If not, we will threaten them with imprisonment for treason,’ spat White Ridley nervously.
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary,’ said Armstrong. ‘They are, as you say, responsible people. Especially Miss Fenton.’
Although I’d quite like to see Wilson’s face if he was threatened with imprisonment for treason, he decided. But no, he couldn’t allow it. However much he hated to admit it, Wilson had been instrumental in solving this case. Both cases. The only satisfying aspect to the superintendent was that there’d be no publicity, so no chance for the so-called Museum Detectives to take the credit here. If there was to be a false story told, then he would make sure it was told the right way, to reflect the credit to where it should go. Scotland Yard would take the glory.
Next morning, Daniel and Abigail studied the newspapers over breakfast, with Abigail getting more and more irritated the more she read.
‘This is all absolute bilge!’ she burst out. ‘According to all the reports, Mrs Caroline Dixon was brutally murdered by burglars at her own home. They then go on to wax lyrical about her achievements as a philanthropist. According to them, this woman – a vicious murderess and bank robber – was virtually a saint.’
‘They daren’t tell the truth for fear of smearing the reputation of the Nightingale Fund,’ said Daniel. ‘In fact, I doubt if people like Joe Dalton know, or would even admit it if faced with the evidence, that she could have been a criminal.’
‘So who’s decided to put out this false story?’ asked Abigail.
