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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Museum Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
1895. When the newly dubbed 'Museum Detectives' are asked to investigate deliberate damage to a dinosaur skeleton at the Natural History Museum, there is evidence that the fossil-hunting mania of the notorious Bone Wars in America may have reached their shores. But for Daniel Wilson, famed for his involvement in the Jack the Ripper case, and renowned archaeologist Abigail Fenton, events soon take a sinister turn. A museum attendant is found dead in an anteroom by none other than the infamous theatre manager Bram Stoker, who it seems may have had a personal connection with the deceased. Facing pressure both from an overseas business and local celebrity, Wilson and Fenton must rely on their talents and instincts to solve their most puzzling case yet.
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MURDER AT THE NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM
JIM ELDRIDGE
For Lynne, again and always
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
London, August 1895
Daniel Wilson and Abigail Fenton gazed at the pile of smashed bones heaped against the wall and exchanged puzzled looks. They were an interesting pair, contrasting in looks but of one mind in almost everything. Daniel, an ex-Scotland Yard detective in his mid-thirties, famed for his work on the Jack the Ripper investigations, was tall and well-built, his rugged features made more so by his slightly broken nose veering to one side. Abigail, an internationally renowned archaeologist, famous for her work on the Egyptian pyramids but who now concentrated on criminal investigations alongside Daniel, her partner in life as well as detection, was also in her thirties. She was tall, slim and elegant, her long reddish hair cascading down around her attractive, almost feline, face. To those who didn’t know her, she could appear haughty, but she was as down-to-earth as the humblest porter on any of the digs she’d been on.
Lying amongst the bones was a piece of cardboard with the words ‘because of he that betrayeth’ scrawled in block capitals.
‘It’s an iguanodon,’ said Evelyn Scott, the curator of the Natural History Museum. ‘Or it was before someone attacked it.’
They were in the museum’s huge Grand Hall, shielded from the eyes of the general public by a series of temporary screens.
The rest of the Grand Hall beyond the screens was filled with skeletons of dinosaurs of all sizes, along with the fossilised remains of other prehistoric creatures, all part of the museum’s recently opened ‘The Time of the Dinosaurs’ exhibition, which extended to two smaller rooms off the Grand Hall.
Evelyn Scott was tall, thin and pale-faced, her pallor emphasised by having her black hair pulled back into a knotted bun, and smartly attired in a long black dress. Behind the curator, the paunchy figure of the museum’s maintenance manager, Herbert Sharp, resplendent in a large-checked purple three-piece suit, glowered angrily at the wreckage of bones, taking this outrage as a personal affront.
‘I’m not sure why we’ve been called in, Miss Scott,’ said Daniel. ‘Our speciality is solving murders …’
‘In museums, I know,’ said Scott.
‘But this isn’t a murder,’ continued Daniel. ‘At best, it’s a case of criminal damage, with possibly breaking and entering, or burglary if the people who did it broke in during the night.’
‘They did,’ said Scott. ‘We discovered that a window at the back of the building had been forced. But our concern is not just what happened here with this, but that something worse might happen in the future. We have had threats, and it is possible this … this outrage is the result of those threats.’
‘Threats from whom?’ asked Abigail. ‘And do they mention anything about betrayal, as these words do?’
‘It reads like a quotation,’ observed Daniel.
‘Almost,’ said Scott. ‘In fact it’s a misquotation from The Gospel of St John: “Which is he that betrayeth thee”, and we have had a letter which threatens retribution.’
‘Retribution for what?’ asked Abigail.
‘For not buying dinosaur skeletons from them.’
‘We’ll need to look at that letter,’ said Daniel.
‘If you come to my office I’ll show you.’ Scott gestured at the pile of bones. ‘We left these as they were for the police and then for you to see. Some of the staff wanted to remove the wreckage immediately, but I do understand investigators prefer things being left as they are after a crime to possibly supply clues as to the perpetrators.’
Daniel nodded. ‘That’s true, and I’d like to make a close examination of the damage. Can I suggest that while I do that, you and Miss Fenton go to your office to show her the letter, along with anything else you have, and I’ll join you once I’ve finished here? Then Mr Sharp can have things cleared things up and the screens can be removed.’
‘Thank you,’ said Scott gratefully. ‘The screens have aroused all manner of curiosity from visitors, wondering what we might be erecting behind them.’ She turned to Abigail. ‘If you’ll follow me, Miss Fenton.’
Abigail followed the curator towards the main reception area, while Daniel knelt down to examine the wreckage, watched by the angry Herbert Sharp.
‘We’ve never had anything like this happen before,’ said Sharp.
‘The damage looks like it was done with a heavy hammer. Possibly a coal hammer,’ said Daniel. He looked up at the maintenance manager. ‘I’d like to talk to whoever was the first to find the damage.’
‘That’d be the cleaners,’ said Sharp. ‘But they’ve all gone home now.’
‘What time do they arrive in the morning?’
‘Six o’clock,’ said Sharp. ‘The head cleaner, Ada Watson, has a key and lets them in. They work until 8.30 a.m., cleaning and polishing. The senior attendant arrives at 8.30 a.m. to make sure everything is in order, with the staff coming in at 9 a.m. The museum opens to the public at 9.30 a.m. Every day of the week except Sundays. Yesterday, being a Sunday, no one was here. It’s also the only day the cleaners have off.’
‘What time does the museum close?’ asked Daniel.
‘Five-thirty,’ said Sharp.
‘And who locks up?’
‘The senior attendant, Brandon Walpole. He makes a last tour of the museum and then leaves at 6 p.m.’
‘And he did that on Saturday?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to talk to the cleaners who found the wreckage.’
‘The best thing would be for you to call here tomorrow morning at about eight o’clock,’ said Sharp. ‘By then the cleaners will have done most of their work and will be free to talk. I’ll leave a note for Mrs Watson telling her you’ll be coming.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. ‘That would be good. Out of curiosity, how is the exhibition doing?’
‘It’s early days,’ said Sharp. ‘But that’s often the way with a new exhibition. Things will pick up once word spreads about it.’ He gave a proud, almost smug, smile as he added: ‘We had Mr Bram Stoker himself here on Saturday, and I heard him tell Miss Scott how impressed he was and that he’d do his best to get Sir Henry Irving to come along. Once that sort of thing happens, people will come in droves. There’s nothing like celebrity to bring in the crowds.’
Abigail followed Miss Scott up the narrow stone staircase to the first floor and the administrative offices. Scott stopped at a door, knocked and went in. It was a small office. A middle-aged lady sitting at a desk going through some papers looked up as they entered.
‘Mrs Smith,’ said Scott. ‘This is Miss Abigail Fenton. Mr Daniel Wilson is downstairs examining the damage to the iguanodon and he will be joining us when he’s finished.’ Turning to Abigail, Scott added: ‘Mrs Smith is my secretary and knows more about the museum than I do.’
‘I think that’s an exaggeration, Miss Scott.’ The woman smiled, obviously pleased at the compliment.
‘Not at all,’ said Scott. To Abigail, she explained: ‘Mrs Smith was secretary to the previous curator, Mr Danvers Hardwicke.’ Turning back to the secretary, she asked: ‘Do you have the letter from Petter and Wardle, Mrs Smith?’
‘I do,’ said Smith, and she lifted it from her desk and handed it to Scott. ‘I had it ready because I felt you might require it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Scott. ‘Miss Fenton and I will be in my office.’
As Scott and Abigail walked along the corridor to the curator’s own office, Scott said: ‘As you see, Mrs Smith is absolutely invaluable. So efficient and always prepared.’
They entered Scott’s office. It was a room in which the shelves were laden with books, with more books stacked on the floor in front of the shelves. By contrast, the large desk in the office was cleared of all but a few papers, a decorated inkwell and pens in holders, and a large blotting pad.
‘The books are leftovers from my predecessor,’ said Scott. ‘I haven’t had the heart to go through them yet and decide which ones to get rid of, but I shall.’ She gestured towards a chair by the desk, and when Abigail had seated herself Scott handed her the letter, before taking her own chair.
Abigail read the missive from Petter and Wardle, who were described in the letterhead as ‘Domestic and Commercial Agents’, which Abigail felt was a description covering a multitude of activities. The address was in Paddington and the directors were listed as Erskine Petter and Benjamin Wardle; the letter had been signed by the former.
To the Curator of the Natural History Museum,
Cromwell Road, London
Dear Sir,
You are in breach of your exclusive agreement to purchase American fossils of dinosaurs from our client, the Bone Company of America, by the fact that you have purchased similar dinosaur fossils from rival companies in the United States of America. Unless this situation is rectified and these renegade fossils are returned to their supplier, and you accept delivery of those fossils from the Bone Company of America as agreed, retribution will be taken.
‘Retribution,’ murmured Abigail. ‘That certainly sounds like a threat. So, you believe the damage to the iguanodon is related to the rivalry between competing companies selling dinosaur skeletons found in America.’
‘I certainly believe it’s a possibility,’ Scott said. ‘However, the skeleton that was destroyed was found in Sussex here in England, not in America. Unfortunately, when I shared that information with the police constable who arrived to investigate, he said the fact that the destroyed skeleton came from Sussex showed the attack wasn’t connected with this letter. I made the point to him that the attackers may not have been aware of where this particular iguanodon was found, to them it was just a dinosaur fossil, and I pressed him to at least look into it. He said he was unable to do that because the firm is in Paddington, which is outside his beat.’
‘Not very satisfactory,’ said Abigail.
There was a knock at the door to which they both looked. The door opened and Daniel entered, carrying the piece of card and the string by which it had been attached to the skeleton.
‘What’s your opinion, Mr Wilson?’ asked Scott.
‘At this moment I’m afraid I’ve nothing much more to add to your own view, Miss Scott,’ said Daniel. He gestured at the piece of card in his hand. ‘I’ll examine this message that was left and see if that offers anything.’ He looked at the letter in Abigail’s hand and asked: ‘A clue?’
‘Possibly,’ said Abigail, passing it to him.
Daniel read it, then handed it to Miss Scott.
‘The tone is certainly threatening, and the label “Domestic and Commercial Agents” suitably vague,’ commented Daniel. ‘Addressing the letter with the salutation of “Dear Sir” indicates they are not aware that you as curator are a woman, which suggests their knowledge of the museum is limited. Have you had any correspondence with this Bone Company of America?’
‘No. Mrs Smith and I have looked through the files and can find nothing.’
‘Do you know if they exist?’
‘Yes, they do,’ said Scott. ‘In fact, I’m sure they were one of the companies the museum considered when the exhibition was being planned. At least according to notes I found in the files left by my predecessor, Mr Hardwicke. But there’s no actual correspondence from them, or from Mr Hardwicke to them.’
‘Would it be possible for us to talk to Mr Hardwicke?’ asked Abigail. ‘His information would be first-hand and so very useful.’
‘Sadly, he is no longer with us,’ said Scott. ‘A tragic accident. He died four months ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Abigail. ‘I hadn’t realised.’
‘Our condolences, Miss Scott,’ added Daniel. ‘In view of this letter, I think a visit to Petter and Wardle should be our next move. It will be interesting to see how they respond to our enquiries.’
CHAPTER TWO
The offices of Petter and Wardle were quite near to Paddington Station, a relatively short distance from the Natural History Museum in South Kensington, so Daniel and Abigail elected to walk, especially as their journey took them through the greenery of Kensington Gardens, the scent of blooms and shrubs filling the air, a pleasant change from the sulphurous smell of smoky streets. As they walked, Daniel said: ‘I was talking to the maintenance manager, Mr Sharp, and he mentioned someone called Bram Stoker. Apparently he visited the exhibition yesterday. The way he said his name suggested I ought to be impressed. Who is he?’
‘You’ve heard of the Lyceum Theatre, I assume. And Henry Irving? And Ellen Terry?’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ said Daniel. ‘Of course I have. You can hardly open a newspaper without being told that Mr Irving is about to give us his enthralling King Lear, or Hamlet.’
‘Sir Henry,” said Abigail. ‘He was recently knighted.’
‘An actor knighted?’ Daniel sniffed dismissively. ‘And as for Ellen Terry, she’s still playing Juliet when she’s fifty.’
‘Almost fifty,’ Abigail corrected him. ‘And she looks much younger. Especially on stage. Bram Stoker is the business manager of the Lyceum, and is a crucial figure in everything that goes on there. Actors, set designs, publicity, finances. He also arranges the tours the company carry out, such as when they go to America to do a season of plays there. You name it, Bram Stoker is behind it. And he has the ears of most people in London’s theatreland, so if he spreads some complimentary words about this exhibition among the people he knows, celebrities will come. And where celebrities go, the general public aren’t far behind.’
As they crossed Bayswater Road and began to enter the maze of cramped back streets around Paddington Station, Daniel said: ‘By the way, did you know the curator of the museum was a woman?’
‘Of course,’ replied Abigail. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘Why would I?’ asked Daniel.
‘There may have been a clue in the name at the bottom of the letter she sent us by messenger.’ Abigail smiled. ‘Evelyn.’
‘Men are called Evelyn as well,’ said Daniel. He frowned, puzzled. ‘But you didn’t say anything to warn me.’
‘What was there to warn you about?’ asked Abigail. ‘Yes, it’s rare for a woman to hold a responsible position in such an august establishment as the museum, but she would only have been given the post because she merited it. She’s highly qualified. I believe she graduated with a very good degree.’
‘So, she’s from your old college in Cambridge, Girton?’ asked Daniel.
‘No,’ said Abigail. ‘She was at Somerville, Girton’s sister college in Oxford.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘Does having a woman in charge disturb you?’
‘No, absolutely not,’ said Daniel firmly. ‘It just took me by surprise, that’s all. I heartily approve.’
‘Good,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m sure she approves of you as well.’ Then she asked: ‘What did you make of the message? About betrayal?’
‘It was written in block capitals, either to disguise an educated person’s handwriting, or because that’s how the assailant writes, which suggests someone not so educated.’
‘And your guess?’
‘The first. Using an unfamiliar phrase from the Bible suggests literacy.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought it was an unfamiliar phrase,’ commented Abigail. ‘I recognised it, or at least the fact that it was a misquote, and so did Miss Scott.’
‘Both of you are women with university degrees.’
‘The Bible is in common use by many levels of society,’ countered Abigail.
‘Yes, but while most common people are familiar with Old Testament passages, like the Ten Commandments, for example, I doubt if they are with the rather obscure verses. I didn’t recognise it, for example.’
Abigail sniffed. ‘Heathen.’
They found the offices of Petter and Wardle located above a butcher’s shop within sight, sound and smells of Paddington Station. As with most buildings next to a main railway station, soot from the trains hung in the air, painting the facade of the butcher’s and the windows above it. The door to the rooms above the shop was unlocked, and they climbed a flight of grimy, uncarpeted stairs to the first floor and a narrow corridor with four doors, two on either side. The walls of the corridor hadn’t seen any fresh paint for some time and the old brown paint was flaking off.
‘Not the most prestigious of locations,’ grunted Daniel.
A glass-panelled door had the words ‘Petter and Wardle’ painted on it in gold lettering. Daniel knocked on the glass, then turned the handle, and he and Abigail walked in. It was a small, cramped room, shelves overflowing with bundles of papers tied with ribbons, and four wooden filing cabinets. The desk that took up most of the room was also laden with papers. The dominant smell in the room was a stink of body sweat, combined with decaying paper and cheap gin. The man sitting behind the desk, a red-faced man with a large ginger moustache looked up at them, warily.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Mr Daniel Wilson and Miss Abigail Fenton,’ said Daniel. ‘We have been engaged by the Natural History Museum to investigate damage done to a dinosaur skeleton, discovered early this morning. It had been smashed.’
‘What’s that to do with me?’ demanded the man.
‘Which are you: Mr Petter or Mr Wardle?’ asked Daniel.
‘I am Mr Erskine Petter,’ said the man haughtily. ‘Senior partner. And I ask again, what has this smashed dinosaur skeleton to do with me?’
He made no attempt to get up, nor to offer them a seat, although there were two vacant chairs by the window. But the sight of the dust and dirt on the chairs had already made both Abigail and Daniel decide to reject the offer of a seat if it was made.
‘We’ve been shown a letter you sent to the museum as representatives of the Bone Company of America, in which you stated that unless the museum only purchased dinosaur skeletons from your client there would be retribution,’ said Abigail. ‘You will agree that “retribution” has an ominous, not to mention threatening, tone to it.’
‘It was used purely in the context of financial recompense and a loss of reputation of our client. My client has been cheated.’
‘By Miss Evelyn Scott?’ asked Abigail. ‘Who you addressed as “Dear Sir”?’
Petter sniffed. ‘I do not know the lady. Our transactions were conducted with her predecessor, Mr Danvers Hardwicke.’
‘Yet there seems to be no correspondence in the museum’s files from you prior to this recent letter threatening retribution.’
‘That is because all previous correspondence was between the Bone Company and Mr Hardwicke directly.’
‘But no letters to or from the Bone Company of America have been found in the museum’s files,’ said Daniel.
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Petter angrily.
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘We’re just saying that the museum has no trace of any letters or any sort of correspondence from the Bone Company of America.’
‘They must have been deliberately destroyed,’ said Petter, flatly.
‘Have you any evidence these letters existed?’ asked Abigail.
‘I have a letter from the Bone Company advising me that the letters of agreement were sent and signed by Mr Hardwicke.’
‘Have you seen these letters?’ asked Abigail. ‘Do you have copies you could show us?’
‘Are you questioning my veracity?’ demanded Petter, indignantly.
‘Not at all,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m just asking if we might look at them. Then we can advise Miss Scott that we have seen them and suggest she comply with your requests.’
Petter hesitated before saying awkwardly: ‘No, I haven’t actually seen them. But I have no reason to doubt my client when they say such letters exist.’
‘If that’s the case and they were in direct correspondence with the museum previously, why did they engage you to take up the issue on their behalf?’
‘Because it takes time for letters to cross the Atlantic,’ replied Petter. ‘That presented no problem while arrangements were being made for the museum to purchase the skeletons because the exhibition was some months away at that time. But now there is an urgency about the situation and the Bone Company felt it was vital that they had a representative here in London who is authorised to act on their behalf to expedite matters.’
Abigail nodded. ‘Yes, that makes sense. Could you furnish us with the address and the names of the owners of the Bone Company?’
‘Again, you doubt me?’ demanded Petter, stiffly.
‘Not at all,’ repeated Abigail. ‘But if we are to persuade our client, the museum, you have a valid case, the more practical information we can provide the better.’
‘All correspondence between us and our client is confidential,’ said Petter.
‘Even just the name of the owner and the address of the company?’
‘Especially that information.’
‘Perhaps we should arrange a further meeting between ourselves and you, next time with your partner, Mr Wardle,’ said Daniel.
‘There would be no point.’ said Petter.
‘At least Mr Wardle should be advised that legal action may result because of this incident.’
‘He will be so advised,’ said Petter. ‘At the moment he is out of the country, but I will inform him by letter. Now, I believe our business is done and I will ask you to leave.’
Daniel looked to Abigail, who nodded, and they left the office, heading back down the grimy stairs and out into the street.
‘What a dreadful place,’ said Abigail. ‘Even this sooty air outside seems fresh after that room. What did you make of it?’
‘I’m wondering if there is actually a Mr Wardle.’
‘Why? What are you thinking?’
‘There’s no evidence of any earlier correspondence from them or this alleged Bone Company. The offices are in a shabby back street in Paddington. It suggests to me something dubious.’
‘Extortion?’ asked Abigail.
‘It’s been done before. Some disreputable character sees the chance of making money from the Natural History Museum about this exhibition. They lodge a spurious but legal-sounding claim in the hope of being paid off. When that fails, they up the pressure by sending in a thug with a hammer.’
‘But why do you doubt the existence of a Mr Wardle?’
‘Having two names on the letterhead gives the company greater authenticity, even if one of them is fictitious.’
‘You think Mr Petter carried out the attack on the dinosaur fossil?’
Daniel shook his head.
‘I can’t see him doing the dirty work. It’s more likely that he hired some thugs to do the actual damage. Proving it, however, is another matter.’
‘Then we look into Mr Petter and his associates,’ said Abigail. ‘However, first we need to tell Miss Scott about our meeting with Petter and see how far she wants us to go with our investigation, because it could prove expensive. There’s a good chance that our turning up at Petter’s office may put him off from committing any further damage. Especially if Miss Scott decides to hire a couple of nightwatchmen, which would be the cheaper option.’
CHAPTER THREE
They returned to the museum where they reported on their meeting with Petter to Miss Scott.
‘And you think this Mr Petter was behind the attack on the iguanodon?’ asked Scott.
‘It’s possible,’ replied Daniel. ‘In fact, my policeman’s nose tells me there’s definitely something suspect about Mr Petter and his whole set-up.’
‘Your policeman’s nose?’ queried Scott.
Daniel grinned and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Many years in the Metropolitan Police Detective Division gives you a second sense about these things. However, proving that he was behind it is another matter.’
‘I’d like you to try,’ said Scott. ‘If he did it, but now decides to back off, then someone else might make an attempt. I want to stamp out that prospect.’
‘Then we will, but we would also recommend hiring a nightwatchman or two, even just for the duration of the exhibition,’ said Daniel. ‘We shall come in early tomorrow morning and talk to the cleaners who found the damage.’
‘In that case I shall also come in early so that we can have a proper discussion before the museum opens,’ said Scott. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Smith to get out any notes relating to the exhibition so you can examine them, in case there’s anything there that may give you evidence backing up your suspicions about these Petter and Wardle people.’
‘If we’re going to investigate them and the threat contained in their letter, it would help us if you could tell us something about their alleged client, the Bone Company of America,’ said Daniel. ‘And about any other such companies. From the tone of Petter and Wardle’s letter, it suggests that there are a few companies vying for business over dinosaur skeletons.’
‘Oh yes. To such an extent that it resulted in what became known as the Bone Wars—’
‘One moment,’ interrupted Daniel. ‘My apologies, but I’m starting from a position of ignorance. Am I right in assuming these Bone Wars took place in America?’
‘Yes,’ said Scott. ‘Between 1877 and 1892. They were called the Bone Wars because that’s what they developed into. Men from two rival factions attacking the other side and destroying the fossils they’d found. There were stories that some men were actually killed, but I’m not sure if that’s true.’
‘How did it reach such a pass?’ asked Daniel.
‘It was as a result of the expansion of the railroad into the Western states, particularly Colorado, Wyoming and Nebraska. As the ground was dug up and levelled for the railway tracks, so a variety of fossils were uncovered. Some of them very large indeed. News of these finds brought palaeontologists to what became known as the bone beds.’
‘Palaeontologists?’ queried Daniel at this unfamiliar word.
‘Fossil hunters,’ translated Abigail.
‘Exactly,’ said Scott. ‘The main protagonists were Othniel Charles Marsh and Edward Drinker Cope. Marsh and Cope were both wealthy men, fanatical fossil hunters and deadly rivals. Each was determined to become more famous than the other in the field, which meant discovering more species than his rival. There is no doubt that they uncovered an astonishing amount of dinosaur skeletons: triceratops, allosaurs, stegosaurus, diplodocus. Skeletons that had never been discovered before, certainly not in Britain.
‘As word of their finds and their fame spread, others joined in, and soon the whole of the West was filled with dinosaur hunters battling one another. Marsh and Cope may have been driven by scientific discovery, but these latecomers were there for profit.’
‘As a result, I assume the Bone Wars became even more vicious.’
‘I’m afraid so. The opportunity for sudden wealth attracts all sorts. To be honest, it became impossible to know who was who: who had a rightful claim to a particular skeleton and who hadn’t. We employed an agent in America who arranged the purchase of the skeletons on our behalf, with an assurance that they would guarantee such sales were bona fide.’
‘Have you been in contact with your agents in America to ask them about this Bone Company?’ asked Daniel.
‘I wrote to them as soon as we received the letter from Petter and Wardle, but that was almost a week ago, and correspondence between Britain and America takes some time.
‘I must also let you know that I’ve written to all the trustees of the museum to inform them of the unfortunate incident over the iguanodon. I decided it was preferential that they hear about it from me rather than read about it first in the newspapers. I’m just telling you in case any of them decide to visit tomorrow while you’re here.’
That evening at their home in the small terraced house in Camden Town, Daniel tucked enthusiastically into the meal that Abigail laid before him. Usually, Daniel liked to provide the evening meal, but today Abigail had pressured him into letting her take over his much-loved kitchen range. ‘I have a special surprise in mind,’ she’d told him that morning. She’d barely finished her preparations when the message had arrived from Miss Scott requesting their assistance, just giving her time to pop her surprise dish into the slow cooker before they left for the museum. Now, Daniel was relishing the plate of food before him.
‘This stew is delicious,’ said Daniel. ‘You’ve excelled yourself.’
‘It’s not just a stew, it’s boeuf bourguignon,’ Abigail corrected him.
‘French?’ queried Daniel.
‘Oui, monsieur,’ said Abigail. ‘I found the recipe in a magazine, and I’ve been looking forward to trying it out. It seemed the ideal dish to cook.’
‘It’s certainly ideal,’ said Daniel. ‘When we move, we’ll have to make sure our new house has a range in the kitchen if we can produce meals like this.’
Abigail smiled. ‘We? I agree you produce lovely food on it, but you’ve had years of experience using it and you tend to either roast or boil.’
‘Techniques that have served me well,’ said Daniel. ‘But I’m happy to learn new cooking under your tutelage.’
‘Excellent,’ said Abigail. ‘I have recipes I discovered in Greece and Arab countries, interesting ways of cooking goat.’
‘Goat?’ said Daniel doubtfully.
‘Don’t dismiss things until you’ve tried them.’
‘If it’s as good as this, I look forward to it,’ said Daniel, and speared another forkful into his mouth. As he ate, he said: ‘I was thinking about what Miss Scott told us about the Bone Wars in America and reflecting how different it is here.’
‘Is it?’ asked Abigail.
‘Well, I’ve never heard you talk about being attacked by rival archaeologists.’
‘No, it happens in a more subtle way here,’ said Abigail. ‘Reputations are attacked, aspersions cast on another’s good name and scientific credentials. It happens in all areas of research. Botany is a hotbed of it. I’ve often thought it’s about trying to achieve immortality by getting your name attached to a new species, whether it’s a flower, an insect, a fish or a dinosaur. For example, at the exhibition there’s the skeleton on display of an iguanodon that was discovered at Maidstone in Kent. You’ll see that it’s listed as Iguanodon Mantelli, after Gideon Mantell, who was one of the first people in Britain to discover this creature. But there’s some dispute about who really found this particular dinosaur. There were reports that the actual discoverer was Gideon Mantell’s wife, Mary Ann.’
‘Which would still make it qualify as Iguanodon Mantelli,’ said Daniel.
‘But there’s also a claim that a similar fossil was discovered by a man called William Harding Bensted.’
‘Perhaps the best way to get to the truth would be to ask Gideon Mantell.’
‘As he died a few decades ago that would be difficult,’ said Abigail. ‘Also, some people can be quite spurious with the truth. And that includes the man who created the Natural History Museum, Sir Richard Owen. He was awarded the Royal Medal for a paper he’d written on the belemnites, a marine fossil. But he neglected to say that the belemnites had been discovered four years previously by an amateur biologist called Chaning Pearce.’
‘So he was a cheat,’ said Daniel.
‘As a result Owen was voted off the councils of the Royal Society and the Zoological Society. However, he was still knighted some years later.’
‘But he was still a cheat.’
‘Not completely. Much of the work he published was from his own research. And he was the first person who coined the phrase “dinosaur” to define these creatures. The problem is he was also an opportunist and sometimes took shortcuts.’
‘By stealing other people’s work?’
‘It happens in all areas. Did Shakespeare really write all those plays, or did he borrow some parts from Bacon or Marlowe? It’s known he took most of his history plots from Holinshed.’
‘Theft is still theft, and that includes plagiarism,’ said Daniel.
‘It can be a grey area when it involves academic research. Frankly, it’s about who gets the credit.’
Daniel laid aside his knife and fork with a smile of pleasure.
‘Superb,’ he said. ‘Which brings me back to where I began, the question of us moving house and making sure it has a range in it. You do still want us to marry, I hope?’
‘I do,’ said Abigail. ‘In fact, it’s something I’ve been weighing up quite seriously recently.’
‘Really?’ said Daniel warily. ‘Why “seriously”?’
‘Because if we are going to be married, I’d like to find out more about your family, before I meet them at the wedding.’
‘I don’t have any family,’ said Daniel
‘You must have,’ said Abigail. ‘A cousin many times removed. A distant aunt or uncle.’
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘None. There’s just me.’
‘Your parents?’ asked Abigail. She hesitated before adding, ‘I’ve often wanted to ask you about them before, but I suppose I was waiting for you to tell me about them yourself.’
‘There’s not a lot to tell,’ said Daniel.
‘There is,’ insisted Abigail. ‘You know about me. You’ve met my sister, Bella. You know we grew up in a reasonably nice area of Cambridge. When our parents died we were left with some money from my father which enabled me to go to university to study, and for Bella to be able to choose an occupation which suited her. You’ve met Bella’s husband. We have an aunt on our mother’s side who lives in Lincolnshire, Aunt Matilda. She’s very elderly and I haven’t seen her in a long time, but I understand Bella has visited her. Bella is much more aware of family duties than I. Once you know that, you know all there is to know about my family. But about yours, I know nothing. How did you come to be in Camden Town? You said you grew up here. Did your parents live here?’
‘I believe they did, at first,’ said Daniel. ‘My father was an ostler, looking after horses left outside inns. I believe his name was Horace.’
‘You believe?’
‘I only ever heard people refer to him as Wilson or as Aitch. He died when I was seven.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Abigail.
Daniel shrugged. ‘It happened. I didn’t really know him. As an ostler, he spent most of his time outside of inns and much of it inside them. He drank a great deal. That may be one of the reasons he died.’
‘And your mother?’ asked Abigail.
Daniel paused, before saying: ‘She died when I was nine. In the workhouse where we went after my father died because she couldn’t support us. The workhouse is still there, in St Pancras Way, not far from where we are now. I left there when I was twelve.’ He fell silent, contemplative, then added: ‘I had a brother and a sister. My brother was older than me, my sister younger. They both died. Typhus. The scourge of the poor. I sometimes wonder why I survived and they didn’t. Luck, I suppose.’ He looked at her. ‘So, that’s it. A workhouse boy. No family of any sort. Except you.’
‘Oh, my poor Daniel,’ said Abigail, and she left her seat to sit down next to him, then pulled him tightly close to her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Daniel and Abigail arrived at the museum at eight o’clock the next morning to find a woman wearing an apron, her hair tied back in a turban made from a scarf, mopping the front steps.
‘It ain’t open to the public yet,’ she told them. ‘Doors open at half past nine.’
‘We’re here to see Mrs Ada Watson,’ Daniel told her. ‘Mr Sharp made the arrangement for this morning at this hour.’
The woman stopped mopping and looked at them doubtfully.
‘I dunno about that,’ she said. ‘No one said nuffin to me about no arrangement.’
‘Perhaps you’d tell Mrs Watson we’re here,’ said Abigail. ‘Mr Daniel Wilson and Miss Abigail Fenton.’
The woman regarded them suspiciously, then said, ‘Wait here. And don’t touch my mop.’
She leant the mop against a wall, then disappeared in through the large double doors.
‘Do I look like the sort of person who’d steal someone’s mop?’ asked Daniel.
‘Perhaps she was referring to me.’ Abigail smiled.
Daniel looked her up and down, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t see you with a mop.’
Abigail looked at him, offended.
‘I’ll have you know that since I moved into your house I have done just as much of the cleaning as you have. More so, in fact. Just because I do it when you’re out and can’t get in my way …’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Daniel, apologetically.
Abigail was about to expand her protest, when the door opened and the mop lady reappeared, accompanied by a woman in her forties, similarly attired in an apron and with her hair turbaned.
‘Mr Wilson and Miss Fenton?’ she asked.
Abigail and Daniel nodded.
‘I’m Mrs Watson,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
‘I thought it best to check, Ada,’ said the mop lady. ‘Especially after what’s occurred. You can’t trust anyone these days, even the posh-looking ones.’
As Daniel and Abigail followed Ada Watson into the museum, Daniel whispered: ‘I’ve never been described as posh before.’
‘What makes you think she was referring to you?’ whispered back Abigail.
Ada Watson stopped by the reception desk just inside the body of the museum.
‘You’ll have to excuse Evie,’ she said. ‘What’s happened has upset everyone. Mr Sharp said Miss Scott has hired you to find out who done it. Smashed the skeleton.’
‘That’s right,’ said Abigail. ‘We’d like to talk to the people who first discovered the damage.’
‘That was the three of them: Marge Adams, Dolly Tilly and Dolly’s daughter, Tess. How it works is the three of them go into the Grand Hall and do a bit, then Dolly and Tess head off and do the smaller room off the Grand Hall, then come back in and help Marge finish off, before they go and do the conveniences.’
‘Would it be possible to talk to them now?’ asked Abigail.
‘I’ll go and get ’em,’ said Ada.
‘Could we talk to them where the skeleton was found?’ asked Daniel.
She nodded. ‘Wait for us there,’ she said, and headed towards a set of steps leading down.
Daniel and Abigail went to where they’d seen the broken iguanodon skeleton the day before. The damage had been cleared away, leaving a vacant space amongst the other exhibits.
‘At least there’s been no repeat of the attack,’ said Abigail.
‘Fortunately. If Mr Petter was involved in some way, maybe our visit to him has made him cautious,’ added Daniel.
‘If,’ stressed Abigail.
‘There’s definitely something dubious about him,’ said Daniel.
‘Your policeman’s nose?’ asked Abigail.
‘Exactly,’ said Daniel.
Ada Watson reappeared, accompanied by three women, a short, round woman in her fifties, a thin stick of a woman in her forties and an equally thin young woman in her early twenties. The last two looked similar enough to be Dolly and Tess Tilly, which meant the short one was Marge Adams. All three wore the uniform of patterned aprons and turbans for their hair.
Ada introduced them. ‘These are Mr Wilson and Miss Fenton. They’re the detectives Miss Scott has hired.’
Tess Tilly regarded Abigail with a look of wonder.
‘You’re a detective?’ she asked in amazement.
‘I am,’ said Abigail. ‘Along with Mr Wilson.’
‘But you’re a woman,’ said Tess.
‘Nuff of that, Tess,’ rebuked her mother. ‘Don’t be rude.’
‘I wasn’t being rude,’ defended Tess. ‘I was just saying …’
‘Stick to why they’re here,’ Ada ordered, her tone firm. ‘The skeleton.’
‘Yes,’ said Marge. ‘That was just how it was. We walked in and saw it. At first, we thought it must have just fallen over, but then we saw some of the bones were broken, like they’d been hit with something heavy.’
‘Then we saw the piece of cardboard tied to it with words on.’
‘“Because of he that betrayeth”,’ said Ada dramatically.
‘Ada can read,’ said Marge with admiration.
Abigail let Daniel ask most of the questions of the three women, appreciating his long experience as a police officer conducting investigations, but it soon became obvious that the cleaners couldn’t add much to what was already known. They’d discovered the wreckage soon after they’d arrived for work at six o’clock. They’d immediately reported it to Ada Watson, who told them to leave things exactly as they were for the police to examine the damage.
‘It was Mr Sharp who arranged for the screens to be put round it to hide it from the public’s eyes,’ Ada told them. ‘Otherwise they’d have had to close off the whole Grand Hall, and they couldn’t do that.’
‘Did you notice any particular marks on the floor near the damage?’ asked Daniel. ‘Boot marks, for example?’
Ada looked at the other three, who shook their heads.
‘No,’ said Marge. ‘Whoever did it had clean shoes, otherwise we’d have noticed it, being cleaners as we are. We spot things like that.’
‘Ah, Miss Fenton and Mr Wilson.’ They turned to see Miss Scott advancing towards them. ‘Here I am, early, as promised. Have Mrs Watson and the others been of assistance?’
‘Indeed, Miss Scott, they have,’ said Daniel. He turned and smiled at the four cleaners. ‘Thank you, ladies. And if we have any other questions we’ll talk again.’
CHAPTER FIVE
As Daniel and Abigail followed Scott up the stairs that led to her office, the curator murmured in a low voice: ‘I gather they weren’t able to help very much.’
‘Not really,’ admitted Daniel. ‘But they were all very conscientious about trying to.’
Once inside Scott’s office, the curator handed them a paper folder.
‘These are the copies of the letters regarding the exhibition. None of them are from or to the Bone Company, although they are on a list of fossil suppliers that Mr Hardwicke wrote out when the exhibition was being planned. The only letters recorded are those between the Fundamental Fossil Company, based in Boston, who acted as our agents in dealing with American fossil suppliers. You will see that the first letters between the museum and the company are when Mr Hardwicke was still here, and the later ones are addressed to, or signed by, me. There is absolutely nothing in our records from Petter and Wardle except the threatening one I showed you yesterday.’
She gestured towards a smaller desk and some chairs near some filing cabinets.
‘Feel free to use that desk while you go through the file. You may find something that I’ve missed.’
‘Thank you,’ said Abigail, taking the file from her.
She and Daniel were just walking towards the desk when there was a rapid knocking on the door. It sprang open and Mrs Smith entered, her face flushed with excitement.
‘They’re here,’ she exclaimed.
Daniel, Abigail and Scott looked at her, puzzled.
‘Who’s here?’ asked Scott.
‘I was just walking in and as I passed the main reception, I saw them talking to the senior attendant. Sir Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. They’re with Mr Stoker. They’ve come to look at the exhibition,’ continued Smith.
Daniel looked at the clock. ‘It’s not yet nine o’clock,’ he said, puzzled.
‘They said they wanted to look at it before the public are allowed in,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘They do get harassed by people, the poor dears. Wanting to shake their hands and so forth.’
‘The drawback of celebrity,’ said Abigail.
‘I trust the senior attendant let them in,’ said Scott.
‘Indeed,’ said Smith. ‘He looks so regal, you know. Sir Henry, that is. And Miss Terry is every bit as beautiful as when she’s on stage.’
‘I shall go and welcome them,’ said Scott, determinedly.
And with that, she swept out, followed by the enrapt Mrs Smith.
Abigail looked at Daniel, quizzically.
‘Are you coming down?’ she asked.
‘To gawp at an actor?’ asked Daniel, indignantly.
‘You are such an inverted snob, Daniel Wilson,’ snapped Abigail.
When Daniel and Abigail arrived in the Grand Hall they saw Miss Scott standing beside the reconstructed skeleton of a stegosaurus, obviously explaining about it to the couple who stood there, gazing at the creature and nodding as they listened. Even though it was the first time Daniel had seen them in the flesh, there was no mistaking them: Sir Henry Irving and Ellen Terry, revered actor and actress, stars of the Lyceum Theatre. Irving was the embodiment of the illustrations of him in the newspapers and magazines: tall, thin, with that famous patrician profile, the hawklike nose and the high cheekbones, and, for a man of almost sixty, a full head of luxuriant silvery hair. Terry, by comparison, was a small, elfin figure who looked nearer to her mid-twenties than someone approaching fifty years of age. With her tiny frame, her delicate features, she was the living form of the Pre-Raphaelite image of the romantic heroine. The other thing that struck Daniel about her was that, despite the puritanical censoriousness of the times, when he and Abigail were viewed by many – including Abigail’s own sister, Bella – as beyond the pale because they were living together but not married (‘in sin’ as Bella put it in condemnation), Terry was revered by all society, including the highest in the land, despite her life being littered with broken marriages and former lovers, with at least two children born out of wedlock.
It struck Daniel that most of the museum’s attendants seemed to have decided to look after the Grand Hall, because – although they kept a respectful distance – they had all appeared and were gazing in wonder at the illustrious pair.
‘I told you Mr Stoker would come through for us,’ murmured a happy voice beside Daniel.
He turned and saw Herbert Sharp.
‘He brought ’em in, Mr Wilson, like he said he would,’ chortled Sharp.
‘Where is he?’ asked Daniel, searching for a sign of this apparently well-known figure of London’s theatreland.
‘I saw him going into the small anteroom off the Grand Hall,’ said Sharp. ‘I’ve got to go and thank him. This is something very special.’
A man of his word, thought Herbert Sharp delightedly as he made for the anteroom. That’s the kind of friend the museum needs.
The room was empty except for Bram Stoker, who was kneeling down beside the skeleton of a small dinosaur. He appeared to be examining a roll of cloth lying on the floor next to the fossil.
‘Everything all right, Mr Stoker?’ called Sharp.
Stoker rose to his feet and turned towards Sharp, a look of distress on his face.
‘No,’ he said. He pointed at the roll of cloth. ‘There’s a dead man here.’
Sharp hurried forward in a state of bewilderment. Dead man? Then he stopped, shocked. A corner of the cloth had been peeled back and Sharp could see the face of Raymond Simpson, one of the museum’s attendants.
‘W-w-what?’ burbled Sharp helplessly. ‘What? How?’ He looked towards Stoker, but the man was already heading in the direction of the Grand Hall.
‘Mr Stoker!’ called Sharp. ‘Wait!’
‘How long are we going to stand here watching this?’ grumbled Daniel.
Irving and Terry had moved on to another skeleton and were listening to Miss Scott describing it with much waving of arms and pointing of fingers, while the museum staff watched awed from a respectful distance.
‘You don’t find it interesting, seeing two of the greatest actors in the world in the flesh?’ asked Abigail.
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘During my time with Abberline at Scotland Yard I met many so-called famous people and I found the majority of them to be vain, self-obsessed, and expecting everyone to fawn over them and do their bidding.’
‘I think you’re being ungracious,’ said Abigail.
‘Perhaps, but I feel we are wasting precious time which could be spent on the investigation. Instead we are watching people talking to one another, but without being able to hear what they say. It’s like watching a mime show without interesting physical actions.’ Suddenly he was alert. ‘But that may be about to change.’
‘In what way?’ asked Abigail, puzzled.
