Murder at the Fitzwilliam Read online

  ‘And Egyptians of a higher class,’ added Abigail.

  ‘Which adds to the hands not being those of a labourer. The material is of good quality, as are the shoes. But the traces of ink on his hands show that he is not a man of leisure, one of the idle rich.’

  ‘A professional man,’ observed Keen.

  Daniel nodded. ‘Would it be possible to get a photograph of the man?’ he asked. ‘Just his face.’

  ‘You think you might be able to identify him?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ replied Daniel.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Keen. ‘I’m only too happy to help if it helps to discover what happened to this unfortunate man.’

  As Daniel and Abigail left the hospital and entered the warm Cambridge sunshine, Daniel commented, ‘We were lucky to be dealing with a man like Dr Keen. Others might have been more obstructive.’

  ‘He’s an intelligent man,’ said Abigail.

  But, again, he noticed that she coloured slightly as she said it. So, he thought, she has a soft spot for the doctor. He wondered if it was reciprocated, then told himself off for being too inquisitive. You are here on business, he reminded himself sharply.

  ‘So?’ he asked. ‘What are your conclusions?’

  ‘Not a common burglar,’ she said. ‘A professional man of some sort, I believe we all felt that.’ She frowned. ‘But no identifying documents of any sort.’

  ‘Whoever killed him removed them to stop him being identified,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Then why didn’t they simply remove the body?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Perhaps it was too difficult to get it out of the museum, for some reason,’ mused Daniel. ‘So, to recap: a professional man, most likely Egyptian, one who writes a great deal, with an interest in Egyptian artefacts serious enough to make him break into the Fitzwilliam at night.’

  ‘An academic,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Yes, that’s what occurred to me,’ said Daniel.

  ‘And you intend to take the photograph from Dr Keen around the colleges to see if you can identify him?’

  ‘That was one thought,’ said Daniel, ‘but the problem with that is, if he didn’t have anything to do with the colleges here, if he’d recently arrived, for example, we’d be drawing a blank. But it’s likely he would have stayed somewhere. A lodging house or hotel, or with someone he knew.

  ‘So my intention is to take an advert in the local paper, his photograph with the caption: “Do you know this man? If so, please contact …” with my name and the address of where I’m staying, and the address of the Fitzwilliam.’

  ‘Why an advert instead of letting the newspaper cover it as a story?’

  ‘Because that way, I control the wording,’ said Daniel. ‘Sometimes I’ve discovered when newspapers tell a story, the facts can be wrong. Sometimes they leap to conclusions, which can also be wrong. If we try and give them this as a story, they’ll be keen to put in all we know, or guess, and if we don’t give them anything, they’ll very likely make it up.’

  ‘Yes, that makes sense,’ she said. Then she turned to him. ‘Can I suggest you add my name to the advertisement, Mr Wilson. After all, you could be all over the place conducting your enquiries, and I will be mostly at the Fitzwilliam. So, if anyone does have any information …’ She smiled. ‘And you did tell Inspector Drabble that we would be working together on this case.’

  ‘Yes, I did, and thank you. That would be excellent,’ said Daniel. On a sudden impulse, he asked, ‘Actually, Miss Fenton, and forgive me if it seems forward, that’s not my intention, but I wondered whether you might be free to show me some of the sights of Cambridge. I am a stranger here, and …’

  He saw immediately the look of worry and doubt that briefly crossed her face; then she smiled – but a polite smile this time, not one of genuine warmth as when she had thanked him a few seconds ago.

  ‘Of course, Mr Wilson. But could we make it some other time? I really need to get back to the Fitzwilliam to continue with the inventory. That, after all, is my prime occupation at this moment.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Daniel nodded. ‘But perhaps you would be good enough to point me in the right direction for the lodgings that Sir William has arranged for me.’

  He produced the envelope that Sir William had given him and passed it to her.

  ‘Ah yes, Mrs Loxley.’ She returned the envelope to him, and pointed at a side street opposite the college. ‘That’s Green Street. Go down there and take a left when you reach the end and that’s Sidney Street. Walk along, past Sidney Sussex College on your right, and cross over Jesus Lane. Sidney Street becomes Bridge Street, and you’ll find Mrs Loxley’s house just along there on your right.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Daniel smiled, with a slight bow. ‘If I discover anything, I’ll make contact at the Fitzwilliam.’

  As Abigail hurried away, she felt herself reddening, and cursed herself for a fool. He had made it clear that he had no untoward intentions on her, so why had she reacted the way she did? Certainly, he seemed genuine. And honest.

  But Edgar had seemed genuine and honest, and she had responded to him. Given herself to him. And then he’d abandoned her, heartlessly, cruelly. A plaything, that was all she’d been to him. Despite his promises and the look in his beautiful blue eyes that had appeared to reveal his honesty and warmth at that time.

  I was a fool. A gullible fool. But I won’t let it happen again.

  Daniel was still feeling puzzled as he thought about Abigail Fenton’s sudden and antipathetic reaction to him, as if he’d made an improper suggestion to her. He’d genuinely just meant it as a request to show him around the city so that he could get his bearings; the knowledge of a local was always superior to that of a map. But the expression on her face suggested he’d alarmed her.

  Why? It had to be something he’d said, or done; his manner. She’d misinterpreted it in the worst way. Obviously he’d have to watch his step with her, be more reserved. From now on he’d make sure he stayed at arm’s length from her, kept it purely professional. No personal questions. No intrusion of any sort.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mrs Loxley’s house was a very neat semi-detached with a small garden at the front and a colourful hanging basket of white and yellow flowers by the front door. It looked warmly inviting. Mrs Loxley herself was indeed the picture of friendly welcome, a far cry from some of the landladies Daniel had encountered when he’d been forced to travel away from home. He remembered one in particular who vented her anger loudly on her temporary lodgers for the smallest infraction of behaviour, the worst of which was apparently adding another lump of coal to the open fire in the sitting room.

  From the glow of this friendly fire in the hearth, the light decor of the flowered wallpaper and the cheerful smile of Mrs Loxley herself – a plump lady of about fifty – Daniel knew he would feel at home here, and he made a mental note to express his thanks to Sir William for arranging these lodgings for him.

  ‘I only keep a small house, Mr Wilson,’ Mrs Loxley told him, ‘just the three rooms. So there’s yourself, a Mr Barron, who’s a businessman – trades in precious metals, I believe – and a professor, Wynstan Hughes. He’s here in Cambridge researching a book on the Civil War.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it. It’s a topic he’s very passionate about. Sir William said you’re here to help him with this dreadful business at the Fitzwilliam.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Daniel nodded, inwardly remarking that there would be no secrets kept while he was lodging at Mrs Loxley’s. But often on an investigation, that was no bad thing. People with information would need to know where to find him, and once Mrs Loxley had spread the word of her latest lodger (‘He’s a detective investigating that dead body they found at the Fitzwilliam’), those with what might be vital information wouldn’t have to search for him.

  After he’d been shown his bedroom – again, friendly, cosy and welcoming, warm colours and not too many decorative ornaments – Daniel made suitably flattering compliments to Mrs
Loxley about the accommodation, then set out once more into the streets of Cambridge, promising that he would return in time for supper.

  He made his way back to the source of his investigation, the Fitzwilliam.

  As he entered the building, he thought about letting Abigail Fenton know he was there, but decided against it. After her somewhat surprising reaction to his suggestion about showing him the city, he didn’t want her to think he would be imposing his company unnecessarily on her. Instead he explored the rest of the museum: the upper floors, which mostly consisted of displays of Italian and Spanish painting, with some British, and then the courtyard, an open space in the centre of the main building. This was the way the man had come in, Drabble had said. Up a drainpipe on the outside of the building and over the roof, then down one of the drainpipes into the courtyard.

  It seemed to Daniel a very involved action, especially because – according to the attendants – nothing had been taken from any of the display cases or exhibits.

  And had the murderer followed his victim along that route? If so, he’d obviously done it without being spotted by his victim. Or had both arrived at the Fitzwilliam and broken in together, then some sort of altercation broke out between them and one was killed?

  Daniel thought of the dead man he’d seen at Gonville and Caius, the professional academic from Egypt, and tried to picture him scaling a drainpipe up two very tall floors of the Fitzwilliam, then crossing the roof, before making a perilous climb down another long drainpipe into the courtyard.

  No, it didn’t add up. The dead man had been slightly podgy, not a physique that went with such a dangerous sequence of climbs.

  But if that wasn’t how he’d got in, with all the doors and windows reported as being untampered with, how had he made his entrance?

  CHAPTER SIX

  As Abigail let herself into the neat terraced house she shared with her younger sister, Bella, she could hear Bella practising scales on the piano in the drawing room. Abigail gritted her teeth as she heard the same error, the same missed note, that Bella made every time.

  She does it to annoy me, thought Abigail. She heard the door open and immediately played the wrong notes on purpose.

  ‘I’m home!’ she called.

  The piano stopped and Bella appeared in the hallway. She was shorter than Abigail, but decidedly – at least, in Abigail’s eyes – more feminine. It was a cultivated image, of course, intended to make men look at her admiringly, and women purse their lips in jealousy. Bella had always been the same, even as a teenager. The blonde curls were the key to it. And the deliberately narrow waist, courtesy of what must surely be a painfully tight corset.

  But then, that was Bella: superficiality over substance. Abigail loved her sister – after all, one had to love one’s sister – but there was so much about Bella that annoyed her.

  ‘How are you, Abi?’ asked Bella, her voice showing concern.

  ‘Annoyed,’ replied Abigail. ‘I had to deal with that idiot, Inspector Drabble, again.’

  Bella shuddered. ‘Honestly, Abi, I don’t know how you can be so blasé about this. You found a dead body!’

  ‘I’m not saying it was a pleasant experience, I’m just angry that Inspector Drabble seems to be so dismissive of me just because I’m a woman! Fortunately, an intelligent man has appeared on the scene to take part in the investigation.’

  ‘Oh? Who?’

  ‘A man called Daniel Wilson. He’s a private investigator, a former detective inspector at Scotland Yard in London. Sir William says he comes highly recommended, and so far he seems to be an improvement.’ She snorted derisively. ‘Though, compared to Inspector Drabble, that isn’t too difficult.’ She took off her coat. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Not as exciting as yours,’ said Bella. ‘We had a slight panic when it seemed that a book might have been taken illicitly, but fortunately it had just been misfiled. It was Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler. It had been filed under “G” instead of under “I”.’ Bella worked at the public lending library in the Guildhall. ‘We also had a visit from Lady Restwood.’

  The tone of excited satisfaction in Bella’s voice made Abigail ask, ‘Who?’

  ‘Lady Restwood. The wife of Lord Restwood. Of Restwood Manor.’

  Abigail shook her head. ‘I don’t know them.’

  ‘Oh, Abigail, you surely do! Especially Lady Restwood.’

  ‘Is she anything to do with the Fitzwilliam, or one of the colleges?’

  ‘No, she’s a very vocal advocate of votes for women. I thought you’d have been aware of her. You’re very vocal yourself on the position of women in our society. Listen to you just now, talking about this policeman and the way he was dismissive of you just because you’re a woman.’

  ‘Inspector Drabble is a moron. Fortunately I do not receive the same Neolithic reaction from people like Sir William Mackenzie, or many of the people I work with.’

  ‘But that’s because they are frightened of you, Abi.’

  ‘Nonsense! They treat me as an equal because they respect me as a person.’

  Bella shook her head. ‘I have seen their faces. You frighten them. You are very domineering. You frighten me.’

  ‘Obviously not very much, otherwise you wouldn’t be lecturing me on what you consider the negative aspects of my personality.’

  ‘Because this is important, Abi. Lady Restwood wants help to form a women’s group to canvass for proper suffrage. The right to vote for women. Surely you agree with that.’

  ‘Of course I do, but on a list of priorities, whether social or personal, I do not rate it as of the greatest importance. Women do – and have – exerted influence. For heaven’s sake, our monarch is a woman, and I think you’ll agree that her predecessor, Elizabeth, was the most influential person of her time.’

  ‘But they are privileged people, Abi. Protected by their position. Lady Restwood feels we can work to make changes for all women.’

  ‘How? By marching on Parliament? If that’s the case …’

  ‘By all manner of ways. Lady Restwood asked if she could put some leaflets in the library for members of the public to read. She’s already arranged a public meeting.’ She sighed. ‘Unfortunately, I was reluctantly forced to inform her that I would have to ask permission of the library committee, and as the committee is exclusively male …’

  ‘Bella, do I get the impression that you are considering becoming involved in radical politics?’ asked Abigail, with a concerned frown.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I?’ challenged Bella.

  ‘Well, for one thing, you would be putting your employment at the library at risk,’ said Abigail. ‘It’s all very well for people like Lady Restwood, who have no need to earn their own living, but for people like us, involvement in radical politics could be precarious.’

  ‘I’d hardly call votes for women “radical”,’ responded Bella curtly.

  ‘It is to those in power, whether at national or local level,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Well, Dr Keen is supportive of the cause,’ said Bella. ‘He said as much to me when he was in the library yesterday, seeing if the campaign to increase literacy amongst the poor had had any discernible effect.’ She smiled. ‘I reassured him that it was a long-term project, and results may take some time.’

  ‘Thus encouraging him to return to the library with greater frequency,’ commented Abigail drily.

  Bella glared coldly at her sister. ‘Might I ask what you are suggesting?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh really, Bella, it is obvious that you are smitten with Dr Keen …’

  ‘I am not!’ snapped Bella, colouring.

  ‘Well, you give all the signs of harbouring such feelings,’ said Abigail. ‘However, if you want my opinion—’

  ‘No, I do not!’

  ‘—when I saw Dr Keen today it struck me again that he is a single-minded person with his sights devoted to things other than romance; namely: social equality and science.’

  Bella stared at her sister, shock on he
r face. ‘You saw Dr Keen!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Where? Did he come to the Fitzwilliam?’

  ‘No, we visited him at Gonville and Caius.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Mr Wilson and I. Mr Wilson wished to view the body of the dead man I found, and Dr Keen is conducting the autopsy.’

  Bella still stared at Abigail, dumbfounded.

  ‘You went to Gonville and Caius?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already said so.’

  ‘And did you … look at the body?’

  ‘Both Mr Wilson and I did. We examined it, along with Dr Keen.’

  Bella gave a little gasp.

  ‘Tell me the body was clothed.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t clothed, Bella. For heaven’s sake! How can anyone carry out an autopsy on a body wearing clothes?’

  ‘So you and Dr Keen were looking at the naked body of a man …’

  ‘Dr Keen had covered his private parts with a sheet,’ said Abigail. ‘To be honest, it wouldn’t have bothered me if he hadn’t, but I assume he felt some form of decorum was needed.’

  Bella glared at her, furious. ‘How can you!’ she demanded, shaking with anger. ‘You tell me you are aware that I have feelings for Dr Keen, and yet you deliberately place yourself in a private situation with him and a naked man!’

  ‘Hardly private,’ said Abigail. ‘Mr Wilson was with us.’

  ‘The fact remains—’ burst out Bella.

  ‘The fact remains,’ cut in Abigail firmly, silencing her sister, ‘that I am investigating this murder along with Mr Wilson. To that effect I will do whatever is necessary, and if that includes examining the naked body of the victim then so be it. And I can assure you, Sister, that that the smell of a decomposing body in a mortuary is not exactly conducive to romance, even if I did have designs on Dr Keen. Which I do not.’ She looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. ‘Now, has Mrs Standish given an indication of when she’ll be serving dinner? It has been creeping ever later these last few evenings.’