Murder at the Manchester Museum Read online

  ‘It must have been a dreadful experience for you,’ said Abigail sympathetically.

  ‘Like I said, I’m an old soldier, miss. I’ve seen a lot worse than that.’

  ‘Was there any sign of the remains of her face?’ asked Daniel.

  Arkwright shook his head. ‘He must’ve took it with him. Mebbe a trophy. I’ve known that happen in wars. Soldiers collecting the ears of their enemies. But never a whole face.’

  Daniel knelt down and studied the area behind the wooden crates where the body had been lodged.

  ‘The signs are that you’ve cleaned up the blood here,’ he said.

  ‘I have, sir. Couldn’t have that sort of thing making a mess here.’

  Daniel pointed to the floor a few feet away from the packing cases.

  ‘This must be where he took her face off,’ he said.

  ‘Correct,’ said Arkwright. ‘That’s where most of the blood was. It took a lot of scrubbing.’

  ‘And you’ve done a very good job, Mr Arkwright,’ complimented Daniel.

  As Daniel and Abigail headed back up the stairs towards Steggles’s office, Abigail said, ‘I presume that Mr Arkwright’s zealous cleaning has removed any possible clues that might have been there.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Daniel. ‘But one can’t blame him. He was doing his job. And I assume he was told he could clean up by this police inspector, who must have come to look at the dead body and the scene of the crime.’

  As they approached Steggles’s office, Abigail asked, ‘What did you make of Mr Hawkins?’

  ‘I liked him,’ replied Daniel. ‘Despite the fact that he decides to dress in the style that emulates Oscar Wilde and the aesthetic movement. That alone I think would take some courage in an industrial town like Manchester, but he gave a very lucid and thoughtful report of his encounters with the young woman. Intelligent.’

  ‘I’d be interested in looking at some of his poetry. That often gives the measure of someone. Whether they are genuinely gifted, or whether it’s all just superficial appearance.’

  ‘I’m sure he would be only too pleased to share his works with you,’ Daniel said. ‘I got the impression he was quite admiring of you.’

  ‘Of my work and reputation, in reality, I expect,’ said Abigail. ‘I somehow feel I may not be the right object of affection for young Mr Hawkins.’

  ‘You are for me.’ Daniel smiled.

  ‘And that’s all that matters to me.’ Abigail smiled back.

  Steggles was still in his office, looking forward to hearing their initial report. They both made a point of complimenting Jonty Hawkins and Walter Arkwright to him.

  ‘Two very good witnesses,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Yes,’ said Steggles, but they could both tell he seemed uncomfortable at the mention of their names.

  ‘Is there an issue with either of the men?’ enquired Abigail.

  Steggles gestured for them to sit, then said, ‘It’s not either of them personally, rather something that Mr Hawkins said about the young woman found in the reading room. He said that she was looking into old records of the Manchester units of the army, and she was doing that because she was turned away from the barracks when she made her initial enquiries there.’

  Abigail nodded. ‘Yes, he told us the same.’

  ‘I’m concerned because I’ve been having discussions with Brigadier Wentworth, the Commanding Officer at Hulme Barracks, and a local military historian, Hector Bleasdale, about mounting an exhibition here highlighting the achievements of the Manchester regiments.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hawkins mentioned it,’ said Daniel.

  ‘We are very keen to involve as many sections of the local community as we can, to bring the public into the museum so they can see it as their museum. For their part, I believe the army is keen because it would counter some of the stories about Peterloo.’

  ‘Peterloo?’ asked Abigail.

  Steggles looked at her in surprise. ‘I thought what happened at Peterloo was common knowledge,’ he said.

  ‘Not to me,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Nor me,’ added Daniel. ‘What was it?’

  ‘It was an unfortunate incident that happened here in Manchester in 1819. There was a … a riot at a public meeting. The army was called in and a number of civilians died.’

  ‘Killed by the army?’

  Steggles nodded. ‘I’m sure there are any number of people in Manchester who will be able to furnish you with the details far better than I can. Although it is still a sensitive subject as far as the army are concerned.’

  ‘Understandably,’ said Abigail.

  ‘That’s one of the reasons we’ve been discussing the idea of an exhibition about the local regiments, to promote the positive side of the army and help to heal any divisions between them and the civilian populace that may still exist.’

  ‘Divisions after eighty years?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘People have long memories, and sometimes the stories that get handed down from generation to generation can be distorted,’ said Steggles. He gave an unhappy sigh. ‘My concern is that if the army are implicated in any way in this young woman’s death, however obliquely, they may decide not to collaborate with us. Which would be a pity; the army is a core part of Manchester society with a long and prestigious military tradition.’ He hesitated, then added awkwardly, ‘Apart from what happened at Peterloo, of course. But even then, it could be argued that wasn’t the regular army at fault, but a local militia.’

  ‘We will need to go to the barracks to ask questions,’ said Daniel. ‘About the young woman going there and being turned away.’

  Steggles nodded. ‘I understand. It’s at Hulme. You’ll be able to get a hansom cab, or buses go there. But I would ask you to be discreet.’

  ‘We will be, I can assure you,’ said Daniel. ‘Perhaps if we spoke to this commanding officer you mentioned …’

  ‘Brigadier Wentworth,’ said Steggles. ‘Yes. And by all means mention my name. He’s a good chap.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Although, a bit of a stickler for rules and regulations. Comes with being part of the army, I suppose. I hope this business of the young woman doesn’t put a block on the exhibition we’re planning. We like to be very active.’

  ‘Yes, I saw a poster for an illustrated talk on tropical birds you have coming up,’ said Abigail.

  At this, Steggles brightened. ‘Indeed! Given by none other than Henry Eeles Dresser, acknowledged across the world as the expert on exotic birds. As well as being a former secretary of the British Ornithologists Union he’s also an Honorary Fellow of the American Ornithologists Union. And his studies in Eastern Europe, especially in Finland …’ He stopped and gave an apologetic smile. ‘Forgive me. Sometimes I get overenthusiastic and go on alarmingly. My wife is always telling me off about it.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m a great admirer of enthusiasm, especially when it’s accompanied by expertise. If we’re still here when Mr Dresser gives his talk, Mr Wilson and I will be delighted to attend.’

  And Abigail shot a look at Daniel, who said as politely as he could, ‘Indeed. It would be a pleasure.’

  ‘In the meantime, I would urge you to take a look at our ornithology section here at the museum,’ said Steggles. ‘We have an array of wonders among the exhibits, including the bones of a dodo, a male and female ivory-billed woodpecker, stuffed birds, eggs and bones from the Hawaiian islands, and many examples of rare exotic species. Not to mention some wonderful examples donated by Charles Darwin following his important journeys, including a very rare warbler finch.’

  ‘We certainly will.’ Daniel got up. ‘But right now, we need to book in at our hotel, and then make ourselves known to the local police inspector in charge of the case.’

  ‘Inspector Grimley at Newton Street police station,’ answered Steggles. He rose, saying carefully, ‘A … difficult man, from what little I saw of him. Rather abrasive. But I’m sure he is good at his job.’

  Steggles handed them the address
of the Mayflower Hotel.

  ‘Your room reservations are in the name of the museum,’ he said. Then he hesitated, before adding in an awkward tone, ‘Initially I reserved two rooms, one for each of you, but I have since learnt that you are – ah – quite close. I therefore took the liberty of adding a rider to the reservation that you may decide to – ah – share a room.’ As Abigail and Daniel stared at him, he added, ‘Because the Mayflower is quite a conventionally managed hotel, I told them that it was my understanding that you were married but that you, Miss Fenton, elected to be known by your maiden name because of your international renowned reputation as an archaeologist. I hope you will not be offended by my temerity.’

  As he said this, Steggles’s face, and especially his ears, became suffused with colour, and they realised that he was blushing. It was Abigail who moved forward and took his hands in hers.

  ‘Mr Steggles,’ she said, her voice trembling with passion, ‘that is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me, and we are both eternally grateful to you. I will not lie to you, we are married in all but name, and have every intention of marrying as soon the opportunity arises. But your generosity here …’ Temporarily words failed her, and instead she squeezed his hands. ‘You don’t know what a weight off my mind your kind words have been.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘A talk about birds,’ groaned Daniel as they left the museum.

  ‘It will be instructional,’ defended Abigail. ‘And it will keep our client happy.’

  ‘I can imagine nothing more boring,’ said Daniel. ‘The only birds I’m familiar with are the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, who seem to make me a target as soon as I venture there. The number of times I’ve had to get pigeon excrement removed from my hat …’

  ‘Exotic birds are not the same as pigeons,’ countered Abigail.

  ‘I bet they’d still drop their deposits on me if I was in some tropical jungle. I expect Charles Darwin returned from his travels with his coat spotted with their droppings.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m sure Mr Dresser’s talk will enlighten you.’

  Despite the authorisation that Steggles had given the Mayflower Hotel, as they were taking just the one room, the receptionist insisted they sign the register as Mr and Mrs Wilson.

  ‘It’s a small price to pay,’ said Daniel as they made their way to their room.

  ‘I have never given up my name before,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Perhaps we should have signed as Mr and Mrs Fenton?’ suggested Daniel.

  ‘Would that worry you?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘However, as the hotel had already been told who I was before our arrival, I don’t think we could have got away with it.’

  ‘How thoughtful of Mr Steggles!’ exclaimed Abigail as they unlocked the door of their room and entered. ‘No rumpling the bed linen in one of two rooms to keep up a ludicrous pretence. I hope there’s a Mr Steggles in every case we are hired to investigate. It’s a relief to meet such enlightenment.’

  ‘It’s also time for us to meet Inspector Grimley,’ said Daniel. ‘However, based on what we heard from both Mr Steggles and Jonty Hawkins, I’m not expecting very much in the way of a welcome.’

  Daniel’s expectations were confirmed as soon as they were shown into the inspector’s office at Newton Street police station. Inspector Grimley was sitting behind his desk as they entered, a uniformed sergeant standing beside him, and there was no mistaking the look of venom on the inspector’s face as he looked at them. He did not get up from his chair to greet them, nor offer to shake hands.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ he grunted.

  ‘Yes, and thank you for making the time to see us, Inspector,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m Daniel Wilson and this is Miss Abigail Fenton. We’ve been asked by the Manchester Museum to look into the killing of the two women there, and we thought it only courtesy to let you know of our involvement, and that possibly we may be able to exchange information as and when we come up with any.’

  Grimley glowered sullenly at them, then grunted, ‘There is no case.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what the museum said you’d told them, but as a young woman has been stabbed to death and the other we’ve been told had her face sliced off …’

  ‘People die violently all the time,’ snapped Grimley. ‘Sometimes through accident, sometimes they’ve been assaulted. We’re dealing with hundreds of cases here in this city, which means we have to prioritise, so the first thing we have to find out is who the person is who’s died, or if there were any witnesses. In this case both persons are unknown, and there were no witnesses. So there’s no chance of us finding out who killed either woman. If we had the luxury of a large force with lots of men, and spare time, like they seem to have in places like London, it might be different. But that’s the way it is.’

  ‘So you’re not going to investigate?’

  ‘We investigated and decided there was no point in spending more time on it.’

  ‘But two women are dead!’ exclaimed Abigail.

  ‘In the case of the young woman, I expect it was an angry boyfriend who did it, or possibly a petty thief as her bag was taken. The woman in the cellar … who knows. But we haven’t got the men or the time to go chasing that sort of thing when we’ve got cases we can go after. Now, if you’ve finished, I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Inspector, we are not just amateurs poking our noses in,’ said Abigail angrily. ‘Before he became a private enquiry agent, Daniel Wilson was a vital member of Inspector Abberline’s team at Scotland Yard …’

  ‘I knew who he was as soon as he introduced himself,’ snapped Grimley, ‘and we don’t need people from London coming up here to try and teach us how to do our job. Especially people who’ve failed at it themselves.’

  ‘Failed?!’ echoed Abigail.

  ‘You never caught the Ripper, did you?’ Grimley scowled at Daniel. ‘For all your fancy London ways. We may be far away, but we know what goes on. You failed at the Met, so now you’re making money out of misguided fools like the museum here. Well, you’ll get no encouragement on that score from us. Just be thankful I’m not arresting you for taking money under false pretences.’

  ‘At least they didn’t throw us out,’ said Daniel as they left the police station.

  ‘He did throw us out!’ burst out Abigail.

  ‘Yes, but not physically.’

  ‘I’d have liked to have seen him try!’ growled Abigail.

  ‘At least we know where we stand in relation to the local police,’ said Daniel ruefully. ‘So far we’re not having a great deal of success.’

  ‘We have only just arrived,’ Abigail pointed out.

  ‘True,’ conceded Daniel. ‘But you must agree we haven’t got a lot to go on, and with the police being obstructive … If only we knew what she was looking for at the museum. Hawkins said she wanted to research army records from eighty years ago, but that covers an awfully large area of information. Was she looking for a particular soldier? Or a particular unit?’

  ‘Hawkins said she’d been to the barracks first, and been turned away,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Yes, so that should be our next port of call. But with discretion.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At the city centre, Daniel and Abigail managed to find two seats together on the top deck of the crowded horse-drawn bus that would take them to the army barracks, giving them a good vantage point to see the district of Hulme as they travelled through it. The main thoroughfare on which the bus travelled was wide, even though the large volume of traffic meant their journey was conducted at a slow pace. Branching off from the main road they could see a network of narrow streets and alleyways with small houses crushed together. Every now and then a tall, narrow chimney rose up above the houses, belching out black smoke, signifying the presence of a cotton mill, the smoke from the tall chimneys merging with the smoke from the railway trains that chugged through this part of the city, heading to and from the major termini, the
smoke descending in a thick cloud. The overriding scent of this part of the city was thick, burnt smoke.

  ‘It reminds me of parts of London,’ commented Abigail.

  ‘But smokier,’ added Daniel.

  ‘London has thick fogs, too,’ said Abigail. ‘Thicker than this. I’ve been out in them.’

  ‘Yes, but those pea-soupers only happen now and then, depending on the weather stopping the smoke from rising. Looking at the soot coating the roofs and walls of the buildings in those side streets, I’m guessing it’s like this most of the time.’

  The bus did a busy trade, people getting on and off throughout the journey, many laden with goods of all types, including one woman with live chickens in a crate, another with two baskets filled with laundry which she dragged along behind her down the bus passageway, and a man with a broken bicycle in two parts which he struggled to hold on to as the bus jolted along the road.

  At last they reached their destination.

  ‘There it is,’ said Daniel, nodding towards a Georgian building with a Union Jack and a regimental flag flying above it.

  They descended from the bus and crossed the road. A metal fence surrounded the building, and the land beyond it. A large board on the fence adjacent to the open gate bore the legend ‘Hulme Barracks; Home of 15th The King’s Hussars’, with the regimental insignia – a lion atop a crown within a circle, with the motto Merebimur – below it. A corporal wearing a dark blue tunic stood rigidly to attention on duty beside the gate, holding his rifle firmly by the barrel, the wooden stock resting on the pavement.

  ‘Merebimur?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘We are not worthy,’ said Abigail. ‘It’s Latin.’

  ‘One of the advantages of a classical degree at Cambridge.’ Daniel smiled.

  They reached the sentry and Daniel said, ‘Good morning. We’d like to speak to your commanding officer, Brigadier Wentworth.’