Murder at the Manchester Museum Page 4

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Civilians need an appointment in order to see the commanding officer,’ replied the sentry crisply.

  ‘Very well, we’ll make one,’ said Daniel. ‘But in the meantime, were you on duty here last Tuesday?’

  ‘What is the purpose of your question, sir?’

  ‘We’re trying to find out who saw a young woman who called here last Tuesday. She was in her twenties and was Irish.’

  ‘No one of that description came here last Tuesday.’

  ‘Really. We’ve been reliably informed that she did call here but was turned away. Perhaps she arrived when you weren’t on duty.’

  ‘What’s going on here, Corporal?’

  A tall, well-built man whose uniform was heavily decorated, both with brass and rows of medals, had appeared in the gateway and he stood and glowered challengingly at Daniel and Abigail.

  ‘Civilians, sir. Asking to see Brigadier Wentworth.’

  ‘Do they have an appointment?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Meeting with the commander can only be done with an appointment. And at the moment he’s not available.’

  ‘Yes, so the corporal explained,’ said Daniel politely. Taking in the man’s insignias of rank, he said, ‘I presume you are the regimental sergeant major here.’

  ‘I am, sir, RSM Bulstrode.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to answer our enquiries. I’m Daniel Wilson and this is Miss Abigail Fenton. We are private enquiry agents and have been tasked by Mr Bernard Steggles at the Manchester Museum to make enquiries concerning a young woman. It was Mr Steggles who suggested we make contact with Brigadier Wentworth as he and the brigadier have been engaged in some arrangements concerning the army and the museum.’

  Daniel could see by the stone-faced and obviously hostile reaction from the RSM that if this information was supposed to impress him, it had failed.

  ‘We’re trying to find out this young woman’s recent actions, and we’ve been informed that she called here to make some enquiries last Tuesday,’ continued Daniel.

  ‘Her name?’ demanded Bulstrode.

  ‘That is something we’re still trying to ascertain. She was in her early twenties and with a strong Irish accent. She was here last Tuesday.’

  Bulstrode looked at them defiantly.

  ‘You’ve been misinformed,’ he announced. ‘There was no such visitor.’

  ‘That’s what I told them, sir,’ put in the corporal.

  ‘Perhaps she arrived when you were elsewhere on the barracks,’ suggested Daniel.

  ‘No, sir. I was here at the barracks all day. And if any visitors arrive I will always be summoned, or advised of their call. No women called here last Tuesday.’

  ‘Perhaps the next day? Wednesday?’ put in Abigail.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ responded the RSM crisply. ‘Nor any day last week.’

  ‘Thank you, Regimental Sergeant Major.’ Daniel nodded. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  With that, he tipped his hat, tapped Abigail gently on the elbow and headed for the bus stop.

  ‘Is that it?’ hissed Abigail. ‘You’re not going to challenge them?’

  ‘Waste of time,’ whispered back Daniel. ‘They’re both lying. We’ll get nothing more from them. Nor, I imagine, from their commanding officer, this Brigadier Wentworth. It’s only to be expected, I suppose. Despite what Steggles told us about a friendly collaboration, they’re suspicious. Barracks are often visited by young women claiming a soldier has made them pregnant and demanding money.’

  ‘This was about something that happened eighty years ago.’

  Daniel shrugged. ‘Made her grandmother pregnant?’

  ‘So, you’re going to leave it at that?’

  ‘No. We find a different way.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘I think we’re going to need to call on the services of the local newspaper.’

  The corporal and RSM Bulstrode watched Daniel and Abigail as they walked away.

  ‘What do you think, sir?’ asked the corporal.

  ‘Too smooth,’ grunted Bulstrode.

  ‘You don’t think they believed us, sir?’

  ‘No,’ growled Bulstrode.

  He stomped into the barracks and entered the Georgian building that housed the Hussars’ headquarters, then made his way down the long corridor to the door marked ‘Brigadier Wentworth’. He rapped at the door, and at the command ‘Enter!’ opened the door, marched in and saluted smartly.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant Major. What can I do for you?’

  ‘We’ve just had two people – a man and a woman – enquiring after a young Irish woman they say called here last Tuesday.’

  ‘A young Irish woman?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who were these people?’

  ‘The man said he was Daniel Wilson. The woman was an Abigail Fenton. They said Mr Steggles from the Manchester Museum had asked them to look into her recent actions.’

  ‘Were they local?’

  ‘No, sir. He’s from London. I recognised him from a few years ago when he had his picture in the papers. He used to be a detective with the Metropolitan police. Part of Inspector Abberline’s squad.’

  ‘Abberline? The Jack the Ripper investigation.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The woman was difficult to place. Educated, by her accent. A bit upper class, by her manner.’

  ‘And did they say why they were looking for this Irish woman?’

  ‘No, sir. But two people like that come all the way from London to ask questions about her, it’s not just a casual enquiry.’

  ‘No,’ said Wentworth thoughtfully. ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘I told them no such person had called here at the barracks, sir.’

  ‘I see. Did they say why they were looking into the recent actions of this Irish woman?’

  ‘No, sir. But I heard reports that such a young woman was found dead at the museum a few days ago.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Stabbed, apparently.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s my feeling that this Daniel Wilson and Miss Fenton will continue their enquiries. It’s my opinion that, whatever befell this young woman, we need to keep a distance from being associated with it.’

  ‘Wentworth fell silent, obviously thinking it over, then he said, ‘This comes at an awkward time. I’m currently in discussions with Bernard Steggles about the museum mounting an exhibition about the Manchester regiments, and the 15th Hussars at Hulme Barracks will be central to it.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I recall you informing me of it. With respect, sir, I believe it may be wise to keep a distance between the regiment and the museum while the death of the young woman is being investigated. In view of what this Wilson said about reports of her having come here, it wouldn’t do for us to be connected with it in any way. For the good name of the regiment, sir.’

  ‘Yes, you may be right,’ said Wentworth reluctantly. ‘Very unfortunate. Perhaps I’d better write a note to Steggles and let him know.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I wouldn’t do that. It might raise questions. Far better to let the matter hover, as one might say. Do nothing. Let it hang in the air. Then, when this is all over, the discussions can resume again.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that might be best,’ said Wentworth. ‘Just until this matter is finalised.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Bulstrode. ‘That would be best.’

  Wentworth looked enquiringly at Bulstrode and asked, ‘Did she call here? This young woman?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The brigadier nodded. ‘That’s all I need to know. Thank you, Sergeant Major. If there are any further enquiries on this matter, you may refer them to me.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Once again, Daniel and Abigail managed to find seats on the top deck of the bus for their journey back to the city centre.

  ‘Our problem is we have absolutely no information about the dead women at
all, except that one seemed poor, had an Irish accent and wanted to find out something to do with the Manchester regiments from eighty years ago,’ summed up Daniel. ‘The other one …’ He shook his head. ‘No face, so there’s little chance of getting any identification. For the moment we’ll have more chance if we concentrate on the woman who was stabbed in the reading room. So first we try and discover her identity.’

  ‘To do that, I suggest we use the same method we did with the unknown dead man in Cambridge,’ said Abigail. ‘We put a photograph of her in the main local paper and ask if anyone recognises her. That would be the Manchester Guardian. But first, we need an image of the dead woman.’

  ‘I’m hoping that Mr Steggles will be able to arrange that for us,’ said Daniel. He checked his watch. ‘We should be back in time to see him before the museum closes.’

  Fortunately, Steggles was still in his office, although preparing to leave for the day.

  ‘How have you got on?’ he asked.

  ‘Not well,’ admitted Daniel. ‘The police and the army have both been obstructive.’

  ‘You didn’t upset them at the barracks?’ asked Steggles, alarmed.

  ‘No, we were nothing but polite, and very discreet,’ Daniel assured him. ‘Brigadier Wentworth wasn’t available, but we met with an RSM Bulstrode, who seemed very protective of the barracks. He suggested I write to the brigadier to make an appointment, which will be our next course of action.’

  ‘Can I ask you wait on that for the moment?’ asked Steggles. ‘As I said, it’s a delicate situation between the museum and the army at the moment …’

  ‘Of course,’ said Daniel. ‘We feel the big problem is that we don’t know who these women are. Or were. We need to find that out so we can hopefully get a lead on who might have wanted to kill them. Sadly, only one of them still has a face, so we’d like to put her photograph in the main local newspaper, which I believe is the Manchester Guardian.’

  ‘Do you think that will produce anything of value?’ asked Steggles doubtfully.

  ‘It’s possibly the only course open to us,’ Daniel pressed. ‘We need someone who can tell us who she was, where she lived, who her acquaintances were, and then maybe we can learn what information she was after. If we find out who she was, it might well lead us to finding out who the other woman was. The one in the cellar.’

  ‘It will have to be done with care,’ said Steggles, his tone showing his concern. ‘We don’t want any mention of the museum in relation to it, otherwise we’ll be overrun with ghoulish people coming to gawk at the place where she died. Also, it won’t help our reputation with respectable people who we want to come here.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘Our intention was to take out an advertisement with the photograph of the dead woman asking if anyone recognises her, along with our names, saying that we can be contacted through the newspaper. I assume they operate such a system?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Steggles. ‘The Guardian is fortunately a very respectable newspaper, so I think there’ll be no breaking of trust. I know the editor, C. P. Scott, and he is certainly a man of integrity. There’s also a reporter there called William Bickerstaff. He came to see me after he learnt about the dead woman. The first one, that is, the one who was stabbed. I don’t believe he yet knows about the one that was found this morning. But he seems to be a fair young man.’ Then he looked at them uncertainly. ‘Although some of his reports in the paper have tended to be of a rather radical nature. I have a feeling Mr Scott keeps a close editorial watch on him to make sure he doesn’t overstep the mark. But so far he’s honoured my request not to write about the young woman who was killed here, so if you should meet him, it appears he can also be trusted.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Abigail.

  Steggles frowned and added thoughtfully, ‘On reflection, it might be better to put that you can be contacted at the Mayflower Hotel, rather than use a box number. It might speed up any information coming forward. I would have suggested the museum as another point of contact, but as we’re trying to avoid publicity of any sort …’

  ‘Of course, and thank you,’ repeated Abigail. ‘As for arranging for the young woman to be photographed …’

  ‘We have a very good photographer on our staff,’ said Steggles. ‘Charles Burbage. We keep photographic records of all our exhibits and displays.’

  ‘Would he mind taking a photograph of a dead woman?’ asked Abigail.

  A small smile played around Steggles’s mouth.

  ‘He has taken photographs of corpses before, though they’ve usually been a few thousand years old. I think he’d be delighted with the challenge. Charles is always in search of new developments in the world of photography.’

  ‘Perhaps we could accompany him?’ suggested Daniel. ‘I’ve found it useful to examine the body of a victim when conducting an investigation. Often clues can be found that tell us something about the murderer. And at the same time we can look at the body of the other woman who was found and see if that gives us any clues.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Steggles. ‘The first body was taken to the infirmary for storage while we ascertained if she had any family who would take charge of the funeral. Otherwise, it will be a pauper’s burial. In fact, I was advised by the infirmary that they would need the body to be removed in the next few days. They have a severe lack of space, I believe. The second body was also taken there.’

  ‘In that case, if you can give us a letter of authority in order for us to examine the bodies, and introduce us to your Mr Burbage, we’ll go the infirmary without delay.’ He looked at the clock. ‘Do you think we’ll be able to get it done this afternoon, even though it’s now late? We’ve found that the faster information can be gathered, the more chance there is of reaching a conclusion with a case.’

  Steggles gave them a smile.

  ‘I think you’ll find that time is of little importance to Mr Burbage. He is very keen for any opportunity to practise his craft.’

  ‘I was thinking of time restrictions at the infirmary. Most infirmaries can be very rigid about members of the public, such as visiting hours.’

  ‘I believe that Mr Burbage has cultivated a good relationship with staff at the infirmary,’ said Steggles. ‘This would be a good time to put that to the test.’

  Charles Burbage’s eyes lit up with delight when he was told what was required of him. He was a large man in every way, tall and broad; with his enormous bushy beard and unruly mane of dark hair he resembled a wild animal, one whose energy was barely contained in a suit and collar and tie.

  ‘A dead body!’ he boomed with relish. ‘Someone who doesn’t move!’

  ‘The body might slip if it’s leaning against something,’ cautioned Daniel.

  ‘No leaning for me!’ boomed Burbage. ‘I’ll mount the camera on a base above the dead woman’s face and we’ll have the luxury of time in exposing the glass plates as I shoot downwards. It’s the way I’ve done it before at the infirmary.’ He clapped his hands together gleefully. ‘If you arrange a hansom outside, I’ll gather together my equipment and meet you there.’

  ‘Don’t you want a hand to carry things?’ offered Daniel. ‘The camera, the glass plates?’

  ‘No need.’ Burbage beamed. ‘I have designed my very own system of portable cases on wheels. Your assistance in lifting them into the cab would be appreciated, though. Hansom drivers seem reluctant to do anything other than sit on their driving seat and look sullen if you ask them to stir and lend a hand.’

  Daniel and Abigail hailed a hansom, which parked outside the front doors of the museum, and soon the bulky figure of Burbage appeared, hauling what looked like a pram loaded with small wooden boxes. Daniel helped him to lift the pram inside the hansom, and then at the command of ‘The infirmary, driver!’ from Burbage, they were off, rattling over the cobbles.

  ‘Do you know much about the art of photography?’ enquired Burbage. Turning to Abigail he said, ‘You must do, Miss Fenton. I have seen photographs of various archaeologic
al explorations in Egypt, and I’m sure there was one at Giza in which you featured.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ admitted Abigail. ‘But I was there purely to study the archaeology. I had no proper understanding of how the camera worked, or the later process of developing the pictures that subsequently appeared.’

  ‘You should!’ boomed Burbage enthusiastically. ‘Art as we have known it – paint on canvas – is dead. The camera can produce the same effect, far more realistically, and much quicker. I doubt if many of the old portraits are true representations of the subject, kings and queens, lords and ladies, military heroes, but a photograph would show that person as they truly were, rather than some sycophant of a painter beautifying some ugly creature. The photograph never lies!’

  And with that, Burbage launched into a lecture on the art of photography as the true record of history. ‘People as they are! Rich and poor! War as it is fought, not some idealised version of a battlefield. Have you seen any of the photographs from America of their recent tragic civil war? Immense, I tell you! Immense! The suffering is there! The carnage!’

  Is there anything worse than being trapped in a hansom cab with someone who is fanatical about their hobby, or who treats their occupation as a cause to be spread? thought Daniel. He looked at Abigail and saw that she felt the same. Both made polite noises at the intervals when Burbage stopped long enough from his lecture to take a breath, though it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d made no comments at all; Burbage was a man on a mission to spread the gospel of photography to all and sundry.

  When the hansom pulled up outside the infirmary, Daniel helped Burbage unload his equipment.

  ‘If you wait here with it, I’ll go in and check that the people I need are on duty,’ he said.

  With that, he hurried into the hospital.

  ‘If the people he wants aren’t here, I assume we’ll have to haul the whole lot back again and suffer another lecture on the wonders of photography,’ said Daniel gloomily.