Murder at the Ashmolean Read online

  ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble,’ said Abigail, concerned.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Esther assured her. ‘This is what I want to do, proper reporting on a proper story. I intend to be taken seriously as a real journalist, so this will be the start.’

  Daniel sat at the desk, going through the papers he’d found in the drawers. Nothing in them gave any clue as to Everett’s personal life; everything here was about the Ashmolean. There were copies of letters to collectors tentatively sounding them out about the Ashmolean acquiring – either permanently or on loan – some of their collection for display at the museum. There was correspondence between Everett and different firms who carried out restoration work on some of the museum’s exhibits. There were provisional dates for a schedule of specialist exhibitions that Everett was planning. But nothing of a personal nature at all.

  The sound of a grunt made Daniel look up, and he saw the stocky figure of Inspector Grafton entering the office.

  ‘Inspector Grafton. What a surprise to see you here,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Not that much of a surprise, Wilson,’ said Grafton sourly. ‘Marriott told me you’d asked about me and the investigation. So, I’m here to tell you that there is no investigation.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Everett’s death was suicide. That’s it.’

  ‘And yet you’re here. You’re trying to tell me that Special Branch investigates suicides? Is this a new departure?’

  Grafton scowled, put his hands on the desk and leant in towards Daniel. ‘My advice to you, Wilson, is just walk away, or else things might get difficult for you.’

  ‘Difficult?’

  ‘You know what I mean. There are some powerful people who don’t like others poking their noses into things that don’t concern them.’

  ‘But Gavin Everett’s death does concern me. The Ashmolean has hired me and Miss Fenton to look into it.’

  Grafton gave Daniel an icy smile.

  ‘Yes, that’s another thing you ought to think about,’ he said. ‘Miss Fenton’s safety. Ruffians and all sorts seem to be on the loose in this city. These are dangerous times for a woman.’

  At these words, Daniel wanted to crash his fist into Grafton’s face and wipe the smug look off it. Instead, he rose to his feet and leant towards Grafton, then said, firmly and deliberately, ‘Let me tell you something, Grafton. If anything happens to Miss Fenton – anything at all – I’ll kill you.’

  Grafton stopped smiling and swallowed as he saw the intensity of the look of anger in Daniel’s eyes.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ he demanded, his voice hoarse.

  ‘No, I’m making you a promise,’ said Daniel.

  Grafton stepped back from the desk and glowered at Daniel.

  ‘You’d better be careful, Wilson,’ he said. ‘I’m warning you, you’re out of your depth with this one. You’re treading on dangerous ground. Take my advice and clear out. Leave Oxford before you find yourself in big trouble.’

  With that, he stormed out.

  Daniel watched him go, then sat down at the desk again. What did Grafton know? What was so special about this case that it brought a detective from Special Branch in? Inspector Pitt had said he didn’t know about Grafton being here in Oxford. So, was the Special Branch man here in an unofficial capacity? In which case, what was going on?

  He got up and pulled on his coat. It was time to call on Inspector Pitt and see if he was able to throw any light on it. Pitt hadn’t been able to before, but in a case like this, things could change by the hour. Just before he went out, he left a note for Abigail on the desk: Gone to see Inspector Pitt. Back soon.

  Daniel Wilson was a problem that needed to be dealt with, reflected Walter Grafton angrily as he left the Ashmolean. His mind went back to when he’d been called in by Superintendent Mason and given the brief: ‘You’re to go to the War Office and see a Commander Atkinson. A difficult case has arisen in Oxford which may have implications for national security.’

  ‘Terrorists?’ asked Grafton.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Mason. ‘A man has been killed who had links to foreign forces opposed to Britain. According to the War Office he was a double agent. Our side didn’t kill him, so we want to find out if it was the other side who did.’

  ‘The Irish Brotherhood?’

  ‘No, there’s no Irish connection with this one, Inspector. At least, not as far as we know. Commander Atkinson will give you the details.’ And then Mason had added pointedly: ‘A result here will be very good for your career prospects, Inspector.’

  Promotion, thought Grafton. Chief inspector. This could be the making of him.

  Commander Atkinson was a soldier in every way: tall, ramrod stiff, and who spoke in clipped military tones.

  ‘Your superintendent recommended you because you’ve shown initiative in dealing with terrorists and people who wish to overthrow the British order,’ he said to Grafton once he had taken a seat in Atkinson’s office. The walls were decorated with memorabilia from various military encounters. ‘You didn’t serve in the army, did you?’

  ‘No, sir. I joined the police and worked my way from uniform through to the detective division, and then to Special Branch.’

  ‘Where I understand you’ve had success in preventing terrorist plots from being carried out on the mainland against certain targets, including Her Majesty herself.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Atkinson nodded in thoughtful approval, then asked, ‘How much do you know about the Boers?’

  ‘I know we fought a war against them, but that was about fifteen years ago.’

  ‘You know the outcome of that war?’

  Grafton hesitated before replying awkwardly, ‘The Boers won. Britain lost.’

  ‘It was lunacy!’ growled Atkinson. ‘The whole campaign, from start to finish! Britain had the whole of South Africa under its control and because of the sheer stupidity of its commanders, threw it away. We ended up signing a treaty that gave the Boers control of two of the four republics in South Africa, the Orange Free State and the Transvaal, while Britain retained control of the other two colonies, Cape Colony and Natal. At first it seemed a reasonable deal; the Boer colonies were just scrub and poor land. But then in 1884 gold was discovered in the Transvaal, followed by the discovery of the biggest goldfield ever at Witwatersrand two years later, and that changed everything.

  ‘British miners went out there in their hundreds and were welcomed by the Boers because they had the skill and the labour to mine the gold. Many of them made money. But most of the wealth, and certainly the power, went to the Boer government.

  ‘About nine months ago we were approached by a man called Gavin Everett. He’d been one of those British miners in the Transvaal – Huitlanders, the Boers called them – and he’d returned to Britain and had been working as some sort of executive at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. He told us that in Oxford he’d met up with someone he’d known in the Transvaal, a Boer. This Boer, while in his cups apparently, and mistakenly thinking that Everett was an old friend, told him of a plot that was being hatched in the Transvaal by the Boers, now they had this huge wealth, to take over the two British colonies in South Africa, starting with Cape Colony. The plan, according to Everett, involves a military incursion.

  ‘Everett offered to find out more by cultivating this Boer and pretending to be on their side, and even offered his help in passing on information to the Boers about the British aspect, garnered from people he’d known in Cape Colony. Unfortunately, he wasn’t motivated by patriotism but money. He wanted paying for acting as a double agent because, as he said, he was putting his life in danger by pretending to spy for the Boers, and if he was discovered, they’d kill him.

  ‘We investigated and found out that he had spent two years in the goldfields of the Transvaal, and also spent some of that time in Cape Colony. By all accounts he was the sort of person who made acquaintances easily in both communities, Boer and the Cape, so his story had enough of the ring of truth to enlist him.

  ‘To be honest, although he kept us informed of the development of the proposed raid, he didn’t pass on any details such as the names of the conspirators, or even the Boer he’d met in Oxford. This Boer, it appears, was just one of a group of Boers who’d relocated to Oxford. According to Everett, they were cultivating support for the Boers from certain British politicians. We can only assume he was keeping the names to himself because he was worried that once we knew those, we’d deal with the matter ourselves and his income from us would stop.

  ‘Then, last week, we heard that Everett had been found dead in his office at the Ashmolean, shot through the head. It had the appearance of suicide, but certain things didn’t add up. However, we sent a telegram to the local police in Oxford ordering them to accept suicide as the verdict and stop any further investigations.

  ‘It’s possible that Everett’s death was for some other reason, but there is the possibility that this group of Boers discovered that he was a double agent and killed him. In which case, we need to know who they are so that we can arrest and interrogate them. That’s your job. Find out if there is any truth to this group of Boer conspirators or if it was some kind of fraud that Everett was perpetuating, and report back.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Grafton. ‘Can I ask if you had any confirmation from your sources in South Africa about Everett’s story?’

  ‘We passed the initial information to the governor of the Cape and his people have been looking into it.’

  ‘So, it’s possible there could have been a leak there which filtered back to the group in Oxford.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ agreed Atkinson. ‘If so, you’ll need to be on your guard. But remember, all of this is top secret. If you find anything, telegraph me here and I
’ll send you support. But, until then, we don’t want to alert the opposition by putting in too large a force, so you’ll be on your own.’

  ‘That’s fine by me, sir,’ Grafton assured him. ‘If there is anything to find, I’ll find it.’

  And he would. But first he had to find a way of getting rid of Daniel Wilson, because he couldn’t afford to have Wilson dogging his steps and getting in the way of his investigation. No, Wilson had to be got out of the way. Along with that Fenton woman.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Abigail picked up the note Daniel had left for her on the desk. She wondered why he’d gone to see Inspector Pitt. Had there been a development? If so, she’d find out soon enough, when he returned. In the meantime, this would give her a proper opportunity to do what she’d been hoping for since she arrived at the Ashmolean: to explore the exhibits in the Egyptian Rooms. It would be interesting to see what new additions had been made to the collection since she was last here, and to compare the treasures from ancient Egypt owned by the Ashmolean with the ones she’d curated when she’d been at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge.

  She made her way down to the basement area where the Egyptian collection resided. She passed the large statues which had been there before and made her way to the display cases. While most people were in awe of the pyramids and the large statues that guarded them, for Abigail it had always been the smaller statuary, the pottery, the small and often wonderfully ornate items left in the pyramid to accompany the dead pharaoh to the Other World that fascinated her. The collection looked much as she remembered it; she certainly wasn’t aware of any new additions being present, but she remembered Marriott telling them Everett had spent a lot of time extending the African collection through his contacts, so that had obviously been his priority.

  Her eye was caught by one of the decorated plates on display in one of the glass cases and she remembered she’d seen it before, but this time there was something not quite right about it. She bent down and peered closer at it.

  It was the blue. It was … different. Less luminescent, somehow.

  She gestured at the attendant on duty in the room, who’d been watching her, and he came over to join her.

  ‘Yes, Miss Fenton?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you?’

  She pointed at the display case.

  ‘Do you have a key to this case?’ she asked. ‘I’m curious to see that plate up close, without the glass between us.’

  ‘I’m sorry, only Mr Marriott and Mr Thomas have keys to the display cases,’ said the attendant apologetically. ‘But I can go and fetch Mr Thomas. He’s just in the next room.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Abigail.

  She peered even closer at the plate through the glass. Yes, although the rest of the colours seemed fine, the blue was definitely wrong. Could it have faded? Surely not. Not this particular material.

  ‘Yes, Miss Fenton?’

  Abigail looked and saw that Hugh Thomas, the head steward, had arrived, accompanied by the attendant.

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind opening the case so that I can get a proper look at that plate,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Thomas. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  He reached for the bunch of keys suspended by a small chain from his belt, selected one, and unlocked the case.

  Carefully, Abigail reached in and lifted the plate out. She turned it over, then back so that its decorated side was showing once more.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘But I’m afraid it’s also a fake.’

  Inspector Grafton entered the main police station and strode meaningfully to the desk, where a uniformed sergeant stood on duty.

  ‘Who’s the senior officer in charge?’ he demanded.

  The sergeant, taken aback and offended by his hectoring tone, asked, ‘Why do you want to know?’

  For answer, Grafton produced his warrant card and held it under the sergeant’s nose.

  ‘Special Branch,’ he said curtly.

  The sergeant swallowed.

  ‘That’ll be Superintendent Clare, sir,’ he said.

  Grafton handed him his visiting card.

  ‘Tell him I’m here and want to see him,’ he said brusquely.

  Abigail was returning to the office when she saw Gladstone Marriott heading along the corridor for the same place. He was carrying a small brown paper bag.

  ‘Ah, Miss Fenton,’ said Marriott. ‘I was just coming to see you.’

  ‘And I was just coming to see you,’ said Abigail. She gestured at the bag. ‘Is this related to the case?’

  ‘It is indeed,’ said Marriott. ‘I’ll tell you all when we’re in the office.’

  She followed him in and closed the door, while he put the bag on the desk.

  ‘Is Mr Wilson around?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s gone to see Inspector Pitt about something,’ said Abigail. ‘But I’ll pass on anything he needs to know.’

  Marriott pointed at the bag.

  ‘The undertakers delivered this to me today. It’s Everett’s possessions that were found on him. They’ve now been given permission by the authorities to release his effects, but as there’s no next of kin as far as we know, they brought them to me.’ He upended the bag and the contents fell on the desk’s surface.

  ‘It’s not much, is it,’ said Marriott. ‘But I assume he had more at his lodgings.’

  Abigail looked. It wasn’t much. A few coins. A silk handkerchief. And a leather wallet.

  ‘I had to take a look at the wallet’s contents because I had to sign for them,’ explained Marriott. ‘But there’s not much there. A few notes. Some business cards.’

  Abigail opened the wallet and examined the contents. As Marriott had said, nothing that might be of help. She flicked through the business cards, then picked one out and held it out towards Marriott.

  ‘This one’s unusual,’ she said.

  The card was engraved with the drawing of a quill feather and had the number 3471 written on it in black ink.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marriott. ‘I have no idea what it means. It’s a puzzle.’

  ‘It’s a puzzle we’ll let Mr Wilson examine when he returns,’ said Abigail. ‘In the meantime, I’m afraid we have a big problem.’

  Superintendent Clare studied the words on the pasteboard card. Detective Inspector Walter Grafton – SB. The address was Scotland Yard in London.

  Special Branch. Clare hated Special Branch, throwing their weight about and upsetting everyone. They acted as if they were a law unto themselves. Ruefully, he reflected that they were a law unto themselves. And now one of them was here on his patch, which meant trouble.

  There was a knock at his door, then Sergeant Edmonds opened it and looked in.

  ‘The inspector from London, sir,’ he announced.

  Inspector Grafton thrust Edmonds to one side as he entered the office and stood glowering.

  ‘That’ll be all, thank you, Sergeant,’ said Clare.

  Edmonds saluted, then left, pulling the door shut. Clare handed Grafton his visiting card back.

  ‘Welcome to Oxford, Inspector,’ he said. ‘How can we be of help?’

  ‘You can arrest Daniel Wilson,’ grunted Grafton sourly.

  ‘I assume you’re referring to the Daniel Wilson who’s been engaged by the Ashmolean to find out why Mr Everett killed himself?’ asked Clare politely.

  ‘How many other Daniel Wilsons are there in Oxford?’ snapped Grafton.

  ‘I would imagine quite a few,’ said Clare. ‘It’s not an uncommon name. Although there are no others I can think of who are ex-Scotland-Yard detective inspectors, with a long and distinguished career while working under Inspector Abberline.’