Murder at the British Museum Page 6

  ‘Museums are always being attacked,’ said Abigail. ‘When I was in France …’

  ‘Yes, but that’s in France!’ argued Daniel. ‘They have revolutions, we don’t.’

  ‘The Civil War,’ said Abigail crisply. ‘Oliver Cromwell.’

  ‘King Charles I losing his head, just as the French aristocrats did,’ added Dalton.

  ‘Yes, alright,’ said Daniel uncomfortably. ‘My point is that most crimes are committed against people, rather than …’

  He was interrupted by the sound of angry raised voices and crashing sounds from somewhere below, including the sound of glass breaking.

  ‘Trouble!’ he said.

  He rushed out of the room and down the spiral staircase, Abigail and Dalton close behind him.

  In the exhibition hall two young men were struggling with four uniformed stewards who were having the greatest difficulty in keeping hold of them. Daniel shot a glance at the exhibition and saw that one of the cases was smashed, glass scattered around the floor. One of the young men was wielding a walking stick, which Daniel guessed had caused the damage to the case, and he was now using it to try and ward off the stewards. The young man raised the walking stick and brought it down hard, trying to hit another of the glass cases, but missed.

  Daniel moved forward and kicked the young man at the back of his knee. The young man uttered a yelp of pain and fell to the ground, the two stewards collapsing on top of him.

  Daniel turned to the other attacker and saw him struggling to break free from the two stewards holding him, lashing out with his elbows and his feet. Abigail stepped forward, a look of fury on her face, and punched the young man so hard in the stomach that her fist disappeared into his clothing. He sagged, gasping for air, and as he sank to his knees, Abigail grabbed him by his hair and yanked him face down to the floor, shouting angrily, ‘How dare you!’ With that, she plonked herself down on the fallen man and ordered the stewards, ‘Tie his hands and feet while I sit on him.’

  The young man began to struggle and jerk, trying to throw Abigail off, but Abigail simply grabbed him by the hair again and banged his face on the stone floor.

  ‘I abhor violence!’ she snapped. ‘But if you struggle any more I shall do worse to you.’

  The young man that Daniel had kicked in the knee was also under control, the stewards tying his hands behind his back with a length of cord.

  ‘And his ankles,’ ordered Daniel. ‘He’ll kick, otherwise.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sir Jasper had arrived, a look of shock on his face.

  ‘For some reason, these two decided to attack the exhibition,’ said Daniel. ‘They smashed the glass of one of display cases, but everything else seems to be alright. Luckily, we caught them before they could do too much damage.’

  Sir Jasper stared at the two young men lying on the floor. ‘What on earth …?’ he said, still in a state of shock. Then his voice broke as he appealed, ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re here, sir!’ said a voice.

  Daniel saw that two uniformed constables had arrived, brought by a steward who’d run out into the street for help. One of the constables reached down, grabbed one of the young men by the collar of his jacket and hauled him up to a sitting position. Then he frowned and asked, ‘You sure this is them? They look like toffs.’

  Yes, Daniel thought, they didn’t resemble the kind of youths he expected the constable was used to arresting for vandalism. Both young men were dressed in neat and expensive-looking clothes: long jackets with velvet collars, tailored trousers, patent leather shoes.

  ‘This is certainly them,’ said Daniel. ‘Caught red-handed.’

  The constable shook his head. ‘Toffs doing this sort of thing. I don’t know what the world’s coming to. The judge ought to throw the book at ’em.’ He hauled the young man completely to his feet. ‘You leave it to us, sir. We’ll call a wagon and have them in a cell before they know what’s hit them.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Sir Jasper suddenly. He took hold of Daniel’s arm and steered him to one side, out of earshot of the constables. ‘Is there a way to avoid this, Mr Wilson? A court appearance could reflect badly on the museum, especially following on from the murder. This is a very important exhibition for us, and the idea that people may stay away because they’re frightened of what might happen …’

  Daniel nodded. ‘I understand, Sir Jasper. Your preference is for the matter to be treated with discretion.’

  Abigail joined them, her face registering outrage. ‘Did I hear you right, Sir Jasper? These two vandals have committed the worst outrage I’ve ever experienced in any museum, or any other place of education, and you are preparing to ignore it?’

  ‘Not ignore it, no,’ said Sir Jasper. ‘But the bad publicity …’

  ‘They deserve to be flogged!’ said Abigail angrily. ‘Ten years’ hard labour each!’

  Daniel bit his lip to stop himself from smiling at this enraged outburst of Abigail’s.

  ‘There could be a way, Sir Jasper,’ he said. ‘They look like they can afford to pay for the damage.’

  ‘Never!’ shouted one of the young men.

  Daniel strode to him and hissed, ‘I would strongly advise you to keep your mouth shut. You heard what my colleague has said: she would like you flogged and sent to jail with hard labour. The constables will agree with her. If you go to prison, you will die, I can assure you of that. The flogging will weaken you, then the other prisoners – which include some very, very vicious men – will take advantage of you in every way possible. As will the warders. In the end you will beg for death to release you. Or you can let me try and negotiate some safe way out of this.’

  The shorter of the two young men opened his mouth to protest, but the other shot him a warning look and nodded.

  Abigail glared at Daniel. ‘You’re not seriously going along with this! These so-called men are criminals! That page from Nennius is rare beyond belief. If it had been damaged …’

  ‘This is the second such attack,’ Daniel whispered to her. ‘We need to find out if it might be connected to the one where Professor Pickering was stabbed. Is there a link? This is our chance to question them, in our way. Once they have been taken away by the police and put into the system, that chance will be lost.’

  She looked at him suspiciously. ‘I suspect you are trying to gull me, Daniel Wilson,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, still keeping his voice low. ‘If, after we have talked to them, you still want them punished, to include flogging and imprisonment, then so be it. I shall support you in trying to persuade Sir Jasper of that. But, right now, they are more valuable to us here, with just you and I asking the questions.’

  She turned and studied the two young men, who now looked white-faced and nervous. Then she nodded. ‘There is merit in what you say. But they must be taught a lesson.’

  ‘They will be,’ Daniel promised her. He went back to Sir Jasper and told him, ‘I’ll see what I can arrange, Sir Jasper.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wilson,’ said Sir Jasper. ‘If it can be achieved, the museum will be very grateful.’

  Dalton, who had been standing at one side observing everything, approached Daniel as Sir Jasper walked off. ‘I’m guessing you don’t want anything about this in the paper?’ he said in a tone of amusement.

  Daniel nodded. ‘I owe you one, Joe,’ he said.

  ‘You owe me a big explanation to my editor if he finds out about this,’ commented Dalton. ‘If he asks I’ll say it was part of a deal with the museum to get an exclusive if you catch the murderer. How does that sound?’

  ‘Like blackmail,’ said Daniel ruefully.

  Dalton grinned. ‘Let me know how it goes,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  As Dalton left, Daniel walked to where the constables were waiting, their eyes on the two young men.

  ‘Can we take ’em now?’ asked one of the constables.

  ‘There is a problem,’ said Daniel, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘
The British Museum won’t press charges. Which means, as employees of the museum, neither I nor my colleague, nor the stewards who overpowered the young men, will be able to give evidence against them.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded the constable.

  ‘Because, as you rightly observed, they are toffs,’ said Daniel quietly. ‘You can be sure their families will have high-powered lawyers at their disposal. Barristers who will do their best to destroy the reputations of the only persons giving evidence against them. You and your fellow constable. A clever barrister will ask if you saw the actual vandalism happening, and under oath you will be forced to admit that you didn’t. All you saw was a struggle going on, and the two young men being trussed up. There might even be doubt cast by a good barrister as to whether the two young men were actually the victims, assaulted while conducting a peaceful protest, and the glass case got broken during the assault on them.’

  ‘No one’s going to believe that!’ snorted the constable.

  ‘No?’ said Daniel. ‘Look at them. Imagine them in the dock, with a clever and very expensive barrister asking the questions, in front of a judge or magistrate who’s possibly on social terms with these men’s families. And because we will be unable to speak up, it will be a case of your word against theirs. And you will have to admit you saw nothing, because it all happened before you arrived.’

  The constable looked at the young men and scowled. ‘I hate it when this happens!’ he growled. ‘If they’d been two working class young men from the streets they’d be in jail over this. But this pair …’

  Words failed him, and he glared angrily at the two young men.

  ‘I agree with you,’ said Daniel sympathetically. ‘It’s an unfair world. But I promise you, they will not go unscathed.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘I doubt if their families will take kindly to their activities when we tell them what happened. I’m sure there will be repercussions for them, especially when the families find they have to make good the damage.’ He gave them a smile. ‘People with money hate parting with it.’

  ‘True,’ said the constable. ‘Very well, then, sir. We’ll leave them with you. And I hope their families thrash ’em.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The young man sitting in the chair in the small office seemed to have recovered his bravado. He had been the one who’d wielded the walking stick and smashed the glass case. Now, released from the ropes that had bound him, he sat, arms folded, staring defiantly at Daniel and Abigail. Daniel guessed his age at about nineteen.

  His fellow conspirator was languishing, locked in a laundry room, his wrists and ankles still bound, waiting to be questioned once Daniel and Abigail had finished with this young man.

  ‘First, your name,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Sir Galahad.’

  ‘Your real name,’ said Daniel wearily.

  ‘That is the only name I answer to,’ said the young man.

  ‘Very well,’ said Daniel. ‘If that is your answer, I shall have you locked away in Bedlam and your photograph published in the newspapers in order to find out if anyone recognises you.’ He leant forward and said warningly, ‘Your family, for example.’

  The young man went white and swallowed hard. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘To someone called Sir Galahad, I can do whatever I want,’ said Daniel. ‘A citizen with a proper name and address, however, has rights. The choice is yours.’

  The young man hesitated, then announced, ‘My name is Alan Markham. I am a member of the Order of the Children of Avalon.’

  This brought a slight groan from Abigail. Daniel looked enquiringly at her, but she shook her head.

  ‘Why did you attack the exhibition?’

  ‘We had a message.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Emrys.’

  When Abigail saw Daniel give a puzzled frown, she said quietly, ‘Merlin.’

  Markham shot her a quick glance then rapped out a few words in what Daniel took to be a foreign language. To his surprise, Abigail responded in words that sounded similar. Markham looked taken aback, then asked, ‘You are a bard?’

  Instead of answering his question, Abigail asked, ‘How did you receive the message?’ When he hesitated, she prompted, ‘A seance?’

  Markham nodded.

  ‘And Emrys – Merlin – told you to attack the exhibition.’

  ‘He told us it denigrates the true Arthur. The spirit of Avalon is being turned into a sideshow. The miracles are explained as if they were just … nothing.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Daniel. He pushed a piece of paper and a pencil across the table to Markham. ‘You will write down the name of your companion, and also a list of the members of your order. With addresses, where you can.’

  ‘I will do no such thing!’ said Markham defiantly, folding his arms.

  Daniel shrugged. ‘Have it your own way. I’ll have you taken to prison on a charge of causing criminal damage, with a recommendation you are refused bail. I’m guessing you’ll receive a year’s hard labour, and may the experience be a salutary one.’ He turned to Abigail and said, ‘Would you ask the security men to come and join us and take Mr Markham away. Newgate would be as good as any police station to take him.’

  As Abigail got up to leave, Markham shouted, ‘Wait!’ He snatched up the pencil and began to write. When he finished, he pushed the paper across to Daniel, who ran his eye down the list, then nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Markham.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ asked Markham, and for the first time he showed his fear beneath his bravado.

  ‘That will be up to the museum authorities,’ said Daniel. ‘But, as you have been cooperative, they might consider leniency of some sort. We shall see.’

  ‘No prison?’ said Markham hopefully.

  ‘As I said, the final decision rests with the museum authorities. We’ll now talk to your fellow conspirator’ – he looked at the list Markham had provided – ‘Edward Chapman, and then we’ll discuss your situation with Sir Jasper Stone.’

  This time, Abigail left the small room, reappearing with two security men who took Markham away.

  ‘You seem fairly sure that Sir Jasper won’t press charges,’ said Abigail.

  ‘You heard what he said. He has no desire for bad publicity. We’ll see what we can get from the other miscreant, and then suggest to Sir Jasper he brings their families in and gets them to pay compensation for the damage as a way of avoiding the case being taken to court. They’ll pay up, I’m sure.’ He looked at her, curious. ‘By the way, what was that language you and he spoke? Some kind of magical tongue?’

  Abigail laughed. ‘Welsh.’

  ‘You speak Welsh?’

  ‘I had to study it for part of my degree, along with Gaelic. Both are the original languages of these islands, and when researching early British history those are the languages you’re most likely to come across.’

  ‘You groaned when he mentioned the order he belonged to.’

  She nodded. ‘The Children of Avalon.’

  ‘You’ve heard of them?’

  ‘No, I but can guess what they are, which is nothing to do with real Arthurian history. Do you know Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur?’

  ‘No,’ replied Daniel. ‘Should I?’

  ‘If you’d taken a proper look at the exhibition, you would. It’s a work of fiction written in the fifteenth century on which Tennyson’s Idylls of the King is largely based. It contains all the elements of what became the later Arthurian legends: Guinevere, Camelot, Sir Lancelot, Excalibur, courtly love, all those things the Pre-Raphaelites were so obsessed by. There’s a whole section on Malory, as well as Tennyson, in the exhibition. I keep telling you, you ought to at least take a look at it.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Daniel. ‘So this order …?’

  ‘They’ve taken on board Malory’s Arthur as the reality, rather than the earlier works of people like Gildas, Bede, Nennius
and William of Malmesbury, which are more fact-based – as far as we can call them “facts” when they’re recorded that far back and they could be supposition or propaganda.’

  ‘Propaganda?’

  ‘Gildas was a particularly angry man with a lot to say about the decline of the British people, so he skewed some of what he reports for his own agenda.’

  ‘So things like Merlin …’

  ‘Malory again, although you find mention of him in Geoffrey of Monmouth. But many historians view Geoffrey’s work as more fiction than historical fact. As I said, you need to take a look at the exhibition.’

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the other young man, pushed into the room by the security men. The ropes that previously tied him had been removed.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. ‘We’ll bring him back to you after we’ve talked to him.’

  The men left, and Daniel gestured at the empty chair. ‘Sit,’ he ordered.

  The young man sat and assumed a stuff posture, arms folded in defiance, just as Markham’s had been. Daniel judged him to be even younger than Markham, possibly seventeen.

  ‘First,’ said Daniel, ‘your name.’

  ‘My name is Gawain,’ snapped the young man.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s Edward Chapman and you live at 43 Peabody Street. In a moment I shall be sending a police officer to your home to bring your parents here.’

  ‘No!’ burst out Chapman, aghast. ‘Please, don’t bring them here!’

  ‘Why? They have a right to know what their son has been up to. Committing criminal damage. You’ll probably go to prison for two years.’

  Chapman stared at them, his mouth open, shocked and ashen.

  ‘P-prison?’ He gulped.

  ‘Well what did you expect?’ demanded Daniel. ‘You came here to commit a crime of violence. At the same place where a man was recently savagely stabbed to death. In view of that, I think two years would be generous. Four years is more likely. I’m only bringing your parents here so they can say goodbye to you before you are taken to prison while you await trial.’