Murder at the Manchester Museum Read online

  ‘We’ve met Inspector Grimley,’ said Daniel. ‘He wasn’t very helpful to us, either.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t be. He has one style of investigation: find a suspect and use brute force and ignorance on them until they confess.’

  ‘You know that for certain?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Sadly, yes,’ said Bickerstaff. ‘I’ve found three cases where an innocent person has been jailed for a crime they didn’t commit, and each time Inspector Grimley has been in charge of the investigation.’ Hastily, he added, ‘Don’t get me wrong, there are good police officers here, but the Grimleys of this world are popular with the important people in this city because they protect the status quo. As a result, the authorities turn a blind eye to his methods.’

  ‘But you don’t.’

  ‘No. As a result, he doesn’t like me or the Manchester Guardian.’

  ‘But you found out about the killing, despite them putting you off.’

  ‘Of course. I went to the museum and spoke to one of the attendants there I know. He told me a young woman had been found in the reading room, stabbed to death. I tried to talk to Steggles, he’s usually available and very supportive of our stance on social justice, but on this occasion he wasn’t available. I tried again the next day, and this time he saw me. I like Steggles. He told me an unknown young woman had been stabbed, but he asked me not to mention anything about it for the moment. I could tell he was worried about the reputation of the museum, so I agreed, on the understanding that when he knew more I could write about it.’ He looked again at the photograph. ‘So we still don’t know who she is.’

  ‘No. We’re hoping that putting her photograph in the paper might get us that information.’

  ‘Who’s hired you to look into her death?’ asked Bickerstaff. ‘Not her family, because no one knows who she is. It can only be the museum.’

  Daniel and Abigail exchanged uncomfortable looks. So much for keeping the museum out of it, he thought wryly.

  ‘At the moment that has to be confidential,’ he said.

  Bickerstaff grinned. ‘Of course,’ he chuckled. ‘That sounds just the sort of thing that old Steggles might say. Trust me, I’ll keep that secret for the moment, even though it’s the only obvious answer.’ He looked at Daniel and Abigail and asked, ‘Do you want me to run a story about her?’

  ‘Thank you, but we’d prefer to put our own advertisement in the paper asking if anyone recognises her,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I’d be happy to write the story,’ pressed Bickerstaff.

  ‘I’m sure you would, but our client has been very firm about there being no publicity concerning their involvement with this situation. Once we have more information that may change.’

  Bickerstaff nodded. ‘I understand. So, what are you planning?’

  ‘We’re hoping that if anyone recognises her that they’ll get in touch with us at our hotel.’

  ‘And if you do find out anything, you’ll let me know?’ pressed Bickerstaff again.

  ‘We will,’ Daniel assured him. ‘But after we’ve spoken first to our client.’

  As they left the Guardian offices, Daniel said, ‘I’m wondering what our next move should be until the paper appears. We have a few hours before we’ll get responses, if any.’

  ‘For my part, I’d quite like to go to the museum and look at the Egyptian displays,’ said Abigail. ‘I haven’t had the opportunity before to see the things we brought back from Hawara in a museum setting.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Daniel. He took her hand in his and said, ‘My love, forgive me for being so single-minded. I should have thought. We’ll go and see them together.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she said.

  ‘I want to,’ he assured her. ‘These aren’t just relics of an ancient civilisation, they are such a big part of who you are.’

  Walter Arkwright was on duty at the reception entrance, and he saluted smartly when he saw them.

  ‘Might I enquire if there’s any progress?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s that waiting time at the moment, Mr Arkwright,’ replied Daniel.

  Arkwright nodded. ‘You don’t need to tell an old soldier about waiting time,’ he said wryly. ‘That’s what most soldiering is. Waiting for orders. Waiting for the attack. More waiting.’

  ‘In the meantime, we’re here to look at the Egyptian displays.’

  ‘Of course. Follow me and I’ll take you right there.’

  As they entered the Egyptian room, Daniel saw Abigail’s face light up.

  ‘How wonderful!’ she breathed.

  Daniel had seen and admired other displays of ancient Egyptian artefacts at the other museums they’d been to, but he could see from Abigail’s face as she moved from display case to case how much these exhibits meant to her, bringing back memories of her times in the hot sun of Egypt, uncovering objects that had lain hidden for many thousands of years. He looked at the descriptive labels: Pyramid at Kahun, 1889; The town of Gurob, 1890; Pyramid and field at Meydum, 1890–91; Town and temples at Amarna, 1891–1892; and the one that had drawn Abigail especially, Pyramid, field and cemetery at Hawara, 1888–1889. Her dig, as part of Flinders Petrie’s team, though only Petrie’s name appeared in the display, along with that of Jesse Haworth and Henry Martyn Kennard as the expedition sponsors. Daniel noticed that these same two men had been the sponsors of most of the other expeditions which had brought these ancient artefacts to the museum. As well as a large display of ancient pots inside the glass cases, there was also a label made of wood covered in hieroglyphics in black ink.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Daniel, pointing at it.

  ‘It’s the label from a mummy,’ said Abigail. ‘When I found it, it was attached to the mummy by a cord.’

  ‘You found it!’ said Daniel, impressed.

  Abigail nodded. ‘The Petrie dig at Hawara was such an event. The pyramid was the tomb of Amenemhet III, a ruler during the Middle Kingdom.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Roughly from 2000 BC to 1500 BC. Amenemhet died in about 1797 BC. Karl Lepsius did the first excavation at the pyramid in 1843, but he never found the way into the actual chamber. By the time I joined his team, Petrie had found the way into the interior of the pyramid. To do that he’d had to navigate two twenty-ton stone trapdoors which concealed entrances to what in effect was a labyrinth. Inside what he – and we – found was truly astonishing. As well as the burial sarcophagi, we discovered papyri from the first and second centuries BC. In addition, just north of the pyramid we uncovered a huge burial ground with 146 coffins, each with a painted portrait on it, all from the Roman era.’

  She gestured at the artefacts on display. ‘These are just a small part of what we uncovered. Many of the pieces went to the museum at Cairo, and a great number to University College in London.’

  ‘It must have been an incredible time for you,’ murmured Daniel.

  ‘It was!’ exclaimed Abigail.

  ‘Don’t you regret the fact that you’re not doing it any more?’ he asked.

  She took his hand and squeezed it tightly.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘That was then, and I will always treasure my memories of my time there. But this is where I want to be now. Doing what we’re doing, together.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The first result from the appearance of their advertisement in the newspaper came that afternoon. Daniel and Abigail had decided to take up temporary residence in the Mayflower Hotel’s tea room. It was there that a porter appeared accompanied by a tall, thin woman wearing a long green coat.

  ‘Mr Wilson, Miss Fenton, this lady says she’d like to speak to you about your advertisement in the newspaper,’ said the porter.

  ‘I know who the young woman in the photograph is,’ said the woman curtly.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ said Daniel, gesturing at an empty chair at their table as the porter left them. ‘Mrs …?’

  ‘Eve Preston,’ said the woman, her tone as sharp as her appearance. She brandished
the copy of the newspaper at them. ‘Is there a reward?’ she demanded.

  ‘There may be, if your information proves useful,’ said Daniel. ‘You say you know who she is?’

  The woman nodded. She still hadn’t smiled. There was a hardness to her that both Daniel and Abigail found uncomfortable. This was an angry woman.

  ‘Her name’s Deborah. She’s a pickpocket.’

  ‘A pickpocket?’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ snapped the woman. ‘She works with a bloke called Terry Brady.’ She tapped the photograph of the young woman in the newspaper. ‘She looks dead.’

  ‘I’m afraid she is,’ said Abigail. ‘Was she a friend of yours?’

  The woman glared as if Abigail had insulted her. ‘A friend? Of mine? Her? No! She was a cow! She stole Terry from me.’ She tapped the photograph again. ‘If you ask me, it was Terry who did her in. Her with her nasty ways. He finally got wise to her.’

  ‘Where can we find this Terry Brady?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘He’s usually at a pub called the Iron Duke in Hulme. Although it wouldn’t surprise me to find he’s run off once he sees this. He won’t want anyone asking questions about this cow once he sees the paper. You’ll need to move fast if you want to catch him.’

  ‘Where exactly is the Iron Duke?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Not far from the barracks,’ said the woman. ‘So, now you know who she is, what about the reward?’

  ‘We’ll be able to discuss that once we’ve spoken to this Terry Brady,’ said Daniel. ‘But first we have to talk to the authorities here at the museum.’

  ‘I won’t be cheated of what’s due to me,’ snapped the woman.

  ‘I promise you, you won’t be,’ said Daniel. ‘Where can we get hold of you?’ he asked as she rose to her feet.

  The woman hesitated, then said, ‘I’ll come to you. Are you going after him today?’

  ‘We’ll certainly aim to,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Then I’ll call here tomorrow morning,’ said the woman. ‘Terry Brady is who you want. A thin, short bloke with a face like a weasel. Scar down the left side of his face. Wears a brown tweed suit. Usually got a white scarf round his neck as well. Say the word “Deborah” to him and see how he reacts. The Iron Duke in Hulme.’ She gave them a brisk nod. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Abigail and Daniel exchanged looks as the woman departed.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘It’s the only lead we’ve got,’ commented Daniel.

  Abigail suddenly spotted something behind Daniel and murmured, ‘It looks like we may have another.’

  Daniel turned, and saw a short, elderly man wearing a long black robe at the reception desk as he looked in their direction, following the pointing finger of the receptionist.

  ‘It’s a priest,’ said Abigail, noticing the white clerical collar as the short man walked towards them.

  ‘Hopefully he’s divine intervention arriving with answers,’ muttered Daniel.

  Abigail and Daniel stood up as the priest arrived by them.

  ‘Mr Daniel Wilson?’ he asked in a soft Irish accent.

  ‘I’m Daniel Wilson, and this is my detective partner, Miss Abigail Fenton.’

  The priest took the hands they offered and shook them.

  ‘Father Paul O’Brien,’ he introduced himself. He took the newspaper with the photograph of the young woman from his pocket and held it out to them. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she? From the photograph.’

  ‘Sadly, she is.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘She was stabbed.’

  ‘Was she one of your parishioners?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘If it is her, she was, but only this last week.’

  ‘Was her name Deborah?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘No. It was Kathleen Donlan. She’d not long arrived from Ireland, which was why I describe her as only a very recent parishioner. She was staying with a cousin of hers, Mrs Eileen O’Donnell.’

  Daniel shot a look at Abigail to say: So, we have two very different identifications. Which is it? Deborah or Kathleen? He turned to the priest.

  ‘How sure of this are you, Father? That she’s Kathleen Donlan. The reason I ask is because just a few moments ago we had someone else arrive who identified her as a woman called Deborah.’

  ‘I’m fairly sure, though I agree that sometimes photographs can be misleading. Where is the body at the moment?’

  ‘In the infirmary.’

  ‘As you have a photograph I assume you have permission to get access to her,’ said O’Brien. ‘Can I suggest you take me to the infirmary and I can give you a proper identification if it is Kathleen.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I doubt if the infirmary will object to my presence. One of the blessings of being a priest.’

  Karl was on duty when they arrived at the hospital mortuary, and when Daniel and Abigail saw the almost obsequious way he greeted Father O’Brien, they realised the elderly priest was right about being a priest giving him entry to many places where officialdom might otherwise be obstructive. Especially when the officials are Catholic, thought Daniel. Which he suspected to be the case with Karl.

  O’Brien looked down at the face of the young woman and nodded, his voice sad.

  ‘It’s Kathleen Donlan, right enough,’ he said.

  ‘You’re sure?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘I am. She came to morning Mass for three days, one after the other, along with her cousin, Eileen. The first on Tuesday, then the next day, and the last was Thursday.’

  ‘The day she was killed,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Which part of Ireland was Kathleen from?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘From her accent, I’d say Cork. To be specific, north Cork.’ He smiled. ‘Being a priest here with such a big Irish congregation you get to know accents. Eileen O’Donnell was from Mallow, so north Cork is more than an educated guess. Do you know Ireland?’

  ‘I’ve had friends who’ve visited, but I’ve never been there myself,’ said Abigail. ‘They say it’s a beautiful country.’

  ‘Beautiful, and empty. We lost millions during the famine, some to their graves, more to America and England.’

  ‘Would it be possible for you to let us have Mrs O’Donnell’s address?’ asked Daniel. ‘We’d like to talk to her about Kathleen, see if she can throw any light on what she was looking for at the museum.’

  ‘It would be better if I took you there,’ said O’Brien. ‘Ancoats can be quite a … a rough area. People who know it tend to avoid it, unless they live there.’

  ‘Strangers are at risk?’ suggested Daniel.

  ‘They can be. Especially if they look like they might have some money about them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought we looked particularly wealthy,’ mused Abigail.

  ‘You have shoes,’ said O’Brien. ‘That makes you look like you have money.’

  ‘We have areas like that in London as well,’ Daniel said. ‘We’d be grateful for your assistance.’

  ‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ said O’Brien. ‘Young Kathleen seemed like a nice young girl. No one deserves to die, but to have her young life cut short in that way …’ He shook his head. ‘If I can help find the villain who did it, it will help bring some peace to her poor family. Also, I was thinking of calling on Eileen anyway, for pastoral reasons. She hasn’t been to church for a few days now, which isn’t like her. Especially missing Sunday Mass. That’s the first time I’ve ever known that happen. I was guessing there might be trouble at home.’ He gestured at the body of Kathleen. ‘This could be the reason, her going missing suddenly.’ He looked at Daniel and Abigail. ‘Where was she killed?’

  Both Daniel and Abigail hesitated. Yes, they were dealing with a priest, but Steggles had stressed he wanted the museum kept out of the picture.

  ‘In the museum, Father.’

  It was Karl who spoke, and both Abigail and Daniel looked at him sharply, but he responded with a look of defiance. To a Catholic, the priest always has dom
inance over anyone else, thought Daniel.

  Daniel nodded. ‘Yes, she was killed in the reading room at the museum, but we’ve been asked to keep that out of public knowledge, for the moment.’

  ‘I can understand their reluctance to be associated with such a terrible event,’ said O’Brien sympathetically.

  ‘Actually, Father, there may be something else you can help us with,’ said Daniel, feeling that they might as well go for broke, and the priest seemed like someone who would respond positively to requests for keeping things to himself after all his years in the confessional. ‘Another woman was killed in the museum, and we believe it was on the same day. We’d be most grateful if you’d take a look at her and see if you can give us any clues as to who she might be.’

  ‘It’s not a pretty sight,’ interjected Karl suddenly.

  ‘Death rarely is, my son,’ said the priest. ‘Of course I will. I assume she’s here.’

  ‘In the other room,’ said Daniel. He looked at Karl. ‘I trust that will be acceptable?’

  ‘If the father wishes it,’ said Karl, but his disapproving tone showed he didn’t like it.

  Karl led the way into the other room, and the body covered with a sheet.

  ‘We must prepare you for something very, very unpleasant, Father,’ said Abigail. ‘Her face has been badly mutilated.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said O’Brien. He looked at Karl and nodded, and the mortuary attendant turned back the top of the sheet. As the horror that had once been the dead woman’s face was revealed, the elderly priest visibly recoiled.

  ‘Holy Mother of God! What monster would do such a thing?’

  ‘That’s what we’re hoping to find out. We know it’s impossible for anyone to identify her as she is, but is there anything about her that strikes you as familiar? I ask because she was also killed at the museum, so we’re guessing there could be a connection between the two women.’

  O’Brien studied the body and nodded.