Murder at the Natural History Museum Read online

‘He must have been furious when Miss Scott was appointed.’

  ‘Furious doesn’t even begin to describe it. I heard him ranting and raging at one of the trustees, poor Mr Desmond, vowing vengeance.’

  ‘Vengeance?’

  Mrs Smith nodded. ‘His very words. That’s the kind of man Mr Watling is: a man given to rages. To be honest, if he’d been appointed I’d have left of my own accord before he could dismiss me.’ She looked thoughtful as she added. ‘In fact, I often thought it was strange.’

  ‘What was strange?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘That poor Mr Hardwicke should have been walking along the canal towpath with Mr Watling when he fell in and drowned. They were such very different characters: Mr Hardwicke was gentle and kind while Mr Watling is such a brutal and rude person. I find it odd that they should have kept company.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone else find it odd?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘No. Mr Watling said they were both going to London Zoo and had decided to walk to it along the canal together.’

  ‘And Mr Watling made no attempt to save Mr Hardwicke when he fell in?’

  ‘He may have tried, but I recall the police telling me that they’d asked about that, and Mr Watling had told them he couldn’t swim.’

  ‘Interesting,’ mused Abigail. ‘Do you know why Miss Scott was given the position over Mr Watling? After all, Mr Watling does have a great reputation as an anthropologist. Was it just because his aggressive manner put the trustees off?’

  Smith hesitated, then said: ‘Far be it for me to speak out of turn, Miss Fenton, but I heard two of the trustees discussing the situation, and one said he had concerns about Mr Watling’s gambling debts. He was concerned they might adversely affect the museum’s reputation if they became a scandal.’

  That evening at home, as they tucked into the remainder of the boeuf bourguignon, which Daniel insisted tasted even better the second time as it had had ‘time for the juices to mature’, they discussed the latest events they’d uncovered in the case: the abrupt disappearance of Mrs Simpson – a sure sign of guilt, they both agreed – and especially what Abigail had learnt from Mrs Smith about William Watling and the death of the previous curator.

  ‘It makes me wonder if it could be the museum that was the target, rather than Raymond Simpson. Or, more exactly, Miss Scott. We have a man full of rage who is desperate to get the job of curator because of the eminence of the position, and the handsome salary will help recover his financial difficulties. Fortunately for him, the then curator falls into the canal …’ She paused, then added: ‘Or is pushed.’

  ‘Or is pushed.’ Daniel repeated, then nodded thoughtfully. ‘But instead of waltzing into the job he craves, he is cast aside for a woman. So, you’re asking: is he capable of committing murder to discredit Miss Scott and her running of the museum in order to get her dismissed so that he can take her place?’

  ‘Absolutely he is,’ said Abigail. ‘Especially when you bear in mind the organisational structure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘The Natural History Museum isn’t an independent body. Its official title is The British Museum: Natural History.’

  ‘So, it’s governed by the British Museum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it has its own board of trustees.’

  ‘But they, in turn, are subordinate to the board of trustees of the British Museum. We know that Lady Fortescue is on Watling’s side, if she and Watling have been able to persuade some of the trustees on the board of the British Museum …’

  ‘I see what you mean. But surely that’s unlikely. After all, it must have been these same trustees who appointed Miss Scott to the position of curator.’

  ‘Unless the main board at the British Museum has recently appointed some new trustees.’

  ‘Have they?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Abigail. ‘But if they have …’

  ‘And if the new appointees are associates of William Watling and Lady Fortescue,’ added Daniel, grimly.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Abigail. ‘I think it might be worth having a word with Sir Jasper Stone at the British Museum. He was very grateful after the case we solved there, and I’m sure he’d be approachable.’

  ‘But we’d have to be careful not to mention why we want to know,’ said Daniel. ‘We don’t want our suspicions getting back to Watling.’

  ‘Perhaps if I made a call on him on some unrelated matter,’ suggested Abigail. ‘To do with the museum’s Egyptian collection, perhaps. That way it would look less like us investigating as detectives. And I could ask about recent appointees to the board, say I’m interested if any of the new members are Egyptologists.’

  ‘Yes, good idea,’ said Daniel. ‘But our first visit tomorrow should be to the Lyceum to talk to Mr Bram Stoker and ask him about Raymond Simpson. Remember, that’s what we agreed.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Next morning Daniel and Abigail decided to take a bus to the Lyceum rather than walk. ‘It will give us a chance to see if the newspapers have anything about the murder, and the victim, before we meet Bram Stoker,’ Abigail had suggested.

  ‘We don’t even know if he’ll be at the theatre yet,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I’m sure he will be,’ replied Abigail. ‘As far as I can gather, he virtually lives there. He is at the heart of everything that happens at the Lyceum. And if he isn’t there, we’ll leave a message asking for an appointment, and then I’ll go on to see Sir Jasper at the British Museum, so the morning won’t be wasted.’

  They caught the bus at Mornington Crescent and managed to find two seats together on the upper open deck, where they scanned the newspapers they’d bought.

  ‘The Times and The Telegraph both have reports,’ said Daniel, as he passed her The Times.

  ‘The popular press doesn’t appear to have anything,’ said Abigail. ‘But then, I’ve noticed that unless it’s some sensational scandal, they’re a day behind the quality papers. I assume they take their stories from them and then add their own ghoulish touches.’

  ‘The Telegraph mentions us,’ commented Daniel. ‘“The Museum Detectives, Daniel Wilson, of Ripper notoriety, and Abigail Fenton, the famed Egyptologist”.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ groaned Abigail.

  ‘Why notoriety?’ asked Daniel. ‘You’re described as famed, but me, I’m notorious.’

  ‘I think they mean the case was notorious,’ replied Abigail. ‘And I’m much more than an Egyptologist. I’ve worked in Greece, Italy, Palestine, along Hadrian’s Wall—’

  ‘Yes, but the press talks to the public in brief images,’ said Daniel.

  The journey was slow because of the amount of other traffic, first along Eversholt Street and then in Southampton Row. All traffic finally came to an unplanned halt at the junction where Southampton Row crossed High Holborn before becoming Kingsway, because a horse lay dead in the middle of the road, still harnessed between the shafts of a removal van. The distraught van driver sat in the road beside the dead horse, stroking its head and crying.

  ‘None of this traffic is going anywhere for a while,’ said Daniel. ‘Not until they bring a cart to remove the dead horse and a spare horse to move the removal van.’

  ‘The Lyceum isn’t far from here,’ said Abigail. ‘We’ll walk.’

  Most of the other passengers had reached the same decision, but whereas they hurried past the fallen horse, Daniel made for the grieving driver, Abigail following.

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ Daniel asked.

  The driver, a man in his late fifties, looked up at them, his grimy face streaked with tears.

  ‘I told the boss Joshua wasn’t well,’ he said, between sobs. ‘He was past the age when he could haul a heavy van like this. He should never have been pulling that van.’

  A uniformed police constable regarded Daniel and Abigail quizzically, ‘Are you the owners of this vehicle?’ he asked.

  Daniel shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We were just p
assengers on that bus. We thought we’d offer our assistance, if there is anything we can do.’

  ‘Everything’s being organised,’ said the constable. ‘I’ve sent for another van to take the carcase away.’

  ‘He’s not a carcase!’ shouted the upset driver, angrily. ‘He’s a horse! My horse!’

  Daniel nodded at the policeman. ‘We’ll leave you to it, then, Constable.’

  They left the grieving driver still sitting in the road, his arms around the dead horse’s neck, and headed down Kingsway. It wasn’t too long before they arrived at the ornate exterior of the Lyceum Theatre. Outside, the walls were decorated with large posters publicising the current production of King Arthur, starring Sir Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry. They pushed open the double doors and entered the plush reception area, thickly carpeted and adorned with posters from previous productions. A man wearing a striped waistcoat and with his shirtsleeves rolled up appeared.

  ‘Box office ain’t open yet,’ he informed them.

  ‘We’re not here to purchase tickets,’ said Abigail. ‘We’re here to see if Mr Stoker is available.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the man, warily.

  ‘We’d like to see him.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Abigail Fenton and Daniel Wilson, on behalf of the Natural History Museum.’

  The man hesitated, studying them, then grunted: ‘Wait here.’

  He disappeared through a heavy red curtain. Daniel stood studying the decor of the reception area: a mixture of red and gold painted areas on the walls in between the posters. A ticket booth was at one side, with the words box office above the shuttered window.

  ‘Have you ever been here to see a production?’ asked Abigail.

  Daniel shook his head.

  ‘It’s very impressive,’ she added.

  The man returned. ‘Mr Stoker will see you,’ he said, his manner still suspicious but now slightly less grumpy.

  They followed him down a corridor to an office and found themselves in a small room. The man they recognised from the previous day as Bram Stoker was sitting behind a desk. He stood up as they came in and gestured towards two plush-looking cushioned chairs, again decorated in red and gold, opposite him.

  ‘Please join me,’ he said.

  They took the seats, and Stoker sat. He lifted a copy of that day’s Telegraph to show them.

  ‘I was just reading about you both and what happened yesterday,’ he said. ‘They call you “The Museum Detectives”.’

  Daniel sighed. ‘That’s not a title we came up with.’

  ‘It’s an invention of the press,’ added Abigail.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me about the vagaries of the newspapers,’ said Stoker vengefully. ‘We suffer the distorted views of their critics more often than I care to think. It’s vanity, of course. And jealousy. People of inferior talent trying to tear down the reputations of those who are truly gifted and successful.’ He scowled. ‘That oaf, George Bernard Shaw, for example.’ He forced a smile that did not extend to his eyes. ‘Forgive me, but Sir Henry works so hard and has been so successful that when I see his name traduced in print by an inferior talent, I lose my sense of good humour.’

  Inwardly, Daniel reflected that what he’d seen so far of Bram Stoker gave little indication of the man having a sense of humour.

  ‘I know both of you by your reputations, of course. Your individual reputations, that is. I have often felt in awe of your work as an archaeologist, Miss Fenton. In fact, if I’d known you were there when that unfortunate incident occurred, I would have been tempted to remain instead of rushing off as I did.’

  Abigail smiled. ‘We quite understand,’ she said. ‘You were protecting Sir Henry and Miss Terry.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Stoker. He turned to Daniel. ‘And my knowledge of your work with Inspector Abberline has suggested to me that you are of a different stamp of policeman to some of those I have met.’ He regarded Daniel warily. ‘Are you acquainted with Superintendent Armstrong of Scotland Yard?’

  ‘I am,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Mr Wilson saved his life not very long ago,’ said Abigail.

  Stoker gave a sniff of disapproval. ‘We all make mistakes.’

  ‘I know the superintendent on a professional level,’ said Daniel, carefully. ‘We have different views on policing.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’d heard,’ said Stoker. ‘Which is why I’m happy to talk to you. Both of you. You have questions?’

  ‘About Raymond Simpson,’ said Abigail. ‘He worked here as an usher.’

  ‘He did,’ said Stoker.

  ‘Why did he leave?’

  ‘I sacked him,’ said Stoker.

  ‘May we ask why?’

  ‘You may. I sacked him when I discovered he was the villain who’d sold out my friend, Oscar Wilde.’

  ‘Sold him out? For money?’

  ‘Of course. What else. That was all Simpson was interested in. I’m sure he was paid to dig up the evidence that was used against Oscar.’

  ‘Paid by whom?’

  ‘I have no proof, but my guess is it was by agents of the Marquess of Queensbury.’

  ‘If you knew what he was like, why did you hire him in the first place?’

  ‘I did not hire him. The hiring of front of house staff such as ushers and programme sellers is done by our house manager, Derek Warner. I have enough on my hands with arranging casting and set designers.’

  ‘So, you recognised him.’

  ‘No. Mr Warner mentioned to me that he’d overheard Simpson bragging to one of the other ushers of his involvement in the trial. I asked him to look into it, and when he confirmed that this was the same Raymond Simpson, I dismissed him at once.’

  ‘Were you surprised when you saw him at the Natural History Museum?’

  ‘To be honest, I didn’t recognise him. I peeled the cloth back and saw a man’s face, obviously dead. I didn’t study him. And the maintenance manager was there at once, so I had no time to look at him properly.’

  ‘You didn’t notice him when you visited the museum on Saturday?’

  Stoker shook his head.

  ‘No. At least, I wasn’t aware of him. I didn’t really take in the attendants; they were just men in uniforms. And some women, I recall.’

  ‘We’re trying to find out all we can about the man in order to try and discover who might have killed him.’

  ‘I believe Superintendent Armstrong thinks it was me,’ said Stoker. ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted him dead?’

  ‘Many, I imagine. But no particular person springs to mind. The man was untrustworthy, villainous, and I assume he must have tried to blackmail others as he did Mr Wilde. That would have made him enemies.’

  ‘Can you think of any friends of Mr Wilde’s who would have felt strongly enough over what happened to want that sort of revenge?’ asked Daniel. ‘I believe Mr Wilde is suffering in prison.’

  Stoker gave a harsh and bitter laugh. ‘Suffering barely covers it.’ Then he shook his head. ‘No, I can’t think of anyone in his circle who would kill anyone, let alone be so careful in the planning.’

  ‘You know it was planned?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘What else could it be? Sir Henry, Miss Terry and I arrived before the museum opened and before the general public was admitted. That leaves a very narrow window indeed for the crime to have been committed, and for the culprit to have escaped. Which makes me think the person who did it was an employee of the museum.’

  ‘That’s certainly a possibility,’ said Abigail, thoughtfully. Then she asked: ‘By the way, Mr Stoker, do you happen to have a copy of Who’s Who here? There’s someone I’d like to look up.’

  ‘If it’s someone in the theatrical world, perhaps I can help.’

  ‘No, it’s no one theatrical,’ said Abigail. ‘I was interested to find out about William Watling, the anthropologist.’

  Stoker shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.�
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  He got up, went to his bookshelves and took down a thick tome, which he handed to Abigail.

  ‘Here you are. It’s the latest edition. I like to be sure of facts before I meet people.’ He smiled again as he added: ‘Even though some of those so-called facts often need to be taken with a pinch of salt. People often lie about their achievements to try to boost their reputations.’

  Abigail flicked through the pages and located the entry for William Watling, which she studied briefly before handing the book back to Stoker.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Stoker.’

  ‘Was it useful?’

  ‘It was indeed.’

  ‘What prompted you to look up William Watling?’ asked Daniel as they left the theatre.

  ‘I wanted to find out a bit more about him before I meet Sir Jasper. I thought it might be useful to see what Sir Jasper knows of him and I wanted to have something to introduce him into the conversation.’

  ‘And what did you discover?’

  ‘He was born in ’55, so that makes him forty. He was educated at Ampleforth College before going to Oxford.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Widowed.’

  ‘I wonder what his wife died of.’

  ‘Hopefully Sir Jasper will be able to enlighten me. I once worked with a very good archaeologist called Jeremy Swanton who’s now at University College. Jeremy was also at Ampleforth and he’d be about the same age as Watling. While I’m in the area I thought I’d also go and see him, after I’ve been to the British Museum. For one thing, Jeremy should be able to let us know whether Watling could swim or not when they were at school.’

  Daniel looked back at the theatre’s ornate facade. ‘This is a different world to the one I’m used to,’ he said. ‘Names keep popping up that you are familiar with but I’m not. This George Bernard Shaw, for example. Who is he and why does Stoker hate him so?’

  ‘He’s a drama critic,’ said Abigail. ‘He’s also a writer. Not very successful so far, I believe, although he’s recently turned to drama and his stage play, Arms and the Man, has had some success. Rumour has it that George Bernard Shaw is secretly in love with Ellen Terry and hates the fact that Miss Terry and Sir Henry are … well … close. That’s possibly why his reviews of some of the productions at the Lyceum invariably praise Ellen Terry, while at the same time being severely critical of Sir Henry, calling his performances overblown and artificial.’