Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic (5 page)

“I hope so too, sir,” said Cunningham, but there was little conviction in his tone.

It was not until he was waiting on the platform of the railway station that Cunningham felt himself at leisure to consider what his information really amounted to, to sum up in a few sentences what he had learned, and to decide precisely how he would tell Shelley what he had discovered.

Baker had a complete alibi for the day. That was the first point. Moses Moss was the next suspect, and Dr. Crocker, to whom they had already had the attention drawn, would follow. The question of the will of Professor Arnell, Shelley already had under consideration, and no doubt they would have got hold of most of the other points without Baker's assistance, willingly though it had been given.

Then Cunningham smacked his knee so hard and so resoundingly that an old lady sitting opposite him looked up in alarm.

“What a fool!” he said to himself. “Why on earth didn't I think of that before?” He had forgotten to test Baker on the question of his last contact with the professor, the occasion when, if at all, he would have placed the poisoned sweet in the packet!

Chapter VI

New Information

Mr. Henry Fairhurst twisted himself uncomfortably in the deep leather-padded chair. The policeman at the other side of the room cast suspicious glances at the little man, as if he thought that the pince-nez hid eyes of implacable evil. Mr. Fairhurst twisted again. If this was the way Scotland Yard treated a man bringing valuable information, he told himself, he would not come near the place again. He might have been the suspect in a murder trial, for all the deference with which they dealt with him. And yet he had brought them the most important discovery which had been made in connection with the murder.

They had kept him waiting for hours, too. Since he first told his story to a grim-visaged detective he had been planted in this arm-chair, a suspicious policeman on the other side of the room, and had been bluntly requested to await further developments, to sit tight until some other unspecified individual turned up. On this mysterious gentleman's arrival, Mr. Fairhurst had been led to suspect that he would have to tell his tale again.

Soon his unfortunate dilemma was cleared up, however, for Inspector Shelley burst into the room, rubbing his hands briskly together, and with a twinkle of pleasure in his keen grey eyes.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting so long, Mr. Fairhurst,” he said smilingly, “but the fact of the matter is that I have been out of London since you saw me last—interviewing important witnesses in this case.”

“That's quite all right, Inspector,” Henry returned, “and I can assure you that I didn't mind waiting.” (Politeness makes liars of us all!)

Shelley looked at the little man keenly. “I understand, Mr. Fairhurst,” he remarked, “that you have some sort of new information for us.”

Henry drew himself up to his full five feet four inches, replying with an air of great dignity: “Indeed I have, Inspector. Some most surprising new information at that. Something, if I am not mistaken, which will make you sit up and open your eyes in astonishment.”

“Takes a good deal to astonish Scotland Yard, sir,” was the reply to this. “Still, you may be right. I understand that you want to tell us something about the death of Professor Wilkinson of Northfield University.”

Henry Fairhurst nodded emphatically. “When I got home, Inspector, after I had given you what information I could about the death of Professor Arnell, I began, as you might well imagine, to think over all the details of the case.”

“Quite so,” said Shelley non-committally.

“And then it occurred to me that I had read somewhere that another man recently died in the Reading Room at the British Museum.” Henry thought that there was no especial point in speaking of his sister's remembrance of this other death. After all, if there was any credit going in this matter, he might as well get it, and Sarah would really never be aware of what she had missed.

“Really?” Shelley's eyebrows rose interrogatively. He in his turn was prepared to do some bluffing. The little man would be much more likely to give out all the information which was at his disposal if he was encouraged to think that his facts were not in any way astonishing, but was permitted to imagine that he could merely confirm information already received from other sources. Shelley may have looked simple enough, but in actuality he was far from it, as many an over-confident criminal had found to his cost.

“Yes,” said Henry. “And I got into touch with a friend who works on one of the London daily papers, and enquired if he remembered anything about such a case.”

“And did he?” Shelley was unable to restrain his eagerness now, as he began to realise whither this conversation was leading.

“He did. He remembered that the man who had died in the Reading Room of the British Museum some six months ago was Professor Wilkinson of Northfield University.” Henry was satisfied that his new information was of the most sensational kind, and he was frankly disappointed at the matter-of-fact way in which the Scotland Yard man took it.

“But why do you think that such a death, taking place some six months ago, necessarily had anything to do with the present murder?” asked Shelley.

“Well…” This point had apparently not occurred to Henry. “But it is surely obvious…” he said, and paused irresolutely.

“What is obvious, Mr. Fairhurst?”

“Surely if two men, each experts in one particular branch of knowledge, each die in one spot, even though their deaths are separated by some months, there is some presumption that their deaths are in some way connected.”

“A possibility, but by no means a presumption,” Shelley corrected him. “After all, there have been remarkable coincidences of that sort before, and no doubt there will be again. It is by no means impossible that this is a coincidence.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I don't think anything about it yet. I want to know all the facts of the man's death. Do you know anything about it? What verdict did the coroner's jury bring in—for I assume that there was an inquest, since it was apparently a sudden death? What was the medical evidence? Was there any indication that Professor Wilkinson, like our friend Arnell, was poisoned? You see, Mr. Fairhurst, there are all sorts of questions to be settled before we come to any kind of conclusion as to whether the two deaths are connected by anything more than mere coincidence.” Shelley was quite breathless after this tirade, but he was pleased to observe, by the look of bewilderment that had gradually spread over Fairhurst's face, that he was producing the desired impression. He felt sure that Fairhurst would be a useful witness; but not if he persisted in twisting every fact to fit some pet theory of his own.

“It was proved that he was suffering from some sort of heart trouble,” said Fairhurst. “Everybody seemed to know that—but then, for all I know, Arnell may also have had a weak heart.”

Shelley nodded. “He had,” he said briefly.

“He was apparently handling a heavy book of some sort, and he just collapsed and died. They brought in a verdict of death from natural causes.”

“And that,” said Shelley, “was that.”

“As far,” added Henry cautiously, “as we know at the present moment.”

“Yes,” said Shelley, and held out his hand to the little man. “Thank you very much for your information, Mr. Fairhurst, which I hope will be of some use to us. I will notify you when the inquest takes place, and what you will probably be asked there.”

“But, my dear Inspector,” protested Henry, “am I to know no more about this? I…I have given you some most important information, I…I have given you a hint which may be the point deciding the whole case. Am I to know nothing about what is done in the way of acting on this information?”

Shelley smiled. “The papers, my dear Mr. Fairhurst,” he said, “have a habit of reporting criminal cases in some fullness. And if your information is really important I might even be able to get you a seat at the Old Bailey for the trial.”

“But until then,” Henry began.

“Until then,” Shelley continued, “I fear that we cannot disclose any of our information, even to you, my dear Mr. Fairhurst.”

And with that Henry Fairhurst had perforce to be content.

He would, however, have been pleased if he could have seen the flurry of activity into which his story plunged Scotland Yard immediately after his departure.

Shelley rang bells and spoke into telephones. He visited various departments and talked to many people. Finally he sent for a certain gentleman at Scotland Yard who is known as the memory of the Yard, for his was an encyclopædic knowledge of all mysterious characters, all criminal cases, all sudden deaths within recent years. He was, in fact, a walking dictionary of crime.

“Look here, Mac,” said Shelley, when he arrived, “can you remember anything about the death of a fellow called Professor Wilkinson of Northfield University—happened six months or so back?”

Mac thought for a minute or so. “I'll no say that I can remember all about yon fella,” he admitted, “but I can tell ye a bit aboot him.”

“Good,” said Shelley. “Carry on.”

“Died in Reading Room of British Museum,” said Mac, speaking in a sharp, jerky manner, almost as if reading a series of notes from a page. “Age 55. Height…”

“Don't bother about measurements and so on,” said Shelley. “I can look them up at leisure. I want the facts about his death, verdict at the inquest, medical details, and all that sort of thing.”

“Verdict, natural causes,” went on Mac, unperturbed. “He was supposed to have had some sort o' heart failure, but there was, if I remember aright, some doot aboot the question.”

“Why,” asked Shelley, “what was the doubt?”

“Och, 'twas nothin',” answered Mac. “'Twas only that he left a good deal o' cash to a young schoolmaister in the country somewhere, and the young fella was in the Readin' Room on the same day as the old chap died. And when that sort o' thing happens, ye ken, there are aye folks unco' ready to put twa and twa thegether, and mak' 'em five.”

Shelley looked up in surprise. This was suggestive of a new line of investigation. It was new information with a vengeance. He felt that he knew the answer to his next question before he asked it—yet he was impelled to ask it, just the same.

“What was the name of the young schoolmaster? Does it happen to stick in that queer old head of yours, Mac?” he asked, with a grin.

“It does,” returned Mac, unabashed, for his phenomenal memory he regarded much as other people regard their hair or their teeth—as a fact of nature, to be accepted, but not necessarily to be in any way proud of. “The young fella's name was Henry Baker. He was Wilkinson's cousin.”

Once again, as so many times before in his career, Shelley was up against an acute problem. Many impetuous men would, on receipt of this information, have hurried off to arrest the young man at once, but Shelley realised that it was quite possible, in spite of the undoubtedly serious evidence against him, that he was innocent. In any case, he was probably quite safely stowed away at Pinner—and Cunningham would have some more facts and theories about him to be added to the rapidly growing accumulation.

“Thank you, Mac,” he said, not showing in his face the feeling of delight that was surging up within him. “That's very useful. I hope it'll lead to our getting our man once again.”

“Don't thank me,” said Mac. “'Tis nothing, I assure ye. Nothing more than a little gift, that the government underpays me for using.” And he stalked out of the room, leaving Shelley with a smile still on his face, for Mac's perpetual grumbles at the smallness of his salary (which was actually not so small, after all) were one of the standing jokes among the higher ranks at Scotland Yard.

Shelley drew a sheet of paper towards him, and, as was his wont when in the middle of a difficult case, wrote out a summary of what he had as yet discovered. Several people would have been surprised if they could have read what he wrote, for Shelley, as has already been noted, could on occasions appear disarmingly simple when, in reality, he was laying traps of the deepest guile.

Then he took another sheet of paper, headed it “Immediate Jobs,” and then chewed the end of his pen reflectively. What he afterwards wrote was this:

“(1) ? Exhume Wilkinson. See Home Secretary. ? Is cyanide traceable long after death.

“(2) Make sure of facts about Baker's presence in B.M. when Wilkinson died. ? Find if Baker has alibi on occasion of death of Arnell. P.S.—Alibi not worth much in any case, since poisoned sweet may have been placed in bag some time before.

“(3) See about Arnell's will—also Wilkinson's? Is any one beneficiary of both, save Baker, who benefits
via
Violet Arnell in second case, and directly in first case.

“(4) Does Dr. Crocker of Oxford know anything about these two? Can he help in suggesting motives, since he is apparently a friend of both of them?

“(5) Were there any personal quarrels in which the two men were concerned? Any enemy of the two, apart from mercenary motives.”

He put down his pen and sighed deeply. “The questions seem to be endless,” he murmured. “Suppose I'm trying to theorise too soon. Must wait until I've got more facts to work upon. At the moment things look pretty black for Mr. Baker, but then at this stage in the case it's impossible to go at all deeply into questions of motive, and so on. Where the devil is Cunningham?”

There was a bell on the desk before him, and he pressed it. A constable appeared. “Has Sergeant Cunningham returned yet?” asked Shelley.

“No, sir.”

“Well, when he does, tell him to report to me at once. I shall stay here until his return, as he will have some important information on this case,” Shelley snapped.

“Very well, sir.”

The constable retired, and Shelley studied the document before him—the list of jobs to be immediately done, questions to be settled without delay.

What was there here which he could make up his mind to do straight away? He probably had some hours to waste before Cunningham returned, and he might as well employ those hours in a more or less profitable manner, he told himself.

Then he looked up in pleasant anticipation. Question number four. That could be decided without delay. Dr. Crocker of Oxford might be at home. Anyhow, he could communicate with the Oxford police, and then, if the man was in residence (it was still vacation time, so he might be climbing the Alps, or doing whatever else Oxford dons did in their holidays), he would be able to run down to Oxford on the following morning, and find out what he had to say about his two dead friends.

Shelley drew the telephone towards him. “Get me Oxford police,” he instructed the operator.

In a few minutes he was speaking to the inspector in charge of the City police station at Oxford, and he explained his need for information, having first given the secret police sign which indicates that a fellow limb of the law is making the enquiry.