Murder at the Ashmolean, page 9
‘As far as I know, the first play Shakespeare wrote was The Two Gentlemen of Verona in about 1588, so if this family really did commission a play from him, it would have been in some time during the 1580s. So, we’re looking for a titled family who’ve been in this area since that time.’
‘There are four who claim to be the oldest aristocratic family in Oxfordshire,’ said Esther thoughtfully. ‘The Duke of Charlbury, the Duke of Abingdon, the Earl of Eynsham and Baron Whichford. I believe all their titles go right back to the fifteenth century.’
‘All married?’ asked Abigail.
‘The Duke of Abingdon is a widower,’ said Esther. ‘His wife, Mirabelle, died two years ago. She was seventy, and he’s eighty-one. The other three are all married.’
‘I think we can strike Abingdon off,’ said Abigail. ‘With the other three, is there any gossip about them? Unhappy wives?’
‘There are always unhappy wives,’ said Esther. ‘Except for the Earl of Eynsham and his wife. By all accounts they’re a very devoted couple.’
‘Have they been married long?’
‘Thirty years or more.’
‘So that leaves us with the Duke and Duchess of Charlbury, and Baron and Baroness Whichford. What do you know about them?’
‘Nothing really,’ admitted Esther. ‘I don’t really move in those sort of circles.’ Then her face brightened as she said, ‘But I could. If my editor agreed, I could do a feature on them both. Sort of “Local aristocratic families, the women’s view”, which would involve interviewing them. You never know, it could give me a chance to see if either of them is particularly unhappy in her marriage. Check out if there’s a possible lover in the background.’
‘That’s brilliant!’ said Abigail.
‘I could dig into the family’s ancient ancestry, in the nicest and most flattering way. These old families love boasting how long they’ve been around. Mention the name Shakespeare and see if one of them picks up on it. Although, if she’s trying to sell a manuscript, it’s unlikely she’ll admit to that part,’ she added.
‘Perhaps you might be able to talk to the husband, or someone else in the family,’ suggested Abigail.
‘Yes, I can say I’m looking for added colour to the story and bring in famous people the family must have known in the past.’
‘That’s good,’ said Abigail. ‘I can see you have a flair for this sort of thing.’
‘Being a journalist?’ asked Esther.
‘I was going to say, being a detective,’ said Abigail. ‘After all, in both it’s about asking questions in a clever and oblique way.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Daniel left the club and mounted the steps to the pavement. The club’s bar manager, Albert, was standing beside a pile of wooden crates containing bottles which had obviously just been delivered, and he and another man, dressed in slightly shabby clothes, were stacking the crates against the metal railings.
‘Excuse me,’ said Daniel to Albert. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but as you know, I was in with Mr de Witt just now because I’m making enquiries about one of your members, Mr Gavin Everett.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Albert suspiciously.
‘Yes. His employers, the Ashmolean Museum, have hired me to see if I can find out why he may have killed himself, but I’m having difficulty in finding out the right sort of people to ask.’
‘I’m not the right sort of person to ask,’ said Albert. ‘I just saw him when he was in the club and I served him drinks.’ He scowled at the other man, who was standing, holding a crate of spirits and listening. ‘Go on, Joe. Hurry up!’
Joe headed for the door of the steps leading down to the basement, carrying his precious load. Albert turned to look aggressively at Daniel and demanded, ‘So? Is that it?’
‘Not quite,’ said Daniel. ‘What I’m trying to find out is if there were any members, or other people, he spoke to more than others when he was here.’
‘What did Mr de Witt say?’
‘He said he couldn’t recall anybody in particular. That Mr Everett was friendly to everyone. But it struck me that Mr de Witt, as the manager, is a very busy man and may not always be in the club itself. Whereas you would be in a perfect position to be able to observe if he was particularly friendly with anyone.’ Hastily, he added as he saw a scowl developing on Albert’s face, ‘I only want to know the names of people it might be worth talking to, to give me an insight into Mr Everett’s condition, if anything might have been worrying him.’
‘If there was, he never showed any sign of it,’ grunted Albert. ‘As for special people he talked to?’ He shook his head. ‘No, just as Mr de Witt told you, he was the same with everyone.’ He picked up a crate. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, me and Joe have got to get this stuff inside. Leave it outside too long, and it vanishes. As it is, we do it one going in, one out here.’
On cue, Joe appeared from up the steps.
‘You took your time,’ snapped Albert, and he headed for the steps, with a last barked command back at Joe: ‘And don’t talk to ’im!’
As Albert disappeared through the door into the club, Joe hissed at Daniel, ‘I can tell you, but not here. Albert’ll be back out in seconds. Where can I find you?’
‘The Ashmolean or the Wilton Hotel. The name’s Daniel Wilson.’
‘I’ll see you at the Wilton in three hours’ time,’ muttered Joe. ‘And I ain’t doing it for free. Now get off before Albert comes out and sees you still here.’
Abigail had found the shop belonging to Ephraim Wardle, restorer and renovator, on Woodstock Road. Ephraim Wardle was a man in his late fifties, and he didn’t turn from his work as the bell above the door tinkled at Abigail’s entrance. He was sitting at an easel before a painting or a portrait of a young man dressed in what looked like one of Cromwell’s Parliamentarian outfits, delicately dabbing at a patch of the costume with a paintbrush whose bristles had been wrapped in a small piece of cloth. A palette daubed with paint, and pots with different coloured paints were on a small table beside him. The overwhelming smell was of oil paint and paint thinner.
‘That looks like a Frans Hals,’ observed Abigail. ‘It’s not one I’ve seen before, but the style looks like his.’
Wardle turned and looked at her, an expression of respect on his face.
‘You’ve got a good eye,’ he said. ‘Yes, it’s Frans Hals right enough, but the reason you won’t have seen it is because it’s in a private collection. The owner asked me to do a repair job. One of his servants spilt some stuff on it, would you believe. Needless to say, the servant was sacked.’ He studied Abigail, then asked, ‘So, are you a dealer or a collector?’
‘Neither,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m an archaeologist, and currently I’ve been hired by Mr Marriott at the Ashmolean to look into some things for him.’
‘What sort of things?’
Abigail hesitated. It was obvious to her that Mr Wardle was an astute person, and – from the portrait on the easel and the skilful way he was working on it – that he was proud of his work and would be insulted if she asked him direct if he’d done the restoration on the crudely copied Egyptian plate. Instead, she said, ‘I believe you used to do restoration work for the Ashmolean.’
‘Used to is right,’ grunted Wardle sourly. ‘But that changed about a year ago. That Mr Everett told me they’d decided to go with someone else.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘He said the Ashmolean was having to watch its costs.’ He scowled. ‘As if restoring – proper restoring – can be done on the cheap! You can use substitutes for some things, but take lapis lazuli, for example, which is used to make ultramarine. D’you know how expensive the real stuff is?’
‘Yes, I do, actually,’ said Abigail. ‘My speciality as an archaeologist is ancient Egypt, so I’m familiar with painting techniques and materials used at that time.’
Wardle looked at her warily, then asked, ‘You wouldn’t be Miss Abigail Fenton, by any chance, would you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Abigail.
Wardle laid down his brush and stood up, his hand outstretched. ‘Will you permit me to shake your hand,’ he said.
‘It will be my pleasure,’ said Abigail, ‘to shake the hand of someone who can reproduce the style and technique of Frans Hals as well as you.’ As they shook hands, she added in surprise, ‘But I’m surprised you’ve heard of me.’
‘That’s because I’m not just your ordinary run-of-the-mill restorer,’ said Wardle, sitting down again and indicating for Abigail to sit on a wooden chair nearby. ‘I read the magazines to keep up with what’s happening, including those with articles about archaeological digs and the relics being found in Egypt and Greece and the like. I get them mainly for the pictures, so I can see what the originals look like, because I can’t get to see them in real life. Except at a place like the Ashmolean.’
‘Have you been there lately?’ asked Abigail.
Wardle shook his head.
‘Not since that Everett laid me off. I vowed after that I’d never set foot in that place again.’ Then he added thoughtfully, ‘Mind, now Everett’s topped himself, I might be able to go again. I always liked the place, and I had a great deal of respect for Gladstone Marriott. It was a pity he handed over the restoration commissions to Everett.’
‘Do you know who Mr Everett employed to do the restoring after you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Wardle sourly. ‘But not because that Everett told me – oh no! Tried to keep it to himself, but I made a point of asking around. We restorers all know one another, and we know who’s good and who’s bad. And it was no surprise to me that the name that came up was a right rascal, in my opinion. Not worth the name of restorer. A charlatan! A hack!’
‘And his name?’ asked Abigail.
‘Josiah Goddard.’
‘And where would I find him?’
Wardle looked at her suspiciously. ‘And what would someone like you be wanting with a rascal like Josiah Goddard? Surely not to do some restoring work on an Egyptian piece?’
‘Oh no!’ Abigail assured him quickly. ‘I just want to talk to him about his association with Mr Everett.’
‘His association!’ said Wardle, his voice full of scorn. ‘Whatever it was, it wouldn’t have been honest. There was something rotten about Everett. I could tell when he was talking to me about my price, trying to force it down.’
‘Did he ever ask you about copying any article?’ asked Abigail. ‘Pieces of ancient pottery, for example?’
Wardle let out a cackling laugh.
‘So that’s what this is about!’ he chuckled. ‘Him and Josiah Goddard working crafty!’
‘No,’ said Abigail hastily, keen not to reveal the secret of the copied artefacts. ‘It’s just part of our investigation.’
‘Our?’ asked Wardle.
‘My partner and I,’ said Abigail. ‘Daniel Wilson.’
‘Wilson. Wilson,’ muttered Wardle thoughtfully. Then his face brightened. ‘Got him! Used to be at Scotland Yard! Part of Inspector Abberline’s team. Did the Ripper case. Went private, so I remember. That’s what it said in the papers.’
‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘That’s him.’
‘And now he’s here, with you, looking into Everett and Josiah Goddard.’ He chuckled. ‘I was right! He was crooked.’
‘Did he ever ask you to copy anything?’ asked Abigail again.
Wardle nodded. ‘He did,’ he said. ‘I told him no, I don’t do copying. I do restoration. Repair work. Because I know where copying leads. Fakery.’
‘Did Everett say that’s what he was after?’
‘He didn’t need to. I’ve got a reputation to keep. I don’t take chances.’
‘But Josiah Goddard would do copies?’
‘Is that what’s happened at the Ashmolean?’ asked Wardle.
‘No,’ replied Abigail firmly. ‘But I have a feeling he might have been considering it.’
‘That wouldn’t surprise me. And if he was, Goddard would be his man. Not that I’ve seen any of his work, but then I don’t associate with him and that low level of so-called “restorer”.’ He scowled, then gave her a very proud smile. ‘I’m an artist.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Esther was walking along the corridor towards Mr Pinker’s office, when she heard a man’s voice from the stairwell growl gruffly, ‘Where’s the editor?’
‘Just along the corridor, third door on the left,’ came the answer.
The next moment the man that Esther had seen coming out of Mr Wilson’s room at the Wilton Hotel – Inspector Grafton, according to Abigail – appeared from the stairwell. Immediately, Esther ducked into an empty office and pushed the door half closed, then watched through the crack as Grafton stomped along the corridor and arrived at Pinker’s office. He rapped hard at the door and was already reaching for the door handle as Pinker called, ‘Come in!’
As Grafton went into the editor’s office, Esther slipped out from her hiding place and moved to Pinker’s door, gently placing her foot against the frame as it closed to prevent it shutting completely and listened to the conversation.
‘Mr Pinker?’ asked Grafton.
‘Yes,’ said Pinker, a tone of puzzlement in his voice.
‘I’m Inspector Grafton from Special Branch at Scotland Yard. This is my warrant card.’
‘Scotland Yard?’ echoed Pinker, the puzzlement now replaced by worry.
‘My visit here is secret,’ said Grafton. ‘You must not tell anyone I was here or what we talked about. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, but what’s this about?’ asked Pinker, sounding even more worried.
‘It’s about national security,’ said Grafton curtly. ‘Did you know Gavin Everett?’
‘From the Ashmolean? The one who killed himself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I knew him to meet on a social level if anything was happening at the Ashmolean. I wouldn’t say I knew him on a personal level.’
‘Do you know who did? And I’m looking for someone with a South African connection. In particular, someone who might have Boer sympathies.’
‘Boer sympathies?’ echoed Pinker, bewildered.
‘That’s what I said. Anyone who might be sympathetic to the Boer side rather than the British.’
Pinker’s voice took on an indignant tone. ‘I’ll have you know that Oxford is a very patriotic city. To the best of my knowledge we’ve never had any reports of anyone in Oxford, or even the outlying areas, who expressed support for the Boers during the war in South Africa.’
‘And what about since the war?’
‘Well … no. There’d have been no need. The war’s over, and everyone’s working together. In fact, lots of Brits have gone to South Africa to work in the goldfields in the Boer areas. I believe that Gavin Everett did so himself.’
‘So how about anyone who went to the Transvaal to work in the Boer goldfields and came back having made good money?’
‘Again, that could describe Gavin Everett, though I’m not sure if he actually made a great deal of money there. If he had, he wouldn’t have been working at the Ashmolean.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘There’s Lord Chessington, of course.’
‘Lord Chessington?’
‘He went out there as a part of a business venture rather than working digging for gold.’ He laughed. ‘In fact, I can’t imagine Lord Chessington ever getting his hands dirty. But he did come back very rich, and by all accounts the money’s still rolling in. That’s where the money is, Inspector, in business speculation, not in using a shovel.’
‘Where is his mine?’
‘Mines, Inspector. Plural. As I understand it, he partners with some businessmen in the Transvaal.’
‘Boers?’
‘I would expect so. I don’t think Brits have ownership rights out there, so they go into partnerships with locals.’
‘Do you know who his partners are?’
‘You’ll have to ask Lord Chessington himself,’ said Pinker. ‘Though whether he’ll tell you is another matter. He keeps his business affairs very close to his chest.’ He chuckled. ‘The very rich don’t like paying taxes if they can avoid it.’
‘There’s no one else you can think of in Oxford with a South African Boer connection?’ pressed Grafton.
‘Well, there’s Professor Vorster. He’s from South Africa, and Vorster’s a Boer name, isn’t it.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Grafton.
‘He lectures at Exeter College. I’ve only met him a couple of times, at social dos the university holds. I must admit he didn’t come across as in any way being involved in politics of any sort. A very pleasant man, although with a slightly abstracted air about him, like a lot of these academics. So many of them only seem to come alive when they’re talking about their particular subject.’
‘And what’s this Professor Vorster’s particular subject?’
‘The development of early Christian religion. You know, stemming from the Jewish faith in Israel and north Africa, and reaching Rome. He’ll talk about that for hours.’
‘Anyone else?’ asked Grafton.
‘There’s a man called Vance de Witt,’ said Pinker thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never met him, but I know people who have.’
‘What sort of people?’
‘Mostly academics, some businessmen, the local gentry. All very respectable.’
‘And what’s this de Witt do?’
‘He manages a gentlemen’s club in Oxford. It’s called the Quill Club. Very respectable, and very discreet.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, it doesn’t advertise itself. Membership is by recommendation only.’
‘You’re not a member?’
‘No, no, it’s too rich for my tastes,’ said Pinker. ‘Card games with high stakes. That sort of thing.’
‘And what’s his connection with South Africa?’
‘I’m told he comes from there,’ said Pinker. ‘But which part, I have no idea. As I say, I’ve never met the man.’
