Before Higgins questioned Clyde Winterbottom at the British Museum, he thought it wise to first inform his mother. Especially since he now suspected the museum curator of being involved with smuggling. And possibly murder. He knew his niece and brother would turn a deaf ear to anything Higgins told them. But his mother – being a Higgins by marriage only – was a sensible woman. She might regard the suspicions swirling around Winterbottom as reason to delay the wedding. And her opinion carried far more weight in the family than his.
But when he arrived at her flat on the Chelsea Embankment, the maid looked at him as if he were a marauding Viking.
“Madame is occupied with her committee, Mr. Higgins,” Daisy said. “She does not wish to be disturbed.”
Damn. He’d forgotten his mother hosted her weekly meetings on Wednesdays. An august group of ten ladies with a fondness for opera and fund raising, the Royal Opera Matrons were responsible for holding endless luncheons, benefits, and balls to help fill the coffers of Covent Garden’s opera company. Apparently staging new productions of La Traviata and replacing the costumes for Don Giovanni required ridiculous sums of money that only respected society matrons could wring out of London’s titled and wealthy opera lovers.
Standing in the foyer, he heard the chatter of women accompanied by the clink of spoons against teacups. He almost turned tail and ran, but the image of Winterbottom at the altar beside his niece gave him courage. “I wouldn’t interrupt her meeting without cause.”
Daisy looked as though she didn’t believe that for a second.
“If you don’t tell her I’m here, I’ll burst in unannounced.” He wagged his finger at the diminutive servant. “And don’t think to stop me. I’m a foot taller than you, and heavier by five stone. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Since the maid had worked for his mother for over a decade, Daisy knew him far too well. “What should I say is the reason for your visit, Professor?”
“Her niece Beatrice’s wedding. I have urgent news about the groom.”
She went off with a long suffering expression. Higgins felt pleased with himself, until his mother marched down the entry hall towards him. She looked as forbidding as the sternest headmistress, albeit one who was outfitted in mauve silk and French lace.
“Mother, I didn’t expect you to come to me,” he said. “I thought we would speak privately in your sitting room.”
Her gaze was positively withering. “I have no intention of allowing our conversation to last longer than a minute. And since you have the bad manners to disrupt my committee meeting, you deserve to remain in the foyer like a delivery boy.”
“I forgot about the opera committee. I would never have come if I remembered.”
“Hah!”
“But this is important. I’ve learned something disquieting about Clyde Winterbottom.”
“Unless you are here to tell me Mr. Winterbottom has run off with the Queen, I can think of no reason which justifies disrupting my business with the Royal Opera Matrons.”
“I have reason to suspect Winterbottom of being involved with the theft of a temple treasure from India.”
Her face remained impassive. “I’m waiting to hear something shocking.”
“How can you not find that shocking? The fellow may have helped smuggle artwork out of the subcontinent.”
“Good grief, Henry. Much of the artwork in museums and great households was probably acquired in ways best left unexamined. Your own father purchased a painting reputedly stolen from a King of Navarre. It currently hangs in Charles’s study.”
“If simple theft seems excusable, how about murder?” he asked in a stage whisper.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. Winterbottom is now murdering people, is he? I do find that shocking. I would have thought he had little energy left after all his preening and posturing.”
“You’re not taking me seriously. If you won’t believe me, perhaps you should know that before Miss Palmer was killed, she warned Eliza not to trust Winterbottom.”
This got a reaction from his mother, but not what he desired. “As if I would trust anything that wayward woman said.” Her quiet voice now held an edge. He may have gone too far. “I read about Miss Palmer’s demise in the papers, so I shall not speak ill of the dead. But do not ask me to lend credence to the statements of such a person.”
“What if Winterbottom is involved in her murder? Or Mr. Farrow’s.”
“What if he’s Father Christmas? You have as much proof of that as the others.”
“I may not have proof, but there is suspicion surrounding him. I don’t want to wait until after he’s married Beatrice before any scandalous truths emerge. Mother, you should talk to Charles about postponing the wedding. He won’t pay me any mind, but he’ll listen to you.”
“Have you lost your reason along with what’s left of your manners? I shall do no such thing.” She reached up and straightened his tie. “And unless you have evidence that Mr. Winterbottom is guilty of any wrongdoing, I expect you to play the dutiful uncle tomorrow at Chelsea Old Church. Charles and Frances will have your head stuck on Tower Bridge if you misbehave at their daughter’s wedding. And I shall assist them.”
His frustration grew by the minute. If he didn’t find out anything incriminating during his talk with Winterbottom today, it seemed the unsavory chap would indeed become part of the family. “I have grave misgivings about Winterbottom. Beatrice could not have chosen worse.”
For the first time since he arrived, his mother’s expression softened. “I, too, hoped she would have settled on a more agreeable gentleman. However, Beatrice has made her choice and nothing you nor I could say will dissuade her.” She patted his arm. “Despite your appalling manners, I am happy to see you are such a concerned uncle.”
This didn’t make him feel better. “Thank heaven I’ve only two more weddings to attend this summer. All this exposure to brides and grooms have put me in a foul mood. And whoever is behind these murders seems as elusive as Professor Moriarty. I feel quite off balance.”
“Henry, leave the crime solving to Detective Shaw.” She turned to go, then paused. “You will be attending Lord Ashmore’s wedding next week at his estate. When you’re at Banfield Manor, please stay away from the garden maze. It is said to be filled with all manner of twists and turns. And you, my boy, already seem hopelessly lost.”
After his futile visit with his mother, Higgins was relieved to pass the ironwork gates where he stopped to admire the British Museum’s iconic Greek columns and frieze. London’s thick fogs had left their mark. The mid-afternoon sun showed every bit of grime clinging to their curves and lines. The museum held fond memories for him, especially the endless hours spent researching in the Round Reading Room. And he never tired of strolling through the Graeco-Roman, Egyptian, and Assyrian galleries. Since he was a phoneticist, the cuneiform tablets and Rosetta Stone received particular attention. But there was no time for such pleasures today.
Instead, he needed to focus on this temple treasure business. He had the foresight to send a note to the Asian department, requesting Winterbottom meet him at the grand staircase at two o’clock. Pickering informed him that Winterbottom was hired by the museum shortly after he graduated from Cambridge. This meant Winterbottom had enjoyed a respectable – though not exceptional – career. Upon acceptance into the Royal Asiatic Society, he was named curator, with special interests in Tibetan and religious history in India. And he’d written a book, History of Sculpture in Southeast India, which had been fairly well received. Still, more than one younger colleague at the museum had received greater respect and attention than he had.
The museum was crowded and Higgins rushed to make his appointment. He was surprised to see Clyde Winterbottom already pacing near the huge ceremonial urn in the entrance hall. He had expected Winterbottom to keep him waiting. The fellow threw him a forced smile, which exaggerated the lines around his mouth and eyes. At forty-five, he was simply too old for Higgins’s niece. With his pomaded mass of graying hair, high creased forehead, and slight paunch, Winterbottom seemed Alfred Doolittle’s senior.
He was also a bit of a popinjay. Higgins noted that Winterbottom’s ash gray suit was clearly bespoke. And his vest looked to be made of Belden satin; the silver chain of a full hunter looped from one of its pockets. Winterbottom’s boots were polished to a high sheen, reflecting the light from the entrance hall’s windows. No doubt he would soon give his bride grief about a servant’s lack of studious care for those boots.
“Professor, how good to see you.” Winterbottom shook his hand with a firm grip, almost too firm. “Didn’t expect to see any of Beatrice’s family today. After all, the wedding ceremony is tomorrow.”
“Yes, the momentous event is almost upon us. As a long time bachelor, I wondered if you were getting cold feet.” Higgins paused. “You still have a chance to back out of the wedding.”
“Why should I back out? I leave that sort of disgraceful behavior to men such as Ambrose Farrow.”
He shrugged. “If one has second thoughts, best act on them before the ceremony.”
“But I am not having second thoughts, although I suspect you would like me to.” Winterbottom’s expression turned wary. “Have you come here to convince me to jilt your niece? If so, I must disappoint you.”
“Deeply in love, are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. But I would never humiliate Beatrice so publicly. It would put me in quite a bad light. And unlike you, Professor, I have long wished to marry. I only required the appropriate young woman.” He smiled. “And the appropriate family.”
“Ah, yes. My brother does seem to have a bright political future ahead of him.”
“Sir Charles may reside at No. 10 Downing Street one day soon.”
“If so, he will be in a position to wield his influence.” Higgins wanted to smack the smug grin off Winterbottom’s face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if his future son-in-law benefits greatly from such influence. But I hope you’re not marrying my niece only for the favors her father might throw your way.”
“I have no interest in your hopes, Professor Higgins.” He narrowed his eyes. “Beatrice tells me her family barely tolerates your eccentricities. I see now what they mean. But not even I imagined you thought a man in my position marries only for love.”
“Oh, I never took you for a man in love.”
Winterbottom nodded at the museum visitors streaming about them. “I suggest we continue our conversation somewhere less congested, especially if we’re going to discuss romantic love. I have a reputation to maintain, and would rather not be overheard discussing a topic this absurd.”
“I’ve as little interest in romance as you,” Higgins replied as both men began to walk through the crowd. ”But I am interested in my niece’s welfare.”
“As am I. And Beatrice is just as devoted to my welfare.”
Higgins remained silent. His mother was correct. Nothing would prevent this blasted marriage. Charles seemed relieved his oldest daughter would at last be married off, although Higgins suspected his sister-in-law Frances was less enthusiastic about the match. Then again, Beatrice was neither a beauty nor a wit. And her Uncle James had fostered a religious fervor in the young woman that sometimes made her company insufferable. If Winterbottom hadn’t been introduced to Beatrice, he would have been replaced by a man just as callow and ambitious. Or more likely, there would have been no further candidates for her hand.
“If talk of romance hasn’t brought you here today, what has? Would you like a private tour of Baron de Rothschild’s Waddesdon Bequest Room? Or perhaps Lawrence’s Carchemish artifacts.”
“I’m far more curious about the Temple of Parvati you helped excavate in Mysore.”
“There’s not much I can show you at this time. The Parvati exhibit will not be available for public viewing until November. At the moment, museum staff are still engaged in cleaning and restoring the pieces, especially those covered in gilt.” Winterbottom waved at a museum guard. “If you’re too impatient to wait until November, I advise asking the Baron of Ashmore for a tour of his collection. He made off with most of what was excavated in Mysore.”
“That’s not what I heard. Apparently some of the treasure was lost in a shipwreck in the Bay of Bengal.”
Winterbottom sniffed. “I didn’t realize archaeology was a passion of yours.”
“I have a passion for many subjects. Archaeology, language, music.” Higgins glanced over at him. “Murder.”
His smile vanished. “I fear I can only enlighten you about archaeology. I’ll leave language, music, and murder to you.” Winterbottom’s pace increased. Higgins guessed the man wanted to find a way to get him out of his hair as soon as possible.
“It appears you’ve led me to the world of the Greeks,” Higgins declared as they entered a gallery filled with marble statues and a great frieze. “The world of Phidias, to be more exact.”
“A genius sculptor, one of the great artists of the ancient world.” For the first time, Winterbottom appeared humbled, or as humble as he would allow himself to be. “As I’m sure you’re aware, these are the Elgin Marbles. So named because the 7th Earl of Elgin spent eleven years having the statuary, panels, and frieze carefully removed from the Parthenon, Propylaea, and Erechtheum. After shipping them to England at great cost, he sold the marbles to the government for far less than he had expended on them. All because he wanted the government to pass the marbles on to the British Museum, which they did. They’ve been safe here for nearly a century.”
“A great deal of controversy has swirled around the Elgin Marbles,” Higgins said, admiring yet again a glorious sculpture of a horse’s head. “Many people believe Lord Elgin had no right to strip the Parthenon of its artwork and have it carted off to England.”
“Would you rather they have remained in Greece?” Winterbottom asked with obvious disgust. “The Turks were running things then, you know. The Ottoman fools used the Parthenon as a military fort. Idiotic bastards accidentally set off dynamite within the temple itself. That’s why it is now partially in ruins. Before the bloody Turks, Athena’s temple stood intact!”
Several museum visitors broke off their admiration of the frieze on the wall to cast worried glances at Winterbottom. He moved closer to Higgins. “And if any statuary fell off the walls of the Parthenon, do you know what the Turks did? They burned the marble for lime. So don’t tell me again how Lord Elgin had no right to bring the marbles to England. He saved the marbles. If not for him, who knows how much of all this would have survived.” He swept an arm to encompass the entire gallery.
“My good man, I only mentioned the controversy surrounding Lord Elgin and the marbles, which you can’t deny. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the museum faces another public outcry when the Parvati temple objects are put on display.”
“Art belongs to those who recognize its worth and know how to preserve it. Like Lord Elgin did. And Lord Ashmore.”
“You discussed the temple at Mr. Farrow’s memorial,” Higgins said. “Lady Winifred claimed there are powerful people in India who want the artifacts and temple treasure back.”
“Hang that fool Maharajah she’s so fond of. A considerable amount of money went into this project, along with our efforts. And we obtained permission from the local authorities. Why should we send anything back? Without us, the temple would have rotted in the jungle. It was a miracle we stumbled upon it in the first place.”
“We? I thought an employee of the Misra Mining company found it.”
“A happy accident.” Winterbottom steered Higgins towards a bench where no one would overhear. “They didn’t know a thing about how to prevent thieves from looting. There were occasions when we had to fight off thugs while we worked.”
“Such a find must have given quite a boost to your career.” Higgins watched for the man’s reaction and was rewarded with a shrewd look.
“Yes. And I’m not going to waste this chance.” He sat on the bench, hands clasped in front of him. “I should be farther along in my career. But I don’t possess a toadying nature or blue blooded connections. If I did, I’d be running this museum, and have a knighthood besides.”
Higgins took a seat beside him. “That could soon change. When the Parvati exhibit opens, you may become as celebrated as Charles Dawson and his Piltdown Man discovery.”
“I’d be far more celebrated if the exhibit included the temple treasure that Baron Ashmore has. All the museum owns are columns, several statues, a few jewels. Ashmore has statues of gold, not gilt. Along with ivory figurines, jewels, scimitars and swords.”
“A pity part of the treasure was lost in the shipwreck.”
“Yes, a great pity,” Winterbottom said with a strange smile.
“Perhaps you’ll be able to convince Lord Ashmore to donate part of his collection to the museum,” Higgins suggested.
“I’ve asked him many times. He’s always refused. But he may be more amenable if Sir Charles makes the request. As a member of Parliament, my future father-in-law is associated with men of great power and influence. That makes him powerful and influential as well. I have a feeling Lord Ashmore might reconsider once I marry Sir Charles’s daughter.”
Higgins felt even more dispirited. “I assume that’s one of the reasons you’re marrying Beatrice. To use her father’s influence to advance your career.”
He shook his head. “You’re wrong. It’s not one of the reasons. It’s the only reason.”
The two men looked at each other. Higgins didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “I didn’t think you’d admit it. I expected at least a pretense that you had some regard for the girl.”
“Come now, Professor. Beatrice is not a beauty. And her conversation is as scintillating as cold oatmeal. But her father is an important man, and she lives in fear of being a spinster. Especially since her younger sister seems likely to be engaged by the end of the year. Beatrice would marry a Welsh coal miner if it meant putting a ‘Mrs.’ before her name. And I am a far better catch than a coal miner.”
“It rather depends on the coal miner,” Higgins replied. “Does Beatrice know you don’t love her?” He tried to control his anger. “Is she aware you don’t even like her?”
Winterbottom shrugged. “I have no idea what Beatrice is aware of, aside from her prayer books and fondness for collecting butterflies. Fortunately, she is an amenable creature. Once we’re married, I’m certain she will do exactly as she is told.”
“This seems destined to be a most disagreeable marriage.”
“Is there any other kind?” He got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Professor. My wedding is tomorrow, with a honeymoon to follow. Since I don’t expect to enjoy either, I hope to at least enjoy my work until then. Good day.” He left the gallery without a backward glance.
As soon as the curator was gone, Higgins headed for the exit. The more distance he put between himself and Winterbottom the better. But before he could enjoy the fresh air and sun, someone called his name. Detective Colin Ramsey stood just outside the museum entrance.
“Your housekeeper told me you’d come to the museum, Professor.”
Higgins panicked. “Did Colonel Pickering take a turn for the worse?”
“No, it’s about the dagger that killed Miss Palmer. Or more correctly, the stiletto. As you know, the handle was dusted for fingerprints.”
“The Yard found a match so soon?”
“There was one legible mark, more than half a thumb print, with a distinct whorl. Luckily, we printed Mr. Grainger and the other men we questioned that night along the docks.”
“That means you know who killed Pearl Palmer.”
Ramsey nodded. “Yes, we do. All we have to do is find him.”
“Well, who was it, man? Tell me.”
“The scoundrel we suspected all along,” Ramsey said. “Luther North.”