The Inspector Ravenscroft Mysteries Box Set

by Kerry Tombs

  ‘He came in here about an hour ago, sir.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else enter or leave the library after Mr Sommersby?’

  ‘No, sir. But my station is in the entrance hall, and I do not have a view of the library from where I am situated,’ replied the porter.

  ‘So it would have been comparatively simple for someone to enter the library from either the other end of the corridor or through one of these windows, and you would not have seen them?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘Did you hear the sound of the bookcase fall?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There was an almighty crash.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘I ran into the library. I saw what had happened and ran off to the kitchens to summon help, so we could lift the bookcase off Mr Sommersby.’

  ‘You saw no one in the library or running away?’ asked Crabb.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long were you away from the library fetching help?’

  ‘About a minute or so, sir. We came back as quickly as we could.’

  ‘It would have been easy for the murderer to have hidden himself in another part of the library when you entered the room, and for him to slip away unnoticed while you were away,’ said Ravenscroft, staring out of the window. ‘Tell me, was Mr Sommersby a single man?’

  ‘He was as far as I know, sir.’

  ‘Did he have rooms in college?’

  ‘Yes, sir. As the assistant master he was entitled to reside in the college. His rooms are upstairs,’ replied the porter.

  ‘Then perhaps you would be kind enough to allow my colleague and myself to view them,’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘Do you want me any further, Ravenscroft?’ asked Gladwyn.

  ‘No, thank you, Doctor. You have been most helpful.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for the collection of the body and inform the coroner.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor Gladwyn.’

  Ravenscroft and Crabb followed the porter up two flights of stairs and down a long corridor until they reached a door at the end of the passageway.

  ‘These are Mr Sommersby’s quarters,’ said the porter, unlocking the door.

  ‘Thank you. We will look round on our own, and let you know when we have finished,’ said Ravenscroft, entering the rooms as the porter made his way back along the corridor.

  The two policemen found themselves standing inside a comfortably furnished living room. A table was situated in the centre of the room, which also contained a desk and an armchair. The walls were lined with rows of books.

  ‘Right, that must be the bedroom over there. I’ll take this room, you look in there,’ instructed Ravenscroft.

  ‘What are we looking for, sir?’ asked Crabb.

  ‘I don’t really know, Crabb, until I find it. Papers, documents, anything I suppose that might tell us more about Mr Sommersby and answer the question as to why he was murdered.’

  Crabb disappeared into the bedroom as Ravenscroft looked at the many books that lined the dead man’s bookcases. He then crossed over to the table and examined the papers lying there. Sommersby had evidently been making notes for an impending Latin lesson. On top of the desk was a pile of unmarked exercise books. Ravenscroft sat down on the chair behind the desk and went through the drawers, taking out the papers and examining them one by one. As he reached the bottom drawer on the left-hand side of the desk he found it locked. Taking out his pocket-knife, he slipped the blade between the wood and the lock until he was able to open the drawer fully. Inside he found yet more papers, which he placed on the desk and began to go through.

  ‘Nothing in the bedroom, sir,’ said Crabb, returning to the room. ‘Have you found anything of interest there?’

  ‘This document would appear to be a copy of Sommersby’s last will and testament, made five years ago. Nothing particularly startling though. He leaves everything to Malvern College, although there does not appear to be much to leave — a hundred pounds, his watch, some pictures, and the books.’

  ‘Not much to show for a life of school mastering,’ said Crabb.

  ‘In my experience, Crabb, schoolmasters are not particularly well paid, just as policemen are not, and he does not seem to have come into any legacies. It does not look as though he was killed for his money then. There was no inheritance to pass on. Ah, this looks interesting. Something to do with Old Lechmere’s Almshouses in Colwall,’ said Ravenscroft opening out the document. ‘It names Sommersby as one of the trustees, and was drawn up about twenty years ago, by the look of it, when Sommersby was appointed. It names the other trustees. There is Pitzer and Touchmore, and Gladwyn as well. I don’t know the others. Make a note of their names, Crabb. So Sommersby was also a trustee of the almshouses. Something he and Pitzer had in common. It is interesting how those old almshouses keep arising in our investigations,’ said Ravenscroft, replacing the papers in the bottom drawer.

  ‘I knew that Armitage fellow was hiding something. I didn’t like the look of him at all,’ replied Crabb, shaking his head.

  ‘I certainly think the warden was not exactly forthcoming when we questioned him. I think you and I need to have more words with Mr Armitage. It is too late this evening but in the morning, another outing to Colwall is called for,’ said Ravenscroft, closing the drawers of the desk. ‘Before we leave, let us look around the rest of this room, Crabb. Is there anything you think we have missed? What does this room tell us about its occupant?’ he said, rising from his seat.

  ‘I can’t see anything of note.’

  ‘Our Mr Sommersby seems to have lived a frugal kind of existence. There is nothing here to suggest a vast expenditure. The contents of this room indicate a comfortable but not an overly indulgent life. Our good doctor was not a man to go about wasting his money. What’s this?’ said Ravenscroft. He lifted up the cane from a stand that lay near the doorway.

  ‘It looks a fine cane to me. Silver handle, I’ll be bound,’ said Crabb.

  ‘You are right, Crabb. The handle is well worn, indicating that it was purchased many years ago. What is interesting though, is the monogram. Looks like a large B interlocked with an M and a W.’

  ‘May have been the initials of someone in his family?’

  ‘There is no S for Sommersby, though. Nor an L, which might have stood for Lechmere’s almshouses. M, B and W. No doubt the letters held some significance for Sommersby to have gone to the trouble of having them engraved on the handle of the walking stick.’

  ‘Perhaps it was given to him by a grateful parent.’

  ‘You could well be right, Crabb,’ said Ravenscroft, returning the stick to its stand. ‘Well, I think there is nothing else here that can shed any light on why our good doctor was murdered. I don’t think we can do anything more here tonight. We will see what the morrow may bring.’

  * * *

  Ravenscroft woke with a start. He reached out for his pocket watch and spectacles and in the cold darkness of his room made out the hour to be not yet four.

  The church clock had struck the hour of twelve when he had returned to the Tudor some hours earlier, but he had been unable to sleep for some time, his mind being occupied by the events of the previous two days. Why had Pitzer and Sommersby been killed? Who had killed the two men? What possible reason could there be for anyone to have acted in such a way? The more he considered the matter, the more the same questions kept repeating themselves. Perhaps the answer lay in both men having been trustees of the Colwall Almshouses. He had certainly not thought that Armitage had been exactly forthcoming with his answers and had taken a dislike to the man. Pitzer and Armitage had not worked well together. What had been Armitage’s relationship with Sommersby? Had they also had a falling out? Then there was Gladwyn and Touchmore, two more of the trustees. Did they know more than they were telling him?

  Finally, he had drifted off into a half-sleep, during which he had seen again the old buildings in Colwall and then the gothic exterior of Malvern College. He sa
w himself making his way up the windy path to well house, where the dark familiar figure of the veiled lady had appeared to be awaiting his arrival. He had called out to her as he had drawn near, but as he looked upwards, the falling bookcases of the college library tumbled rapidly down towards him. Now he had awoken to find his face covered in moisture and his throat parched.

  Reaching for the tumbler at the side of his bed, he poured some of the water into the glass and wiped his brow on his sleeve. After swallowing the liquid, he lay back on his pillow and stared out into the darkness of the room. What on earth had possessed him to come to such a place? Why had he so readily agreed to take on the task of solving one murder, only to be faced now with trying to solve two? How had his holiday turned into this thankless task? Ravenscroft let out a deep sigh, turned over and buried his face in the pillow.

  * * *

  ‘Good morning, Mr Ravenscroft; it’s time for yer treatment, sir.’

  Ravenscroft emerged from beneath the bed spread and gave Stebbins a bleary stare.

  ‘Late night was it, sir?’

  ‘Mind your own business, Stebbins.’

  ‘There is a nice leg of chicken in the pantry, sir, I could get it for you.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary at the moment, but I might consider it for later,’ said Ravenscroft, reaching for his dressing gown.

  ‘Been dining out, have we?’ asked Stebbins grinning. ‘Doctor Mountcourt says he’ll see you at ten this morning.’

  Ravenscroft made the well-worn journey to the bath house.

  ‘Good morning to you, Mr Ravenscroft. Time for your new treatment today,’ said the attendant, a note of new optimism creeping into his voice. Ravenscroft’s heart sank. What new torture were they about to inflict on him now, he wondered. But then he considered that nothing could possibly be worse than that which he had suffered already.

  ‘If you would care to stand under this pipe, sir,’ said the attendant indicating a cubicle situated in the corner of the room. Ravenscroft feared the worst as he began to remove his sleeping attire.

  ‘Just stand there, sir. Be over before you can say Queen Victoria.’

  Ravenscroft wondered what her majesty had to do with the situation. Nervously he stood under the pipe and looked upwards. Suddenly he felt the full force of a waterfall of freezing cold water cascading over his body. He let out a cry that was part pain and part anger.

  ‘There you are, sir! You’ll soon feel the benefit of that!’ said the attendant, handing him a towel.

  Ravenscroft muttered under his breath, and cursed the man, as he reached for the cloth. Now he knew what drowned rats felt like and resolved that this would positively be the last time he was going to be humiliated in this way.

  After dressing he made his way up to St Ann’s well. He had no desire to undertake the arduous journey yet again up the steep winding path, but he had little else to do before breakfast and thought that the exercise might at least bring some warmth back into his still-shaking limbs. There was also the prospect that he might again meet his veiled lady and learn more of her circumstances.

  He found instead only the old woman and a young courting couple at the well. Sitting on the seat, outside the well house, drinking his beaker of refreshing spring water, the events of the previous evening began tumbling back into his mind. Why had two prominent members of Malvern society been killed in two days? Who would have wanted to have killed them — and for what purpose? Then he recalled that he had asked himself the same questions before he had fallen asleep. He resolved to put such thoughts away from his mind and enjoy the spring morning sunshine instead.

  The young courting couple, becoming aware of his presence, moved away from the building and began to make their way upwards towards the higher reaches of the hills. Ravenscroft promised himself that once the case had been solved, and before he left the town, he might also venture forth to complete the journey towards the Beacon. Closing his eyes and letting the warm sunshine fall upon his face, his thoughts turned again to the veiled lady. She clearly had nothing to do with the deaths of the two men, and yet the mysterious woman intrigued him the more he thought about her. He half expected to see her sitting on one of the seats when he opened his eyes but knew that he would be disappointed. If only he had engaged her in conversation when the opportunity had availed itself, then his curiosity might have been satisfied. Now, he told himself, she had probably left the area and he was unlikely to see her again.

  He rose from his seat, dropped a coin into the beaker for the well woman and, deep in thought, began to make his way back down the zigzagging pathway towards the town. As he reached the bottom of the path, he looked up to see a tall shambling figure coming towards him. He recognized him as the same man he had seen the previous day loitering outside Gladwyn’s house. Although blind, the man seemed to be aware of the nature of the path beneath his feet. Ravenscroft uttered a few words of greeting; the other merely grunted as they passed by each other.

  Upon reaching the town, instead of returning to the Tudor for breakfast, Ravenscroft decided to make his way to the Reading Rooms.

  ‘Good to see you again, sir. The London papers have just arrived. May I serve you with coffee?’ asked the attendant as he entered.

  ‘You certainly may. Do you have any information about the ancient curse of Raggedstone Hill?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘I think we might be able to accommodate you, sir. Please take a seat, and I will see what I can find for you.’

  Ravenscroft made his way into the reading room and was rewarded within a few minutes by the attendant returning, carrying his coffee and holding an old, leather-bound book.

  ‘I think you might find a summary in there,’ said the attendant, handing him the volume.

  The book was entitled Old Myths and Legends of Worcestershire.

  ‘I think you will find what you are looking for on page thirty-five, sir,’ said the librarian.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Ravenscroft, opening the volume.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Ravenscroft began to read, as the librarian gave a neat bow and left the room.

  THE ANCIENT CURSE OF RAGGEDSTONE HILL

  There is an ancient legend concerning a monk from Little Malvern Priory, who, contrary to his religious vows of chastity, fell in love with one of the local girls. The Prior, learning of his disgrace, ordered the monk to crawl on his hands and knees to the top of the Raggedstone Hill every day. Finally, one day, instead of offering up his usual prayers when he reached the summit, the monk cursed the hill and anyone on whom the shadow of the hill should fall. Shortly afterwards the monk died, worn out by his fatigues and harsh treatment — but the curse he had made lived on. There are numerous stories concerning people on whom the shadow fell and who subsequently suffered disasters. These include Cardinal Wolsey, the chief minister of Henry VIII who fell out with his master; and William Huskisson the famous member of parliament who fell under the wheels of George Stephenson’s Rocket at the opening of the Liverpool to Manchester Railway. One wonders whether anyone else will succumb to the ancient curse?

  Ravenscroft closed the book and smiled.

  As he left the Reading Rooms, he enquired of the attendant as to the location of the Raggedstone Hill.

  ‘Over here, sir,’ said his informant, pointing to a map on one of the walls.

  ‘Raggedstone is the last hill but one at the end of the range. It is just off the road that goes from Ledbury, through Eastnor, and on towards Tewkesbury,’ said the attendant. ‘It is quite wild and remote out there. I believe there is only a cottage or two in the area.’

  Ravenscroft was relieved that the shadow from the hill did not appear to stretch anywhere near where either Pitzer or Sommersby lived.

  ‘It is only an old legend, sir. Nothing to worry about,’ said the attendant reassuringly, as Ravenscroft left the Reading Rooms.

  Ravenscroft studied his pocket watch and realised that he would be late f
or his appointment with the formidable Doctor Mountcourt.

  * * *

  ‘I see some signs of improvement.’

  The tone and manner were as brisk and efficient as before.

  ‘I don’t feel any,’ said Ravenscroft, pulling his shirt back over his head.

  ‘It is early days yet, Mr Ravenscroft. I see a slight improvement in your breathing. The water treatment and those walks over the hills must be doing you some good,’ said Doctor Mountcourt. ‘Although I believe you dined out last night?’

  ‘I was fortunate to receive an invitation.’

  ‘We would prefer it if you ate here at the Tudor, at all times, where we can see that your diet is properly regulated. I also see that you missed one of your treatments yesterday afternoon,’ said Mountcourt, looking down at his notebook, a note of disapproval creeping into his voice.

  ‘Yes, I was investigating the murder of Mr Pitzer,’ replied Ravenscroft, doing up the remaining buttons on his shirt.

  ‘I thought Mr Pitzer died from a seizure of some kind,’ said Mountcourt, writing on Ravenscroft’s medical card at his desk.

  ‘He was poisoned.’

  ‘And you would know, Mr Ravenscroft?’ said Mountcourt, looking up from his writing and giving Ravenscroft a hard stare.

  ‘It is my business to know about these things. I am an inspector with the Whitechapel Division in London,’ replied Ravenscroft, trying to sound as confident as he could.

  ‘Ah, I see that would explain your condition, but not your involvement.’ Mountcourt resumed his writing. ‘Malvern is clearly out of your jurisdiction.’

  ‘I have been invited by the local constabulary to make enquiries regarding the death of Mr Pitzer, and now Mr Sommersby as well.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that. Poor fellow! Bookcase fell on top of him, I believe?’

  ‘Did you know either of the two gentlemen concerned?’

  ‘I have met them on several occasions. I have been here at the Tudor for only three years. Neither of them, of course, was my patient. I restrict my professional activities to my clientele here at the Tudor. That is more than enough to occupy my time. I expect Gladwyn was their doctor. You should speak with him.’