by Kerry Tombs
‘As you wish, Crabb,’ said Ravenscroft lying down again.
Crabb left the room, leaving Ravenscroft alone with his thoughts. So the case appeared to be over. Everyone seemed to suggest that Old Penny, the blind outcast, had committed the crimes, and who was he to disagree with such a conclusion? He had neither the energy nor the will to pursue the matter further and was relieved the case was now finally closed.
Stebbins entered the room, bearing a tray of welcoming food and liquor.
‘Stebbins, you are a good man. I could eat a horse, and that food looks particularly good.’
‘Glad to see you is back to your usual form, sir,’ said the youth smiling and placing the tray on the bedside table.
‘What time is it, Stebbins?’
‘Three o’clock in the afternoon, sir.’
‘Perhaps I’ll venture outside after I’ve eaten this food. The sunlight and fresh air will do me good.’
‘Very good, sir,’ grinned the youth.
‘And, Stebbins, will you inform Doctor Mountcourt that I will be leaving tomorrow,’ said Ravenscroft, knowing that there was little reason for him to stay, and that he would seize the opportunity to be rid of Malvern, the Tudor and all that Raggedstone nonsense for good and all.
‘Sorry we’ll be losing you, sir,’ muttered Stebbins on the way out, before whistling his way down the corridor. Ravenscroft consumed the food and drink that had been bought for him, then rose from his bed and dressed. The sun shining in through the window seemed to offer the prospect of better things to come, and he was determined to take advantage of any fresh situations that would present themselves. He had nearly a week left of his holiday; still time to make it to Brighton.
He made his way slowly down towards the churchyard, gaining in confidence with every step, but having little desire to venture onto the hills. Here he found the seat by the wall, near the Kelly grave he had found previously. He again looked at the headstone and wondered at the tragedy that the words encompassed. Within the space of one year, both the father and the son had been taken, the boy cruelly while still in infancy, leaving the wife and mother to mourn their loss. For a brief moment he saw himself looking down again at the young girl on the cold cobbles of the London alleyway, and wondered whether her past life had yet been mourned by those that had known her? Then his thoughts turned back towards his own childhood, and the sister he had never known, who had died before his own birth, and how each year on the sixth day of November, he and his parents had always made the journey of remembrance up the winding path that led to the tiny churchyard above the village where they had lived. Years later he had buried his parents in that same plot of earth, turned his back on the old life and travelled to London, where he had busied himself with his career in the police force, eventually rising to his present rank of Inspector. In the years that had followed, on bad days, he had often thought of leaving the noisy, dirty, fog bound streets of the capital behind him and returning to his birth village, where he would again take up the threads of that other, earlier life, but always the mood would pass, and he would become reconciled to his usual everyday existence. Had he perhaps always been too eager to accept that world which he had created for himself? Now that he had recovered from the illness, which had threatened to engulf him, there seemed that there was again the possibility of another place — another world — somewhere, which awaited his arrival, where he could be given new opportunities, and where he could be reborn.
He turned away from the headstone and looked up at the church. He sat down, turned his face to the sun, closed his eyes, and felt the gentle warmth beginning to heal his body.
‘I think you have been looking for me, Mr Ravenscroft,’ said a voice that he had heard briefly before. He opened his eyes, and saw the veiled lady sitting on the seat next to him.
‘We met on the train,’ he said, without thinking, his thoughts broken by her arrival.
‘And you were kind enough to help me with my luggage. I saw you at the Well House that morning on the day after and your face looking out on the churchyard from the window. Then you tried to speak with me here.’
Ravenscroft found her quiet, evenly phrased way of talking slightly unnerving and began to make excuses, but she raised her hand and stopped him almost before he had begun.
‘I suppose I must be an item of curiosity to one such as yourself, a police inspector from London.’
‘How do you know—’
‘You are the talk of the town, Mr Ravenscroft.’
‘I see.’
There followed an uneasy silence.
‘Now that you have finally caught up with me, Mr Ravenscroft, I see that you are unwilling to satisfy your curiosity.’
‘I am sorry. I had not wanted to be so forward.’
‘You have come to Malvern to seek something, or perhaps you are escaping from a part of your past?’ she enquired, ignoring his last comment.
‘I was instructed to take the water cure by my superiors.’
‘And have you found what you were seeking?’ she said, gently drawing back her veil to reveal a face of fine features and strange determination.
‘I am not sure,’ he replied looking away, least his gaze should cause offence.
‘One day, I am sure, you will find what you are looking for,’ she said, smiling gently.
‘And you, ma’am, have you found what you are seeking?’
She turned away sharply, but not before Ravenscroft had seen the look of bitterness which had flickered momentarily across her face. ‘I’m sorry, I have no desire to cause you any distress,’ he added quickly.
‘I will never find what I am seeking Mr Ravenscroft,’ she said turning to face him. ‘You have discovered my husband and child, I see, as I knew you would in time. They lie there together. In years to come the inscription will fade, and when you and I are gone, people will pass by the stone not knowing the joy and grief that they gave in their lifetime. When they died, it was as if my life had ended. So soon, Mr Ravenscroft, it was all so soon. First my husband — then my poor baby. My husband had brought it all upon us, but my son — he was completely blameless. Life is so unfair, Mr Ravenscroft. Perhaps you could tell me why it is always the innocent who are taken from us?’
‘I cannot answer that question, ma’am,’ replied Ravenscroft seeking to understand her despair. ‘Perhaps in time the pain will pass.’
‘Oh, that is what they all say. All those people who think they know what you are going through but who can never hope to understand. Time, I can assure you, does not help to deaden the pain — it merely encompasses all the hurt and anger.’ Her voice began to trail away and her eyes to fill with tears, leaving Ravenscroft aware of the futility of his own words.
‘Perhaps religion?’ was all he could say, but he knew it was only an empty gesture.
‘Religion seeks to make grief respectable. It cannot offer me anything.’
‘And yet your son and husband are buried here, my good lady, and you visit their grave?’
‘There has to be somewhere, where I can sit — and remember them, somewhere where we can be alone, together.’
‘Of course, I understand. You spoke of anger just now . . .’
‘Yes, there is always anger. Anger that someone you loved has caused all this, through his own stupidity and negligence. Anger that the son, who you loved more than your own life, was taken away from you because of that folly. Anger that grew as you watched them die, slowly and in pain, and knowing all the time that you could do nothing to bring them relief — nothing to make their passing easier. Do you know what all that feels like, Mr Ravenscroft, to know that your own resolve can do so little? And all the time the anger grows, as they slip away from you. No, you cannot, for although I am sure you have loved, Mr Ravenscroft, you have never been witness to that death of love, and there is always the hope, the prospect, that love may re-enter your life some time again in the future, whereas I no longer seek, nor wish to acquire such love ever again. In my situat
ion it is the anger, above all else — the anger that makes my life barely tolerable, until it can be resolved.’
‘And do you think that this anger will ever be abated?’ asked Ravenscroft, looking into her sad eyes.
‘I have spoken too much and too freely, Mr Ravenscroft. You have unfinished business to attend to here in Malvern. In your heart, you know that. When you have completed your mission, we will meet again and I will explain everything,’ she said, quickly rising from her seat.
‘I am sorry for your loss, Mrs Kelly,’ said Ravenscroft, desperately trying to think of other questions he could ask. She smiled briefly, before walking away from the seat. ‘You will have no need to seek me out, Mr Ravenscroft. I will know where to find you.’
He watched her walk across the graveyard and down the path that led to the Assembly Rooms, until she turned the corner and was no more. Resuming his seat, he went over their conversation in his mind and began to wonder what terrible events had caused the death of her husband and son. Through his own stupidity and negligence — she had said, as if her husband had committed some act of outrage which had caused such loss, such distress. What that act had been, he could only guess.
I will know where to find you — she had said, as if she knew his every move, everything that he was thinking about, and all that was about to happen in the future. The more he considered her words, the more it seemed to him that she knew more about him than he could ever hope to discover about her. Part of him had been satisfied that at last he had spoken with the woman who had occupied his thoughts for so long, but another part of him wanted to know more about this strange woman and her tragic circumstances.
The more he sat there, feeling the warm sun on his face, the more he began to wonder if she had really been there at all, and that perhaps he had imagined the whole encounter? The quiet peace of the graveyard seemed to contrast too deeply with what he had heard and seen.
He rose from his seat and began to make his way back to the Tudor. You have unfinished business to attend to . . . in your heart you know that — he heard again those words of reproach and certainty.
As he entered the Tudor he found Stebbins and Doctor Mountcourt conversing together in the entrance hall.
‘Mr Ravenscroft. It appears that you are about to leave us,’ said Mountcourt in that official formal manner that Ravenscroft had grown used to. ‘I’m sorry that we will not be able to affect a full cure, but I fully understand if you wish to depart.’
‘I have changed my mind,’ replied Ravenscroft. ‘I will be staying after all.’ Mountcourt looked slightly taken aback by this change of heart. ‘There are some matters that need resolving.’
‘As you wish, sir, we will, of course, be more than pleased to continue with your course of treatment,’ said Mountcourt, recovering his professional composure.
Ravenscroft made his way back to his bedroom, and stood looking out of the window, towards the churchyard and the seat where he had sat some minutes previous. How could a blind man enter a study and place poison in a glass, and also kill two people by hitting them on the head? He, and others, had been too easily swayed by this flawed assumption. Perhaps Old Penny had not been really totally blind at all and had just pretended to be so, but even if this was the case, why would such a poor, wretched, half-blind tramp want to kill three of the town’s prominent citizens? There appeared to be no reason behind such an outrage.
No, the case was far from closed. There was still a killer out there, and Ravenscroft now knew that he would find no rest until he had brought the murderer to book.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Good to see you looking like your old self again,’ said Crabb as the two men met outside the Tudor the following morning. ‘Rumour has it that you might be leaving us today, sir?’
‘Then rumour is incorrect, Crabb. We have a crime to solve, four crimes in fact, and our murderer is still out there,’ replied Ravenscourt, a new urgency in his voice.
‘Good to hear you say that, sir. I never had that old Penny fellow down for these murders. There would be no purpose for him to have killed them.’
‘Exactly! No reason at all. Whoever our murderer is, he used Penny to lure Gladwyn to a remote spot on the hills, so that he could kill him undisturbed and undetected. He was probably there out at Hollybush all the time we were there, watching us from the undergrowth, until he considered it safe to slip quietly away. He had probably arranged to meet up with Old Penny at the cave afterwards, and I would not be surprised if he pushed him over the top of the hill as well!’
‘That would have been quite difficult, sir. One of my men could easily have seen him,’ suggested Crabb.
‘Not if he was making his way along the lower slopes of the hills, hidden in the undergrowth. He would have waited for Penny to return to the cave, killed him, and then disappeared into the wood once more, and made his escape once we had recovered the body and gone back to Malvern.’
‘So what next, sir?’ asked Crabb.
‘We have to find out why these three men were killed. Once we have found the answer to that question, we will have our killer. There is something that links the three men together. Let us consider what they all had in common. They were a closely knit group, having known each other for nearly thirty years. They were all members of the Town Council, with Pitzer due to become mayor in the near future. They were all trustees of Old Lechmere’s Almshouses in Colwall. They all dined together, mixed socially and appear to have got on well with each other. Now let’s see what they don’t have in common, and here we come back to the railway company. Pitzer was not only a director of the new company, he was also one of its major shareholders — and yet the other two had no connections with the new venture at all, so we have no common motive there. No, we are missing something. There has to be something else that binds these men together; something for which an outsider was prepared to kill for. We must discover what that is, Crabb. I think we will begin by going through the late Doctor Gladwyn’s personal affects and see what we can discover there, after which I think we have need to pay our Mr Troutbridge another visit. This time, however, we will be prepared. Can you get some of your men to come with us? No news of Armitage, I suppose?’ said Ravenscroft, striding away from the Tudor.
‘No, sir. I went out to the almshouses yesterday, but he had not returned and no one has seen him for days. I’ve also asked the Ledbury constabulary to keep an eye on his sister’s cottage but there has been no activity there,’ replied Crabb, trying to keep up with his superior officer.
‘You seemed to have thought of everything, Crabb. On to Gladwyn’s! Let us see if we can secure a cab, but no, I see the prospect of a fine day. We should walk. The exercise will do us good and help clear our thoughts!’
‘As you wish, sir.’
* * *
Twenty minutes later the two men arrived at Gladwyn’s house. Crabb rang the doorbell, which was answered by the maid.
Ravenscroft explained their business and they were shown into Gladwyn’s study.
‘This is where Doctor Gladwyn keeps all his papers, sir.’
‘Thank you. I would be obliged if you would be kind enough to explain to Mrs Gladwyn the nature of our business. We will ring if we require anything,’ said Ravenscroft.
The maid left the room and the two men set to work going through Gladwyn’s papers.
‘Still that awful smell, sir,’ sniffed Crabb.
‘I’ve known better physician’s rooms,’ remarked Ravenscroft.
‘What are we looking for, sir?’
‘We are looking for anything that can link Gladwyn with Sommersby and Pitzer. Ah, here is the almshouses document appointing Gladwyn as a trustee. It appears to be almost identical to the one we unearthed in Sommersby’s rooms, so there is nothing particularly startling there. I’ll go through the rest of the drawers of the good doctor’s desk, while you have a look in that cabinet.’
Ravenscroft worked his way through the pile of papers. ‘These seem to be mainly
documents of a medical nature. Here is a copy of Gladwyn’s will. Let us have a look at that, see if anyone stood to benefit from his death’. Crabb peered over Ravenscroft’s shoulder, as he continued to read the document. ‘As we thought, there are no heirs or children — he leaves everything to his wife, except for one or two minor bequests to the town.’
‘Nothing there then, sir, meaning old Gladwyn cannot have been killed for his money.’
‘Seems you are right, Crabb. Keep on looking, there has to be something here.’
Fifteen minutes later, Ravenscroft slammed the door of the desk. ‘There is absolutely nothing; nothing all to suggest why poor Gladwyn was murdered. It seems as though we have drawn a blank, Crabb. There is absolutely nothing in the doctor’s papers that might have given us a clue as to why he was murdered. This is all very frustrating. We might as well move on, but before we leave let us have a final look round the room in case we have missed something,’ he said, standing up and glancing at the walls. ‘Usual photographs of Gladwyn and his wife, taken some years ago by the look of it, medical certificate from Bangor Medical School when he qualified, a faded view of some obscure Welsh mountain scene. There is nothing to interest us here. Come, Crabb, let us be on our way.’
Ravenscroft strode out of the room, and made his way back into the hall, where he found the maid waiting to let them out. As she opened the door, something caught his eye in the hat stand.
‘Look, Crabb. This is an almost identical walking stick to the one we found in Sommersby’s rooms. See here — the letters M.W.B. in the form of a monogram engraved on the silver handle of the stick. If I am not mistaken these are the same letters that we discovered on Sommersby’s walking stick.’