by Kerry Tombs
‘Sir Arthur, were you in any way acquainted with the librarian Nicholas Evelyn?’
‘No. I had never spoken to the man,’ the politician replied, taking out his pocket watch and looking down at its face. Ravenscroft was beginning to feel that his allotted time was drawing to its conclusion.
‘I understand that your duties necessitate your being away in London a great deal?’
‘I am there during the week when the House is in session, and even when it is not I have a number of business interests that require my presence there one or two days each week. I stay at one of my clubs when I am up in town. The weekend and the rest of the week is spent here in Worcester. There are great demands on my time from my constituents,’ replied Sir Arthur, in a formal manner.
‘That is all for now, Sir Arthur,’ said Ravenscroft, suddenly standing up. ‘We may need to interview you again after the inquest.’
‘I’ll see you out, gentlemen,’ said Griffiths, rising from his chair, and opening the doors to the drawing-room.
‘Good day to you, Miss Griffiths,’ said Ravenscroft, as he and Crabb left the room.
‘Look here, Ravenscroft, we would be grateful to you if you catch this deplorable villain as quickly as you can. Such a gross violation must not go unpunished,’ said Sir Arthur, as the three men stood in the hall. ‘But I would be obliged if you would refrain from any further questioning of my daughter. She is not a well woman. The disappearance of her maid has caused her a great deal of distress, if you get my meaning.’
‘I understand perfectly,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘Good man. Knew I could rely on you. Catch this murdering scoundrel and I’ll see you all right.’
Ravenscroft smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. Oh, just one further question: when I was here the other day I could not help noticing that you were conversing with a Mrs Marchmont.’
‘Mrs Marchmont?’ said a bewildered Sir Arthur. ‘What has she to do with this affair?’
‘Can I ask you, what was the nature of her business, if I might be so bold?’
‘She is one of my constituents. She was consulting me on a legal matter concerning her late husband’s estate, I believe.’
‘And were you able to be of assistance?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Of course, that is my function.’
‘Thank you, Sir Arthur. You have been most helpful.’
As they walked away from the house, across the green towards the cathedral, Ravenscroft broke the silence.
‘And what did you think of the Member for Worcester and his daughter?’
‘A very close, canny couple, if you ask me.’
‘My sentiments exactly; the daughter seems very nervous and anxious to protect her father at all costs. I observed that on our first visit, when she was not at all willing for us to see him. He, in turn, obviously feels equally protective towards his daughter.’
‘He said she was ill.’
‘I would agree that she does not look to be in the best of health. I also find it strange that a prominent politician such as Sir Arthur Griffiths, would not have dismissed Ruth Weston, when he learned of her being with child.’
‘The daughter said her father was of a Christian disposition. Perhaps she had grown fond of her maid, and did not want to lose her, which is why she lodged at Glovers.’
‘You are probably right. Talking of Glovers, it seems more than a coincidence that both our victims were lodgers there. There is more to that lodging house than first appears. We need to search Ruth Weston’s rooms and find out more about the others — the Baileys and this fellow Cranston.’
‘Oh it’s you, again!’ said the blotchy red face, staring through the narrow opening.
‘Good day to you, Mrs Glover. May we come in?’ asked Ravenscroft smiling.
‘Suppose you want to ask me some more questions?’ grumbled the old woman opening the door wider.
‘We won’t take up too much of your time, I can assure you.’
The landlady muttered some words which Ravenscroft could not quite comprehend, before leading the two detectives down the passage and into her sitting-room at the rear of the property.
‘Mind me figures,’ she said, giving Ravenscroft a warning glance.
‘Tell me more about your other lodgers, Mrs Glover.’
‘Told you last time, the Baileys are away in France for the month. Won’t be back until end of next week at the earliest,’ said the old woman, searching through a number of letters perched behind one of the large decorative figures on the mantelpiece.
‘How long have they lived here?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Three years. Ah here we are! I got this letter from them earlier this week.’
Ravenscroft took the letter and, after examining the postmark, opened the folded notepaper inside. ‘I see it was sent from La Rochelle, dated seven days ago. Says they are enjoying the scenery, weather is fine and they hope to visit Nantes on the way back to England. Thank you, Mrs Glover, that all seems in order. And Mr Cranston, I presume he has not returned yet?’
‘He came in about half an hour ago. I heard his footsteps on the floorboards. He didn’t stay long, said he was going out to get something to eat. I told him about Miss Weston, and said you would want to speak to him,’ replied Mrs Glover, replacing the letter on the mantelpiece.
‘Then perhaps he will return before our departure. How long has Mr Cranston been with you?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘About two years.’
‘While we are waiting for Mr Cranston to return, perhaps you would allow my constable and I to make an examination of Miss Weston’s rooms?’
‘Why do you want to do that for?’ mumbled the old woman.
‘We might find something there to suggest who killed her,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘You best come this way then,’ sighed the old woman, as she led the way out of the room.
‘Tell me, was Miss Weston in the habit of receiving visitors?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Certainly not; lodgers is not allowed visitors in their rooms at any time. We don’t encourage that sort of thing here. This is a respectable establishment,’ replied the landlady, unlocking the door to the room.
‘Did Miss Weston ever mention to you that she was seeing anyone elsewhere?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Did she receive any letters from anyone?’ asked Crabb.
‘No. She never got no letters.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Glover. We’ll take a look round Miss Weston’s rooms if we may, on our own. We’ll give you a call should we need assistance.’
The landlady gave Ravenscroft a surely look, coughed, and opened the door, before making her way back to her sitting-room.
‘Close the door behind you, Crabb,’ instructed Ravenscroft, stepping into the room. ‘We don’t want either Mrs Glover or Cranston coming in here and disturbing us.’
The two men found themselves in the same simply furnished, gloomy sitting-room that Ravenscroft had seen when he had spoken to the young boy after his mother’s disappearance. A large table and some chairs were situated in the centre of the room, and there were two worn armchairs and a small bookcase, the shelves of which accommodated a small number of books. The table was covered with a needlework cloth of floral design; a vase of roses occupying its centre, the dying petals of which had fallen on to its surface. Another, smaller room led off the main room, where Ruth Weston and her son had slept.
‘Tell me what you see?’
‘Plain, rather drab room, sir. Clean and respectable like; nothing out of the ordinary,’ replied Crabb.
‘There certainly appears to be nothing of a personal nature on display. There is a Bible, one or two children’s books, but no photographs or portraits and no correspondence that I can see.’
‘No scraps of paper lying around this time to give us any clues.’
‘This tablecloth was evidently completed by Ruth Weston. Here, remove the vase of flowers so that I can have a closer look at it,’ sai
d Ravenscroft, brushing the fallen petals into a neat pile. ‘Our Miss Weston was evidently an accomplished needlewoman. See here how she has managed to embroider the name Arthur in the centre of the design, and how she has interlinked it with her own name, Ruth. It is very cleverly done. It must have taken her hours to complete. I can just picture her sitting here in the evenings, doing her embroidery, whilst her son sits beside her probably drawing in that book.’
‘A pretty dull existence, if you ask me,’ said Crabb.
‘Indeed, but perhaps that is the way she wanted it. To me, the room seems to suggest that its occupants had not been prepared to make their home here; to them it was but a staging place on the way to somewhere else.’
‘You’ve lost me there, sir,’ said Crabb looking perplexed.
‘It is as though the room is speaking to us, telling us that Ruth and her son were prepared to accept its dull, drab interior, whilst waiting for better days.’
‘There are the flowers to consider.’
‘Yes, the roses. They are the one bright feature of the room, the one indulgence that Ruth allowed herself, but now even they have faded,’ said Ravenscroft looking sadly out of the window, and recalling the last time he had looked down at the body of the parlour maid.
‘It’s that poor boy I feel sorry for, all alone in the world,’ added Crabb.
The two men were suddenly disturbed by the sound of the outer door being opened and closed. Ravenscroft looked across at Crabb and they listened in silence to the heavy footsteps on the stairs outside the room.
‘I fancy that may be our Mr Cranston returned,’ murmured Ravenscroft.
‘Shall we go and have words with him?’
‘Give him a minute or two.’
Crabb replaced the vase of dying flowers on the table, as Ravenscroft took a final look round the rooms.
Closing the door behind them, the two detectives made their way up the flights of stairs, until they reached the landing, where Crabb knocked on the door facing them.
‘I won’t be a moment, Mrs Glover,’ called a voice from inside the room.
‘It’s the police, sir,’ said Crabb, knocking on the door again.
There followed a long silence, before the door opened to reveal a well-dressed, middle-aged man with dark, swept back hair, a thin nose and glasses. ‘Yes, gentlemen, how can I help you?’
‘I am Inspector Ravenscroft and this is Constable Crabb. We are investigating the disappearances and murders of two of your fellow lodgers, Nicholas Evelyn and Ruth Weston. May we come in, sir?’
‘I suppose so. Mrs Glover did mention that you would be calling on me, but I don’t see how I can help you. I am seldom here,’ said Cranston opening the door to a small sitting-room, furnished with a desk, a table and two armchairs.
‘Why is that, sir?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘I am a commercial traveller for the Worcester Porcelain Company. I travel all over the country to visit our retailers, to show them our latest models and wares,’ replied Cranston in a dry, matter-of-fact voice.
‘Why do you live at Glovers?’ enquired Crabb.
‘I have to be in Worcester in order to collect the samples from the company. Glovers is not the best of lodging houses, as you can see, Inspector, but I find it comfortable and convenient enough.’
‘What can you tell us about your fellow lodgers?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Very little, I’m afraid, Inspector. As I said I am away a great deal,’ replied Cranston, turning away.
‘Nicholas Evelyn?’ asked Crabb.
‘Hardly ever saw the man. I heard him sometimes pacing up and down in his room, which is above mine, but I never spoke to him. He seemed a reclusive, sad sort of fellow.’
‘And Miss Weston and her son?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘I suppose I did see more of them. I would sometimes see them going into their rooms, as I made my way out in the mornings, and we would exchange a few words of greeting, but that was all.’
‘So you did not mix socially with either Mr Evelyn or Miss Weston,’ said Ravenscroft, walking across to the window and peering out at the old nearby buildings.
‘I have just said that I hardly knew either of them,’ replied the lodger in what Ravenscroft discerned, was an irritated tone of voice.
‘So you did, Mr Cranston. Do you know whether either of them received visitors?’
‘Mrs Glover does not allow visitors in the rooms.’
‘How long have you been here in Worcester, Mr Cranston?’ asked Ravenscroft, finding that he was beginning to dislike the man.
‘For about three years.’
‘And where were you before that, sir?’
‘Look, Inspector, I have told you all I know about Ruth Weston and Nicholas Evelyn. I don’t think it is any business of yours to delve into my past life,’ snapped Cranston.
‘We are not delving, sir; merely enquiring. Two people in this lodging house have met with untimely deaths, and a valuable book has been stolen from the cathedral library. These are matters of grave concern. You would oblige me, by answering our questions.’
‘I was a commercial traveller for the Wedgewood Pottery Company in Staffordshire, before I came to Worcester,’ replied Cranston, sighing and giving them an unwelcoming stare.
‘And how long were you with Wedgewood?’
‘Six years.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Look, I’ve had enough of these ridiculous questions!’
‘’Why did you leave?’ asked Ravenscroft, firmly repeating the question.
‘I left because I was offered an increase in salary to join the Worcester Porcelain Company. You can check that with them, if you so wish. Now, I must insist you stop these aimless questions, I have some serious paperwork to complete before tomorrow morning,’ said Cranston, crossing over to the door.
‘We will be doing just that, Mr Cranston. In the meantime, you would oblige me by remaining in Worcester until our investigations are completed.’
‘That, Inspector, will prove impossible. Later tomorrow I must leave for London again. I have appointments with a number of important clients which cannot be put off.’
‘Nevertheless, I must insist, sir, that you remain in Worcester, whilst we continue with our enquiries,’ replied the inspector, annoyed by the other’s objections.
‘And I have just said that I cannot comply with your request.’
‘You would oblige us, sir.’
‘No, Inspector. I will not be remaining in Worcester. If you wish to detain me then you will have to charge me with these murders, or some other crime — otherwise you have no right to prevent my travelling up to London tomorrow to conduct my business affairs. Now I wish you both good day gentlemen.’
The two stared at each other, both seeking to test the mettle of the other.
‘Good day to you, Mr Cranston,’ said Ravenscroft, suddenly walking out of the door, closely followed by Crabb trying to replace his pocket book in the top pocket of his tunic.
‘Well, he was a very unpleasant fellow and no mistake,’ said Crabb as the two men walked away from Glovers. ‘Pity we couldn’t have locked him up in the cells of Worcester gaol for the night. He might have then proved more accommodating.’
‘I doubt it. I must say I was sorely tempted to have taken him into custody, but I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything I could charge him with. He seems the kind of person who would have a brief on to us before we could turn the key in the lock of his cell. But he certainly knows a lot more than he is letting on, I am convinced of that. It is more than just a coincidence that two of his fellow lodgers are now dead.’
‘Perhaps Cranston killed Evelyn. Ruth Weston found out about Cranston’s involvement, so he had to kill her as well, in order to keep her quiet,’ suggested Crabb.
‘Maybe.’
‘We could search his rooms, sir. The book might still be there.’
‘I doubt it. If Cranston is our killer he would have sold it on to a collec
tor by now.’
‘Then your Dr Silas Renfrew would have it.’
‘Possibly; but we have too little to go on at present, and would cause more harm than good if we go searching people’s houses. Your Superintendent Henderson would be very pleased about that, I’m sure. No, there is something which binds the two victims together, and I feel that our Mr Cranston is involved in it somewhere along the line.’
‘Do we check his story, sir?’
‘We certainly will, Crabb, or rather you will. Would you go to the porcelain works and see what they can tell us about Cranston? In the meantime, I am going to pay a visit to that warehouse down by the bridge.’
‘Good day to you, I am looking for Mr Snedden,’ said Ravenscroft, addressing a stout, elderly gentleman who was supervising the unloading of cargo from one of the boats tied up along the quay.
‘You are looking at him,’ replied the man looking up from his note pad.
‘I am Inspector Ravenscroft. I am conducting inquiries into the murder of a young woman by the name of Ruth Weston.’
‘I’ve never heard of her. Here, look where you’re putting that sack, Tom,’ replied the man, shouting at one of his workmen.
‘I would not expect you to have been acquainted with her. We recovered the poor unfortunate woman from the river yesterday at Holt Fleet.’
‘I’m sorry for the poor woman, but what’s that to do with me?’
‘The victim had been strangled, and bundled into a sack before being thrown into the river. The sack bore the name ‘Snedden’ printed on the outside, and there were remains of grain in the bottom.’
‘Who did you say you were?’
‘Ravenscroft, Inspector Ravenscroft.’
‘Funny, we get quite a number of visits from the police. I don’t recall seeing you at all.’
‘I’m from London. I’m assisting the Worcester Police in this inquiry.’
‘I see. Well, we have got hundreds of them sacks. Use them all the time to transport the grain up and down the river.’
‘Do you employ a large number of men to transport the sacks of grain?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘We employ about thirty or forty men, mostly on a casual basis, as and when we need them.’