by Kerry Tombs
‘I am glad of that.’
Ravenscroft, realizing that his left hand was beginning to shake, took another sip of his tea, and looked out of the window, not knowing what he should say next. He had not expected such aloofness, such formality, but now considered he had been foolish to expect otherwise.
‘Do you still dislike London?’ she asked, suddenly breaking the silence.
‘I would prefer to reside in Worcester — or perhaps even Ledbury,’ he replied.
‘But your work is in the capital?’
‘Alas, yes.’
‘Perhaps you could secure another appointment.’
‘Miss Armitage, Lucy, I realize that my last visit caused you some distress and placed you in a predicament. For that, I wish to apologize,’ he said, the words coming quickly and unsure.
‘You have nothing to apologize for, Mr Ravenscroft. It is I who must apologize to you. I was perhaps too cruel in the way in which I treated you.’
‘Never! You could never be cruel to me. It was my impulsive nature that came to the fore. I was entirely to blame.’
‘You sound as though you regretted your decision?’ she said, turning away, leaving Ravenscroft unsure as to what he should say next. Instead he took another drink of his tea, and listened to the slow tick of the clock in the corner of the room.
‘And what will you do, once your case is concluded?’ she asked, ‘Will you return to London? There have been some terrible murders there recently, I understand.’
‘I believe so, although I must admit that I have not had time to read the London papers, so am not fully acquainted with all the details,’ he replied, replacing his cup on the tray.
‘Your colleagues will be missing you there.’
‘I would doubt that.’
‘You would like some more tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ he replied, glancing at the clock face, ‘I must go,’ he said rising from his seat, accepting that his mission was impossible, and anxious to leave as quickly as possible.
‘Yes, your train. You must not miss your train to Hereford,’ she said, a look of anxiety clouding her face.
‘Perhaps I might call on you again, Miss Armitage,’ he said, seeing the sadness in her eyes, and knowing that he might never see her again.
‘You would always be welcome here, Mr Ravenscroft — Samuel.’
‘Lucy, I—’ he began, anxious to declare his true feelings, but afraid that his determination might yet cause more unhappiness.
‘You should catch your train, Samuel,’ she replied, sensing his unease, and touching his arm gently with her hand.
‘Yes. You are right,’ he said, kissing her hand. ‘Good day to you, Lucy.’
As he stepped out into the street, and made his way slowly back to the station, he was overcome with feelings of failure and emptiness. He had wanted to say so much, to have told her how his life had been lonely and without purpose since their last meeting, but her detachment and formality had been like a barrier, which he had felt unable to climb. As he sat on the platform, waiting for the next train to arrive, he began to curse his lack of resolve — and realized that he had faced the most important challenge in his life, and had again been found wanting.
‘Good morning,’ said Crabb, as Ravenscroft stepped down from the train. ‘Welcome to Hay. I trust your enterprise at Ledbury went well?’
‘Have you located Radnor Lodge?’ asked Ravenscroft, ignoring the question, and looking up at the black sky which seemed to match his mood.
‘About a five-minute walk from here, sir, but I don’t think we are in luck. The place looks deserted; all boarded up,’ replied Crabb.
‘Nevertheless, lead on,’ said Ravenscroft.
The two men left the station and made their way down a dusty road, on the edge of the town.
‘I don’t like the look of that sky, sir. The heavens look as though they are about to open. Ah, here we are.’
Ravenscroft found himself outside a large house. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said, observing that all the doors and windows of the property had been covered over with wooden boards, that several tiles were missing from the roof and that the gardens were full of nettles and long grass.
‘Looks as though no one has lived here for years.’
‘I wonder why they went away? Have you enquired at the nearby houses?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘One or two of the neighbours can recall a family living here called Tinniswood, but they can’t remember much about them.’
‘It seems as though our journey may prove pointless. Let’s make our way into the town and find some refreshment before this sky opens up on us,’ replied a gloomy Ravenscroft.
Making their way into the centre of Hay, they were met with a rumble of approaching thunder as the rain started to fall. Quickly passing the old clock tower in the market square, Ravenscroft and Crabb ran up the steep slope and turned the corner before making their way into one of the nearby inns.
‘Just made it in time,’ remarked Crabb, as the rain cascaded down on the pavement.
‘Two tankards of your best ale,’ said Ravenscroft, addressing the landlord.
‘As you wish, sir, won’t keep you long.’
‘That fire looks inviting,’ said Ravenscroft, rubbing his hands and moving closer to the hearth. A group of three men busily engaged in smoking and drinking, looked up briefly from their game of dominoes.
‘There you are, gentlemen,’ said the landlord, placing two tankards on the table, where they had seated themselves. ‘You are not from these parts then?’
‘No, we’ve journeyed from Worcester. Tell me, do you have anything to eat?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘I could rustle up some bread and cheese, and some of the wife’s homemade pickle, if you like.’
‘That sounds most acceptable.’
‘What you doing in Hay then?’ asked one of the domino players, looking up from the game. ‘We don’t get many visitors round these parts.’
‘We’re here on business,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘Ain’t no business to be done in Hay,’ remarked the second player, letting out a thin wisp of smoke from the corner of his mouth.
‘Picked a good day for it,’ laughed the third, his voice almost eclipsed by the sound of the rain beating on the windows of the inn. ‘This casselty weather dunna suit most owd folks.’
‘So it would seem,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘Be beazy by afternoon though,’ said the first man.
‘We are trying to trace the Tinniswood family. Do you know of them?’ asked Ravenscroft raising his voice.
‘Maybe,’ said the first player, taking a long draw on his clay pipe.
‘They used to live at Radnor Lodge,’ said Crabb.
‘Radnor Lodge, you say?’
‘The house which is all boarded up, on the edge of town, with the overgrown garden,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘Oh there, Radnor Lodge,’ nodded the second smoker.
‘Yes, the Tinniswood family,’ added Ravenscroft hopefully.
‘You remember them Tinniswoods, Glyn?’ asked the first speaker.
‘Lived at Radnor Lodge. They kept themselves much to themselves, them being English like. Just arrived one day,’ offered the third man.
‘How long were they here for?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Oh, about twenty year or so, then they left one day, and ain’t come back since.’
‘Can you tell me anything about them?’
‘There were Mr Tinniswood and his wife. They had two sons, I believe. One of ’em died when he was young,’ continued the man.
‘That would be the family,’ said Ravenscroft, realizing that he might be getting somewhere at last.
‘Buried in churchyard, along with them others, he is.’
‘What others?’ asked Crabb.
‘Other Tinniswoods,’ replied the man irritably, before resuming his game.
‘I see. Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Ravenscroft, turning back to Crabb.
‘It looks as though we don’t have much to go on. Our only chance is to pay a visit to the local church and see what we can discover there, once this wretched storm has passed over, but in the meantime let us first partake of some of this promising cheese and pickle which I see our host is bringing over to our table.’
Thirty minutes later, as the storm moved away from the town to be replaced by a light drizzle, the two made their way along the road towards the Church of St Mary. ‘Let’s get out of this rain and take a look inside first,’ said Ravenscroft pushing open the door to the church. ‘You take that side of the building, I’ll look this side.’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘A plaque, stone, effigy — anything which has the name Tinniswood on it.’
The two men walked around the church in silence, straining to read any form of lettering they could find in the darkened interior.
‘Nothing! No record of anyone called Tinniswood.’
‘They probably just weren’t important enough, sir,’ sympathized Crabb.
They turned, as the door to the church opened suddenly. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I see you have come to admire our lovely church, although this terrible weather does not show it in its full glory,’ said the new arrival, removing his hat and shaking the wet from its surface.
‘We are here to look for information. Perhaps you can assist us, Vicar,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘I will do my best, although I’ve only been parish priest here for the last fifteen years,’ he replied.
‘We are trying to find anything related to a family called Tinniswood. They probably left the parish over twenty years ago. Used to reside at Radnor Lodge.’
‘Ah yes, Radnor Lodge. Rather a fine building in its day; a shame that it has stood empty for so long. You would have thought that the owners would have returned by now,’ said the cleric, shaking his head.
‘Indeed.’
‘Tinniswood. Let me see. The name strikes a chord somewhere in my memory. Ah, yes. I have it. I’ve seen their gravestones in the churchyard.’
‘Can you tell us where they are?’ asked Ravenscroft, eagerly.
‘Are you related to them?’ enquired the vicar.
‘No, we are police officers investigating the death of a man in Worcester. We believe that a member of the Tinniswood family might be involved in some way.’
‘I see. Well, gentlemen, if you take the path that leads down from the church until you reach nearly the bottom of the hill then turn to your left, on the edge of the churchyard, you should find what you are looking for.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ravenscroft shaking the clergyman’s hand.
‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will remain in the dry. I have to prepare my sermon for the Sunday service.’
‘Of course.’
They left the church and made their way down a steep slope that led away from the building. ‘Rather overgrown in some places. I think we have gone far enough. Make your way along there, and see if you can find any Tinniswood stones,’ instructed Ravenscroft. ‘I’ll take this path.’
The two men began their search, bending down to examine each stone as they made their way through the wet undergrowth.
‘Over here, sir. I think I have found one,’ shouted Crabb excitedly.
‘Well done. Let’s clear away some of these thorns and grass,’ said Ravenscroft, joining him.
‘There, sir, the name Tinniswood.’
Ravenscroft dried his spectacles before reading the words on the slab. ‘In memory of Martin Tinniswood, Eldest son of Robert and Martha Tinniswood. Born 1838. Passed Away 1851. Always Remembered.’
‘Rather sad.’
‘Yes, they evidently brought the poor boy back to Hay and buried him here. Now he lies, all alone in this churchyard, forgotten and with no one to tend his grave. There must be others,’ said Ravenscroft moving on to the next stone in the row, and pulling out the grass obstructing the inscription.
‘Any luck?’
‘Yes, I can just make it out. Tinniswood. Oh, no!’
‘Whatever is the matter, sir?’
‘Take a look,’ said Ravenscroft standing up.
Crabb read the words on the stone — ‘In loving memory of Malcolm Tinniswood, youngest son of Robert and Martha Tinniswood. Born 1853. Unexpectedly Taken from Us After a Short Illness. 1866.’
‘So that is why Malcolm never returned to King’s at Worcester. He must have fallen ill and died. Perhaps there was a cholera outbreak in the town or some other pestilence that caused his death in the school holidays?’
‘I pity the parents, to have lost one son must have been hard enough, to have lost another must have been terrible,’ said Crabb, shaking his head.
‘I wonder why there was such a long gap between the birth of the first son in 1838 and the second in 1853?’ said Ravenscroft, mopping the rain from his face with his handkerchief.
‘Could be that they decided to have a second child after their first had died?’ suggested Crabb.
‘You could be right. There might have been a middle child.’
‘If there was, sir, there’s no record of him at King’s.’
‘Either way, it does not seem to matter. It looks as though our journey here has been futile. With Malcolm dead, that puts an end to our theory that a younger brother came back to Worcester many years later to gain his revenge on Evelyn. I’m afraid we have been following the wrong trail all along. Evelyn’s death clearly has no connection with the Tinniswoods. We have been wasting our time. Will this case ever have an end, Crabb? We are back at the start yet again,’ said Ravenscroft dejectedly.
‘It seems so.’
‘Come, let’s get out of this rain and catch the next train back to Worcester. There is nothing more we can do. Time I returned to London,’ said Ravenscroft, walking away from the stones.
‘Just a minute, sir, there’s another stone here.’ Crabb was kneeling before the next grave in the row. ‘Yes, I can just make out the name Tinniswood.’
Ravenscroft joined his constable, and the two men eagerly pulled the grass and weeds away from the stone, so that they could read the words.
‘Martha Tinniswood. This must be the mother’s grave. Born 1818, eldest daughter of— Good God, Crabb! See the name engraved there!’
‘This puts a whole new light on the case,’ replied Crabb.
The two men looked at one another, each not quite believing what they had just uncovered.
‘So our journey has not been in vain after all!’ cried Ravenscroft. ‘I think we now know who killed Evelyn. Time we returned to Worcester and laid a trap for our murderer!’
INTERLUDE
LONDON
Dusk was falling, and the old lamplighter was about to commence his duties outside the old, decayed church, as she made her way up the path to the main entrance and gently pushed open the door.
The church was dimly lit — a few candles burned on the offertory table — and seemed unoccupied, and for a moment she hesitated thinking that perhaps she had arrived at the wrong place, or had ventured out upon the wrong day, but the note had given clear instructions and she realized that she had no alternative but to carry them out if she wanted to bring her plan to its climactic conclusion.
She made her way across to the confessional box, and entered the confined space. The compartment smelt of damp and decay, and she sat there for a few moments adjusting her eyes to the near darkness, her breathing coming in short gasps betraying her anxiety.
Eventually she spoke, not knowing whether he was there or not. ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned.’
‘We will both suffer in Hell for our deeds,’ replied a voice that she recognized, from behind the partition.
‘You have carried out your work?’ she asked, ignoring his remark. ‘Two in one night, as you said.’
‘Stride was difficult. I had so little time before I could bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion. You received the ear-ring I sent you?’
The same ca
lculating, methodical voice, that she remembered from their previous encounters.
‘Yes, but the kidney—’ she began.
‘Eddowes. You said you would leave the choice to me!’ snapped the voice suddenly.
‘Yes, but not that!’ she protested.
‘If you do not have the stomach to continue, I am satisfied that our agreement should be at an end,’ he said, a note of determination in his voice.
‘No, I am sorry. I realize that I should not question your methods,’ she replied seeking to calm his anger.
‘You have the money?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Yes. One hundred and fifty sovereigns as we agreed.’
‘Good. When you depart, leave the purse containing the money on your seat. I will collect it after you have gone,’ said the voice resuming its earlier, formal composure.
‘As you wish.’
‘You spoke of a final victim?’
‘Yes. She is the one I hate the most.’ She paused for a moment. ‘The one who brought the most harm to my family. I have left her to the last.’
‘I understand. What is her name?’
‘Her name is Mary Jane Kelly, although she sometimes likes to call herself Marie Jeanette Kelly, giving herself French airs and graces. She lives at 13 Miller’s Court, Dorset Street. A small, filthy hovel of a place. She lives with a man called Barnett. That might prove difficult. You will have to wait until he is out of the way.’
‘Why?’ asked Monk.
‘Because I would have you kill her in her room, after I have spoken to her.’
‘That is impossible. I work alone — or not at all,’ he said, a note of finality in his voice.
‘I will pay you well,’ she pleaded, afraid that her final desire might not be fulfilled, that her last victim would go unpunished.
‘It is too dangerous. Why would you need to speak to her?’
‘I would have her atone for the evil she has wrought on my family, before her death. It is important to me. I have so little time left. Afterwards our work will be finished. We will have no further need of one another.’