The Inspector Ravenscroft Mysteries Box Set

by Kerry Tombs

  ‘We need to know where everyone was at twelve yesterday evening.’

  ‘House is over there. Just ring the bell,’ grunted Rivers, turning away.

  ‘Oh, just one final question, Mr Rivers. How long have you worked here for Mr Montacute?’

  The gamekeeper turned round and gave Ravenscroft a steely look. ‘I’ve been here for over forty years, man and boy. My father was gamekeeper to Mr Nathaniel before me, and he was gamekeeper to his father, Mr Giles, as well. Now if you’ve finished, I’ve work to be doing.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Rivers. I appreciate your assistance. We may need to speak with you again,’ said Ravenscroft.

  The gamekeeper said nothing as he walked back towards the lodge gate.

  ‘Bit surly,’ muttered Crabb.

  ‘We will need to check his alibi. We will have words later with this cook, Mrs Chambers.’

  ‘How old do you think this building is, sir?’

  ‘Probably two or three hundred years old. Built no doubt by one of the earlier, wealthy Montacutes,’ replied Ravenscroft, pulling the bell at the side of the front door.

  ‘At least there are two of them to carry on the line now that the old man’s dead.’

  The door was opened by a housemaid.

  ‘Inspector Ravenscroft and Constable Crabb. We would like to see either Mr Maurice Montacute or Mrs Montacute if they are available.’

  ‘I will see if Mr Montacute will see you, sir. A terrible business, sir. If you would like to wait in the hall,’ said the maid, opening the door wider so that the two men could enter.

  Ravenscroft and Crabb found themselves standing in a large hallway, where fine paintings hung on the walls and where an ornate Regency table was situated along one side of the entrance way. A semi-circular staircase swept upwards to the upper levels of the house.

  ‘So this is how the wealthy live!’ exclaimed Crabb.

  ‘I would think that those portraits are Montacute’s ancestors,’ said Ravenscroft, looking up at the works of art adorning the walls of the staircase.

  ‘They certainly are. Gentlemen, if you would care to come in?’ said a voice emerging from one of the rooms.

  ‘Good of you to see us, Mr Montacute. I realize that this is a difficult time for you and your family,’ said Ravenscroft, shaking the hand of Maurice Montacute. ‘Allow us to express our condolences.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ replied Maurice, leading the way into what Ravenscroft considered to be the library. ‘Please take a seat, gentlemen. Now, how can I be of assistance to you?’

  ‘All this must have come as rather a blow to you, sir. I hope you will excuse our intrusion. How is Mrs Montacute?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘My stepmother is as well as can be expected. She is quite distressed, as indeed we all are. I don’t think she will be well enough to answer any of your questions today,’ replied the banker, seating himself behind a large desk.

  Ravenscroft observed that his host spoke in a slow and precise manner. Maurice Montacute was evidently a man who was used to choosing his words with care. ‘Of course, sir, we quite understand. If you don’t mind answering a few questions for us, it would be much appreciated. You don’t mind if my constable takes notes?’ he asked, accepting one of the chairs and gazing round at the book-lined walls.

  ‘No, not at all. Anything I can do to help.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason, Mr Montacute, as to why your father was poisoned?’

  ‘None at all, Inspector.’

  ‘Did your father have any enemies?’

  ‘None that I can think of.’

  ‘Mr Catherwood, for instance?’ suggested Ravenscroft.

  ‘Catherwood? Oh, you mean that dispute – all that was over with years ago.’

  ‘I believe Mr Catherwood and your father were business partners at one time?’ enquired Ravenscroft.

  ‘That is so, and yes they had their disagreements, but as I said, that was really all quite a long time ago.’

  ‘Did your father ever mention the cause of their falling out?’

  ‘No. I cannot recall my father ever mentioning it.’

  ‘You cannot think of anyone else who might have held a grudge against your father? I believe your father was a local magistrate?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. You think that some local criminal might be responsible for his death?’

  ‘We must consider all possibilities, sir.’

  ‘Well, I suppose my father had sentenced a few people over the years, but I cannot recall anyone in particular who might have threatened revenge on my father in any way,’ replied Maurice, rubbing the side of his nose.

  ‘If you do think of anyone, I would be grateful if you would let us know.’

  ‘Come to think of it, there was a certain lowlife criminal three or four years ago who was sent down for a time for stealing something or other. My father said there had been quite a disturbance at the court and that he had cause to send him down for a further term because of the unsavoury protest he had made.’

  ‘That is interesting, sir. Do you happen to remember the prisoner’s name at all?’ enquired Crabb, looking up from his notebook.

  ‘No. I’m afraid not. I expect my father probably mentioned his name at the time, but I don’t recall it.’

  ‘No matter, sir, we can check the court records,’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘You think that this man may have been responsible for my father’s death?’

  ‘We won’t know that until we look. Tell me, Mr Montacute, I believe you worked with your father at the bank?’ asked Ravenscroft, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes, I was a junior partner. I followed my father into the bank when I left university.’

  ‘That was something you wanted to do?’ enquired Ravenscroft.

  ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’ replied Maurice, a look of puzzlement on his face.

  ‘It’s just that sometimes children feel compelled by their parents to do something they don’t really want to do.’

  ‘I can assure you, Inspector, that I was only too pleased to join the bank. My family has been involved with Cocks and Biddulph for over three generations. It was natural that I should follow my father into the family business.’

  ‘Quite and now you will become the senior partner?’

  ‘I would expect so. My father had always led me to believe that one day that would be the case although, of course, there is the new will to be considered.’

  ‘Your father made a will recently?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘Yes, my father drew up a new will only a few months ago.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Ravenscroft with interest. ‘Would you happen to know anything regarding the contents of this will, sir?’

  ‘Of course not. My father did not confide in me when he drew up the document.’

  ‘Wasn’t that unusual, sir?’ enquired Crabb, looking up from his notebook.

  ‘Not really. It was entirely within my father’s character. He kept his business and private affairs very close to his heart. He was not a man to consult other members of his family,’ replied Maurice.

  ‘Can you see any reason why your father drew up the will? Surely there would have been an earlier will already in existence?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘Yes, of course. I suppose my father wanted to provide for my new stepmother.’

  ‘Where is the will now, sir?’ asked Crabb.

  ‘With Mr Midwinter at Midwinter, Oliphant and Burrows, Solicitors.’

  ‘I presume the contents of the document will be read after the funeral?’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘That is normally the case.’

  ‘Your brother, Rupert. There was no wish on your father’s part that Rupert should join the bank?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘The idea had been muted a year or so ago, but after my brother was sent down from Oxford it was evident that he was not suited to a life of banking. You met my brother yesterday evening, Inspector, so I think you can see what I mean. Unfortunately my brother is rathe
r too fond of alcohol. He clearly has no intention at all of entering any kind of profession or occupation.’

  ‘Was there much conflict between your stepbrother and your father?’ said Ravenscroft, detecting a slight trace of sadness in the dry, measured tones of his host.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Inspector. There were a number of heated discussions between the two of them but if you are suggesting that Rupert would have wanted my father dead, I can assure that nothing could be further from the truth.’

  ‘Why do you say that, sir?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘My brother, would have nothing to gain from my father’s demise.’

  ‘Unless of course your father had changed his will in Rupert’s favour,’ suggested Crabb.

  ‘Highly unlikely, Constable. My father would never have changed his will to favour Rupert. He knew that if he did so, it would have meant the end of the bank. You saw the state my brother was in last night. Do you think he would have been capable of carrying out such a dreadful deed in that state, even if he had wanted to?’

  Ravenscroft gave a brief smile. ‘Can you tell me anything about your stepmother?’

  ‘Edith?’

  ‘I believe your father met her in Rome?’

  ‘That is correct. It was after the death of his second wife, Enid, Rupert’s mother, that he decided to travel round Europe for a few months,’ replied the banker.

  ‘It must have come as a surprise to everyone when he returned with his young bride?’ questioned Ravenscroft, discerning a slight unease breaking through Maurice’s dry composure.

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  ‘There is quite a large difference between their two ages?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t see where all this is getting us, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you get on well with your stepmother, Mr Montacute?’ asked Ravenscroft, ignoring the last remark.

  ‘I am not here a great deal, what with my work at the bank, and my club. I also spend quite a great deal of my time in London, visiting our offices there.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ravenscroft, suddenly rising from his chair. ‘We won’t detain you any longer. Perhaps we could return tomorrow to see if Mrs Montacute has recovered sufficiently to answer some questions. We might need to interview your brother as well.’

  ‘As you wish, Inspector. Look, Ravenscroft, I want whoever did this terrible thing caught. The family are quite prepared to offer a reward for any information gathered,’ said Maurice, crossing over to the bell pull.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary, sir, at present. Rewards, I find, encourage all kinds of undesirables to come forward with all sorts of fanciful, manufactured stories.’

  ‘As you wish, Inspector. I see what you mean,’ said their host, shaking Ravenscroft’s hand. ‘Do everything you can, Inspector, to catch this murderer.’

  ‘We will endeavour to do our best, sir. Rest assured on that score.’

  ‘Will you show these gentlemen out?’ said the banker, addressing the maid who had entered the room.

  ‘Good day to you, sir. I thank you for your time. Oh, one final question sir your gamekeeper, Rivers. I understand he has been with you for a very long time?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘Over forty years. He was gamekeeper here, along with his father, when I was a boy. You surely don’t suspect him?’

  ‘We have to consider all possibilities, sir.’

  ‘That idea is quite ridiculous. Rivers was totally devoted to my father. He would have had nothing to gain from his death.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Ravenscroft and Crabb followed the maid out of the room and across the hall towards the front door.

  ‘I wonder if we might have a word with your cook, Chambers, before we leave?’ said Ravenscroft, addressing the servant woman.

  ‘Yes, sir. She is working in the kitchens. If you would care to follow me, sir.’

  The maid opened a door, and the two detectives followed her down a flight of steps which led into a large room.

  ‘Mrs Chambers!’ called out the maid. ‘There are two gentlemen who would like a word with you.’

  An elderly woman of stout build and a red face rose from a seat by the kitchen table.

  ‘Good morning to you, Mrs Chambers,’ said Ravenscroft, observing that the cook had recently been crying.

  ‘Good morning to you, sir.’

  ‘My name is Inspector Ravenscroft and this is Constable Crabb. We are investigating the murder of Mr Montacute. May we have a few words with you? Please resume your seat.’

  ‘A terrible business, sir. Who would have wanted to have killed the master?’ said the cook, dabbing her eyes.

  ‘That’s what we aim to discover,’ replied Ravenscroft, seating himself at the table.

  ‘He were a lovely man. Why would anyone want to do the master any harm?’

  ‘You have been here a long time, Mrs Chambers?’

  ‘Forty years, sir.’

  ‘That is a long time. You have witnessed a few changes over the years, I’ll be bound?’ Ravenscroft smiled, hoping that the woman would be forthcoming with her recollections.

  ‘I have indeed, sir.’

  ‘People have come and gone?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I can remember the first Mrs Montacute. She died as the result of a riding accident, when Master Maurice was young.’

  ‘That must have been quite hard on the boy?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, it was difficult for him losing his mother like that, what with him being so young. Then there was his sister, Miss Elizabeth, died of a chill when she was eight years old,’ replied the cook, only too happy to answer the questions.

  ‘Could not have been easy,’ sympathized Ravenscroft.

  ‘No, sir. Then there were the second Mrs Montacute. Miss Enid. She were a real lady, no doubt about it. She knew how to run a house. She was a pleasure to work for. Everyone liked her. It was very sad when she died so suddenly.’

  ‘And what do you think of the present Mrs Montacute?’

  ‘Not for me to say, sir. Don’t believe in tittle-tattle and all that nonsense,’ replied the cook, adopting a defensive tone.

  ‘Indeed not, but nevertheless it could not have been easy for you to have had a new mistress,’ suggested Ravenscroft, knowing that she would only need the slightest encouragement to become talkative once more.

  ‘Not like the old mistress.’

  ‘You mean Mrs Enid Montacute?’

  ‘Exactly, sir.’

  ‘Difficult?’

  ‘Very but I say no more,’ said Mrs Chambers, leaning back in her chair.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She was not like Miss Enid. She were a real lady, if you take my drift, sir,’ replied the cook.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Knew how to behave in polite society, and how to treat her servants right, but then the present Mrs Montacute, she’s young. She may grow into it.’

  ‘I’m sure she will. Can you think of anyone who would want to see Mr Nathaniel Montacute dead?’ asked Ravenscroft, deciding to change his line of questioning.

  ‘No one, sir. Can’t see why anyone would want to kill the master,’ replied the cook, beginning to wipe her eyes once more.

  ‘Do not distress yourself, my dear lady. What did you do yesterday evening, Mrs Chambers, after the family left to go to the Lamplighters’ Ball?’

  ‘Well, sir, as it was New Year’s Eve, I sat here for a while, in that chair over there before the fire.’

  ‘Were you alone?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘Yes, most of the other servants had been given the evening off. They went to one of the inns in town to celebrate.’

  ‘But you remained here, Mrs Chambers?’ asked Crabb, staring down at the large cake which lay on the sideboard.

  ‘I just said that. I sat in that chair,’ said the old woman, becoming annoyed.

  ‘Quite, Mrs Chambers. Do you remember if anyone else entered the kitchen?’ said Ravenscroft quickly.

  ‘No, I don�
��t think so. Oh yes, Mr Rivers came in for a while, to take a dram and warm his feet.’

  ‘What time was that exactly?’

  ‘Just after eleven, I think.’

  ‘Can you be more precise?’ said Ravenscroft, smiling.

  ‘Well, I suppose it was more like half past eleven.’

  ‘How long did Mr Rivers stay for?’

  ‘Why, I suppose about ten or fifteen minutes,’ replied the cook with a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘You could not tempt Mr Rivers to stay and see in the New Year with you?’ said Ravenscroft, rising to his feet.

  ‘No. I thought he might have done so, what with it being the end of the old year and suchlike, but he said he had to go outside. He said there would be poachers about, what with all the lights being out in Ledbury.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Chambers. You have been most helpful to us. Please don’t get up. We will see ourselves out.’

  ‘I hope you catch the villain that did this terrible thing, sir,’ sobbed the cook.

  Ravenscroft nodded as he and Crabb walked out of the kitchen.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LEDBURY, NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1889

  ‘Well, sir, looks as though our friendly gamekeeper does not have a good enough alibi,’ remarked Crabb as the two men made their way back down the path at The Gables.

  ‘I find it strange that Rivers only came into the kitchen for ten or fifteen minutes, and did not remain there to see in the New Year with Mrs Chambers. Any other person would have taken full advantage of a good fire and a warm drink and remained indoors for longer than fifteen minutes. Either he was being over-zealous in his duties and really was on the lookout for some poacher or other, or—’

  ‘Or he slipped into town in the dark, and put the poison in Montacute’s glass, then quietly slipped away again, without anyone noticing him,’ interrupted Crabb, finishing Ravenscroft’s sentence.

  ‘You could be right, Crabb. How long would it have taken him to have walked from The Gables to the Feathers? Five minutes if he hurried, ten at the outside but we are forgetting one thing, Crabb.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that, sir?’