by Kerry Tombs
‘Rivers does not appear to have had any reason to kill his master. He had worked at The Gables for practically all his working life, as his father had done before him. What advantage could he have gained by killing off the old gentleman?’
‘Perhaps Mr Montacute had found out something about his gamekeeper and had threatened to sack him?’ suggested Crabb.
‘And because Rivers did not want to lose his job, he killed his master? A possibility but I don’t really see it at the moment. Tell me what you thought of Mr Maurice Montacute.’
‘Not my kind of person, sir. Rather a dull old fish, but then I suppose most bankers are like that, when you come to think of it. Must be all that money – makes them old before their time.’
‘Did you notice, Crabb, how uneasy he became when I asked him about how well he got on with his new stepmother? He was quick to divert my line of questioning,’ said Ravenscroft, closing the outer gate to The Gables behind him.
‘Probably did not entirely approve of his father marrying again?’
‘You could be right. To have lost one’s mother, and a stepmother, only to acquire a further stepmother cannot have been easy. Maurice is unmarried, I believe, so when he is not up in London he normally resides at the family home, with his father, stepmother and stepbrother.’
‘At least the house is large enough to accommodate them all.’
‘You would have thought that Maurice would have married by now. With his wealth and position in society, he would have been what, I believe, the ladies call “a desirable catch”.’
‘Time enough yet, sir. Why look at yourself,’ joked Crabb.
‘Enough of that,’ said Ravenscroft, frowning. ‘This new will interests me. I wonder why the old gentleman had decided to revise his will only a month ago?’
‘Wanted to provide for his new wife?’
‘Maybe. We will need to attend the reading, to see who gains and who loses from Montacute’s will. We may well find our reason for the murder there.’
‘Don’t forget, sir, that the old banker was also a local beak,’ said Crabb as the two men began to walk back into the town.
‘Yes, we need to have a look at the records to see who it was that caused all the disturbance in Montacute’s court, and to find out what exactly transpired there, and where that person may be now.’
‘It could be a long job, sir.’
‘Then we best start before the morning is over.’
The two men made their way along the main street of the town until they reached a rather drab looking building, the front of which bore a large plaque with the words Magistrates Court engraved on it.
‘Perhaps there may be someone in here who can aid us in our research,’ said Ravenscroft, closing the front door behind them and ringing a large brass bell which he found lying on a table in the entrance hall.
‘Very fusty old smell in here, sir,’ said Crabb, turning up his nose.
Presently their call was answered by a thin, elderly, bald-headed gentleman, who was wearing a suit that had seen better days. ‘Ah, good morning to you. I presume you are the clerk of the court?’
‘And you are Inspector Ravenscroft,’ pronounced the clerk, peering over his spectacles.
‘I am indeed, and this is Constable Crabb – but how did you know?’
‘I was at the Lamplighters’ Ball last night.’
‘Yes, of course, forgive me. There were quite a number of us there.’
‘Terrible business, sir,’ said the clerk, shaking his head.
‘Indeed. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to kill Mr Montacute? Sorry, you are?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Simpson.’
‘Mr Simpson.’
‘Mr Montacute had been one of town’s magistrates for nigh on twenty years. During that time he must have sentenced many of the local thieves and villains. Many of them will have accepted their sentences; one or two over the years may have felt particularly aggrieved,’ replied Simpson.
‘Anyone who comes to mind?’
‘There was a particular nasty case some three or four years ago. One of the local villains by the name of Leewood. Came from a bad family. I think he was up on a charge of theft. There was never any doubt about his criminality. Mr Montacute found him guilty and sentenced him – but Leewood protested his innocence in quite forceful terms.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Leewood tried to climb over the rails and attack Mr Montacute, saying he had not committed the crime and that he would get even with him one day.’
‘What happened next?’ enquired Crabb.
‘Mr Montacute, he was having none of it, and quite right as well. He sent him down for a longer term. Perhaps you would like to see the records?’
‘That would be most helpful, Mr Simpson.’
‘This way, gentlemen. If you would care to follow me.’
Ravenscroft and Crabb followed the clerk down a long corridor and into a large room at the back of the building. Simpson walked over to a set of shelves on one of the walls and looked through a row of ledgers until he lifted one down which bore the year 1885 on its spine.
‘I think the event you are looking for occurred in this year, although it might be a year later,’ said Simpson, turning over the pages of the large volume. Ravenscroft leaned over his shoulder, looking down at the pages of neat copperplate handwriting, while Crabb busied himself by casting an eye over the contents of the room.
‘Ah, here we are,’ said the clerk presently, pointing to an entry on one of the pages.
Ravenscroft leaned forward and began to read. ‘12 June 1885. Joshua Leewood stands accused of stealing three shillings from the premises of John Freeman. Accused pleads not guilty. Evidence called from John Freeman and his servant Maggie Trubshaw who say they both saw accused take the money. Accused says he was elsewhere at the time of the theft. Accused found guilty and sentenced to three years’ imprisonment with hard labour at Hereford gaol, by Mr Justice Nathaniel Montacute. Accused then attempted to assault bench but was restrained by officers and was then sentenced for a further three years on a charge of threatening behaviour.’ Very interesting. So Leewood had his sentence doubled; he received six years in prison.’
‘That would seem to rule him out then in regard to this murder. I reckon he has another two years left to run on his sentence,’ said Crabb.
‘Hmm, that would appear to be the case. I suppose there is always the possibility that Leewood was released early,’ said Ravenscroft, looking up from the ledger.
‘Might have escaped?’ suggested Crabb.
‘We need to find out what happened to Leewood. Crabb, send a telegram to the gaol in Hereford, asking what they can tell us about him. Mr Simpson, you have been most accommodating and informative. I don’t suppose you can tell us anything more about this Leewood? You mentioned that he came from a bad family. What exactly did you mean by that?’
‘The Leewoods have always been a bad lot in Ledbury for as long as I can remember. The father, Rufus, went inside several times, usually on counts of stealing and poaching and suchlike. He died about ten years ago. That’s when Joshua took over.’
‘So this Joshua Leewood had been up before the magistrates before?’ asked Ravenscroft, as the three men began to make their way to the front of the building.
‘I can think of at least three former occasions. Usually petty things – bit of stealing, the odd pheasant poached, that sort of thing,’ replied Simpson.
‘So he had been sent to prison before?’ asked Crabb.
‘He was usually fined but yes, he had been inside for a few months, a year or so before this incident,’ replied Simpson.
‘You say the Leewoods were a problem family. Joshua Leewood was married?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Yes, sir. There is a wife and several children, I believe. One or two, I regret to say, seem set to be going the same way as their father.’
‘Do you know where I can find these Leewoods?’
‘Thank you again, Mr Simpson,’ said Ravenscroft, shaking the clerk’s hand before closing the door and stepping outside. ‘Right, Crabb. Send your telegram to Hereford. I’ll go and see if I can locate these Leewoods. We’ll meet up in half an hour at the Feathers for lunch.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
The two men went their separate ways.
As Ravenscroft made his way up the Homend, light flakes of snow began to fall, giving the pavement a wet, slippery appearance. A short walk brought him to an alleyway which bore the words ‘Smoke Alley’ at its entrance. He made his way down the darkened, uninviting passageway that ran between two buildings, avoiding the piles of rotting vegetables and dog excrement which lay on the cobbles, until he found himself standing in a courtyard where a collection of tall, ramshackle buildings on three sides cast dark shadows over the small, claustrophobic space. For a moment Ravenscroft thought he was back once more in Whitechapel, until he reminded himself that he was in the country town of Ledbury and that the former darkened world he had previously known was but a distant memory. Nevertheless, a few seconds before he had turned away from the bustle of the Homend with its collection of fine Georgian buildings and half-timbered structures; now he was standing in what appeared to be a darker, more menacing world.
Adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he gradually noticed two small children staring up at him from the floor of the yard.
‘Can you tell me where Mrs Leewood lives?’ he asked, bending over the children, observing that despite the cold weather, they wore no more than a collection of rags about their persons and that their feet were dirty and blood spattered.
The children remained silent, looking up at his eyes with blank expressions on their faces. Ravenscroft reached into his pocket and brought out a silver coin, which he held out in front of the eldest boy. ‘I want to see Mrs Leewood. Tell me where she lives—’ he repeated in a louder voice.
The eldest ragged boy reached out to grab the coin but Ravenscroft quickly redrew it towards his chest. ‘Mrs Leewood?’ he said firmly.
The second, younger boy looked at him with suspicion, and then pointed to the entrance to one of the buildings. Ravenscroft dropped the coin to the floor, and as the two boys scrabbled to retrieve their prize from the debris, he walked over to the old door and banged his fist on the wood.
He waited for a few seconds before knocking once more. The two urchins had recovered the coin and had run off laughing into one of the other buildings, slamming a door behind them.
Receiving no reply, Ravenscroft lifted the latch and pushed open the door. He called out, and strained his eyes to make out anyone or anything in the darkened room. A flickering candle on a table in the centre seemed to be drawing him inwards.
A sudden cough made him turn quickly.
‘I’m sorry. I did knock,’ he said, closing the door behind him and drawing closer to the flame.
‘Who are you?’ Again the cough.
‘My name is Ravenscroft. I’m an inspector with the local force,’ he replied, making out the figure of an elderly, grey-haired woman, who was wearing a dress and shawl and was seated in a wooden armchair.
‘What do you want?’ said the woman, holding a hand to her face, attempting to stifle the cough.
‘I’m looking for Mrs Leewood,’ Ravenscroft said hesitantly. As his eyes adjusted to the scene, he noticed that the table was covered with dirty plates and old newspapers. The room had the air of decay and dampness about it.
‘You’ve found her,’ replied the hostile voice.
‘Mrs Joshua Leewood,’ corrected Ravenscroft. He had expected Leewood’s wife to have been much younger in years.
‘Joshua is my son,’ coughed the old woman, drawing her shawl tightly around her shoulders and giving Ravenscroft a cold stare.
‘I was given to understand that your son’s family lived here,’ said Ravenscroft, taking out a handkerchief from his overcoat pocket and bringing it to his nose in an attempt to block out the foul smell that was being emitted from the kitchen sink.
‘His wife left two years ago, ran off with a tinker, after babby had died of the pox.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about; he were better out of it.’
‘What happened to the other children?’
‘Don’t know where they went. Somewhere in Ledbury,’ replied the old woman, descending into a set of more prolonged coughs.
Something cold brushed against Ravenscroft’s leg. He looked down quickly and was relieved to find it was only a black and white cat of a hungry, bedraggled appearance. ‘Where is your son, Mrs Leewood?’ asked Ravenscroft, recovering his composure but nevertheless anxious to keep his distance from the figure in the armchair.
The old woman laughed. ‘You of all people should know that!’
‘Hereford gaol?’
Leewood’s mother said nothing as she turned her face away towards the empty hearth. Ravenscroft looked down once more at the cat, who hissed loudly at him. ‘I understand that your son protested his innocence when he was sent down?’ he said, finally breaking the silence.
‘What do you want to know for? You going to help him then?’ sneered the woman.
‘No. I cannot change what has happened in the past.’
‘Thought as much,’ muttered the old woman, before resuming her coughing.
‘You have heard that Mr Nathaniel Montacute is dead? He was the magistrate who sentenced your son.’
‘I know who he was.’ Ravenscroft thought he could detect a mixture of resignation and bitterness in her voice.
An old clock on the mantelpiece chimed twelve, and he counted the strikes to himself. Neither he nor the old woman spoke.
The cat hissed loudly again at Ravenscroft, before crossing over to the door.
‘Did your son ever say anything about Mr Montacute?’
‘How do I know!’
The cat began to scratch the door in an angry fashion.
‘Cat!’ shouted the old woman.
Ravenscroft opened the door, and the animal gave him a venomous look before it quit the room. ‘Do you visit your son in prison?’ he said, returning to the table.
‘How can I afford the fare to Hereford?’ laughed the old woman.
‘Does your son write to you?’ asked Ravenscroft, knowing that his line of questioning was going nowhere.
‘Can’t read nor write, nor can Joshua,’ coughed the woman.
‘Should your son return in the near future—’ began Ravenscroft.
‘My son is still in gaol, where he has no cause to be!’ shouted out the old woman, before being convulsed by a fit of coughing.
‘Can I get you anything?’ he offered, knowing that he could do little to relieve her suffering.
The woman made an angry gesture with her arm, indicating that Ravenscroft should leave.
‘Perhaps I could ask Doctor Andrews to call upon you?’
‘How do you expect me to be able to pay for some old quack?’ growled the old woman.
‘I’ll pay for Doctor Andrews to call on you, and to give you something for that cough.’
‘Nothing can cure me once the fluck has taken hold. Save your money – and get out!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ravenscroft, feeling helpless as he moved back towards the door.
‘Get out!’
Ravenscroft realized that it was futile to remain any longer. Opening the door, he stepped out into the courtyard before making his way past the two dirty, shoeless children who had returned to witness his departure.
‘Found her then, mister?’ asked the eldest of the two boys, looking up at him.
Ravenscroft said nothing but made his way quickly down the alleyway, to where he hoped a brighter, more genteel, welcoming world would be waiting to greet him.
A sudden blast o
f cold air blew into his face, however, as he turned back into the Homend, reminding him that it was the first day of January and that he could expect little better at this time of the year. He turned up the collar of his coat and made his way through the swirling snowstorm.
As he came down towards the market hall he could hear the sound of dogs yelping and people shouting. Drawing nearer to the Feathers, he saw a group of a dozen or so men on horses, surrounded by a pack of hunting dogs.
‘Ah, Ravenscroft, come to see the hunt off, have you?’ said the voice of Major Onslow, who was seated on a large white horse.
‘Not exactly, Major.’
‘Damn snow! Can’t see more than five feet in front of me,’ snapped Onslow, reaching down to grasp a small glass of liquid from a silver tray, which a shivering waiter from the Feathers was holding out towards him.
‘Not a good day for the hunt,’ shouted Ravenscroft through the driving snow.
‘Eh? What’s that you say? Speak up, man,’ demanded the master of the hunt before swallowing the contents of his glass in one gulp.
‘I said, it’s not a good day for hunting!’
‘Soon clear. Should get two or three of the blighters before dark. Caught who killed poor old Montacute yet?’ asked Onslow, taking another glass from the outstretched tray.
‘Our investigations are still at an early stage.’
‘Suppose so. Bloody awful thing to happen! Who the devil would want to kill old Montacute?’
‘Who indeed, Major?’
‘Snow seems to be dying down a bit. Best be on our way, we can’t keep the foxes waiting. Good day to you, Ravenscroft,’ shouted Onslow, banging his empty glass down on the tray and signalling to one of the huntsmen to sound the horn.
Ravenscroft stepped back towards the wall of the Feathers as the riders in their bright red coats, black breeches and hunting caps rode away from the old coaching inn, a pack of black and white dogs barking behind them and a collection of some thirty or forty retainers and townsmen bringing up the rear of the procession.
‘Rather them than me on a day like this,’ said Crabb, walking over the road and joining his superior officer.
‘Rather them than me on any day of the year, Crabb. Hunting is a pastime which has never held any appeal for me. You look cold. Let’s go inside,’ said Ravenscroft, opening the door to the inn.