The Inspector Ravenscroft Mysteries Box Set

by Kerry Tombs

  ‘Tidy pile this,’ remarked Crabb, pulling up the horse at the front entrance of the building.

  ‘This is how the other half live, Tom.’

  ‘Something like this could be all yours one day, sir, with a bit of luck.’

  ‘I doubt that, Tom, and certainly not on a policeman’s humble wage.’

  ‘There’s always the horses, sir.’

  ‘I don’t think so. A fool and his money are soon parted, as they say. Anyway, I am sure that Mrs Ravenscroft would not approve of such rashness.’

  As Ravenscroft alighted from the trap, the door to the house was flung open and a manservant made his way quickly down the steps.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

  ‘Good morning. We would like to speak to your master,’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’ enquired the servant, casting a cautious eye over the new arrivals.

  ‘No, but I am sure he will see us. We are here on police business. My name is Detective Inspector Ravenscroft and my companion is Constable Crabb.’

  ‘If you would care to follow me, gentlemen, I will see if his lordship is free to see you,’ replied the manservant, indicating that the two policemen were to follow him up the steps.

  ‘If you would wait here, gentlemen,’ said the manservant, after Ravenscroft and Crabb had entered into the hallway.

  ‘What is it, Spurgeon?’ bellowed out a voice from somewhere above them.

  ‘It is the police, your lordship,’ said the manservant, as a tall, grey-haired, elderly gentleman wearing a well-worn tweed suit strode down the majestic staircase.

  ‘Lord Treaves?’ enquired Ravenscroft.

  ‘Police, you say? I suppose it’s those damned poachers again. Told me gamekeeper to deal with them. If you don’t keep a firm hand on them, things soon get out of hand. I’m sure my butler can answer any questions you may have,’ said the gentleman, turning away briskly and intent on entering one of the adjoining rooms.

  ‘It is not about the poachers, your lordship,’ called out Ravenscroft. ‘We are here making enquiries about the death of one of your guests.’

  ‘One of my guests? Dead, you say? Can’t remember anyone dying recently. Must have the wrong house,’ replied Treaves, scratching his head before turning away.

  ‘Mr Charles Ross to be exact,’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘Ross?’

  ‘Charles Ross from Bredon’s Norton.’

  ‘Ross. Charles Ross? Been dead for years,’ said Treaves, walking into his study.

  ‘That’s what we would like to ask you about, if you would be so kind to give my constable and myself a few minutes of your time,’ persisted Ravenscroft, following their host into his inner sanctum, where the smell of damp tweed and stale tobacco smoke hung heavily in the air, and where the walls were hung with numerous hunting trophies and faded photographs.

  ‘Why would you want to ask me about Ross? Gave evidence to the coroner all those years ago. All finished with. Nothing else to add,’ said Treaves abruptly, pouring himself a drink from one of the decanters on a sideboard.

  ‘Then you can confirm that it was Mr Ross who was killed?’

  ‘Of course I can. I know when I see a dead man, especially when he was one of my guests.’

  ‘I believe he died as the result of a shooting accident.’

  ‘If you know that, why do you need to ask me about it? The man’s been dead for best part of ten years. Can’t think what you want to know after all this time,’ said Treaves draining his glass.

  ‘If you could just tell us what happened in your own words, sir, I would be obliged.’

  ‘Fellow went out hunting with my other guests who were staying with me for the weekend. Didn’t go with them; back playing me up that day. Shot whilst climbing over a stile, they said. Must have leaned on his gun and it went off. Nasty business. Blew away the side of his face, I believe. Silly blighter should have been more careful. You have to know what you are doing with guns. They can be dangerous things in the wrong hands. Not my responsibility. You shoot, Ravenscroft?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should take it up. Good for the constitution, and helps keep down the vermin,’ replied Treaves, stroking his moustache and staring vacantly out of the window.

  ‘You saw the body afterwards?’

  ‘What body?’

  ‘Mr Ross.’

  ‘Oh yes. I told you so. Face blown away. Poor blighter.’

  ‘So it was definitely Ross?’

  ‘Told you so, man. It was Ross,’ replied Treaves, expressing a degree of irritation as he replenished his glass from the decanter.

  ‘Was Mr Ross a frequent house guest here?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘Not really. I knew he had lands somewhere locally, but I had never mixed with the fellow.’

  ‘So why did you invite him?’

  ‘Blessed if I know now. I suppose someone must have suggested his name to me. Of course, if I’d known all about that business in India beforehand, I would never have had anything to do with him.’

  ‘Oh, what business was that, sir?’

  ‘Fighting those Afghan fellows they were.’

  ‘Could you enlighten us further?’ asked Ravenscroft, anxious to know more about this new line in his enquiry.

  ‘Apparently, Ross and his men were escorting a party to one of the hill forts near the Afghan frontier when they were set upon by a group of the savages. All of them were wiped out except for Ross, who was more intent on saving his own skin. Left them all there to die, so they said. Bounder! All came out after his death. As I said, if I’d known beforehand he would certainly have not been invited here, I can tell you!’ snorted Treaves, growing red in the face.

  ‘I see,’ added Ravenscroft.

  ‘Can’t abide socializing with cowards who don’t do their duty!’

  ‘Indeed not. Thank you, Lord Treaves, you have been most helpful. I notice that you have a large number of photographs on the walls,’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘Like to take a photograph of all my weekend guests. Pleases the wife, you know. She likes to keep a record of who has been here, if you see what I mean. Got to keep the other half happy. What’s it to you?’

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing that many of the photographs are of hunting parties. You don’t happen to have one of Ross and his companions?’ asked Ravenscroft, looking at one of the many framed photographs on the wall.

  ‘Keep most of them in the albums over here,’ said Treaves, indicating a large number of books which lay on one of the tables.

  ‘I wonder if we might have a look through them, sir?’

  ‘If you think it will do any good,’ said Treaves reluctantly. ‘My wife usually writes the dates below each photograph.’

  ‘That is very helpful.’ Ravenscroft eagerly turned over the pages of an album which bore the date 1879 on the outside. ‘Ah here we are, November 1879.’

  ‘That’s Ross there,’ said Treaves, looking over Ravenscroft’s shoulder, and pointing to one of the dozen or so group of people who had been photographed standing on the steps of the house.

  ‘He certainly looks like the man we interviewed,’ said Ravenscroft, looking at the photograph intently. ‘Good God! Look, Crabb. If I’m not mistaken, that man there standing to the left of Ross, looks remarkably like Anstruther!’

  ‘I do believe you’re correct, sir,’ nodded Crabb.

  ‘Major Anstruther you say? It might have been Anstruther who recommended Ross to me as a fellow house guest. Can’t think why, especially as they were in the same regiment together. That man standing next to me is their commanding officer, Colonel Eames,’ said Treaves.

  ‘Eames!’ exclaimed Crabb.

  ‘Miss Eames’s late father. Lord Treaves, can you tell us who these two men standing in the back row are?’ asked Ravenscroft eagerly.

  ‘That’s Ganniford. I was a good friend of his father. We went to the same school together. Believe the other fellow is Jenkins, friend of Ganniford.
Recall he was a bit of a dry fish, but comes from a good family, I believe.’

  ‘This is quite fascinating. So Ganniford, Jenkins and Miss Eames’s late father were all members of the shooting party,’ said Ravenscroft, thinking out loud.

  ‘Blessed if I know why you find all this so interesting,’ said Treaves, turning away.

  ‘Just a minute, sir, who is that man at the back, just beginning to face away from the camera?’ asked Crabb, pointing to the photograph.

  ‘Could be Hollinger,’ answered Ravenscroft bringing the photograph to his face and scrutinizing it once more.

  ‘Oh, that’s Hollinger all right,’ said Treaves, returning. ‘Doctor Andreas Hollinger. Good friend of mine. Lost touch with him a few years ago. He went off to Baden-Baden, or somewhere like that, to look after all them invalids. Haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘Lord Treaves, you have been most helpful to us in our enquiries. If you will now excuse us, sir, we have urgent business to attend to. I wish you good day.’

  ‘Glad to have been assistance to you. Got to help the authorities these days, if you can. I’d be obliged if you could do something about those damned poachers.’

  ‘I will endeavour to have a word with the local constabulary,’ said Ravenscroft smiling, as he and Crabb left the room.

  * * *

  ‘Well, Tom, this changes everything,’ said Ravenscroft, as the trap made its way down the winding driveway.

  ‘Strange state of affairs. What was all that about Afghanistan?’ asked Crabb.

  ‘Well, it certainly appears that Ross lost his life on that shooting party, and that Ganniford, Jenkins, Hollinger, Anstruther and Miss Eames’s late father were all members of the group who went out shooting that day.’

  ‘I thought they all said they had never met each other before, except for Ganniford and Jenkins.’

  ‘That is what they would have us believe. They have sought to spread yet another layer of lies in front of us. It appears, however, that Major Anstruther was a member of Her Majesty’s forces after all, despite the fact that he does not appear in the recent Army Lists. Perhaps he left the army some years ago. That would account for the discrepancy. Why then did he tell us all that nonsense about being an actor? Did he do that to lay a false trail? Thought that if we dug too deeply we would reveal his army connections after all? Or was it just bravado on his part? And what were they all doing on that shooting party? Of course! Treaves said that Ross had deserted his post, intent on saving his own life when his companions were killed by those Afghans!’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Crabb.

  ‘Don’t you see, Tom? It was all a question of honour. That is what this has all been about — nothing to do with the old Templar Knight, or golden goblets. We have been following the wrong path all along. A gentleman’s honour! Ross was killed by the other members of the shooting party, because he had left those people to die in Afghanistan all those years ago.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  TEWKESBURY

  As Ravenscroft and Crabb alighted from their trap outside The Hop Pole they were met by an anxious Stebbins.

  ‘Gent gone, sir!’ announced the young boy, waving his arms in the air.

  ‘Which gent, Stebbins?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘The miserable one with the long nose.’

  ‘Jenkins,’ said Crabb.

  ‘Confound it! When?’ asked an annoyed Ravenscroft.

  ‘Went after breakfast. Not seen again. Others all in a flap, sir.’

  ‘So Mr Ganniford and Miss Eames are still here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At least that is something. Do you happen to know where Mr Jenkins went to?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Stebbins. If you hear anything about the missing gent be sure to let us know,’ said Ravenscroft, entering the inn.

  ‘I’ll ask around. Got me scouts here. Have no fear. Him that’s lost will be found. Leave it to Stebbins, sir,’ smiled the potboy.

  ‘I sincerely hope so, Stebbins. Where are the others?’

  ‘In the snug.’

  Ravenscroft and Crabb entered the small room.

  ‘Thank God, Ravenscroft. You’ve heard about Jenkins?’ said Ganniford, rising from his chair, a worried expression on his face.

  ‘Perhaps you had better tell us what has happened,’ suggested Ravenscroft, giving a brief acknowledgement in Miss Eames’s direction.

  ‘We all had breakfast together, then Jenkins announced he was going to pay another visit to the abbey and that was the last we saw of him.’

  ‘Did the gentleman say what time he would return?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘Mr Jenkins said he would rejoin us for coffee at eleven,’ said a nervous Miss Eames.

  ‘I see. It is now half past one,’ said Ravenscroft, looking at the old grandfather clock in the corner of the room. ‘Has anyone visited the abbey to see if Mr Jenkins is still there?’

  ‘After Mr Jenkins failed to join us, we decided to walk over there to see if some misfortune had befallen him,’ replied Miss Eames.

  ‘That clergyman fellow, Jesterson, was there. Said he had been there all morning and that he had seen no sign of Jenkins visiting the building. Seems he never arrived there. Look, Ravenscroft, you must start a search for Jenkins. This is most unlike him to go off on his own like this. I fear something bad could have happened to him,’ said Ganniford, becoming agitated.

  ‘Has anyone checked his room?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘Why … er … no. Didn’t see the point,’ muttered Ganniford.

  ‘Crabb, go and see if Mr Jenkins has returned to his room, and if not, see whether his possessions have gone,’ instructed Ravenscroft.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Jenkins would not have left without us.’

  ‘Nevertheless, that must remain a possibility. We have to follow all lines of enquiry. Did you report this matter to Constable Reynolds?’

  ‘Your man said he could do nothing until you returned. Where the blazes have you been all morning, Ravenscroft?’ grumbled Ganniford.

  ‘Did Mr Jenkins say anything to either of you to suggest that he was going away?’ asked Ravenscroft, ignoring the last remark.

  ‘No, nothing, Inspector,’ said Miss Eames.

  ‘Nothing. Look, all this is wasting time. Don’t you think you should be organizing a search party? Poor Jenkins could be lying injured in some ditch or other, crying out for aid as we speak.’

  ‘We know about Ross and the hunting party,’ announced Ravenscroft suddenly.

  ‘What? Er … I don’t understand,’ replied a startled Ganniford.

  ‘This morning my constable and I discovered a newspaper account of the death of Mr Charles Ross at a shooting party ten years ago,’ said Ravenscroft, intent on studying the others’ reactions to his words.

  ‘But Ross is alive. We all saw him at the abbey. I don’t know what you are talking about,’ protested Ganniford, turning away.

  ‘It may interest you both to know that we have just visited Lord Treaves at his country residence. He remembers that particular weekend when one of his guests was shot whilst out hunting. He also showed me an interesting photograph of his house party taken at the time. Not only were Major Anstruther and Dr Hollinger present that weekend, but also yourself and Mr Jenkins — and your father, Miss Eames.’

  ‘My father?’ asked the startled lady.

  ‘We know all about the attack by the Afghans and how Captain Ross deserted his post,’ said Ravenscroft firmly, anxious to press home his advantage.

  ‘This is all gibberish. Don’t know what you are talking about,’ protested Ganniford.

  ‘The photograph does not lie. What were you all doing there the weekend that Ross was killed?’

  ‘Mr Jenkins is not in his room, sir,’ said Crabb suddenly entering the room.

  ‘And what of his possessions?’

  ‘Still there. Nothing has been taken.’

  ‘So, Mr Jenkins did not decide to return to London on his own accou
nt.’

  ‘When are you going to start the search?’ asked Ganniford, becoming more agitated and growing red in the face.

  ‘When you and Miss Eames start telling us the truth,’ retorted Ravenscroft.

  ‘Nothing to tell.’

  ‘Oh, but I think there is a lot to tell, Mr Ganniford. From the start of this investigation you and your friends had us believe that you first met up with one another at the abbey here in Tewkesbury, when in fact all of you, with the exception of Miss Eames, had been present at the shooting party at Lord Treaves’s home ten years ago. All that nonsense about six strangers meeting for the first time was just pure invention. What exactly did happen all those years ago? How did Ross die? Was it really an accident — or did you all conspire to end the poor man’s life — and if so, why?’ said Ravenscroft, confronting Ganniford full in the face.

  ‘It was not like that,’ muttered Ganniford, turning away.

  ‘Then what was it like, Mr Ganniford? And you, Miss Eames, you must have known that your father was one of the members of the shooting party? Colonel Eames and Major Hollinger belonged to the same regiment as Charles Ross, and Charles Ross had deserted his post leaving his men, women and children to be slaughtered by the Afghans. That is what all this has been about. A point of honour. Ross was shot as a point of honour — killed because he had deserted his post and bought disgrace upon his regiment,’ said Ravenscroft, raising his voice.