by Kerry Tombs
Ravenscroft reached for the letter opener. ‘Perhaps it is that strange aunt of yours. The one you keep telling me about, who is always threatening to come and visit us. Aunt Alice, or Agnes, or whatever her name is. Then again it could be from an admirer.’
‘You don’t have any admirers,’ interjected Lucy.
‘One must live in expectation. Perhaps we should leave it until the evening,’ said Ravenscroft laying down the envelope before taking a mouthful of egg.
‘Well if you won’t open it, I will,’ said Lucy reaching out across the table.
‘No, I think I shall open it after all,’ said Ravenscroft swiftly picking up the envelope and opening the flap with the opener. ‘Quite extraordinary!’ he exclaimed after a few moments reading its contents.
‘Well, who is it from?’ asked Lucy impatiently.
‘I don’t know. The letter is unsigned, on blue paper. It just says — Jones was poisoned. It was the tawny. That is all,’ replied Ravenscroft passing over the letter to his wife.
‘Jones was the name of the man who died from eating the Brown Windsor?’
‘Yes, but the maid told Tom and me that he did not eat any of the soup — and this letter would tend to suggest that the poor man was poisoned by another means.’
‘The tawny port?’
‘Yes, but if this man did die from poison in his port, why did no one else die from drinking it?’ asked a puzzled Ravenscroft.
‘Perhaps he was the only one who liked port?’ suggested Lucy.
‘Yes, that could be the case I suppose. It looks as though Tom and I will have to go back to Pershore, and find out who wrote this letter, and see if we can recover that port before anyone else drinks it,’ said Ravenscroft rising swiftly from the breakfast table.
‘I suppose this could mean the end of our holiday,’ sighed Lucy.
‘Not at all, my dear. I am sure that we shall be able to clear all this up in a day or so. We’ll go next Monday. Yes, Monday it shall be. I’ll write to the Superintendent. Meanwhile, why don’t you consult the Bradshaws in respect of our journey, and also see what suitable establishments there are in Weymouth.’
* * *
‘Well, Tom, here we are again,’ said Ravenscroft as he and Crabb walked up the path to Talbots’ lodging house.
‘Be interesting if we can find out who sent you that letter.’
‘We must hope that no one else has drunk any of the tawny. Ah, I think that is Mr Talbot himself standing on the doorstep. Good day to you, Mr Talbot,’ called out Ravenscroft.
‘Lord save us,’ muttered the landlord pulling a glum face. ‘Whatever is Mrs Talbot going to say? She won’t like this at all. Not at all.’
‘I’m sorry to have to impose ourselves on you and your good wife once again, but I am afraid something serious has arisen regarding the late Mr Jones.’
‘Who’s that, Talbot?’ shouted a familiar voice from within the dark interior of the building.
‘It’s that inspector again, my dear,’ replied Talbot wiping a dirty hand across his stained red waistcoat.
‘What!’ exclaimed Mrs Talbot striding up to the doorway.
‘Told you she would not like it,’ mumbled Talbot.
‘Good morning, Mrs Talbot,’ said a smiling Ravenscroft ignoring the last remark. ‘I trust I find you in good health.’
‘What do you want? We told you everything yesterday,’ grumbled the landlady adopting a defensive pose.
‘Indeed you did, Mrs Talbot, and Constable Crabb and I were most grateful for your assistance, but something of great importance has arisen since then. We believe that you and your husband, and your guests, may be in the gravest danger.’
‘Gravest danger?’ asked the landlady.
‘Indeed so, Mrs Talbot. Perhaps if my Constable and I could come inside we could explain everything, and then this matter can be quickly resolved,’ said Ravenscroft realizing that perhaps he had only this one opportunity to gain re-admittance to the boarding house.
‘Could be important, my dear,’ said Talbot.
‘Oh, very well. You best come in then.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ravenscroft giving a sideways glance at Crabb, before the two of them followed the couple down the hall and into the dining room.
‘Well, get on with it then,’ snapped the landlady. ‘We haven’t got all day. This is a busy establishment.’
‘Can you tell me what your guests usually drink with their meals?’ asked Ravenscroft looking quickly around the room.
‘Why?’ demanded Mrs Talbot.
‘It is very important. In particular I would like to know what Mister Jones drank on the night in question?’
‘Each of our guests has their own particular bottle,’ said Talbot leading the way across the room to where a large collection of bottles stood together on an old wooden tray.
‘And what did Mr Jones drink?’ asked Ravenscroft anxious to know more.
‘The tawny,’ interjected Mrs Talbot. ‘He were very fond of the tawny. Would let no one else drink it, he said. He were most particular.’
‘And did Mr Jones partake of his usual drink on the night in question?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘When did he drink from the bottle?’
‘What you mean — when did he drink?’ asked Mrs Talbot.
‘At the beginning of the meal, or at the conclusion?’
‘He always finished off the meal with his usual glass of port,’ offered Talbot.
‘And did he do the same that night?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘What happened after he had drunk the port?’ continued Ravenscroft.
‘What do you mean, “what happened”?’
‘Did Mr Jones complain of feeling unwell?’
‘No. He just got up from the table and went straight upstairs to his room, if I recall,’ said the landlady.
‘Can you tell me which of these bottles is the port?’ asked Ravenscroft.
Talbot searched through the group. ‘It ain’t here. Bottle ain’t here.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked an anxious Ravenscroft.
‘I tells you it ain’t here. Have a look for yourself if you don’t believe me.’
Ravenscroft stepped forwards and carefully examined the bottles. ‘I see that you write the name of each of your guests on the labels of the bottles.’
‘Yes,’ replied Talbot. ‘That’s so everyone knows their own bottle.’
‘Have either you or your wife removed the bottle since Mister Jones’s demise?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘I ain’t. Has you, my dear?’ Talbot asked his wife.
‘No, perhaps that girl has thrown it away. Maisie, Maisie,’ called the landlady.
The maid quickly entered the room. ‘Yes Mrs Talbot.’
‘Have you gone and thrown Mister Jones’s bottle of tawny away?’ enquired Talbot.
‘No Mr Talbot,’ replied the maid giving Ravenscroft a fleeting glance.
‘Are you sure on that point, Maisie?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Yes sir. I have not taken it away.’
‘What is all this about?’ asked an irritated Mrs Talbot.
‘We have reason to believe that the poison that killed your late guest was contained within the bottle of port,’ replied Ravenscroft. ‘Mister Jones did not die from eating too much of the Brown Windsor, or any other item of food, but through taking his usual glass of port.’
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed the landlady.
‘Lord help us!’ echoed Talbot.
‘Maisie, it is very important that we find this bottle. Do you think you could go and see if it has been included in any items of rubbish that may be in the vicinity,’ instructed Ravenscroft.
‘Yes sir,’ said the maid quickly leaving the room.
‘How do you know this port was poisoned, if we don’t have the bottle?’ asked Mrs Talbot.
‘We have received certain information that suggests that is the case,’ replied Ravenscroft.
<
br /> ‘What you mean — certain information?’ asked Talbot.
‘I am not at liberty to reveal where this information was obtained.’
‘I knows where it came from, Talbot. It’s that Miss Martin.’
‘You don’t know that at all,’ sighed Talbot.
‘Yes it will be her, I have no doubt. Our prim and pretty Miss Martin. Always anxious to spread rumour and innuendo about this establishment,’ protested Mrs Talbot.
‘Not that again,’ muttered Talbot turning away.
‘Please sir,’ said the maid entering the room. ‘I’ve looked where we keep the rubbish, but there is no bottle of tawny there.’
‘Thank you, Maisie. So it would seem that whoever put poison in that bottle must have removed it shortly after Mr Jones drank some of the contents,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘Well it ain’t any use your looking at either me or Mrs Talbot,’ said the landlord. ‘We had no reason to go round killing our guests.’
‘And I had nothing to do with it,’ added the maid.
‘I am sure you did not. Nevertheless I believe that a serious crime has taken place in the household, and that investigations need to be carried out to discover the truth. I will need to question all your guests.’
‘They are not all here at present,’ said Talbot.
‘Then we shall start now with the ones who are,’ said Ravenscroft adopting a more formal, serious tone.
‘Shall I go and ask them to come down?’ asked Crabb.
‘No, thank you. I think we will interview your guests in their rooms.’
‘What do you want us to do?’ asked a bewildered Talbot.
‘It will be quite in order for you both to go about your usual business,’ said Ravenscroft. ‘Perhaps you will allow your maid to show us the way.’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so.’
‘Thank you. Maisie, will you lead on,’ instructed Ravenscroft.
Ravenscroft and Crabb followed the maid onto the first-floor landing where three doors faced them.
‘Which one would you like to see first, sir?’
‘Can you tell us who resides here?’ asked Ravenscroft, indicating the first door.
‘That will be Professor Jacobson and his wife,’ replied the maid.
‘And there?’
‘That’s Mister Claybourne’s room. He is away in London at present. And that is where Miss Fanshaw and her sister reside,’ replied the maid pointing to the third room.
‘Then I think we will begin with Professor Jacobson. Will you be kind enough to announce us. But one thing before then — was it you who sent us this letter?’ asked Ravenscroft removing the paper from his pocket.
‘No sir. I didn’t send you no letter.’
‘You are sure on that point?’ Ravenscroft looked intently into the maid’s eyes.
‘Yes, sir. I know nothing about any letter.’
‘Thank you, Maisie. If you would kindly announce us.’
The maid tapped gently on the wood.
‘Yes, Maisie,’ said a woman’s voice from the partially opened door.
‘There is a gentleman here who would like a word with you and Professor Jacobson, ma’am,’ said Maisie.
‘Permit me. My name is Detective Inspector Ravenscroft, and this is my colleague, Constable Crabb. We are making inquiries regarding the sudden demise of Mr Jones,’ said Ravenscroft. ‘Thank you, Maisie, you may go now, I think we can find our own way around.’
The young woman paused momentarily, looking intently at Ravenscroft, before opening the door wider. ‘You had better come in, gentlemen.’
‘Who is it, Rosanna?’ called out an older voice from within the room.
‘Two gentlemen enquiring about poor Mr Jones,’ said the young lady addressing an elderly grey-haired man with a long flowing beard who was seated in a leather armchair.
‘Detective Inspector Ravenscroft and Constable Crabb,’ repeated Ravenscroft entering the book-lined room.
‘Forgive me, gentlemen, if I do not stand. Rosanna, please offer the gentlemen chairs. You say you have come about our late lodger. Talbot mentioned that you had visited him yesterday. How can we help you?’ asked Jacobson staring out across the room.
‘Thank you,’ replied Ravenscroft accepting one of the chairs, as Crabb stood by the door. ‘Can I ask whether you were both present at the evening meal on the night that Mr Jones died?’
‘Yes,’ replied the professor’s wife walking across the room and positioning herself by the side of the old man’s chair.
‘Did either of you notice anything unusual occurring at the meal?’
‘I am afraid I saw nothing, inspector. I lost my sight some years ago,’ said Professor Jacobson.
‘I am sorry,’ apologized Ravenscroft.
‘I am quite dependent on my wife now. She is my eyes. She takes good care of me. I want for nothing.’
Ravenscroft observed that the young woman with the black swept-backed hair and pale complexion looked down uneasily at her feet. ‘Mrs Jacobson, did you notice anything unusual?’
‘Er, no.’
‘I believe everyone was ill after consuming the Brown Windsor?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Yes, unfortunately so, but we were well again by the morning,’ replied Mrs Jacobson.
‘The cooking leaves a lot to be desired in this establishment, but we manage to survive,’ smiled Jacobson.
‘Can you tell me anything about Mr Jones?’
‘I do not understand you,’ replied the old man bringing his thin wrinkled hands together and placing then on top of the Paisley rug that covered his knees.
‘We are trying to establish some facts regarding the dead man’s character and history. I wonder if you could help us? Did you engage him in conversation at all? He may, perhaps, have mentioned where he came from, or what he was doing in the town,’ suggested Ravenscroft hopefully, although realizing that he was probably clutching at straws.
‘The gentleman said very little as I recall. He had only been here for a short period of time before his sad demise. No, I am afraid we cannot assist you in this matter,’ replied Jacobson.
‘I see. How long have you and Mrs Jacobson resided here at Talbots’?’ enquired Ravenscroft casting a brief glance round the dimly lit room, where to him it seemed as though time had stopped still many years ago.
‘Five years,’ said Mrs Jacobson.
‘And before that?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘London,’ replied Jacobson. ‘But why do you ask? I cannot see what this has to do with poor Mr Jones.’
‘We believe that Mr Jones did not die from eating too much of the Brown Windsor, but rather that he was poisoned by someone in this house.’
‘And you think that we may be suspects?’ protested Jacobson, with a slight laugh.
‘No, not at all. It would assist us in our inquiries, however if we could learn a little about each of the residents, so that they could be eliminated from our inquiries,’ replied Ravenscroft attempting to sound as tactful as he could.
‘I see, inspector. What would you like to know?’ said Jacobson reaching out for his wife’s hand.
‘If you could tell us a little about your background, and how you came to live here in Pershore?’ asked Ravenscroft. ‘I believe you may originate from abroad?’
‘You are correct, inspector. My husband came originally from St. Petersburg,’ said Mrs Jacobson taking hold of her husband’s hand.
‘I left there twenty-five years ago, to escape the persecution that I was subject to in that city. We Jews were not welcome there, and were encouraged to leave,’ replied Jacobson. ‘It is not easy living in a country where the ruling powers do not like you, but then Jews have often been disliked in the countries where we have settled. And so I came to London. I was a professor of Religious Studies at the Saint Petersburg University, so I was able to secure some employment in a Jewish teaching establishment in London. Fortunately you English are a more tolerant race of people.’
‘And
you, Mrs Jacobson?’ asked Ravenscroft addressing the young woman. ‘You are not Jewish, I presume?’
‘You are correct, inspector. I was bought up in Whitechapel in London. I was a seamstress by occupation. Then one day I met my husband,’ replied the woman smiling somewhat nervously.
‘Crosskeys Lodging House was where we met, was it not, my dear?’ added Jacobson.
‘I know Whitechapel very well,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘Then you will know why we left shortly after our marriage. All that noise, and smells, and over-crowding. My eyesight was beginning to fade. Rosanna here suggested that we should move elsewhere, and so it was that our searches bought us here eventually to Pershore. It is a pleasant enough town. Talbots’ is not the best of establishments, as I think you will quickly discover, inspector, but it serves our needs and we live very frugally.’
‘Is that all, inspector?’ asked the old man’s wife abruptly. ‘I think we have answered all your questions. Now my husband needs his rest.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Ravenscroft rising from his seat. ‘You have both been very helpful.’
‘I will see you out,’ said Mrs Jacobson.
‘I do not suppose that either of you sent me a letter concerning the death of Jones?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘No. Why would we have done that?’ replied Jacobson.
‘It is of no consequence. Thank you once again for your time.’
* * *
‘Well, they are an odd couple,’ whispered Crabb as the two men stood on the landing.
‘Yes. It is apparent that the old man is very much dependent on his young wife for most things, although I wonder if he is really as blind as he says he is?’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘What drives a young woman like that to marry such an old man as him?’
‘I don’t know. There is certainly a great deal of difference in their ages. She must be in her twenties, whereas he must be well into his seventies I would think. I wonder why they married, and why did he marry a Christian?’
‘She came from Whitechapel. Your old territory, sir,’ laughed Crabb. ‘Seamstress she said.’
‘And so she might have been, who knows. She seemed very unsettled by our presence, and very protective of her husband, but then perhaps that is understandable. Did you notice how she blushed when he mentioned the Crosskeys Lodging House?’