by Kerry Tombs
‘Whitechapel, if you please,’ replied Ravenscroft opening the door of the conveyance.
‘What you want to go there? See the sights where all those murders took place?’
‘No. I am seeking an old friend.’
‘They never caught him you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Old Jack. That man ran rings rounds all those idiot peelers.’
Ravenscroft allowed himself a brief smile as the cabman cracked his whip, and the vehicle sped away from the London terminus.
Alighting from the cab some minutes later, Ravenscroft handed the cabman some coins.
‘Many thanks, governor. Mind how you go. Not a nice area this.’
‘Thank you for your advice,’ said Ravenscroft walking away from the cab and beginning to make his way along the once familiar streets. Although he had known the area for nearly twenty years, the noise, dirt and squalor of the place still came to him as a shock, as he realized that his near three year absence from there had softened his sensibilities.
Reaching a large red-brick house at the bottom of the street he knocked on the door.
‘Yes. What do you want?’ said an old woman with a red face and grubby hands who opened the door to him.
‘I understand that Mr Robertson resides here,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘Straight up the steps, two flights, second door on left,’ mumbled the woman wiping her hands on a dirty pinafore before turning on her heel and disappearing from view allowing Ravenscroft to enter the building.
He made his way up the two flights of creaking steps, and reaching the landing he steadied his breathing before seeking out the door and tapping gently on the wood.
‘Yes?’ enquired a distant voice from within.
‘Mr Robertson?’
‘Yes, who is it.’
‘An old friend. May I have a word with you?’
‘Come in then,’ replied the voice reluctantly.
Ravenscroft pushed open the door, stepped over the threshold, and found himself in a cramped, but simply furnished room. As he neared the light that shone forth from a warm, glowing fire situated at the far end of the room, he made out a huddled figure seated in an old armchair.
‘Mr Robertson?’ repeated Ravenscroft stepping nearer.
‘Who the devil are you?’
Ravenscroft looked at the old grey-haired man seated in the chair, a grey rug wrapped round the lower half of his body and an old paisley shawl draped over his shoulders.
‘It’s Ravenscroft,’ he replied.
‘Ravenscroft?’ coughed the old man.
‘Yes, Ravenscroft. We served together in Pimlico, over twenty years ago. I was a constable then,’ replied Ravenscroft hoping to awaken some recollection in his old superior.
‘Ravenscroft? Come closer where I can see you. Ravenscroft you say? My God, it is Ravenscroft!’ smiled Robertson before coughing loudly.
‘I am glad to see you again, sir,’ said Ravenscroft offering his hand which the old man shook limply.
‘What are you doing now, Ravenscroft?’
‘I left Whitechapel nearly three years ago. I am now a Detective Inspector at Ledbury in Herefordshire.’
‘Well, you have done well,’ said Robertson before indulging in a prolonged bout of coughing.
‘Can I get you some water?’ asked Ravenscroft.
Robertson pointed to a glass and jug on the table. Ravenscroft poured out some of the liquid into a glass, and handed it to the old man who bought it to his mouth with trembling hands.
‘You find me unwell, Ravenscroft,’ said Robertson leaning forwards and replacing the glass on the table. ‘I am an old man now. Not like the old days. I seldom go out now. Moved here two years ago. Ledbury you say? Detective Inspector. I always knew you would do well. Take a seat. What brings you to Whitechapel, my boy? You’re a long way from Ledbury.’ The words came in short, breathless sentences.
‘Do you recall the Pimlico Poisoning case?’ asked Ravenscroft seating himself on an old wooden chair.
‘Pimlico Poisoning case? How could I forget it,’ coughed Robertson with bitterness in his voice. ‘That case did for me. They wanted me out after that failure.’
‘What did you do when you left the force?’
‘Got as far away from London as I could. Went to Manchester. Joined a private detective agency and did some work for them for a few years, until the old complaint caught up with me and finished all that,’ said Robertson before sneezing and blowing his nose.
‘Would you like some more water?’ asked Ravenscroft.
Robertson continued coughing as he pointed to a small cabinet in the corner of the room. Ravenscroft crossed the floor, opened the door and took out the bottle and two glasses that were inside and bought them back to the main table. He poured out some of the liquid into the two glasses, and handed one of them to Robertson, before resuming his seat at the old man’s side.
‘Ah, that’s better,’ said Robertson downing half the glass. ‘Now where were we?’
‘The Pimlico Poisoning case. You remember Quinton?’
‘Quinton. How could I forget how that terrible man poisoned that young, innocent woman. We had him Ravenscroft, then he slipped through our fingers.’
‘You never doubted his guilt?’
‘Not for one minute. It was the diary that damned him. I can remember your reading it out when we questioned him. That last entry was all the evidence a jury would have needed to convict him, until that damned Rawlinson tore us to shreds. The man walked free. A grave injustice,’ said a breathless, but angry Robertson before resuming his coughing.
‘Well, I have some news of our Captain Quinton. At present I am investigating the deaths of two people in the town of Pershore. Both were poisoned. When I interviewed the people residing in the same lodging house as the deceased, I found that one of them was Quinton,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘The devil is back!’ exclaimed Robertson.
‘Calls himself Cherrington now. Told us some long tale about being out in India for five years, growing tea of all things. The interesting thing though is that he seems to have inherited a sum of money on his wife’s life assurance policy.’
‘Probably married her and poisoned the poor woman for the money, just like the first one.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘And now you say he has poisoned two other people.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why have you not arrested him, my boy?’ asked Robertson before coughing loudly again and covering his mouth with his handkerchief.
‘Because he denies he is Quinton, and because no one saw him do it,’ replied Ravenscroft topping up Robertson’s glass with the brandy from the bottle.
‘And I suppose you have questioned him and tried to break him?’
‘Yes, but to no avail. Just when we feel that we are getting close to extracting a confession from the man he turns the tables on us and comes out of it as fresh as a daisy,’ sighed Ravenscroft.
‘I see your predicament, Ravenscroft. What can I do to help?’
‘I don’t really . . . well I suppose what I really want is your backing or support,’ mumbled Ravenscroft.
‘You are beginning to have doubts?’
‘No, not at all. I know that this man is Quinton, and I am sure that he is responsible for these poisonings.’
‘Then you must go all out to get the man. Question him again. Break him down. Don’t let him get away with it this time, Ravenscroft,’ said Robertson gripping Ravenscroft’s arm and staring intently at him through his watery, reddened eyes. ‘I have waited over twenty years to bring that man to justice.’
‘I know, but if there is no evidence against him?’
‘Then you must find it, and if you cannot secure it, then you must make it,’ urged Robertson coughing again before taking another drink of the brandy.
Ravenscroft turned away deep in thought.
‘Look, Ravenscroft, you and I both know that he poisoned his first wi
fe most cruelly, and that he has probably done away with others over the years, and now he has poisoned two others in Pershore or whatever it was. You cannot let him get away with it again. Tell me you will put him away this time, Ravenscroft. Promise me,’ implored Robertson becoming increasingly agitated.
‘I will,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘Good man. Then I can finally die a satisfied man,’ sighed Robertson sinking back into the chair.
‘I am sure you will not die for many years yet,’ said Ravenscroft trying to sound reassuring.
‘Don’t patronize me, Ravenscroft. I have seen the doctors. I only have a week or so left if I am fortunate,’ coughed Robertson.
‘I am sorry for it. I see that I have tired you. I apologize. I should take my leave,’ mumbled Ravenscroft feeling uneasy, and not knowing what to say, as he stood up.
‘It was good to see you, my boy. Good of you to come,’ said Robertson in a voice that seemed to Ravenscroft to be scarcely more than a whisper.
‘The honour was all mine.’
‘See that you send him down, Ravenscroft. I will be counting on you.’
‘I will.’
The old man closed his eyes as he head sank onto his chest.
Ravenscroft waited for a minute and then, realizing that he could do no more, slipped quietly from the room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PERSHORE
It was with a new resolution that Ravenscroft set out for Pershore the following morning, having slept soundly the night after his return from the capital.
‘And how was your old colleague?’ asked Crabb as the horse and trap crossed over the bridge at Upton on their way to Pershore.
‘Not well I am afraid. It seems that the illness which has long plagued him will shortly claim its victim,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘I am very sorry, sir.’
‘Nevertheless I think it was of some comfort to him to know that we have Quinton within our grasp once again. I am convinced more than ever now that Cherrington, or rather Quinton, is responsible for the deaths of Miss Martin and Jones.’
‘How can we prove it, sir?’ asked Crabb somewhat tentatively.
‘I intend searching his rooms from top to bottom until I find the evidence. Then we will arrest him and take him to the police station. Perhaps a certain amount of prolonged hard questioning in a small, cold room will elicit a confession from him. I will not give up until I have that man hanging from a noose. I owe it to Robertson before he dies,’ said a determined Ravenscroft.
After a few more miles of travel the cab drew up outside the lodging house.
‘Hm, Talbot’s sign appears to be in a sorrier state; about to fall on someone at any moment,’ said Ravenscroft as he strode up to the front door and rang the bell.
‘Good morning to you, sir,’ said Maisie.
‘Good morning, Maisie. Is Mr Cherrington at home?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Good. We will see ourselves up. I think it would be advisable if Mr Talbot were to mend his sign outside the premises before it kills someone and we have another murder on our hands. Has Mr Claybourne returned yet?’ asked Ravenscroft stepping into the hall.
‘No, sir.’
Ravenscroft and Crabb marched up the two flights of stairs and banged on Cherrington’s door.
‘Ah Mr. Ravenscroft, come to arrest me have you?’ said Cherrington with sarcasm after he had opened the door and observed the two policemen.
‘I have come to make a search of these rooms, Mr Quinton,’ said Ravenscroft pushing past the man.
‘I object most strongly. This is insufferable,’ protested Cherrington.
‘You may protest as much as you like sir, but I have reason to believe that you are concealing vital evidence. You would oblige me sir by accompanying my constable here to the police station, whilst I undertake this search.’
‘The devil I will!’
‘Crabb, put the bracelets on him,’ instructed Ravenscroft.
‘Look here, Ravenscroft, there is no need for that.’
‘Mr Quinton, either you now accompany Constable Crabb to the police station, under your own free will, and wait for me there until I have conducted this search or, if you continue to hinder our investigations, my constable will take you there in handcuffs. I do not think you would wish to be seen being led off to the police station handcuffed like a common felon,’ said Ravenscroft firmly facing his suspect.
‘Oh, very well Ravenscroft. I will go with your constable to the station. I choose not to go under duress because it amuses me to see how much more of a foolish ass you can make of yourself with this absurd behaviour,’ taunted Cherrington.
‘Crabb,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘You won’t find anything here. A complete waste of time, Ravenscroft,’ called out Cherrington as he and Crabb made their way onto the landing.
Ravenscroft closed the door and began his search.
The wardrobe and chest-of-drawers in the small bedroom revealed a number of suits and clothes, mainly of an expensive nature. Ravenscroft searched all the pockets for any pieces of paper that would yield information about his suspect, and emptied all the drawers to see if any items had been hidden there, but he found nothing. Next he turned his attention to the bed where after stripping back the sheets, he looked intently underneath the mattress and beneath the brass bedstead itself.
He then returned to the living room and turned his attention towards the collection of books on the sidetable, but was disappointed that there was no diary nor were there any other papers of a personal nature. The few volumes of Dickens and Trollope likewise failed to contain any annotations or dedications, and when he flicked through the pages he was disappointed to find no cuttings or lose pieces of paper enclosed within.
Sighing, Ravenscroft stared round the living room to see if there was anything else of interest. The landscape painting of some cows and sheep by a stream, he concluded had hung in its present position for a great many years, and the contents of a small silver tray that lay on the table consisted merely of some cigarettes and a folded copy of that day’s edition of The Times.
Turning his attention towards the fireplace, he observed that, although the logs were cold, there was a charred collection of burnt papers in the hearth where their owner had set fire to them the previous day. Clearly Cherrington had destroyed anything of a personal nature that might have incriminated him. Ravenscroft realized that he had come too late, and cursed himself for not having carried out the search earlier. Now there would only be the questioning of his suspect that could solve the mystery.
Ravenscroft walked towards the door, but stopped when he noticed that Cherrington’s silver-topped walking stick lay in the stand by the door. He picked up the item and, observing that there was a faded monogram engraved on the handle, he took the stick over to the window so that he could examine the letters more clearly.
‘C.Q.!’ exclaimed Ravenscroft out loud. ‘Charles Quinton. I wonder what you will say now, Mr Cherrington?’
Grasping the stick, Ravenscroft made his way out of the room and down the stairs, and eagerly along the streets of the town towards the police station.
‘Good morning, Hoskings. Where is the prisoner?’ asked Ravenscroft addressing the constable who was standing behind the counter.
‘With Constable Crabb in the backroom, sir,’ answered the policeman.
Ravenscroft opened the door to reveal Cherrington seated at the table and Crabb standing by the door.
‘I hope you are satisfied, Ravenscroft, now that you have searched my rooms. I presume you found nothing?’ said Cherrington with his usual air of confidence.
‘I see, Quinton, that you had been busy yesterday burning papers in your hearth,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘It is not a crime to get rid of unwanted items.’
‘Unless of course they are of an incriminating nature.’
‘How are we to know, inspector?’ smiled Quinton rising from his chair. ‘In view of the fact
that you have been unable to discover any arsenic, pistols, knives, or anything else of a criminal nature in my rooms, I believe I am in my rights to wish you both a good day.’
‘If you are leaving us, Mr Quinton, I am sure that you will require this,’ said Ravenscroft laying the walking stick down on the table.
Cherrington said nothing as he stared down at the stick.
‘Do please pick up the stick, Mr Quinton. You will observe that it has an inscribed monogram on the handle. “C.Q.” Now I wonder what those letters represent? Perhaps you would care to enlighten us, Captain Quinton?’ said Ravenscroft.
‘You know perfectly well what they represent,’ said Quinton.
‘Yes, “Charles Quinton”. Shall we stop this pretence, captain? Sit down,’ instructed Ravenscroft.
For a brief moment Ravenscroft thought he detected a look of anger crossing over his suspect’s face.
‘Look, old boy, there is a perfect explanation for all this,’ said Cherrington resuming his usual air of light-heartedness as he resumed his seat.
‘I should certainly like to hear it, Mr Quinton,’ said Ravenscroft wondering how his suspect would explain away this item of evidence.
‘It is all quite simple. When Quinton died in India, I naturally thought that I would take over his walking stick. It was too good to discard, and Quinton had no relatives or other beneficiaries to leave it to. It would have been foolish to have discarded it.’
‘Oh come, Captain Quinton, you surely do not expect us to believe that?’ said Ravenscroft leaning back in his chair and observing his suspect intently.
‘It is the truth. It is entirely up to you, inspector whether you believe me or not,’ said Cherrington with an air of disdain.
Ravenscroft said nothing as he looked across at Crabb.
‘Well if that is all?’
‘Empty out your pockets, captain.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘I wish to make a search of your pockets. If you do not oblige us, sir, I will instruct my constable to carry out the search on my behalf,’ said Ravenscroft with determination.
‘No need for that, old boy,’ replied Cherrington placing his hand in a coat pocket and bringing forth a number of items which he placed on the table. Ravenscroft searched through the numerous coins, and lifted up the silver cigarette case, which he examined carefully for any inscriptions.