by Kerry Tombs
‘I have a few minutes—’ began Ravenscroft.
‘Excellent! Come over here, Inspector, and I will show you something which I am sure you will appreciate.’
Renfrew led the way across to one of the display cabinets. ‘This is an early known copy of The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, a work of such richness of characterization and humour. Written in Middle English,’ said Renfrew, pointing to a book lying inside the closed cabinet. ‘A work that was to have a profound influence on all works of fiction that were to follow on later.’
Ravenscroft nodded and looked down at the intricate writing.
‘Almost impossible to read, unless one has a knowledge of the language of the period. Next to it is a page from the Lindisfarne Gospels. The original work was thought to have been written around AD 700. This translation into English was made two hundred and fifty years later.’
‘Over nine hundred years old,’ remarked Ravenscroft.
‘Again, it is a work of such outstanding beauty and significance, laying the foundations for Christian writers for centuries to come. A work which is beyond value,’ enthused Renfrew.
‘And what is this work?’ asked Ravenscroft, indicating an open manuscript, lying within the case.
‘I thought your eye would be drawn to that sooner or later. That is part of the Worcester Antiphoner, a composite liturgical work dating from the late fourteenth century, handwritten by the monks here at Worcester, and based upon the Officer Antiphoner, Calendar, Psalter and Hymnal of the century before.’
‘A priceless work?’ enquired Ravenscroft, beginning to find the tone of his host somewhat condescending.
‘Of course, Inspector. You cannot put a value on such a unique manuscript as the Worcester Antiphoner. But I sense the workings of the police mind. You are saying to yourself — how has this man acquired such a work? Surely it should be part of the cathedral library? Did he pay Evelyn a large sum of money to lift the work for himself? Will this man stop at nothing to acquire priceless works of art?’ said Renfrew smiling and making light of the matter.
‘I must confess that such a thought did cross my mind.’
‘Then let me put your thoughts at rest, Inspector. The work was not taken from the library by Evelyn, and sold to myself for a large sum of money, although it is true that I had to sell a great many of my American stocks to pay for it. I acquired it in auction in New York, approximately five years ago, when I was still resident in America. I can produce the sale documentation and provenance should you so desire.’
‘That will not be necessary, sir. Perhaps I should be going,’ said Ravenscroft, tiring of the American’s literary treasures, and anxious now to leave.
‘Oh, Inspector, just one more item, which I prize above all other, and which you will surely appreciate,’ said Renfrew leading the way across towards another glass case where two large volumes could be seen. ‘Tell me what you notice about this?’
Ravenscroft leaned forwards and looking down at the printed writing on the open volume, began to read the words there.
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me
‘Well done, Inspector. I see you have a feeling for the great bard. You are looking at the First Folio of Shakespeare’s works. The lines you have just read, are spoken by Cardinal Wolsey in the play, King Henry VIII, following his downfall and dismissal by the king. The piece begins with the words — “Farewell! A long farewell, to all my greatness!” — rather appropriate I think you would agree. Foolish indeed is the man of God who ventures into the world of politics and deception! But I see I have kept you for too long from your investigations. Please forgive my enthusiasm. Please feel free to return when you have more time. I will be more than delighted to show you some more of my children.’
‘You are most kind sir.’
The two men shook hands as the door opened and the manservant entered, leaving Ravenscroft wondering as to how the Italian had known that his departure was imminent.
‘Georgio, show Inspector Ravenscroft out.’
Ravenscroft followed the servant across the hallway, cast a final look at the statue and stepped out in the late summer air.
‘And how was your visit to Doctor Renfrew, sir?’ asked Crabb, as he and Ravenscroft supped their mugs of Worcester ale at the Old Talbot.
‘Quite interesting, but also very revealing,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘In which way?’ said Crabb, helping himself to a large chunk of cheese.
‘The man is an American scholar. He lives alone in a large rambling house on the edge of Worcester, except for an Italian manservant and a French cook. Says he has been living here for the past three years whilst undertaking research into the documents at Worcester Cathedral. He possesses, what appears to be a large collection of early English books and manuscripts including one rare item, the Worcester Antiphoner, which I am sure should be part of the cathedral collection, although he claims he purchased the work at auction in New York five years ago.’
‘Do you think Evelyn could have sold him the book?’
‘If Evelyn took the book, it would seem logical that he would first offer it for sale to Renfrew, although that might seem a little too obvious,’ replied Ravenscroft, cutting up a piece of ham and placing it on his fork.
‘We could make a search through his collection?’ suggested Crabb.
‘We could, but I don’t want to alarm him just yet. Anyway if he had the book, I’m sure he would not have left it lying around for someone like myself to discover. He will have hidden it where no one could find it.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Remarkably good cheese this.’
‘I can’t say I particularly warmed to our good doctor. He is the kind of man who enjoys showing off his knowledge, feeling secure behind a cloak of learning. I felt he knew all the questions I was going to ask, long before I asked them, and his answers seemed very precise and well thought out, — too well thought out perhaps.’
‘Sounds a suspicious sort of character to me, sir.’
‘Although he did contradict himself, once, however,’ said Ravenscroft, deep in thought and ignoring Crabb’s last remark. ‘When I first asked him if he would purchase the Whisperie, should it be offered to him, he replied that he would not, as it would damage his reputation. Later though, when I asked him again, he replied that he would purchase the work but would then hand it back to the cathedral. It is probably nothing. Now, Crabb, tell me how you got on with your investigations this morning?’
‘Well, sir, I first enquired in the Old Diglis to see if any of their customers could remember Evelyn meeting anyone there the night he disappeared, but I’m afraid no one could recall seeing anyone of his description visiting the inn then, or upon any other occasion. However most of the regulars were not there so it could be worthwhile our returning again this evening.’
‘I take your point, Crabb. And what did you find out at the canal?’
‘Again, no one can recall seeing him, although several of the barges there that night will be halfway to Birmingham by now. Certainly the lock keeper cannot remember seeing anyone resembling Evelyn.’
‘I don’t think he got as far as the canal that night. If he had arranged to meet anyone by appointment, it must have been either at the Old Diglis or by the banks of the river.’
‘You are probably correct, sir. What is our next line of enquiry?’
‘After we have eaten this excellent ham and cheese, I suggest we go and pay a visit to Evelyn’s rooms. We may be fortunate enough to find something there that might just assist us in our investigations.’
The two men looked up at the old black beamed building, which bore the nam
e Glovers in faded letters above the door.
‘This must be the place. Evelyn apparently had rooms on the top floor,’ said Ravenscroft, banging his fist on the studded door. Receiving no reply, he repeated the action.
‘All right, I’m coming. Give an old woman a chance, can’t you? I ain’t got three hands, has I?’ shouted a voice from behind the door.
The two policemen exchanged glances as they heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. Presently the door opened a few inches to reveal a blotchy red nose and two tired-looking eyes.
‘Yes, what do you want? We’re full up. We got no rooms, at present; plenty of regular lodgers.’
‘We are not after a room—’ began Crabb.
‘Then why are you wasting my time?’ growled the face.
‘We are policemen, madam, investigating the disappearance and death of one of your lodgers, a Mister Nicholas Evelyn. Can we come in?’ asked Ravenscroft smiling.
‘Dead, you say! Evelyn dead! God bless us all! You best come in then,’ replied the old woman opening the door wider. The two policemen stepped into the darkened hallway where Ravenscroft found himself speaking to an elderly stout woman with a red complexion and thinning untidy hair, who was wearing a dirty apron, a pair of slippers and a dress, that he estimated had clearly seen better days.
‘Dead,’ she repeated.
‘I’m afraid so. His body was recovered from the Severn yesterday. He had been in the water for several days. I am sorry if this has come as a shock to you. You are…?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Mrs Glover. Mr Glover passed on twenty-seven years ago, he did.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Crabb.
‘Bit late now!’
‘Can you tell me how long Mr Evelyn had lived here?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘He were ’ere, when old Glover bought the place thirty-five years ago,’ muttered the old woman, shuffling further along the hallway.
‘Did he always have the same rooms?’
‘On top floor. Never wanted to move.’
‘I wonder whether we might examine Mr Evelyn’s rooms?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Don’t know why you want to do that for. Thought that churchman had done that before you. He didn’t find anything.’
‘Yes, I believe the Dean, The Reverend Touchmore, did call to see if Mr Evelyn was ill, shortly after his disappearance. Tell me, Mrs Glover, was Mr Evelyn ever in the habit of receiving visitors in his rooms?’
The old woman thought for a moment. ‘No, he never had no visitors. You best come this way then, if you want to see his room.’
‘No one at all?’
‘Never. No one ever called on him. Not in the last thirty-five years anyway.’
‘He was a man who kept very much to himself then?’ said Ravenscroft following behind the old woman, who began to haul herself up the stairs.
‘Suppose so.’
‘Do you know whether Nicholas Evelyn had any relatives at all?’
‘None that I knows about,’ replied the landlady, becoming short of breath.
‘Do you know where he came from, before he came to Worcester that is?’ asked Ravenscroft observing the peeling wallpaper on the walls.
‘Don’t know. I never asked where he came from.’
‘When you supped together, did he ever say anything about his past, or about people he knew?’
‘Don’t provide supper. Lodgers look after themselves.’ Mrs Glover paused on the landing, holding the side of the banister whilst taking in deep breaths.
‘Are you all right?’ enquired a concerned Ravenscroft.
‘This is as far as I go. I can’t manage the other two flights, on account of me leg. Follow the stairs up, as far as you can. Door ain’t locked.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Glover, I’m sure we can manage,’ replied Crabb.
Ravenscroft and Crabb made their way up the two remaining flights of stairs, until they reached a small landing, with a door facing them. ‘Our Nicholas Evelyn was a man who liked to climb up stairs,’ said Ravenscroft pushing open the door.
The room in which the two men now found themselves, was of an untidy but compact nature. A single bed ran the length of one wall, with an attic window above, which looked out across the crowded tenement buildings of Worcester. A table and chair were situated in the centre of the room, the former being littered with old books and papers; a further few books were to be found on a small bookcase near the door.
‘So this is where our librarian spent his evenings, in this lonely uninviting room, at the top of an old rambling lodging house, in the centre of Worcester,’ said Ravenscroft beginning to examine the books on the table.
‘You would have thought he would have wanted to move somewhere better,’ said Crabb.
‘One thing I have learned about our friend, is that he was a creature of habit. It would have been completely out of character for him to have disturbed the equilibrium of his daily routine. I suppose the room also suited him, being near his place of work, and the view above his neighbours must have meant that he could have kept an eye on everything that was happening below him. Have a look through those papers on the desk, Crabb.’
‘What are we looking for, sir?’
‘I don’t really know at this stage — just anything which is out of the ordinary; something that does not perhaps fit in with everything else. His books seem dry fare, mainly medieval history, and books about old books and manuscripts,’ said Ravenscroft walking across the room to where another half-open door led into an even smaller room. ‘This must be where he washed and dressed,’ he said, observing the bowl and stand, and the few clothes hanging on the rail.
‘These papers seem to be mainly about books and manuscripts,’ said Crabb.
‘Go through them and see if there is any mention of the Whisperie,’ instructed Ravenscroft, examining the contents of a small chest of drawers. ‘It looks as though our librarian only had one change of clothes. He didn’t appear to eat much either, just the remains of some bread on this plate, and a piece of hard cheese.’
‘Perhaps he had his food brought in?’ suggested Crabb. ‘Or he dined out a lot.’
‘More likely he just bought food back to his rooms when he needed it. Give me half those papers.’
The two men spent the next few minutes going through the librarian’s papers, before finally Ravenscroft threw them down on the table, a look of frustration across his face. ‘Nothing! No mention of the Whisperie. No letters or anything of a personal nature. Don’t you find that strange, Crabb? We have here a man who appears to have had no friends, and no past. A man, in fact, whose life was the same from one day to the next.’
‘Not my kind of life,’ said Crabb.
‘Nor mine. It is as if he found comfort from his drab, ordered life. Do you know what I think, Crabb? I think something occurred in his life a long time ago, something which was so dramatic and upsetting, that it drove him to this life, where he could forget all that which had happened to disturb him.’
‘He could have been engaged to a lady perhaps, and she jilted him at the altar, or she died shortly after they were married?’
‘It could have been something like that, but our Evelyn does not look to have been the marrying type. Whatever it was, he buried it underneath these layers of order and drabness, where he could feel secure and cut off from the world. But then something happened one day, quite recently I would think, that threatened to disturb all this — something which reminded him of his past, and drove him to commit an act that was to be totally out of keeping with his character, and was to lead to his eventual death.’
‘That is all very profound, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ remarked a puzzled Crabb.
‘What was it that drove him out of this room that night, to commit such an outrage? If only we could discover the answer to that question, then we might be able to find out who killed him and eventually recover the book,’ said Ravenscroft pacing up and down the room.
‘That is
true, sir.’
‘Well, Crabb, it does not seem as though we will find the answer here, much though I would have hoped. Best make our way downstairs and pay our respects to Mrs Glover once more before we leave. I find this room rather sad and oppressive the longer I have to remain in it,’ said Ravenscroft, moving away from the table, and suddenly catching his boot on the edge of the waste-paper bucket. ‘There are some pieces of torn paper in here. Tip them out on to the desk,’ he instructed, looking down at the contents of the container.
‘Right, sir.’
‘See if we can fit the torn pieces together. It might be something important.’
The two men manoeuvred the fragments of paper around.
‘It seems to be some kind of message.’
‘I can just about read it. Evelyn seems to have screwed up the paper first, before reading it again, and then finally tearing up the note into small pieces. Ah, here we are—’
Tonight. Midnight. Leave book in usual place. You are released.
‘What on earth does that mean, sir?’
‘It seems to indicate that after stealing the book, Evelyn is told to leave it in a prescribed place. Clearly the person who wrote this note was planning to collect the book later.’
‘Yes, sir, but what does it mean by “you are released”?’ enquired Crabb.
‘Yes, of course!’ exclaimed Ravenscroft. ‘By stealing the book, and by giving it to another, Evelyn was fulfilling some kind of pledge, and was being allowed to go free.’
‘Perhaps he was just being paid, and had fulfilled his side of the bargain?’
‘I don’t think so. He does not appear to have been the sort of person who sought wealth and riches. No, I think he was being blackmailed. Someone had discovered his dark secret, and was threatening to disclose it to the church authorities unless—’
‘He stole the Whisperie for them!’
‘Exactly!’
‘But we are no further forward in discovering what that secret was?’
‘I agree, but we now know that after stealing the book that night, Evelyn went down to the river with the direct purpose of leaving the book somewhere — “the usual place” — evidently a place where things, messages perhaps, had been left before.’
