The Inspector Ravenscroft Mysteries Box Set

by Kerry Tombs

  ‘Do please help yourself, Inspector,’ said Mary Ann.

  ‘You are most kind,’ said Ravenscroft pouring out a cup of coffee.

  ‘I believe you caught the unfortunate man who committed the dreadful crime,’ said Emily.

  ‘Yes. It appears that it was a bargeman by the name of Billy who killed Miss Weston.’

  ‘How awful!’

  ‘Two deaths in such a short time!’

  ‘Worcester is usually such a quiet, respectable place.’

  ‘I realize that all this must have been quite distressing for you ladies, but I am sure once we have recovered the Whisperie, Worcester will return to its former quiet, law-abiding ways.’

  ‘Why was poor Miss Weston killed? Why should all this have come to pass?’ asked Mary Ann, a worried expression on her face.

  ‘I wish I could answer that question ladies, but unfortunately at the present I am unable to do so, but I think it is only a matter of time before the full truth will be revealed,’ said Ravenscroft with confidence.

  ‘It has been such a terrible time,’ said Miss Alice Maria.

  ‘Not since that poor boy died all those years ago in the cathedral—’ began Miss Emily.

  ‘Shush, my dear, I’m sure the inspector will not want to know about that,’ said Mary Ann quickly reprimanding her sister.

  ‘It was all such a long time ago,’ added Alice Maria.

  ‘On the contrary, I would be obliged if you would enlighten me further,’ said Ravenscroft leaning forwards in his chair.

  ‘How long ago was it, Sister?’ asked Emily.

  ‘1851. Yes it was 1851. I remember the year exactly. It was the year Father took us all up to London to see the Great Exhibition,’ replied Mary Ann.

  ‘You mentioned something about a boy dying in the cathedral?’

  ‘The poor boy killed himself!’

  ‘He was found hanging from a rope one morning.’

  ‘He was one of the choirboys.’

  ‘You say one of the choirboys committed suicide in 1851. Thirty-seven years ago. Did they ever find out why he killed himself?’ asked Ravenscroft anxious to learn more.

  ‘No. I think there was an inquest,’ said Mary Ann.

  ‘But they said they could find no reason as to why such a young boy should have killed himself,’ added Alice Maria.

  ‘How old was he?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘Thirteen I think,’ said the eldest sister.

  ‘No, no, my dear, I think he was fourteen,’ corrected Emily.

  ‘No sister, I remember distinctly the coroner saying he was just twelve,’ interjected Alice Maria shaking her head.

  ‘Do you happen to remember the name of the boy?’ asked Ravenscroft replacing his coffee cup on the small table at the side of his chair.

  The three sisters fell strangely silent for a few moments, as each tried to remember the name of the boy.

  ‘No matter, ladies,’ said Ravenscroft presently.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector.’

  ‘Please don’t worry. Perhaps you would be kind enough to let me know if you recall the name of the poor unfortunate boy. You say he was a choirboy. Then he would have been a pupil at King’s School,’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘All the choirboys are pupils of the school,’ said Alice Maria.

  ‘Then I may be able to find out more from Dr Edwards and from the school records. Thank you, ladies, for the coffee,’ said Ravenscroft rising from his seat.

  ‘I do so hope that we have been of some assistance to you, Inspector?’ said Mary Ann.

  ‘You have been most helpful.’

  ‘Do please call and see us again,’ said Alice Maria.

  ‘I certainly will. Good day to you, ladies,’ said Ravenscroft taking his leave, his mind occupied with thoughts of the choirboy who had taken his life thirty-seven years ago and wondering whether this new line of enquiry would prove to have any bearing on the events he was currently investigating.

  ‘Well, Crabb, what did your research at the library reveal?’ asked Ravenscroft, as they stood outside the entrance to King’s School, later that morning.

  ‘I discovered that there are no less than five auction houses in New York. I have their names and addresses here. Shall we contact them, sir?’

  ‘It might take too long. No, at the present we will wait for Renfrew’s return and see what he has to say about the purchase of the Antiphoner. At present I am more interested to learn about this choirboy who hanged himself all those years ago.’

  ‘Can’t see how it can help us with our investigations,’ replied Crabb, pulling the bell at the side of the door.

  ‘At the present, neither can I, but I feel it is a line of enquiry that may prove of value to us.’

  ‘Good morning to you, gentlemen,’ said the porter opening the door.

  ‘We would like to see Dr Edwards, if you please,’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘Certainly, sir, I will see whether he is free. Who shall I say has called?’

  ‘Inspector Ravenscroft and Constable Crabb. We have spoken to Dr Edwards before. I am sure he will remember us.’

  ‘If you would care to wait in the hall, gentlemen,’ said the elderly porter eying them with a degree of suspicion, before shuffling off down a long passageway.

  Ravenscroft and Crabb waited silently, passing the time in examining the various portraits and photographs, of past masters and recent boys, that hung on the walls.

  ‘Doctor Edwards will see you now, gentlemen. If you would care to follow me,’ said the porter returning.

  The two detectives followed the servant until they reached a door which was opened to reveal a book-lined study.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Edwards in his loud Welsh voice.

  ‘Good morning to you, Dr Edwards,’ said Ravenscroft, shaking hands with the headmaster.

  Please do sit down. How can I help you? I think I told you all I knew about the night I met Evelyn, when we last met, Inspector. I’m sure that I have nothing further to add,’ said Edwards.

  ‘I have come to see you on an entirely different matter. I have just learnt that in the year 1851 a choirboy from this school committed suicide and I was wondering whether you could throw any light on the matter?’

  ‘Good heavens. 1851. That was long before my arrival here.’

  ‘We appreciate that, sir. You arrived in…?’

  ‘1876.’

  ‘When you came to King’s did anyone mention anything about the incident?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘How have you come by this knowledge?’ asked Edwards. Ravenscroft thought he could detect a degree of caution creeping into the schoolmaster’s voice.

  ‘The Tovey sisters recalled the incident to me. Apparently their late father had been a teacher here at the school.’

  ‘So I believe, although he had died many years before my own arrival here. I must confess, Inspector, that this is the first time anyone has spoken to me about such an incident. Certainly no one mentioned it to me when I arrived twelve years ago, but then there was probably hardly anyone on the staff who would have been here as long ago as 1851,’ replied Edwards removing his spectacles and breathing on them before wiping them on a cloth which lay on his desk.

  ‘I see,’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘Perhaps the Tovey sisters’ memories are at fault. They could be confused. Age can play many tricks. Maybe the incident happened elsewhere or at an earlier date,’ suggested Edwards, replacing the glasses on the end of his long nose.

  ‘They seemed quite certain, although I must admit that they could not remember the boy’s name. Does the school keep records?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘It does, going back many years. There might be something here,’ said the master rising from his seat somewhat reluctantly, and walking over to one of the large bookcases. ‘1851? Let me see. 1840. 1845. 1850. Yes, here we are, 1851,’ he said, taking down a large volume from the shelves and laying it upon the table. ‘If you would care to go through it, gentlemen, you
might find something. You don’t mind if I carry on writing a few letters?’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Ravenscroft, opening the volume.

  For the next few minutes the two policemen worked in silence, turning over the pages of the school records, whilst Edwards busied himself with his correspondence.

  ‘Nothing at all!’ announced Ravenscroft, sighing and closing the volume.

  ‘Perhaps the Tovey sisters had the wrong year?’ suggested Crabb.

  ‘No. They were most insistent that the year was 1851. They remembered it because their father took them to see the Great Exhibition.’

  ‘Well, gentlemen, it appears that the school can be of little assistance to you in this digression from your investigations,’ said Edwards, in a tone which Ravenscroft felt almost bordered on sarcasm.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Dr Edwards.’

  Edwards looked up briefly from his writing, and gave Ravenscroft and Crabb a casual glance as they left the room.

  ‘Well, no luck there. I thought Edwards was a bit off hand.’

  ‘He was probably not too enthusiastic our searching through the school records,’ replied Ravenscroft.

  ‘Perhaps your Tovey sisters invented the whole story,’ suggested Crabb as the two men walked away from the school.

  ‘No. I consider it the more likely that the school did not enter details of the incident because they felt it reflected badly on them. If there was such an incident, they obviously thought it better to forget that it ever happened at all.’

  ‘You could be right. But if the school has no record of the incident, what are we to do?’

  ‘The Tovey sisters said there was an inquest. It could be that the local paper sent a reporter to cover it. Take me to the library, Crabb. Let us see if they have any back copies filed away.’

  ‘Constable Crabb, you are becoming almost a regular visitor,’ remarked the librarian looking up from his desk as the two detectives entered.

  ‘This is my inspector,’ said Crabb.

  Ravenscroft and the librarian shook hands.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, how can I be of assistance to you?’

  ‘We understand that you might keep back copies of the local paper here in the library,’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘Yes, we have bound volumes of the Worcester Guardian going back many years. They are bound in half-yearly volumes. Was there a particular year that you would like to examine?’

  ‘1851,’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘The year of the Great Exhibition,’ added Crabb, trying to be helpful.

  ‘If you would care to take a seat, gentlemen, I won’t keep you long,’ said the librarian, before disappearing into a back room.

  The two men busied themselves in looking at the books on the shelves, before the librarian returned a few minutes later bearing two large volumes which he placed on the table. ‘1851,’ he announced. ‘I’ll leave you to it, gentlemen. Just call me when you have finished.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ravenscroft, opening one of the volumes. ‘You take the second half of the year in that one, Crabb. See if there is a report of the coroner’s inquest into the death of the choirboy.’

  As they turned over the pages of the bound weekly newspaper, the only noise which disturbed their research came from the tall grandfather clock which ticked regularly in the corner of the library.

  ‘Absolutely nothing!’ said Ravenscroft closing the volume shut after what had seemed more than an hour. ‘Absolutely nothing. There are reports of quite a few inquests, but nothing that faintly resembles the death of a young boy.’

  ‘No luck here either,’ added a dispirited Crabb.

  ‘You know, I am beginning to think that both you and Dr Edwards are correct in your opinions, and that those Tovey sisters invented the whole business just to confuse,’ said Ravenscroft, a look of annoyance on his face.

  ‘Never mind. The boy’s death probably has nothing to do with the case anyway.’

  ‘You could be right. However, there is just one more avenue still left open to us. Call the librarian Crabb.’

  Crabb made his way out of the room, returning a few moments later with the custodian of the books. ‘I understand that your search has been unsuccessful?’ said the librarian.

  ‘It would appear so. We were searching for a possible report into the death of a young choirboy in the year 1851, but it would seem that the newspaper failed to cover the story,’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘Ah, that would be the young boy who hanged himself.’

  ‘You know about the incident?’ inquired Ravenscroft optimistically.

  ‘Yes, I attended the inquest. I had just arrived in Worcester and everyone was talking about the poor boy. I had the afternoon free from my duties, and so decided to attend the inquest.’

  ‘Please, go on,’ urged Ravenscroft.

  ‘Well, sir, I can’t recall much about the actual inquest. It was a long time ago, but I do remember the coroner saying that on account of the boy’s age and given the circumstances of his demise, all reporters were asked to remove themselves and were forbidden to print any details relating to the case,’ said the librarian scratching his head.

  ‘So that is why there is no report in the paper,’ said Crabb.

  ‘Exactly. So the Tovey sisters did not invent the story, after all. Tell me, do you remember anything else about the inquest, — such as the name of the boy, why he killed himself, anything at all?’ asked Ravenscroft.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you any further. The memory is not what it was,’ said the librarian after some moments.

  ‘You have been most helpful. There is, however, one more thing that you might be able to help us with. Would you happen to know whether the Coroner’s original records were kept, and if so, where they might be?’

  ‘Oh, they’ll be over at the County Court offices, if they are still there. I believe quite a few of the records were destroyed some years ago in a fire, but you could be fortunate.’

  ‘Then that is where we shall go next. Thank you once again for your valuable assistance,’ said Ravenscroft before leaving, a new sense of purpose in his stride.

  A few minutes later the two men found themselves in the outer annexe of the County Court buildings. Crabb rang the bell in the gloomy, dank room.

  ‘Yes?’ said an elderly clerk, presently appearing from an inner room.

  ‘We are given to understand that the records of Coroner’s inquests are kept here,’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘Maybe,’ came back the unhelpful reply.

  ‘We are interested in an inquest that was held in Worcester, in the year 1851,’ said Ravenscroft.

  ‘Are you?’ sniffed the clerk, looking away.

  ‘Could you see whether you still have the records for that year?’

  ‘Can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Ravenscroft becoming annoyed.

  ‘Records are secret,’ mumbled the clerk, giving another, longer, sniff.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Rules is rules.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’ persisted Ravenscroft.

  ‘Confidentiality! That’s why,’ retorted the clerk.

  ‘Now look here, I am Inspector Ravenscroft of the Worcester Constabulary—’

  ‘Don’t care who you are. Records are secret. Not to be disclosed to anyone.’

  ‘—and we are investigating the deaths of two, possibly three people,’ continued Ravenscroft showing the man his credentials.

  ‘Still can’t help. Anyway if you say who you are, why do you want to look at Coroner’s records that are nearly forty years old?’ replied the clerk, reasserting his authority, and sniffing again as he did so.

  ‘Are you going to let me see the reports for 1851, or not?’ asked Ravenscroft, angry at the clerk’s intransigence.

  ‘No!’

  ‘It may prove the worse for you,’ said Ravenscroft firmly.

  ‘Doubt that,’ sniffed the clerk, making ready to go back into his inner sanctum.

  �
��I want to have a word with your superior,’ said Ravenscroft, trying one last throw.

  The clerk looked up and gave Ravenscroft a surely look. ‘There’s no superior. I’m in charge. Rules says you cannot look at the records, so you can’t look at them, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘If you don’t let me examine the papers, I will return with a search warrant within the hour, and you will find yourself in a cell in Worcester Gaol facing a charge of police obstruction! I trust I make myself clear? I want to see the coroner’s reports for 1851. I will not ask again,’ said Ravenscroft, in a determined voice and facing the clerk head on.

  ‘Wait here,’ said the clerk disappearing into the back room.

  ‘What a miserable, surly fellow,’ said Crabb, as Ravenscroft sought to regain his composure. ‘Whole place could do with brightening up.’

  After a few minutes the clerk returned with a large ledger which he threw down on the desk.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ravenscroft, opening the volume.

  ‘I’ll have to remain while you read it,’ said the clerk, taking up a defensive position in the corner of the room.

  Ravenscroft ignored him, and turned over the pages of the book as Crabb looked on. ‘Ah, here we are: Inquest into the death of Martin Tinniswood, age thirteen, held on the 12 March, 1851. All Press asked to leave and not to report any details of the case.’

  Ravenscroft read the rest of the coroner’s inquest in silence, running his finger along the lines of ink on the page as he did so. ‘Thank you my man,’ he said eventually closing the volume. ‘Good day.’

  ‘What did the report say?’ asked Crabb eagerly, as the pair made their way back along Foregate Street.

  ‘It appears that young Martin Tinniswood committed suicide because of the “distressed nature of his mind” to quote the Coroner’s words,’ said Ravenscroft deep in thought.

  ‘Then it would seem that his death has no bearing at all on our present investigation?’ said Crabb, feeling rather disappointed at the outcome of all their research.

  ‘Far from it. Far from it! I now know what had worried Evelyn for all those years and why he had felt compelled to lead the life of a recluse.’