The Inspector Ravenscroft Mysteries Box Set

by Kerry Tombs

  ‘I will not permit you to accompany me. The police are closing in. I cannot afford a mistake. You have already been too careless.’

  ‘How?’ she asked. ‘No one has ever followed me to our meetings, I can assure you. I have always taken precautions.’

  ‘You allowed yourself to speak to that man Ravenscroft — when you dropped Chapman’s rings,’ he sneered.

  ‘How do you know that?’ she asked, a cold shiver running down her spine. Was he aware of her every move? Had he been following her?

  ‘I was there in the waiting room. You did not notice me. That is why I am never discovered. People never realize that I am there.’

  ‘They fell from my pocket—’ she began.

  ‘—And he picked them up and returned them to you. The foolish man! He will never know that London’s most notorious criminal was sitting within feet of him, and that he had touched one of the victim’s rings! What a lost opportunity. He will never again be so close,’ he said, in a mocking voice.

  ‘I told him nothing,’ she protested.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I will give you two hundred sovereigns for this last killing. I will give them to you when you have taken me to her room.’

  He did not reply, and she grew anxious, fearing that her insistence on this had alienated him.

  ‘If I agree to your terms, you must do exactly as I tell you. There can be no deviation.’

  ‘Of course, I understand that.’

  ‘We must do nothing for the next few weeks. The police will be redoubling their efforts, ever seeking to entrap me, thinking that I am some imbecile whose lust must be satisfied at all costs, and that I will strike again soon. In that they will be disappointed. Let them think that I have gone away, that all has returned to what it was before. Then, when they are least expecting it, we will act. I will send you a letter. There will be a time and a place. That is all. You will meet me there. My face will be covered, but you will know when I am there. You will follow me to her room. After you have confronted her, you will give me the money and leave. I will kill her after you have gone. We will never see each other again. You understand all this?’

  ‘I do,’ she said, relieved that he had agreed to this one last proposition.

  ‘Then go. There is nothing else left to say.’

  She rose, and after depositing the purse of coins on the seat, left the confessional and walked quickly out of the church.

  Crossing over the road, she paused for a moment and, after looking around her and seeing that she was unobserved, she stepped back into the darkness of one of the doorways and watched and waited for the door of the church to open again. Realizing that her hands were shaking in the cold autumn air, she drew her coat closer to her.

  The minutes seemed to her to inch forward, as the early evening fog began to drift across the square. Surely he would be leaving soon, she told herself? There would be little point in his remaining inside the building, but perhaps there had been another exit.

  The church clock struck eight, as the door of the church slowly opened. She drew back even further into the darkened doorway, lest she should be seen. An old man, with a long white beard, dressed shabbily in a black coat, head bent, features hidden under a large hat, shuffled his slow way down the path that led from the church entrance to the road.

  Surely this old, insignificant man, bore no resemblance to the man she knew as Monk? She had imagined someone younger, more agile, more — but then she remembered his words: ‘You did not notice me. That is why I am never discovered. People never realize that I am there.’

  Reaching the edge of the church precincts, the old man looked around him briefly, before shuffling his way down the road. Then he turned the corner and disappeared from view.

  She waited for some minutes, alone in the dark and cold, fearing that he would return and see her leaving if she left her hiding place too soon.

  The church clock struck the quarter hour. Stepping out into the street, she walked quickly away from the square, not wanting to look behind her, trusting that the thickening fog would conceal her very existence.

  She knew now that her work would be completed. Soon all would be set in motion; the final act would be played out. She would meet the woman whom she hated above all others; the woman who had caused the death of her husband and son. It was ironic that they should both share the same surname — Kelly — one the destroyer of families, the other the victim of another’s lust. Only with the woman’s death could she hope to feel cleansed and released — and could perhaps be purified before her final reconciliation.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WORCESTER

  It was late afternoon, on the following day, when Ravenscroft made his slow way up the winding steps of the tower of Worcester Cathedral. Although he had made the journey before, on the day when he had spoken with Brother Jonus, he still found the climb arduous, and paused frequently to ease the congestion in his lungs. He knew that he would soon be drawing the case to a conclusion, and the anxiety that even now he might not succeed in bringing Evelyn’s murderer to justice, or retrieve the Whisperie, weighed heavily upon his mind. A few weeks ago he had welcomed the opportunity of leaving the heat and noise of the capital behind him, to involve himself in a case which he could call his own, free from the interference of his superiors at the Yard. He had found the comparative calm, and ancient history of the city and its cathedral, strangely reassuring and rewarding in its own right, and there had always been the thought that the person for whom he most cared in all the world was but a short distance away over the other side of the hills. But now that hope had been dashed, and it was as though the narrow streets of the city and the ancient stones of the cathedral were seeking to overwhelm him with their mockery and stature. All he desired now was to bring the case to an end so that he could return once more to his home and place of work, where he knew that the encompassing arms of the metropolis would subjugate his thoughts and feelings, and where new challenges might yet await him.

  He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the topmost step, and gently pushed open the door, half expecting to see someone standing on the platform but relieved that he had arrived first. Fastening the top button of his coat against the wind, he walked to the edge of the parapet and traced the course of the ever important river, as it threaded its way through the city on one side and the meadows on the other; the same river which had born witness to the great battle of centuries before, and which had recently seen the deaths of Nicholas Evelyn, Ruth Weston and Billy, the bargeman. Then Ravenscroft’s thoughts returned to the young choirboy, who, all those years ago had lived in the precincts of the cathedral and who had sung within its confines, until one day he had sought release from his anxiety and shame in the only way that had been left to him, in the taking of his own life.

  Then he remembered again the choirmaster, Matthew Taylor raising his arms before him, urging his charges to greater levels of excellence, the American Renfrew turning over the pages of one of his ancient books, and Cranston, ever on the defensive and anxious to guard his secrets. Other figures began to crowd in upon his mind — Touchmore enjoying his newly acquired status as the dean of the cathedral; Edwards shouting disapproval at his pupils; Sir Arthur, seeking to retain his status and importance in the light of his daughter’s actions; the Tovey sisters talking amongst themselves — ever the eyes and ears of the building; Brother Jonus, a calm presence offering words of comfort and advice to those that would listen, and finally Mrs Kelly, the woman in black who had long occupied his thoughts and deliberations. Ravenscroft knew that when the last scene of this drama was played out, the truth would be revealed, and the killer would be within his grasp. Only then would he be free to leave.

  The sound of approaching footsteps, nearing the end of the climb, reminded him of the purpose in hand.

  ‘Good God, Ravenscroft. What the blazes did you pick this place for?’

  ‘I thought we needed to be somewhere quiet, where our killer would th
ink it safe to converse with us,’ said Ravenscroft, addressing his superior.

  ‘Damn it, you could have chosen somewhere less strenuous,’ said Henderson, mopping his brow and attempting to recover his breathing. ‘I am getting on in years, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, but I knew you would be anxious to confront our murderer and would enjoy the satisfaction of arresting him yourself.’

  ‘So who is he?’ asked Henderson.

  ‘That we shall both learn shortly. This morning I sent letters to all our chief suspects, the contents of which would no doubt prove of little interest to the majority of them. One person, however, would see the importance of my words, and would desire to meet me here in an attempt to prevent his unmasking,’ said Ravenscroft with confidence.

  ‘All sounds rather too far-fetched for me. Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Ravenscroft?’ said Henderson, mopping his brow once more, before returning his handkerchief to his pocket.

  ‘Absolutely. In a few minutes, our killer will be making his way up those steps. He will think that I will be alone. What he has not counted on is that you will be here as well.’

  ‘Suppose you know what you’re doing,’ replied Henderson grudgingly.

  ‘Look down there, sir, on the green. Matthew Taylor, about to make his way into the cathedral,’ said Ravenscroft, pointing out the figure of the young choirmaster.

  ‘He’s your chief suspect then?’ enquired Henderson. ‘You think he could be on his way up here?’

  ‘We will see. Our killer may already be within the confines of the cathedral, awaiting his opportunity to make his way up here unnoticed.’

  ‘So, what have you unearthed about the case that makes you so confident?’ asked Henderson, gruffly.

  ‘When I first started my investigations, I believed that the case was all about the theft of the Whisperie, that someone had compelled Evelyn to steal the work, and that once he had done so, the murderer had no further need of him and killed him, so that the true circumstances of the theft would remain a secret. But then I learnt about the suicide of the young choirboy, Martin Tinniswood, all those years ago. 1851 to be precise. At first it seemed as though the two events could not be in any way connected, but the more I found out about the boy, the more I came to the conclusion that the reason for the events of this year had its origins back in that earlier event,’ said the inspector, walking up and down, and warming to his subject.

  ‘Sounds interesting, I suppose. Go on,’ interjected Henderson.

  ‘So I asked myself, why would a thirteen-year-old choirboy seek to take his own life? Perhaps he had been bullied at school, or was concerned about events at home, or was just desperately unhappy. But then when I read the report of the inquest, I discovered that the boy had been found hanging in the library, and I began to wonder why the boy had chosen that place above all others within the cathedral. Then it occurred to me that the boy had deliberately chosen the library because he wanted to show people that it was the place that had been witness to the scene of his own degradation — for, you see, Nicholas Evelyn had been the cause of the boy’s death. He had taken advantage of a young innocent boy, had violated his person to such an extent that the boy was so full of shame and remorse that he felt eventually compelled to take his own life, seeing his own death as the only way to escape from his torment. Nicholas Evelyn was therefore the main criminal in all of this.’

  ‘All this sounds rather too fanciful for me Ravenscroft. Can’t see the relevance of this to your case,’ muttered Henderson.

  ‘Bear with me, sir, and I will explain. After the boy’s suicide, Evelyn was full of remorse and withdrew into his own private world where he spurned company and sought solace in the ancient books and manuscripts of the cathedral library, but every day as he entered his place of work he will have remembered it as the place of violation and death. Then, thirteen years after the death of Martin Tinniswood, a younger brother, Malcolm, came to the school, became a choirboy and the whole ghastly business started again.’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Henderson.

  ‘Yes, young Malcolm must have become Evelyn’s next victim. He probably learnt of the real cause of his brother’s death, or if he did not, must have at least deduced that Evelyn had played a major part in his brother’s demise. But then, when Malcolm returned home in the holidays there was a cholera outbreak in the town where he lived. He contracted the disease, fell ill and suddenly died. His gravestone says “Unexpectedly taken from us”. Evelyn must have breathed a sigh of relief when he learnt of the boy’s death, for he realized that his secret was safe, and his life continued as it had before, full of loneliness and shame. And I suppose that would have been the end of things, and eventually Evelyn would have died taking his secret with him to the grave. But then I asked myself, what if young Malcolm Tinniswood had told of his suspicions regarding Evelyn to someone before his death, perhaps a school friend, or a master, and that this confidant had kept the secret for over twenty years until he saw the opportunity to confront Evelyn and to use him to acquire precious manuscripts from the cathedral collection.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Henderson.

  ‘Our murderer was very clever. He never confronted Evelyn direct. He used the hidden cavity in the old ruined house down by the river to leave notes for Evelyn, so that he would not reveal his true identity. After he had threatened the librarian that he would reveal the secret of Evelyn’s past, he demanded the theft of the Antiphoner in exchange for his silence. After he had acquired this work, he was not satisfied and instructed Evelyn to steal the Whisperie, in exchange for his release. Evelyn felt compelled to comply with this request and returned to the cathedral late one night when he thought no one would see him, but where in fact he was observed by both the Tovey sisters and Brother Jonus. After taking the Whisperie and creating the impression that someone had broken in and stolen the work, he left the manuscript in the usual hiding place, and was coming back towards the cathedral when our murderer killed him and pushed his body into the river.’

  ‘This is all very well, Ravenscroft, but there is one flaw in all of this,’ interrupted Henderson.

  ‘And what is that, sir?’

  ‘Surely it would have been easier for your murderer to have just taken the Antiphoner and the Whisperie, without all this supposed recourse to blackmail?’

  ‘You would have thought so, but the library was kept locked with the dean and Evelyn having the only keys. I have no doubt that our thief could have overcome this obstacle, but there was always the risk that he would be caught in the act. By blackmailing Evelyn and using him to take the manuscripts, he would avoid the chance of being caught himself.’

  ‘Very clever!’

  ‘As you say, sir, very clever — or that is what we were supposed to think, that the main motive was the theft and acquisition of the manuscripts. But I believe our murderer desired one thing more than all this. He wanted to see Evelyn dead, for you see his main purpose was not the theft of the Antiphoner and the Whisperie — although he could see that he could sell the works and make a tidy sum — no, his main desire was for revenge,’ he said, turning away and looking out over the town.

  ‘If your theory is correct, is it not time that your murderer made his appearance?’ said Henderson, taking out his pocket watch and examining the hands. ‘It looks to me as though he is not going to show up. Got cold feet and backed off, I’ll be bound. All this has been a complete waste of time, if you ask me.’

  ‘Far from it. You see, I did not expect anyone else to join us. There were no letters written to our chief suspects. I informed only one person that I would be up here tonight — and that was you! The person who killed Nicholas Evelyn was none other than yourself,’ said Ravenscroft, turning round and looking his superior straight in the eye.

  ‘For God’s sake, man! You’re rambling! Now I know this has all been far too much for you,’ protested Henderson.

  ‘Yesterday I went to Hay-on-Wye, where the Tinniswoods lived. I learnt t
hat they had left the town over twenty years ago, or rather one of them did, the other three remain buried in the churchyard — the two boys, Martin and Malcolm, and their mother Martha. There was no trace of the father, Robert Tinniswood. That is because he shut up the house after the death of his wife, and left the town, adopting his wife’s maiden name and entering the army where he rose to the rank of major, later retiring, before being elevated to the position of Superintendent here in Worcester. For you see the name on his wife’s gravestone was Henderson!’

  ‘Very clever,’ said Henderson, staring into the distance.

  ‘Something always worried me about this case. I was invited to investigate the crime by the Dean and Chapter of the cathedral, because of the lack of progress that had been made by your force in finding either Evelyn or the missing manuscript. Of course, you had no desire to solve the crime; you hoped that in time it would all go away. It must have been very irritating for you when I turned up. When Evelyn’s body was recovered down at Upton, you had not even searched the corpse to see what possessions he had on him, because you did not want the keys to the library to be found on his person. You always maintained that someone else had broken into the library, and when we later established that it had been Evelyn all along who had stolen the manuscript, you suggested that the work probably lay at the bottom of the Severn. You were annoyed when I took men away to search the grounds near the river and revealed the hiding place, and hindered our further requests for manpower claiming that your men were needed for the policing of the Worcester Races. You were no doubt relieved when Billy, the bargeman, was killed, and were more than anxious to pin the blame for both murders on him, being reluctant for me to continue with my investigations. You could see that I was not getting anywhere, and knew that eventually my lack of success would give you the excuse you needed to demand my recall to London. That is why you gave me just two days to conclude my investigations — and, of course, you did not want to organize a search of Renfrew’s house where you knew we might find the Whisperie and discover that he had purchased the work from yourself.’