by Kerry Tombs
‘Yes indeed. What a sad, tragic business. I was there on the night it happened,’ said the clergyman, shaking his head.
‘I am trying to find out as much as I can about the Montacute family. I wonder if I might go through your parish registers?’
‘Of course, if you think they might prove of value to you in your enquiries.’
‘I’m not really sure at this stage, but the more I can learn about the family, the closer I may be towards finding out who killed Nathaniel Montacute.’
‘The registers are kept in the vestry, if you would care to follow me.’
Ravenscroft followed the clergyman into the side room, where his guide placed a large key in an ancient oak coffer. ‘Ah, here we are. How far do you want to go back? The smaller volumes cover the years before the beginning of our present century, the later larger volumes, still in current use, commence with the year 1812,’ said the vicar, peering into the interior of the chest.
‘I think those that come after 1812 would suffice,’ replied Ravenscroft.
The clergyman lifted a number of volumes out of the chest and placed them on a small table in the centre of the room. ‘This one covers the marriages that took place in the church – that one is for burials – and yes, this one records baptisms. I’m sure you will find many of the Montacutes in there. Of course, Nathaniel married his third wife, Edith, elsewhere, so you won’t find that event recorded. I believe they married somewhere in Italy. Rome, I believe.’
‘I think that was the case.’
‘I’ll leave you to your investigations if you don’t mind. I have a few things to do in the church. I’ll come back and see how you are progressing in a little while.’
‘Thank you, Vicar,’ replied Ravenscroft, drawing up a chair towards the desk as the clergyman left the room, and taking out a small notebook and pencil from his coat pocket.
He opened the Register of Marriages and turned to the last few pages of entries, where he was reassured to discover his own marriage and signature. Then turning over the pages of the volume, he worked steadily backwards from the recent entries towards the beginning of the book. Finding the first and second marriages of Nathaniel Montacute, he jotted down the information in his pocket book, before continuing with his search until he found the marriage of Giles and Jane Montacute in 1827.
Placing the volume aside, he opened the next register, which contained details of the burials of Ledbury since the year 1812. The last entry recorded the burial of Nathaniel Montacute on 6 January, two days previously. For the next few minutes Ravenscroft turned back the pages, looking down the columns of surnames and noting down any occurrences of the Montacute name, starting with Enid in 1886 until he reached the burials of the earlier members of the family in the second decade of the century. Finally he turned to the Register of Baptisms, and opening the volume at the page headed 1812 began to work forward in time. After some minutes he found an entry for the baptism of the old banker:
1828. Nov 3rd. Nathaniel. Son of Giles and Jane Montacute. The Cedars Father’s Profession – Banker.
After writing down the details, Ravenscroft continued to turn over the pages.
‘Ah, and how is your search progressing?’ asked the vicar, returning to the vestry.
‘Very well, thank you. I have found a number of entries for the family in regard to their marriages and burials,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘I see you have found Nathaniel’s baptism,’ said the clergyman, looking down at Ravenscroft’s last written entry in his pocket book.
‘Yes, interestingly Giles and Jane don’t appear to have given birth to any other children.’
‘I think there was another son, born much later. If you keep turning over the pages, I’m sure we will find him. Yes, there we are. “1843. Robert. Son of Giles and Jane Montacute. The Cedars. Father’s Profession – Banker.”’
‘A fifteen-year age gap between the two brothers,’ remarked Ravenscroft, recording the entry down in his book.
‘A not uncommon occurrence, I can assure you. Some families in the parish have been known to produce as many as eight or nine children or more in as many years, whilst others wait for much longer periods before the birth of second and third children. Some years ago I came across a family whose second child did not appear until the couple had been married for nearly twenty years. Such are the laws of nature.’
‘Do we know what happened to this Robert?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Perhaps he died in infancy?’
‘There is no entry for his burial in the registers,’ said Ravenscroft, consulting his pocket book.
‘Then I suppose he must have left Ledbury when he was quite young.’
‘Did Nathaniel ever mention him at all?’
‘I don’t recall that he ever did.’
‘Thank you, Vicar, you have been most helpful. Let me give you some assistance in returning the volumes to the coffer.’
‘Good afternoon to you, sir.’
It was later that afternoon when Ravenscroft looked up at the old lamplighter who was busily engaged in lighting the lamps of the town. ‘Why, Mr Sanderson, we meet yet again!’ he exclaimed, wondering how many more times he would encounter the versatile artisan before the day was over.
‘Be a cold one tonight.’
‘I think you are correct,’ replied Ravenscroft, turning up the collar of his coat.
‘Mind how you goes, bit slippery under foot,’ called out the old man as Ravenscroft continued on his way along the street and on past the ancient market hall. Shortly he would be entering the confines of Cocks and Biddulph, where he had arranged to meet Anthony Midwinter and Maurice Montacute, and where he hoped that the mysterious envelope would at last yield up its secrets. Since his visit to Smoke Alley earlier in the day and his questioning of the old woman, he had now established that the old banker’s murderer had been present in the room when the lights had been extinguished. According to Mrs Leewood, no one had either entered or left the room during the arrival of the New Year festivities, and he had almost excluded the possibility that either she or her son had committed the crime in an attempt to gain some kind of revenge. Already new possible lines of enquiry had taken root in his mind, but until he had learned the nature of the contents of the envelope, he was still at a loss to see how the murder of Robertson and the poisoning of Nathaniel Montacute could be in any way related to one another. He wondered whether Robertson’s murderer was still following his every move, seeking another opportunity to retrieve the envelope when it presented itself, but although he had kept a vigilant lookout for the man on his varied travels during the day, he had not been able to discern any untoward presence.
Ravenscroft pushed open the doors of the bank and was quickly shown into the main office by one of the clerks.
‘Good afternoon to you, Ravenscroft. Mr Midwinter has just been informing me about his Christmas visitor,’ said Maurice Montacute, rising from his chair and shaking his hand as he entered the room.
‘Then Mr Midwinter will also have told you about the desperate attempt that was made to retrieve the envelope.’
‘Yes, indeed. Please do take a seat. And how is your constable?’
‘He is recovering well and should be back on duty tomorrow, I thank you, sir,’ replied Ravenscroft, shaking Midwinter’s hand before accepting the seat.
‘That is good. I must say this is all rather mysterious. Why a complete stranger would deposit a package with Mr Midwinter, leaving instructions that it should be delivered to my father in the event of his own demise, is certainly baffling,’ said the banker, regaining his seat.
‘I trust that when we have opened the envelope we may all be wiser on that point. I should point out to you, Mr Montacute, that I journeyed to London, where I discovered that the man Robertson had been employed as a coachman in the employ of Sir James Stanhope,’ said Ravenscroft, casting a glance around the room with its fine mahogany furniture, ornate carpet and austere portraits of what he supposed were the bank’
s former partners.
‘Sir James is well known to me. He has an account with our London offices in Mayfair,’ interjected Maurice.
‘I learnt that the man had left his employ on Christmas Eve with the express purpose of travelling to Ledbury, and that he had been afraid that an attempt would be made to recover the documents from him had he remained in London. I trust, Mr Midwinter, that you have the envelope upon your person?’ asked Ravenscroft anxiously.
‘I do indeed have it here, Inspector,’ replied the solicitor, taking the envelope from his coat pocket and laying in on the desk before him. ‘Your constable escorted me from my offices to the bank, in case any further attempts should be made. I must say that I will be somewhat relieved to be rid of the thing.’
‘Robertson left clear instructions that the envelope was to be opened only by the senior partner of the bank, namely Mr Nathaniel Montacute. As you have now taken over that position, then it falls to you, sir, to open the envelope,’ said Ravenscroft, addressing the banker.
Maurice reached for the paper knife on his desk and slid the blade under the flap of the package. Ravenscroft and Midwinter leaned forward as the banker withdrew the contents from the envelope and placed them on the desk. ‘We seem to have a letter, which is addressed to my father, on this piece of paper. The other item would appear to be some kind of handwritten book,’ said Maurice.
‘Perhaps we should begin with the letter,’ suggested the solicitor.
‘Yes indeed,’ replied the banker, beginning to read the contents of the letter out loud:
My Dear Nathaniel,
No doubt you will be quite surprised to have a communication from me after such a long period of time. It has long been my regret that we parted on such bad terms all those many years ago. Alas, we will never be able to heal the breach which has kept us apart for so long, for I’m afraid if you are reading these words now it is because some misfortune has befallen me and we will only meet again in the life hereafter.
You will find enclosed a journal, written by an esteemed personage. I will not seek to name him in this letter – other than to refer to him by the initials ‘A.V’. When you have read the enclosed diary, you should be able to identify the author – and furthermore see why the document must never come into the public domain. I will not tell you how I acquired the journal, other than to say it came from a source close to my employer, Sir James Stanhope, who you will see features prominently in the work along with several other names which may be familiar to you. You will also understand why it is important that the document should never fall into the wrong hands.
Once you have read the enclosed journal, I would suggest that the work be given to our Illustrious Client, so that he may take the appropriate steps to safeguard the future welfare of our country.
I wish you and your family well. Perhaps sometime in the future you may find it in your heart to forgive the wrong I caused you all those years ago.
‘What a strange letter,’ said Midwinter after Maurice had laid the letter down on the desk.
‘It appears to be unsigned,’ said Ravenscroft, staring down at the writing, ‘but clearly Nathaniel would have known who the author was. The writer refers to an event which resulted in a rift between the writer and your father many years ago.’
‘I must say that I am at a loss. If my father had still been alive, then clearly he would have been able to identify the author,’ said a bewildered Maurice.
‘I believe I know the identity of the writer. Your father had a brother, Mr Montacute, called Robert, who was born fifteen years after himself, in 1843. The coachman, Robertson, was none other than Robert Montacute!’ said Ravenscroft.
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Midwinter. ‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘This morning I spent some time examining the parish registers at the church here in Ledbury,’ replied Ravenscroft. ‘You do not recall your uncle, Mr Montacute?
‘Yes, I have a distant memory of him. I was born in 1856. When I was six or seven years of age, I can remember him leaving, that is all.’
‘Did your father ever mention the cause of the breach between himself and your uncle?’
‘He did mention to me upon one occasion that he and his younger brother had fallen out. All he said was that there had been some financial irregularity in the affairs of the bank, and that Robert had left in a hurry to avoid the scandal,’ said Maurice, shifting uneasily in his chair.
‘So Robert Montacute left the town of his birth, moved to London, where he changed his name to Robertson and gained employment as a coachman. That would explain why he always kept a print of Ledbury church in his bedside cabinet, to remind him of the churchyard where his parents lay buried. Over twenty-five years later he returned to the town, only to be struck down before he could return to the capital. Your uncle clearly feared for his own life while he was in possession of the enclosed book, and in his hour of need turned to the only person he could trust, your father,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘But if all this is true, why did this Robertson – sorry, Robert Montacute – insist on leaving the book with me instead of giving it directly to his brother here at the bank?’ asked Midwinter.
‘Because he hoped that he would not need to do so. He hoped that by returning to his employment the matter would die down and that whoever was seeking to obtain the book from him would give up his purpose. By leaving the book with you, Mr Midwinter, he could return again at a later date and recover his package. By instructing you to see that his brother obtained the enclosed book in the event of his own death, he was ensuring that it would fall into the right hands. In the letter he requests that Nathaniel return the book to “your Illustrious Client, who will take the appropriate steps to safeguard the future welfare of our country”.’
‘We have many illustrious and important clients who come from all walks of life – prominent clergymen, the aristocracy, parliamentarians, even several members of the royal family,’ said a bewildered Maurice.
‘Perhaps if we read the journal, we might be able to ascertain who this illustrious client is?’ suggested Midwinter.
‘It would perhaps be better if you were to read it out loud, Inspector?’ said the banker, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands.
‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said Ravenscroft, reaching out for the book and opening it at the first page, after first adjusting his spectacles. ‘The book indeed appears to be some kind of journal, written in neat copper plate writing. The initials A and V have been written on the outside of the volume. The first few pages seem to have been torn out. The first entry reads:
March 3rd. Went to Cleveland Street this evening with Stephen, who was in good form, laughing and joking and insisting I hear his latest literary offering, which is full of his usual descriptive charm.
March 5th. Went again to Cleveland Street with Stephen and one or two of his companions from Cambridge, where we remained until three in the morning on account of our enjoying ourselves so much.
March 9th. To Cleveland Street, this time with Arthur Somerset, Stephen being away on official duties in Wales. Wonder what Father would say if he could see us both now!
March 15th. Cleveland Street with Somerset, where I saw Sir James Stanhope and his followers. We all had a good time.
March 23rd. Should have gone to Cleveland Street tonight with Somerset, but remained in my rooms, finding myself in a lethargic frame of mind, not wanting to do anything.
March 30th. Good news! Stephen has returned from Wales. We celebrated his return to civilization by dining out at my club, after which Stephen suggested we go on to Cleveland Street to enjoy ourselves. Hammond keeps a respectable house there, I am pleased to say, and no matter how many times we visit his establishment, there is always someone new to encounter.
April 7th. How the time passes drearily in York – nothing but official business to conduct; endless meetings with dull, uninteresting people. To think that one day I shall have to do this all the time. I do not kn
ow how I will ever manage. How I long to return to London and partake of my old pleasures at Cleveland Street.
April 14th. At last I am free of it! How I hate all that pomp and ceremony. Celebrated my release by going to Cleveland Street with Stephen. Saw Somerset and Stanhope there obviously enjoying themselves. Hammond tells us that he has managed to recruit a new group of messenger boys for us from the Post Office—
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Midwinter, interrupting Ravenscroft’s reading of the diary.
‘I do not think we need to hear any more,’ said Maurice.
‘He seems to be describing some kind of male brothel!’ said Midwinter, growing red in the face and becoming increasingly agitated by what he had just heard.
‘I think you are correct, gentlemen. I must admit that when I learnt that Robertson was used to taking his master, Sir James Stanhope, to Cleveland Street, the name of the street appeared familiar to me, but I could not recall the reason why. Now I remember that the place had been under observation by the local police force a year or so ago, when it was suspected as being some kind of den of male prostitution, but nothing was proven at the time.’
‘This is absolutely appalling,’ said the solicitor, turning away. ‘Had I known that the packet within my safe contained such a book of degradation I would have removed it instantly and thrown it on the fire!’
‘The diary mentions Stephen, Sir James Stanhope, Arthur Somerset and a person by the name of Hammond. We know that Sir James was the employer of Robertson, your uncle, and Hammond would appear to be the owner of the male brothel. I don’t know who either Stephen or Arthur Somerset are,’ said Ravenscroft, turning over the pages of the handwritten diary.
‘I may be able to help you there. Arthur Somerset is probably Lord Arthur Somerset, an equerry to the Prince of Wales,’ replied Maurice.
‘This is dreadful!’ exclaimed Midwinter. ‘To think that someone close to the heir of the throne is used to visiting such dens of iniquity.’
‘There is worse, gentlemen. It appears that the Cleveland Street brothel was visited by a number of other prominent people, including at least one member of the cabinet and two prominent churchmen,’ said Ravenscroft, leafing through the pages of the journal. ‘I can see now why this book was so important, and why your uncle took great pains to see that it did not fall into the wrong hands. Such knowledge, if it ever became public, could almost certainly bring down the government as well as inflicting great harm on the royal family.’
