by Kerry Tombs
‘I don’t know – although it could have been placed here inside the desk.’
‘Would you oblige us, sir.’
Maurice Montacute opened the top drawer of the desk and searched amongst its contents. ‘Ah, here we are, Inspector,’ he said, placing a large envelope on top of the desk and running the blade of a paper knife along the flap before tipping out its contents before them. ‘And this must be the key you are looking for, Inspector.’
The three men walked over to the safe. Maurice placed the key in the lock and opened the door. ‘May I, sir?’ asked Ravenscroft.
Maurice nodded as Ravenscroft reached into the safe and withdrew a number of documents. ‘With your permission, sir, we will just go through these papers.’
The men returned to the desk, where Ravenscroft spent the next few moments examining the documents. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ asked the banker.
‘Ah, here we are – the Colesberg Mining Corporation. Let’s see what it says. Yes, here we are. Two thousand shares purchased by Mr Nathaniel Montacute and Major John Onslow on 3 May 1888 giving them each a twenty-five per cent interest in the company.’
‘So they were business partners,’ said Crabb, peering over Ravenscroft’s shoulder.
‘My father had known Major Onslow for a number of years – they were good friends,’ added Maurice.
‘This makes interesting reading. Whichever of your father or Major Onslow dies first, then their shares in the company reverts back to the surviving member,’ said Ravenscroft, looking up from the paper with a certain degree of satisfaction.
‘So Major Onslow now inherits Mr Montacute’s shares,’ said Crabb.
‘Thank you, Mr Montacute, you have been of great assistance to us. I suggest you place this document in your safe for the time being,’ said Ravenscroft, returning the papers to Maurice.
‘You are surely not suggesting that Major Onslow killed my father to inherit his shares in this dubious African mining company?’ asked the banker, looking concerned.
‘I cannot say that, sir, at this stage,’ replied Ravenscroft, making his way over to the door.
‘But the major?’ began Maurice.
‘I think it might be prudent, sir, if you were not to speak about this matter with anyone until we have carried out further investigations. I thank you once again, sir.’
A few minutes later the two detectives made their way back to the centre of the town.
‘So Onslow stands to inherit Mr Montacute’s shares in the mining company,’ said Crabb. ‘Good enough reason to kill the old man, I suppose.’
‘Maybe, but that does not mean that he did. The shares in the company may be worthless. Perhaps that was what the argument was about? Onslow thought that Montacute had tricked him into paying a great deal of money for shares in a company that were not worth the paper they were written on, and had wanted to sell out his share, but the banker had urged him to hold his nerve. We know that Montacute had sought to ruin Catherwood all those years ago. Was he now doing the same thing again with Onslow?’
‘We’ve only got Rivers’ word that there was an argument. Onslow might have been telling us the truth all along when he said there was no argument between him and Mr Montacute, in which case it is Rivers who is lying,’ suggested Crabb.
‘Either way we need to find out more about Onslow’s financial position. There is something else which strikes me as rather strange. Don’t you find it rather odd that Maurice Montacute had not taken the trouble to open his father’s safe since his demise?’
‘But he said he didn’t know where the key was.’
‘But then he remembered that his father’s possessions were in an envelope in his desk. Furthermore, he described the mining company as being “rather dubious” – how did he know that if he knew nothing about the company?’
‘You don’t think Maurice has anything to do with his own father’s death?’
‘I don’t know, Crabb. Sometimes I feel as though we are going round in circles. Just as we unearth some fact which casts one of our gentlemen in a bad light, so we learn of more events which change the direction of our suspicions. However, I believe that our search for Montacute’s murderer may soon be at an end. Let us call into the post office on our way back into the town. There may be something waiting for me there.’
Ravenscroft and Crabb made their way into the building. ‘Good morning. I believe you may have some replies for me?’ asked Ravenscroft, addressing the clerk.
‘Ah yes, Inspector. This letter has just arrived from London in the morning post, and this telegram arrived not half an hour ago, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Ravenscroft opened the envelope and removed a sheet of paper from inside, which he studied for a few seconds before reading the contents of his telegram.
‘Anything interesting, sir?’ asked Crabb.
‘Very,’ replied Ravenscroft, placing the envelopes in his pocket. ‘I think I may now have a very good idea who killed Nathaniel Montacute and why. The problem may be the proving of it, as no one saw the poison actually being placed in the glass. There may be only one course open to us, Crabb. We need to call together all those closely involved with the banker. I want you to send messages out to all our likely suspects as soon as possible, summoning them to a meeting in the ballroom of the Feathers at six o’clock tonight.’
‘Who shall I inform, sir?’ asked Crabb, taking out his pocket book.
‘Maurice and Rupert Montacute, Mrs Montacute, Rivers and Mrs Chambers from The Gables, and in addition to them, Catherwood, Doctor Andrews, Midwinter and Major Onslow. Yes, that should be all,’ replied Ravenscroft, deep in thought.
‘Right, sir.’
‘One of those nine people killed Nathaniel Montacute. Once we have them all together, we can begin to unravel this mystery. If we can apply pressure and extract a confession, we will have our killer behind bars before the day is out!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
LEDBURY, 9 JANUARY 1889. EVENING
He had kept watch on the small cottage up the narrow cobbleway of Church Lane for most of the afternoon, waiting for the darkness to descend so that he could begin the final act. When he had returned from London, a few days previously, he had been content to watch and follow the policeman, knowing that eventually he would lead him to the papers that his masters so desired. And so it had proved. Ravenscroft had eventually led him to the offices of the old solicitor and had even held the packet up to the window so that he had been able to confirm its place of safety. He should have realized then, of course, that a trap had been laid for his capture. Fortunately he had gone armed to the office, and in the ensuing struggle had wounded one of Ravenscroft’s men – but he had failed to escape with the papers, and that failure had been a bitter pill to countenance. He was not used to others thwarting his well-thought-out plans, and for a while he had even contemplated abandoning his quest and of leaving the town immediately before his movements could be tracked, but his dislike of unfinished business and lack of success had only strengthened his resolve. He had kept his nerve, had assumed a new disguise and had continued to listen and learn, ever turning over the varied possibilities in his mind, as his loathing for the man who had attempted to entrap him had grown in intensity. Now, out of that bitterness and anger, there had grown the seeds of his deliverance. Ravenscroft himself would give him the envelope; would provide him with the final solution.
‘Evening to you, Father,’ said the old lamplighter, seeking to adjust the small flickering flame.
‘Good evening to you, my son,’ he replied, moving back into the shadows.
‘Another cold evening, I’ll be bound.’
‘Yes indeed.’
It was time to move on, lest his loitering cause suspicion. He made his way slowly down the lane towards the marketplace, keeping his head low beneath his hat, replacing the glasses with their darkened lenses on the end of his nose so that his features would remain partially hidden. As he neared t
he small police station, he slipped again into the shadows, his black clothes being easily absorbed by the darkness of the night. He knew he would not have long to wait until Ravenscroft left the building and his work could begin. He pulled his scarf closer round his neck as the snow began to fall on to the pavement – and as he waited he remembered all the other nights when he had stood in the darkened alleyways of Whitechapel watching and listening before he had felt confident enough to encounter his victims. Now he had grown tired of the hours of cold and boredom, of damp and gloom, and had resolved that this would be his final mission. Tomorrow he would at last be free to leave the small drab town with its rundown buildings and creeping domesticity, and by the evening would return triumphant to the capital with the precious envelope and its contents. Then when he had received his payment from the grey faceless men who had become his temporary masters, he would leave for warmer lands – to Greece, Italy, even India or the Caribbean perhaps – where there would be light and warmth and where at last his restless soul might find the peace it had always desired.
The town clock struck the half hour between five and six as the door of the building opened. There was Ravenscroft and his assistant stepping out on to the pavement, talking with one another in quiet huddled tones, before striding off towards the marketplace and the Feathers. How he hated the man, with his dogged determination, boring temperament and cosy family. If only the silly man knew what was about to befall him, he would not have sounded so confident, so pleased with himself.
Now it was time to act!
He quickly retraced his steps up Church Lane and slipped unnoticed into the porchway of the ancient church. Within a few minutes he would be able to proceed with the next part of his plan. He opened the church door and entered the building. A quick gaze round the dimly lit building confirmed his expectations. At this time of night, the church was empty of people; the vicar would have departed for his home an hour before, and it was unlikely that any of the townspeople would have entered the cold, uninviting building to offer up their prayers.
He returned to the porch, leaving the door to the church partially opened behind him, and drew his cloak further round him as he felt the cold wind on the night air. The church clock struck the hour of six as he peered into the darkness, straining to hear the sound for which he had waited. Then suddenly he heard the noise of footsteps in the distance, and he knew then that the light from a dim lantern would shortly come into view. He stepped out of the porchway.
‘Who’s there?’ called out the voice. ‘Show yourself.’
‘Thank goodness it’s you, Constable,’ he said, approaching the light.
‘Who are you, sir?’ called out the constable, lifting his lantern high so that its rays might fall on the intruder.
‘My name is Father Bannerman. I am visiting the town for a few days.’
‘Bit late to be out, Father.’
‘I wanted to see the church before evening. I’m afraid I have something terrible to report, Constable.’
‘Calm yourself, sir, and tell me what has disturbed you. The policeman drew nearer and saw that the stranger was in a distressed state.
‘I don’t quite know where to begin,’ he began.
‘Take your time, Father.’
‘Well, a few minutes ago I came into the church and – such violation! The altar cross was lying on the floor, prayer books torn and scattered everywhere!’
‘Did you see any signs of who might have caused this disturbance, Father?’
‘I don’t know. When I saw what had been done to God’s house, I left as quickly as I could in order to fetch help, and that was when I saw your lantern. Thank goodness you have arrived.’
‘I usually come past the church at this time of the evening on my patrol. I think we better go in and take a look.’
‘That would be good. I would not like to enter the building alone.’
‘I’ll go first. You never know, whoever committed this crime might still be inside,’ said the constable, pushing open the church door wider and entering the building.
‘Step forward and show yourself! It’s the law!’ shouted the policeman, holding the lantern high so that its beams of light reflected back from the walls of the church.
‘Perhaps the perpetrator of this crime left before I arrived?’
‘You could be right, Father. Let’s take a closer look.’
Quietly closing the church door behind him, he followed the policeman up the aisle, at the same time reaching into his pocket for the weapon that he knew was concealed there.
‘I can’t see any signs of a disturbance, Father. You say the altar had been violated?’
‘Just a little further on, Constable.’
The two men inched forward along the aisle. Suddenly he lifted the cosh from out of his pocket, and raising it above his head brought it down quickly on the back of the other’s neck. As the policeman let out a groan and began to fall towards the floor, he reached out, secured the lantern and placed it on one of the pews.
Monk allowed himself only a brief smile of satisfaction. So far, it had been so easy. The policeman had been simple prey, so gullible and trusting, but he knew now that he would have to work fast. There always remained the possibility that someone unexpected would enter the church at any moment. He bent down and pulled the unconscious man away from the centre of the church towards one darkened side of the building, where he knew they would be hidden from view. Then quickly turning over the body he removed his cape, tunic, boots and trousers, before discarding his own outer garments. Finally he hastily pulled on the policeman’s clothes and boots. He had estimated that his victim would have nearly the same measurements as himself, but nevertheless he was relieved that the garments seemed to fit him so well. Dropping his darkened glasses to the floor, he ground the lens beneath his boots and then reached into the pocket of his former attire to retrieve the final part of his new disguise. After fixing the new moustache to his upper lip and combing his hair, he picked up the lantern and made his way out of the church.
Standing in the porch, he looked out across the churchyard, listening for any sounds that would indicate that his arrival there had been observed. After a few moments, he felt reassured enough to continue with the next part of his mission. Holding the lantern high, he made his way out of the churchyard and down the lane towards the cottage. He paused to look up at the flickering light in one of the bedrooms. How cosy and secure the interior of the building appeared – if only its occupants knew how their lives were about to be broken for ever! After allowing himself a brief smile of anticipation, he walked up the short path and knocked loudly on the wooden door.
‘Yes, what can I do for you?’ asked the maid, opening the door.
‘Very important, miss, that I see Mrs Ravenscroft, without delay. It’s very urgent.’
‘Who is it, Sally?’ called out a voice from the interior of the cottage.
‘Mrs Ravenscroft, it’s Constable Rogers,’ he said, stepping quickly past the girl and into the hall. ‘I am from the Malvern station. I’m sorry for the intrusion, ma’am.’
‘How can I help you, Constable? I’m afraid my husband is not at home at present. I have not seen him since early this morning,’ said Lucy, entering the hall.
‘I’m afraid I have some rather bad news for you, ma’am.’
‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked Lucy anxiously.
‘We have been out on the hills late this afternoon, arresting some villain by the name of Cranston. Dear me, I don’t quite know how to tell you this, ma’am.’
‘Please go on. Has something happened to my husband?’
‘There was a struggle, Mrs Ravenscroft. Afraid your husband was shot through the chest.’
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Lucy.
‘He’s in a bad way, ma’am, I’m sorry to say. Doctor is with him now and says he can’t be moved. Keeps crying out for you, he does, Mrs Ravenscroft.’
‘I must go to him at once. Sally, you must stay here w
ith Richard. Can you take me to him now?’ said Lucy, tears forming in her eyes.
‘Of course, ma’am. Constable Crabb says we should be quick. I’m sorry, Mrs Ravenscroft, to be the bearer of such bad news.’
The maid helped Lucy on with her coat.
‘We can get a cab from down here,’ he said as they set off at a brisk pace down the street, leaving the anxious maid looking after them on the doorstep.
‘Is he greatly injured?’ asked Lucy, distressed, as they arrived at the marketplace.
‘I don’t know, Mrs Ravenscroft. He seems to have lost a lot of blood, and keeps asking for you.’
‘Oh no!’
Opening the door of a waiting cab, he gave instructions to the driver before helping Lucy into the waiting vehicle.
‘Doctor is doing all he can for him,’ he said, as they sat back in the cab.
‘Pray God we are not too late!’
‘Your husband is a strong man. I’m sure he will pull through, Mrs Ravenscroft.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Out towards the British camp, Mrs Ravenscroft. The shooting took place inside a cottage near there.’
‘How long before we get there?’ asked Lucy, tears streaming down her face.
‘Be about fifteen, twenty minutes, I’m afraid, ma’am. I came as quickly as I could.’
‘Can’t you instruct the driver to go any faster?’
The cab soon left the lights of Ledbury behind and began to climb steadily towards the upper reaches of the hills. Eventually the vehicle left the road and proceeded along a trackway, before eventually coming to a halt.
‘Far as I can take you,’ called out the cabman.
‘We will have to complete the last part of the journey on foot, Mrs Ravenscroft,’ he said, helping Lucy to alight and paying off the driver.
‘Be quick!’ she said, looking into his eyes.
‘If you’ll follow me, Mrs Ravenscroft, I’ll go first and hold up the lantern. It’s only another five minutes or so.’
