by Kerry Tombs
Lucy rushed forward, and knelt down at her injured husband’s side.
‘Samuel!’ she cried, holding his head in her hands and kissing his lips. ‘Oh, my dear Samuel!’
‘Lucy! I thought I had lost you,’ he replied.
‘That blaggard won’t trouble yer any more,’ said the stranger, reaching out a helping hand towards Ravenscroft.
‘Thank you. You saved our lives,’ said the detective, struggling to his feet.
‘Say nothing about it, old man. The scoundrel got all he deserved.’
Ravenscroft reached out and shook the hand of their saviour.
Major Onslow gave a brief smile in reply.
EPILOGUE
LEDBURY, 17 JANUARY 1889
The bright winter’s sun of the late afternoon shone down on the churchyard as the group of mourners gathered round the Montacute family vault.
‘It is rather sad to think that the coachman came back to his home town, only to be struck down in such a terrible way,’ said Lucy, linking her husband’s arm as they stood at the entrance, watching the events unfold.
‘Well, at least he is reunited with his family. Killed within a few days of each other, by different hands, the two brothers will now lie side by side. Their differences had kept them apart for so many years, but now they will be reunited once more,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘Good to see Catherwood here,’ said Crabb.
‘Yes, I have hopes that something good may come from all of this. Catherwood seems to have taken his natural son under his wing, so perhaps young Rupert may be guided in the right direction at last,’ remarked Ravenscroft.
‘To think that all three members of the family met their end in such a terrible fashion,’ said Lucy, giving a shiver.
‘You’re cold, my dear, we should not stay long,’ said a concerned Ravenscroft, laying his hand on his wife’s arm.
‘One thing that still puzzles me, sir—’ began Crabb.
‘Go on, Tom.’
‘How was the major able to follow you on to the hills without being seen either by Cranston or yourself?’
‘That I don’t know, but don’t forget that Onslow was used to stalking and hunting big game in India. He could have followed me up on to the hills, or he may have been there already. Either way, I’m certainly thankful that he turned up when he did. Another minute and it would have all been over. It was a damn close thing,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘You never did tell me what was in that book that the major threw on the fire?’ said Lucy.
‘No, I believe I did not, but rest assured that one of these days I may be at liberty to tell you everything,’ teased Ravenscroft.
‘It’s no good, Mrs Ravenscroft, he won’t say,’ said Crabb.
‘Afternoon to you all,’ said a familiar voice from behind them.
‘Good afternoon to you, Mr Sanderson, sir’ said Ravenscroft, turning round and recognizing the stonemason he had encountered in the churchyard a few days previously. ‘It looks as though your services will be in demand once again.’
‘’Tis never a dull week in Ledbury. There’s always someone who is on the way out. Who would have thought that another of them Montacutes would have turned up like that, after all them years.’ The old lamplighter removed his cap and wiped his brow.
‘Who indeed,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘What I wants to know, sir, is what I’m supposed to put on that fellow’s stone over there,’ said Sanderson, pointing to the other side of the graveyard.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you in that respect. We knew him as Cranston when he was in Worcester, but since then our enquiries have found that the real Cranston passed away in Stoke-on-Trent some four or five years ago. The Feathers said he gave the name of Father Bannerman when he was staying there. Then again, I believe that Major Onslow referred to him as Major Monk,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘Well, sir, that’s all rather confusing, like,’ said the workman, scratching the top of his head. ‘That’s all very well. Am I to put Cranston, Monk or that Bannerman on his stone?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ravenscroft, giving a shrug of his shoulders as he looked across at Crabb for guidance.
‘You’re no help, then! You might as well put that fellow Jack the Ripper’s name on it for all I cares! They never did catch him, did they?’
‘No, they did not,’ said Ravenscroft, smiling.
‘Jack the Ripper, that would be something, sir – the murderer of Whitechapel buried in an unmarked grave here in Ledbury!’ joked Crabb.
‘You know, Crabb. You could just be—’ began Ravenscroft.
‘Oh, come on, you two, enough of this nonsense!’ laughed Lucy, steering her husband away from the churchyard.
‘Nonsense? You’re probably right, my dear. You usually are.’
POSTSCRIPT
Six months later an investigation concerning missing postal orders revealed that a number of post office boys had been supplementing their wages by working in a male brothel at 18 Cleveland Street in London. After the premises had been raided, a number of allegations were made against leading members of society. Lord Arthur Somerset, bachelor equerry to the Prince of Wales, discreetly retired to Dieppe. Strenuous and successful attempts were made to keep secret the name of one of the house’s most illustrious clients – Prince Albert Victor.
Two years later, Albert Victor was made Duke of Clarence and Avondale. In December 1891 he became engaged to Princess Mary of Teck. He died a month later, reputedly of pneumonia resulting from influenza contracted in an epidemic. His younger brother, George, married Mary of Teck, and succeeded to the throne as George V in 1910. His granddaughter reigns as Elizabeth II.
Despite many theories advanced by learned scholars over the years, no one has satisfactorily been able to establish either the true identity – or the final resting place – of the man known as Jack the Ripper.
An unmarked grave is still to be found in Ledbury churchyard.
THE END
Book 4:
THE
TEWKESBURY
TOMB
A captivating Victorian murder mystery
Kerry Tombs
For Samuel and Zoe
— with love, for they are
the future
PROLOGUE
TEWKESBURY, MARCH, 1889
‘Time?’
‘Thirty minutes past eleven, my dear sir.’
‘Confound it!’ exclaimed Mr Ganniford, pacing up and down before the roaring log fire in the snug of the Hop Pole Hotel.
‘I find that time always goes at a far slower pace when one is eager for it to proceed at a greater rate,’ replied his companion, removing his spectacles from his thin nose and blowing sharply upon them.
‘The trouble with you, Jenkins, is that you never allow yourself the opportunity to rise to the occasion. You have spent far too many days reading uninteresting ancient historical journals in that drab little London club of yours, instead of sampling the pleasures that life presents to one,’ pronounced Ganniford, throwing his bulky frame into one of the well-worn leather armchairs.
‘And the trouble with you, my dear Ganniford, is that in all the years I have known you, you have never shown the slightest inclination of mastering that impatient nature of yours — and you seem content to indulge in too much over-dining at other men’s tables and gambling your inheritance away at Brooks’,’ reprimanded the older man removing a large handkerchief from his pocket and applying it vigorously to the lens.
‘Better to have lived an impatient life full of optimistic expectation than to have died after a lifetime of boredom and sobriety.’
His companion allowed himself a brief smile. ‘Caution and moderation in all things, Ganniford — caution and moderation.’
‘Nonsense, my dear fellow, you need to push aside your ancient dusty books and indulge yourself more.’
‘Human life is everywhere in a state where much is to be endured, and little to be enjoyed.’
&nb
sp; ‘And I suppose that was said by one of your ancient Greeks?’
‘Samuel Johnson, actually.’
‘You made sure you paid that man to meet us there?’ said the other, ignoring the last remark and changing the subject.
‘At twelve, as agreed, outside the main entrance.’
‘I suppose he will be there?’
‘If the fellow wants a further ten shillings,’ replied Jenkins, lifting up his spectacles at arm’s length so that the light from the fire was reflected in the glass.
‘You think there may be others?’ asked the other anxiously.
‘The letter did not imply that there would be.’
‘But there must be others. He had seemed to indicate that there would be others?’
‘I do not know whether there will be anyone else there tonight, or not,’ said Jenkins, with a note of indifference as he replaced his spectacles on the end of his nose.
‘Bound to be others. Can’t see how it could be otherwise,’ muttered Ganniford before taking another sip of his ale.
The older man shrugged his shoulders and stared into the flames.
‘What do you make of the town?’ asked his companion after a few moments of silence.
‘It appears to have some fine buildings, although I must admit that I could see little from our cab as we entered the place.’
‘Dull, provincial little backwater!’ exclaimed Ganniford shifting about uneasily in his armchair.
‘Rather a rash, and no doubt, unfounded conclusion, if I may say so. You have spent far too much of your time in London. There is another world you know, my dear Ganniford, which lies outside the confines of the metropolis, waiting to be discovered.’
‘Then it can be savoured by others. That is rich coming from a man who has spent a lifetime in dusty libraries. As soon as this business has been bought to a satisfactory conclusion, I will be more than pleased to return to the pleasures of the great city, at the earliest opportunity,’ protested Ganniford, before taking another drink from his tumbler.
‘As you wish.’
‘And why you would insist on stopping off at Oxford for the day, when we could have come directly here by express train, I shall never know.’
‘I thought you might have appreciated the opportunity of visiting the university town to view the college buildings. There were one or two artefacts I wished to see at the Ashmolean,’ replied Jenkins, leaning forward and moving one of the logs in the hearth with the brass poker.
His companion said nothing as he rose from his chair and walked over to the window.
‘I suppose your room is not to your liking?’ asked Jenkins, regretting the words as soon as he had uttered them.
‘Dull, my dear sir! Dull beyond description. Drab curtains, decaying wooden furniture, cracked wash bowl, uncomfortable bed, horrible wallpaper, dreadful coloured bedspread, and the smell of onions and decay everywhere! I hardly know where to begin. But I suppose that is what one must expect in such a town as this.’
‘I am sorry for it.’
‘I’m afraid we shall not have a good night for it. I believe the rain has not ceased since our arrival, and shows little promise of improvement,’ sighed Ganniford, pulling a long face before returning to the hearth and standing once more before the flames. ‘What shall we say, Jenkins, if anyone enquires as to the nature of our business here?’
‘We shall say we are pilgrims.’
‘Pilgrims?’ asked the younger man.
‘Pilgrims, come to see the holy relics in the abbey.’
‘What holy relics?’
‘The Duke of Clarence and his wife.’
‘And who precisely was Clarence?’
‘The Duke of Clarence was the younger brother of King Edward IV, and elder brother of King Richard III. He is believed to have drowned in a butt of malmsey,’ said Jenkins, adopting that dry matter-of-fact tone which his companion had long been acquainted with.
‘That sounds a most interesting, but unfortunate way to die, implying a degree of carelessness on his part. You must tell me more when we are faced with an evening when we have little else to entertain us. Anyway, I thought that people did not go on pilgrimages any more these days.’
‘Far from it, my dear Ganniford. Many people visit Canterbury each year in remembrance of Thomas Becket, and some more adventurous souls still undertake the arduous journey to Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain to see the shrine there dedicated to St James.’
‘Whatever for?’ inquired Ganniford, regaining his seat before the fire.
‘The pilgrims believe that by undertaking such a journey their sins will be cleansed. Some are also afflicted by various ailments and hope that they may be cured.’
‘And are they?’
‘I believe that in some cases they are, although I must say I have never had the first-hand experience of witnessing any such miraculous cure.’
‘Hum. Stuff and nonsense! People often believe what they want to believe.’
‘We live in an enlightened age, Ganniford, and as such must be open to all possibilities and suggestions. It is only a closed mind which fears that which it cannot understand,’ said Jenkins leaning forward and warming his hands in front of the flames.
‘If I had closed my mind, I would not have been sitting here tonight in this draughty old inn in this dreary old town, waiting for the time to approach twelve o’clock, so that I could enter a cold uninviting abbey looking for the grave of this old Templar fellow of yours,’ muttered Ganniford.
‘Ah, but the promise of what such a visit may yield, you must find intriguing to say the least.’
‘That remains to be seen.’
‘Excuse me, gentlemen, for intruding upon your conversation.’
Startled by the words, the two men turned round to see who the voice belonged to, and were surprised to find a middle-aged lady dressed in a plain beige coloured coat and bonnet standing before them. ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to startle you.’
‘Not at all, my dear lady,’ replied Ganniford, as he and his companion started to rise from their armchairs.
‘I could not help hearing part of your earlier conversation, gentlemen, seated as I was around the corner. I believe we may share the same common purpose tonight.’
‘I told you there would be others, Jenkins!’ exclaimed Ganniford, feeling the satisfaction that his premise had proven true.
‘You must forgive my colleague’s over enthusiasm. Allow me to introduce myself, Thomas Jenkins, antiquarian and scholar of London — and this is my companion, Mr Nathaniel Ganniford,’ said the older gentleman giving a short bow in the stranger’s direction.
‘Gentlemen. My name is Miss Eames, from Ludlow.’
‘Eames. The name seems familiar, but I cannot place it at the present. So you, too, have travelled far to be here tonight, Miss Eames,’ said Ganniford smiling.
‘Yes indeed, gentlemen.’
‘Your journey must have been arduous?’ enquired Jenkins.
‘I broke my journey at Hereford yesterday evening, before travelling onward today. The train was rather slow.’
‘I have heard good things about Ludlow, Miss Eames,’ continued Jenkins, indicating that the new arrival should accept his place before the fire.
‘No, thank you, I would rather stand. Ludlow is indeed a fine place. It is a pretty town with a fine castle. I have lived there all my life, with my late father who has recently died, and would want for no other.’
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said the older man sympathetically.
‘You are very kind, sir.’
‘Look here, Jenkins, the clock must be fast approaching twelve. What say I go and secure a lantern from the landlord, so we can light our way across to the abbey? Miss Eames, perhaps you may permit us to escort you, as you also appear to have an interest in this case?’ inquired Ganniford.
‘That is most kind of you, gentlemen.’
* * *
A few minutes later the party closed the outer doo
r of the Hop Pole behind them, and made their way across the street, Ganniford holding the lantern up high to aid their progress, Jenkins giving his assistance to the recent arrival. Quickly passing by the old almshouses on their right-hand side, and some school buildings on their left, the trio walked quickly up the pathway, through the falling rain, towards the ancient building that gradually came into view before them.
‘It appears that we are expected,’ cried out Ganniford, pointing towards a distant light which appeared to originate from the front entrance.
‘Who is there? Show yourselves!’ shouted a voice as they neared the flickering flame.
‘Three strangers intent on business,’ replied Jenkins.
‘Blazes!’ exclaimed another voice.
‘Wretched inclement weather,’ wheezed Ganniford, as he and his party hastily sought the cover of the porch.
‘I gather we are of a similar intention?’ asked Jenkins, addressing the two figures who stood before them.
‘If you mean seeking out the Templar monument, then we are indeed of a similar tendency,’ replied the figure who had first called out to them.
‘Quite. Allow me to introduce my companions — Miss Eames from Ludlow, Mr Jenkins from London, and I am Mr Ganniford, also from London, at your service, gentlemen.’
‘Doctor Andreas Hollinger, formerly of Baden-Baden,’ said the elderly, grey-haired gentleman, speaking in a pronounced foreign accent, and extending a hand in greeting.
‘Major Anstruther, Her Majesty’s Dragoon Guards at your service, gentlemen, and lady,’ added the other stranger giving a short bow.
‘Have you been here long, gentlemen?’ enquired Ganniford.
‘Only these past ten minutes,’ replied the doctor.
‘I had thought that our host would have been here to welcome us,’ said Jenkins, brushing away some of the wet from his coat.
