by Kerry Tombs
He knew that unless the man was apprehended within the next few hours, he would feel compelled to let the others leave the town, and with their departure might go any hope he had of arriving at the truth of the matter. There still remained the possibility, of course, that Ross was entirely innocent, and that either Jenkins, Ganniford or Miss Eames, either acting alone, or as a group, had committed the crimes in their desire to find the resting place of the goblet for themselves.
Then there was Professor Salt’s telegram, which had been waiting for him at the station in Tewkesbury when he and Crabb had returned late that night from their excursion to Meysey Hampton — Regret to inform you no living descendants of Sir Roger de la Pole. Had one son who died in infancy. Salt.- it had said, the starkness of its words adding yet further to his gloom. So none of the group would have a claim on the treasure should it ever be found. Either the man Crosbie had created the fake chart to make them each believe that they were the true descendants of the old Templar Knight, or the whole story had been yet one more untruthful layer in a mountain of lies. He would have to confront the three remaining members of the group in the morning in a final attempt to obtain the truth.
As Ravenscroft looked into the flame of the flickering candle, he wondered whether he would ever solve the case. Would he ever be able to obtain justice for Hollinger, Anstruther and the man in the open coffin? Despite his apparent death ten years before, Ross had to be his chief suspect, but the wretched man was still out there somewhere and could not be found.
In little over an hour dawn would break and with the coming of the new day there would be new endeavour and with it new hope.
* * *
‘Good morning to you, sir, Mrs Ravenscroft,’ said Crab entering the room cheerfully.
‘Good morning, Tom. Do draw up a chair and help yourself to some tea and toast,’ said Lucy.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ replied the constable, seating himself at the table.
‘Well, Tom, what news do you bring?’ asked Ravenscroft laying down his newspaper.
‘Unfortunately nothing, sir. I have just called in at the station, and I’m afraid that there is nothing at all to report. The men have made extensive enquiries in the three counties but there have been no reported sightings of Ross,’ said Crabb, reaching for the toast rack.
‘Damn the man! Where the devil has he got to?’ said an impatient Ravenscroft. ‘Why has no one reported seeing him?’
‘He could be out on Bredon Hill somewhere, or in one of the nearby villages. I could send out some men to scour the hills,’ suggested Crabb, before taking a mouthful of toast and marmalade.
‘Do as you wish,’ sighed Ravenscroft. ‘It can do no harm.’
‘Perhaps the men may soon discover the whereabouts of your mysterious Mr Ross,’ said Lucy trying to sound optimistic.
‘We shall have to let Ganniford, Jenkins and Miss Eames go this morning unless there are more lies to unravel,’ said Ravenscroft gloomily.
‘Things are sometimes never what they seem,’ remarked Lucy pouring out some more tea.
‘All this is confoundedly annoying — what was that you just said?’ said Ravenscroft, turning quickly towards his wife.
‘Things are sometimes never what they seem,’ repeated Lucy.
‘That is it!’ exclaimed Ravenscroft. ‘We have been assuming all along that Crosbie, Anstruther and Hollinger were murdered so that their killer could acquire the treasure for himself. We know that Crosbie had met each of our six members in turn, showing them some made-up chart which purported to show that they were all descended from Sir Roger de la Pole, and had enticed them to meet him in Tewkesbury in order to find the missing goblet — but why do that? Why not seek out the treasure for yourself? Why involve six complete strangers in your search?’
‘Perhaps he thought they might be able to translate the lettering on the side of the coffin, where he had failed,’ suggested Lucy, leaning forward.
‘But there would have been no guarantee of that. After all, many people have read the inscription down through the centuries and yet not one of them, we presume, has ever succeeded.’
‘Your Professor Salt was able to arrive at the solution,’ added Crabb.
‘Yes, but Salt is a medieval scholar, schooled in such learning; a brilliant mind who saw in a flash of inspiration how the code might be solved. Up until now we had assumed that the man Crosbie had been killed by his accomplice after he had found something inside the tomb, and at first we had thought that the tomb had contained the golden goblet. We know now, however, that was not so, otherwise the killer would have fled the scene taking the treasure with him. Secondly, we assumed that Hollinger had worked out what the letters stood for, and had imparted that knowledge to Anstruther in the snug of the Hop Pole that night, and that our killer had overheard them, and decided to kill them to acquire and keep that knowledge for himself. At first we thought that Anstruther killed Hollinger and that he had then made a hasty departure before the body was discovered — but then if he was the killer why would he have gone in the opposite direction to where the treasure was hidden? It doesn’t make sense. Then we assumed that Anstruther was poisoned because he, too, knew where the treasure was, and our killer had to ensure that he was put out of the way before he revealed all. But if Anstruther had not been party to the secret, why was he poisoned? The more one continues to look at all this, the more we keep going round in circles, and the answers keep evading us. Things are not as they seem, that is what you said, my dear. What if Crosbie, Hollinger and Anstruther were killed for an entirely different reason, one which is not yet apparent — and what if the whole story about the Templar and his missing treasure has been a complete diversion?’ said Ravenscroft, warming to his subject.
‘But we found the marks above the tomb at Meysey Hampton,’ interrupted Crabb, a puzzled expression on his face.
‘Indeed, that much is confirmed. Perhaps there is a treasure, but what if the summoning of our six people to Tewkesbury had nothing to do with the finding of that prize? What if they were enticed here for an entirely different reason?’
‘I don’t see what you are getting at, sir,’ said Crabb, buttering yet another slice of toast.
‘Go on,’ said Lucy, encouraging her husband.
‘Six strangers each believing that they had journeyed to Tewkesbury to inherit that which they thought was rightfully theirs to claim. No, the answer to this mystery lies elsewhere. I am sure the solution has something to do with the man Ross. What if Ross is behind all this? What if he and Crosbie stumbled across the old story about the Templar Knight and saw a way in which they could use it to bring the others to the town?’
‘But why?’ asked Crabb.
‘That is what we have to find out.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but we don’t even know if Ross is dead or alive.’
‘Precisely — and that is why we need to find out whether Ross was really killed in that shooting accident all those years ago.’
‘And how will you do that?’ asked Lucy.
‘Eat up your breakfast, Tom, then you and I will seek out the newspaper archives at the local library. Almost certainly the newspapers of the day would have reported the case and the inquest. That is where the answer to all this may be found.’
* * *
‘Good morning to you, sir, I believe your library may contain back copies of the local newspaper,’ said Ravenscroft, addressing the grey-haired librarian who was seated behind a large desk scattered with piles of books.
‘Oh, I would not know whether that is the case, or no,’ replied the man, turning over a page of one of the open volumes.
‘We were given to understand that we might find back issues of The Evesham Journal here.’
‘I would not be sure on that rash assumption, my dear sir. No, not at all. Dear me, no. May I be so bold as to enquire who is requesting such material?’ asked the librarian looking up from his studies and peering over his spectacles at the two men.
/> ‘Inspector Ravenscroft — and this is Constable Crabb.’
‘I see. Can’t help you I’m afraid. No, cannot be of any assistance whatsoever,’ replied the man, resuming his reading.
‘Do you, or do you not, have back copies of The Evesham Journal within the confines of this library?’ asked Ravenscroft irritably.
‘Confines you say? What an unusual expression to use on such a day. Very neat indeed. You could have used interior, or even inside, or some other expression of equal meaning, but, no, you chose confines. Such an unusual word. Confines. Yes indeed.’
‘Look here, do you have the back issues of The Evesham Journal in this library, or not? I would be obliged for a straight answer,’ said Ravenscroft, more and more annoyed by the librarian’s strange manner.
‘Obliged for an answer, my dear sir? Would that I could give you an answer. Dear me, no. I can give you one answer, but then that may not be the correct one. Then I could give you another answer, and that may well prove to be the one you are looking for. But then indeed it may not. You see my predicament.’
‘Will you answer my question?’ said Ravenscroft raising his voice.
‘There is no need for annoyance. Annoyance will get you nowhere. Dear me, no. Annoyance will not do at all. No, it will not.’
‘The man speaks in riddles, sir,’ muttered Crabb.
‘If you do not answer my question, then I will search every inch of this library until I find what I am looking for,’ said Ravenscroft, leaning forward until he towered over the little man.
‘That would be extremely unwise, my dear sir. Extremely unwise indeed. Dear me no, that just won’t do at all. Not at all. That is not to be borne. Indeed not.’
‘Then you leave me no choice. Lead on, Crabb. We will turn this library upside down until we find what we are looking for,’ said Ravenscroft angrily brushing aside the other’s comments.
‘Right you are, sir,’ said Crabb, adopting a business-like tone.
‘Evesham Journal you say? If you would care to accompany me, gentlemen, you will soon be aware of my predicament,’ said the librarian, rising hastily from his chair and crossing over towards a large oak door at the other side of the room. ‘Evesham Journal. Well I never. No one ever asks to see that. No one at all.’
‘Well I am asking. It is a matter of the gravest importance,’ said Ravenscroft sternly.
‘Gravest importance you say. Then I suppose it may be to some people. To others it is apparently not, for had it been so, we would have had a far greater number of enquiries for such material over the years. Indeed we would,’ said the man unlocking the door with a large, rusty, iron key.
Ravenscroft sighed and gave Crabb a look of frustration.
‘There, my dear sir!’ exclaimed the librarian pulling open the door of the room.
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Crabb, staring at the piles of books and papers that seemed to occupy each inch of the darkened room.
‘Now you see my predicament,’ said the librarian, nodding his head from side to side.
‘I do indeed,’ sympathized Ravenscroft.
‘I believe you might well find what you are looking for here — but then again you might not.’
‘Can you bring us a candle?’ asked Ravenscroft. ‘It is very dark in here.’
‘A candle? And where might I obtain such an item, I should like to know? Then indeed if I were to acquire the said requested item, it could prove of a dangerous nature with so much combustible material at our disposal. No, sir, a candle is not to be advised at all, even if one could be located. No, not at all. Dear me, no.’
‘No matter, sir,’ said Crabb, edging himself between several piles of books and opening a small window on the other side of the room.
‘How extraordinary!’ exclaimed the librarian. ‘No one has ever opened that window for as long as I can remember. No, they have not.’
‘Well done, Crabb. Might I suggest that you leave my constable and I free to find what we are looking for?’ suggested Ravenscroft. ‘I am sure you must be greatly occupied with your books, and we would not wish to take up any more of your time than is absolutely necessary.’
‘Indeed I am, sir. Busy indeed. I wish you well in your endeavours,’ said the man forcing a brief smile before he left the room.
‘Close the door, Tom. I think we might do a lot better on our own, and without interruption.’
‘Right, sir,’ said Crabb closing the door.
‘What an irritating little man.’
‘Where do we begin?’
‘I would think that the past copies of The Evesham Journal, would have been bound. I know it is the custom for such newspaper companies and librarian to bind their past issues into six-monthly periods.’
‘Right, sir,’ replied Crabb making his way between the stacks of books.
‘I’ll take this side of the room.’
The two men worked their way through the piles of books, until Crabb let out a sudden cry, ‘Evesham Journal, sir!’
‘Well done, Tom.’
‘What year are we looking for?’
‘If the shooting accident happened approximately ten years ago, then we need to look for the year 1879.’
Crabb attacked the large pile of books, displacing many of the heavy volumes on the floor beside him. ‘Here we are. 1879. Runs to two volumes.’
‘Each volume must cover six months of the year. You take that one, and I will take this one.’
The two men carried the two volumes into the main room of the library.
‘Ah, I see, gentlemen, that you must have found what you were seeking,’ said the librarian looking up from his desk.
‘Indeed so,’ said Ravenscroft, placing his volume down on one of the tables. ‘You take the other volume, Crabb, and see if you can find any reports of shooting accidents.’
The two men worked in silence for some minutes, before Ravenscroft suddenly called out, ‘Over here, Tom!’
Crabb looked over his superior’s shoulder, as Ravenscroft read aloud from the newspaper:
INQUEST HELD REGARDING DEATH OF LOCAL LANDOWNER.
The inquest was held yesterday at the Star and Garter Inn regarding the death of local landowner, Mr Charles Ross, who met with a fatal shooting accident last Saturday morning, whilst staying at the residence of Lord Ernest Treaves of Elmley Castle.
Lord Treaves stated that the deceased had been one of a number of guests who had been staying at his house for the weekend. Although his lordship did not accompany his guests on the shoot, he confirmed that the party had been in excellent spirits and that Mr Ross had displayed no signs of anxiety or depression.
Mr Henry Phillips, gamekeeper to Lord Treaves, gave evidence. He stated that he had left the gentlemen members of the hunting party on the edge of the wood, whilst he went off to encourage the beaters to commence their work. Whilst undertaking this, he had heard the sound of a gun being discharged followed by loud shouting. Upon rushing out of the wood, he had found the deceased lying on the ground, by one of the stiles, blood pouring from the side of his head. Shortly afterwards he was joined by the other members of the shooting party. An examination of the body quickly confirmed that Mr Ross was dead. When questioned further by the coroner, Mr Phillips confirmed that he had been the first on the scene and that it was clearly apparent that the deceased had been shot through the side of his temple whilst attempting to climb over a stile.
Doctor Rupert Morrison next gave evidence. He was called to the scene shortly after the accident and found the deceased lying in a pool of blood. It was apparent that the gun had accidentally discharged itself whilst the deceased had been attempting to climb a stile, and that he had been killed instantaneously.
Further evidence was given by other members of the shooting party, who all confirmed the account given by the gamekeeper.
The coroner returned a verdict of accidental death. We are given to understand that Mr Charles Ross, whose estates are to be found at Bredon’s Norton, was not married
and leaves no heirs.
‘Well, Tom, what do you make of that?’ said Ravenscroft looking up from the newspaper.
‘It certainly looks as though our Mr Ross is well and truly dead,’ replied Crabb.
‘So who was that man we interviewed in the house at Bredon’s Norton? If Ross was dead, killed at that hunting party, who was the man we were talking to? I think we need to go and make a call on this Lord Treaves and see what else we can discover about that hunting party,’ said Ravenscroft, closing the volume and standing up from the table.
‘I see that you have found what you were looking for, gentlemen,’ interjected the librarian.
‘Yes, indeed. Thank you,’ said Ravenscroft, anxious to make his departure.
‘I wonder if you would care to return the volumes to the place where you found them, my dear sir,’ coughed the librarian. ‘I find that the carrying of such heavy tomes is not entirely conducive to my present condition. Indeed it does not. No, not at all.’
‘Oh, I’m afraid that will not be possible,’ replied Ravenscroft, reaching the door. ‘It is a matter of life and death that we leave as quickly as possible.’
‘But, sir, if the volumes are not returned to their proper place, no one will ever be able to locate them ever again. That won’t do at all. No it will not.’
‘As no one has ever requested such material in the past, I very much doubt, my dear sir, that you will be faced with such a difficulty in the future. Good day to you,’ shouted Ravenscroft, as he and Crabb stepped out quickly through the door and into the street.
‘But, my dear sir, this won’t do at all—’
* * *
Thirty minutes later, as Crabb drove the trap up the long driveway, with its neatly cut lawns and flowering shrubs on either side, that gradually wound its up to the front entrance of the imposing Georgian house, Ravenscroft wondered whether he was about to enter yet another darkened alleyway where the truth would seek to elude him once again. The newspaper report had confirmed that Charles Ross had died as the result of a shooting accident, yet it was clear that the man was very much alive, or at the least someone who was pretending to be the deceased man. But if that was the case, why would someone seek to impersonate a corpse? Now that it had been proved that the Templar Knight had left no descendants, there would be little point in anyone trying to convince people that he was Ross, and that de la Pole was his ancestor. Ross’s house and lands were also not clearly worth the effort of anyone laying claim to them. They appeared to have stood empty and neglected for the past ten years. There remained the possibility, of course, that someone else after all had been killed in Ross’s place — but if that was the case, where had Ross been for the past ten years, and why had he decided to return now? Either way, Ravenscroft knew that he needed to find out more about that hunting party, and the death of one of its number.
