by Kerry Tombs
Have just returned from the abbey. What a wonderful evening. The Messiah has always been one of my favourite choral works and all the performers gave a spirited rendition. Then whilst we were taking some refreshment in the interval, Captain Quinton told me of his former military career, and it seems that both the captain and my beloved Albert were both members of the same regiment in India. What an amazing coincidence! I was quite taken aback, and the more that Captain Quinton talked of his army days, the more it seemed that he was bringing me ever closer to Albert.
17 July
Captain Quinton, or Charles as he now insists on my addressing him, took me to see the scenery at Symonds Yat today. What a beautiful landscape! As I looked down into the valley at the meandering river, I believed that today was the first day this year that I had been truly happy. Afterwards we partook of some refreshment in Ross-on-Wye, a most agreeable town. The journey back to Pershore was quite charming. Charles is becoming a most pleasant companion, and it seems that my presence has also bought some respite from his suffering.
22 July
Almost five days since my last entry! I have been so occupied accompanying dear Charles on a number of excursions to Worcester and Malvern, and dining out each evening, that I have not had time to take up my pen. I could not believe that life could be so pleasant once more. At Malvern we hired some donkeys at St Ann’s Well which took us up the steep winding paths to the very top of the Beacon, from where we looked down on all the countryside for miles around.
I must say that I am growing quite fond of Charles, and enjoy his company more and more. He is quite handsome in appearance, and is always immaculately dressed, and never without a flower in the buttonhole of his coat.
24 July
I am in a complete state of uncertainty and disarray! This evening over dinner, Charles announced that he had to return to London the following afternoon. Apparently he has a number of business affairs there that require his most urgent attention, and he does not believe that he will return to Pershore for quite a long time. I became very sad on hearing this news — then quite suddenly he grasped my hand, and proposed to me! I was absolutely taken aback!
He said that after his wife had died he had come to believe that he would never find true happiness again, but that during these past days I had bought such joy into his life that he could not bear it if we were to go our separate ways. Seeing that I was startled by his announcement, he apologized if he had been forward in expressing his feelings, and he quite understood if I would like some time to consider his proposal and give him my answer tomorrow.
Oh dear, what am I to do? I have enjoyed Charles’s company so much over these days, and the thought of his leaving the day after next, and my never seeing him again, is too much to bear. I believe we could make each other so happy. We are both alone in this world. But what am I to do? To accept his offer would be a kind of betrayal of the love I once had for dear Albert. No, I must decline his offer — and that will be an end to it.
25 July
Captain Quinton and I are engaged to be married!!!!
I had quite made up my mind to refuse him this morning, but when I saw him striding up and down the hall and looking so anxious and forlorn, my heart went out to him, and I knew then that if we were to go our separate ways we would be denying ourselves true happiness.
Charles then held me quite close, and said that this day would be the first of many days filled with such warmth and light.
As he has to leave later today, he asked whether I would accompany him to London, where we may be married as soon as possible. How can I explain my joy?
8 August
I cannot believe that two weeks have gone by since my last entry, but my life has been so eventful and filled with such love and happiness that to put pen to paper would have seemed an intrusion.
I am now Mrs Quinton! Charles and I were married at a little church in Pimlico, where we have secured rooms in one of the most delightful Georgian houses in one of the squares, overlooking a small pleasant garden. I have been quite busy buying things for our home, and seeing that everything is just right for when Charles returns from the City every evening. Charles has engaged a maid to see to our every need. She is called Rachel. I shall be quite spoiled. I have never been so happy. I believe we are quite content.
10 August
Awoke yesterday evening with a terrible pain inside my stomach, and being violently sick. Charles was most attentive, and called for the doctor. It seems I have eaten something which has proved disagreeable to me. Doctor Cranford has prescribed some medicines for me, and instructs me to only eat a little gruel until I am better. Was feeling much better this afternoon to write these words.
11 August
Feeling much improved today. Charles says I must stay in bed for a day or so until I am completely well. The dear man, he is such a comfort to me.
15 August
Today was the first day that I have ventured out since my illness. We walked down to the river and sat in the little park there enjoying the warm sunshine and admiring the views.
18 August
I asked Charles this morning why we have not entertained. Surely there must be some friends of his he would care to invite for dinner one evening? Charles replied that all his friends were away, at present, in the country, but that he would invite them next month upon their return. It is certainly strange that no one ever calls upon us.
25 August
Have not been able to write for several days due to the return of my illness — suffered acute pains and was violently sick again. Charles said he would move into the spare bedroom, so that I might obtain as much rest as possible. My darling is most attentive. Upon his return from the city in the evenings, he insists on making some soup or gruel and bringing it up to the bedroom, and then reads to me whilst I consume the liquid. I must confess however that I have little appetite.
1 September
What is wrong with me? I can hardly write these words, I am so weak. The medicine I take seems to do little good. I cannot eat any food, and when I manage to drink some soup I am only sick again. I have not been out of the house for nearly two weeks now. What is wrong with me? I am becoming such a burden to Charles. Would he have married me if he had known that I would have become so ill?
4 September
No better. I feel so ill. Why is it that I am so ill? Why has God deprived me of my happiness?
5 September
I feel the end is coming. Why does Charles insist that I drink the soup when I am so unwell?
7 September
God help me. Charles has poisoned me. There is no escape.
‘That is the last entry, sir,’ said the constable closing the diary.
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Quinton burying his face in his hands.
‘I believe your wife bought a sizeable inheritance to your marriage, sir, if I am not mistaken?’ said Robertson leaning forwards and staring directly at his suspect.
‘That is no concern of yours. I tell you I am innocent,’ pleaded Quinton looking at the two policemen. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’
‘That’s as may be, sir. Constable, will you read the last entry again, if you please.’
‘Yes sir — “God help me. Charles has poisoned me. There is no escape”,’ replied the constable. ‘The hand is very shaky, sir.’
‘“God help me. Charles has poisoned me. There is no escape”,’ repeated Robertson. ‘Well Captain Quinton, I think that is all the proof we need. I would say that any jury in the land would convict you on that evidence. You will certainly hang, Captain Quinton — and very slowly if there is any justice in this world. Yes, you will hang very well indeed. Would you not agree, constable?’
‘It would seem so, sir.’
‘Take the prisoner away, and — oh Ravenscroft, see that this is all kept quiet for the time being.’
‘Yes sir.’
CHAPTER ONE
LEDBURY, SEPTEMBER 1890
‘What is
this, my dear?’ asked Ravenscroft looking over his spectacles at the bowl of thick, dark liquid which lay before him on the dinner table.
‘Brown Windsor soup,’ replied Lucy.
‘I see.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘No . . . er . . . it’s just that—’
‘I can tell that you don’t approve.’
‘No, it’s just that it is rather on the thick side,’ said Ravenscroft submerging his spoon once again into the brown mixture.
‘I think it is quite nice,’ smiled Lucy after taking another mouthful.
‘I expect that I shall probably grow to like it.’
‘I think Susan has done rather well. I believe that it is a favourite of Queen Victoria.’
‘Ah well, if it is good enough for Queen Victoria, then I am sure that it is certainly good enough for us,’ smiled Ravenscroft before bringing the spoon to his mouth.
‘There is no need for frivolity, Samuel. I can tell you do not like it. It does have some of the Madeira in it,’ said Lucy trying to sound enthusiastic.
‘No, it’s not the Madeira, it’s just . . . well . . . just before we sat down I was reading the evening newspaper. It seems that a whole party of guests staying at one of the lodging houses in Pershore fell ill after eating a meal of Brown Windsor soup, pheasant pie and cheese.’
‘Could it have been the pheasant pie?’ suggested Lucy.
‘Perhaps, but then it could have easily been the Brown Windsor soup. I suppose the dense, brown viscosity of the dish could hide anything of a suspicious nature.’
‘I saw Susan prepare it — beef, lamb, vegetables, faggots of herbs.’
‘Certainly a great deal of things.’
‘Did any of these people die as a result of this meal?’ asked Lucy becoming irritated by her husband’s questioning.
‘Yes, apparently one of the guests died during the night after eating the soup.’
‘Well don’t eat it if you don’t want to. I’ll ring for Susan to take it away,’ said Lucy thrusting her spoon back into the bowl with a clatter
‘No, don’t do that. I’m sorry. I’m sure it is all right,’ replied Ravenscroft taking another sip of the liquid. ‘Actually it is quite pleasant.’
‘I do wish you would make up your mind, Samuel.’
‘I have. The soup is fine.’
‘You are only saying that so as not to hurt my feelings.’
‘No, not at all. It really is very good.’
‘Now I come to think of it, it does have a rather peculiar odour,’ said Lucy after taking another mouthful. ‘I think we should leave it. Perhaps the lamb was not as fresh as it should have been. I will have a word with the butcher.’
‘If you say so, but don’t reject the dish on my account.’
‘No, I don’t like it. We should definitely leave it,’ said Lucy ringing the small hand bell on the table.
‘Now you are annoyed with me,’ said Ravenscroft. ‘I am sorry. I should not have mentioned it.’
‘Ah, Susan, I think we have had enough of the Brown Windsor. If you would take it away please,’ said Lucy ignoring her husband’s last remark, and addressing the maid as she entered the room.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied the maid casting a suspicious eye at the half-full bowls.
Suddenly, the loud noise of the front doorbell being pressed broke the silence of the room.
‘Surely that cannot be Tom Crabb again? It seems that every time we sit down to eat, our meal is interrupted by some police matter or other,’ said an annoyed Lucy.
‘Shall I tell him to wait, Mrs Ravenscroft, until after I have served the main course?’ asked Susan.
‘No, I suppose you had better let him in,’ replied a resigned Lucy.
‘I’m sorry, my dear. I am sure it must be something of great importance for Tom to call upon us at such a late hour,’ suggested Ravenscroft hoping to placate his wife.
The maid left the room and returned a moment or two later. ‘Please Mr Ravenscroft, it’s not Constable Crabb. It’s a young lad. Says he must speak to you most urgently.’
‘Strange. Did this youth give his name?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘No, sir,’ replied the maid.
‘Then I think you should instruct him to visit the police station. Tell him we are dining and cannot be disturbed,’ instructed Lucy.
‘Sorry to intrude, Mister Ravenscroft,’ said a young man peering round the doorpost.
‘Stebbins!’ exclaimed Ravenscroft.
‘Sorry for the interruption, Mister Ravenscroft, Mrs Ravenscroft,’ said the smiling, fresh-faced youth removing his cap and stepping into the room. ‘I knows you is dining, sir, but I thought you would want to know as soon as possible.’
‘Who is this young man?’ asked a bewildered Lucy.
‘This is Stebbins, the boots whom I first encountered at the Tudor when I first visited Malvern,’ explained Ravenscroft. ‘What is it, Stebbins? You can see that we are busy at the moment?’
‘Terrible business, sir. Poisoned he was!’ pronounced the youth with a flourish.
‘Who has been poisoned?’ asked Ravenscroft regretting that he had asked the question, even before he had uttered the words.
‘Him that ate the Brown Windsor, only he didn’t. Him at Pershore. Maisie said he didn’t eat it.’
‘Stebbins, you are not making any sense. Wait in the kitchen until after we have finished our meal. Have you eaten?’
‘No sir. Came as soon as I heard the news.’
‘Then, Susan, you had better give him some food,’ instructed Ravenscroft. ‘May I suggest some of the Brown Windsor?’
‘Thank you, Mister Ravenscroft. Don’t like the look of that soup, though, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ replied Stebbins casting a glance at the half-empty bowls and turning up his nose. ‘Looks a bit murky to me.’
‘Here, young man, you mind what you are saying,’ reprimanded the maid.
‘Take him to the kitchen, Susan,’ repeated Ravenscroft.
The lad followed the maid out of the room.
‘What a strange looking young man,’ said Lucy after the door had been closed.
‘He has rather a vivid imagination I’m afraid. Still he was helpful to us at Tewkesbury earlier this year.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Oh, about thirteen or fourteen I believe.’
‘And you say you first met him at the Tudor in Malvern?’ asked Lucy.
‘Yes, he looked after me there. He was quite useful in providing me with food late at night, when the so called “cure” prevented any indulgencies.’
‘Sounds as though you had better see what he wants after dinner.’
* * *
‘Now then, Stebbins, what is all this about?’ asked Ravenscroft striding into the kitchen some minutes later.
‘It’s that gent in Pershore. Him that drank the soup, only he didn’t, if you see what I means,’ said Stebbins looking up from the table, his mouth full of bread and cheese.
‘I take it you are referring to the party who suffered ill effects from consuming the Brown Windsor soup?’
‘Yes sir, they all had the soup and were ill, but the gent didn’t, and he was the one that died,’ announced Stebbins.
‘I think you had better start at the beginning,’ said Ravenscroft sighing as he sat down on one of the chairs. ‘I did not know that you were living in Pershore. I thought you were still employed at the Hop Pole in Tewkesbury?’
‘So I am sir.’
‘Then how do you know what is going on in Pershore?’
‘Ah well, Mister Ravenscroft. It’s all on account of Maisie. She knows,’ replied the youth tapping the side of his nose before cutting himself another large chunk of cheese and cramming it into his mouth.
‘And who is this Maisie?’ asked Ravenscroft wondering where all this line of inquiry was going.
‘Maisie is my girl. She works at Talbots’ Lodging House. Scullery maid she is. She saw everything.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well Maisie says that all the guests sat down that night to eat the Brown Windsor, and that they was all bad afterwards. Some of ’em worse than others. Only the gent that died, he didn’t have any of the soup, but he was dead in his bed the next morning. Dead as a cold cucumber he was. All stiff and white he were. Been frothing at the mouth, his face all twisted in agony,’ said Stebbins warming to his subject.
‘Yes, yes, spare us the graphic details, Stebbins.’
‘Well he were dead, as I said, Mister Ravenscroft. Dead!’
‘And you say that the guest who died did not partake of the soup? Was the scullery maid sure on this point?’ inquired Ravenscroft becoming more interested in the lad’s account.
‘My Maisie, she’s a sharp one. She don’t miss anything. If she says that gent didn’t eat the Brown Windsor then he didn’t,’ said Stebbins springing to the maid’s defence.
‘It could have been the pheasant pie?’ suggested Ravenscroft.
‘Don’t understand you, sir.’
‘Well it could have been the pie, and not the soup, that was the cause of the guests all being ill, and perhaps the deceased gentleman ate rather more of it than the others? Do you know if this gentleman ate any of the pie?’
‘Don’t know,’ muttered Stebbins looking deflated.
‘Well there you are then,’ said Ravenscroft rising from the table.
‘My Maisie, she had some of the pie,’ said Stebbins hopefully.
‘And was she ill?’
‘No. So you sees, Mister Ravenscroft, it wasn’t the pie at all. Nor was it the soup.’
‘Did the scullery maid, this Maisie, did she eat some of the Brown Windsor — and was she ill afterwards?’
‘No sir, she didn’t have any of the soup,’ said Stebbins helping himself to the last piece of cheese.
