by Kerry Tombs
‘Bah! Signor Jones, he-a no like my playing. He complain. Said I play to loudly, and that he could not sleep at night. He not appreciate good music. He should be glad I play. People pay good money to hear Turco play.’
‘So you had words with Mr Jones?’ asked Ravenscroft becoming interested in the Italian’s replies.
‘I-a close the door on him when he complain! No one else, they no complain. Signor Cherrington opposite he no complain. Miss Martin below, she no complain. Talbot he no complain. So why does Jones complain? I do not understand this man. He has no soul. Where is his soul, I ask you?’
‘Gone to heaven now, sir,’ Crabb could not help remarking.
‘No, signor, he is-a not with the angels! Angels they like-a music. They would not want him. Let the devil have him. He would be good company for the Devil. Devil not like-a music.’
Ravenscroft smiled. ‘Did you and Mr Jones ever come to blows?’
‘Blows! I am not a man of violence, sir. Turco, he is a peaceful man. He come from Naples. The Turcos of-a Naples they are not a violent race. Turcos-a love Napoli! They love the sun, and the pasta, and above all the music. Above all Turco he love Paganini!’ continued Turco gradually becoming more animated.
‘Did you ever speak with Mr Jones about anything else?’
‘I-a not speak with Jones. Turco he not concern himself with such people!’
‘Did you see anyone tampering with the bottle of port on the night he died?’ asked Ravenscroft changing his line of questioning.
‘No. I see no one. Turco he see-a nothing.’
‘Did you at any time see Mr Jones in conversation with anyone else in the house?’
‘No. Jones he is no concern of mine. I not concerned who talk with him. No one talk with him. He has no soul.’
‘When did you come to this county, count?’ enquired Ravenscoft intrigued to discover more about the musician’s history.
‘Turco he leave his beloved Napoli twenty years ago. Why, I ask myself? Why do I come here and stay in this God-forsaken country? Is it the food? No, food is too cold and tasteless. Is it the weather? No, weather is bad. Always it-a rains. The sun, he often disappears. Why is it always winter here?’
‘So why do you stay, sir?’ asked Crabb.
‘I stay for the music. It is the music that keeps me here.’
‘And where do you play, sir?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘You have not heard of the great Turco? Turco, the famous violinist. The man of a thousand melodies,’ boasted the musician.
‘I am afraid not,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘I play in Birmingham, at the Town Hall, with the great orchestras. I go to London and play with the orchestras there. I go to Liverpool and I play there. Everywhere Turco he is in great demand. The people they applaud the great Turco. They like-a my playing. They want for nothing more, and Turco he gives the people what they want. They love my Paganini. They love Turco. Paganini and I, we make them cry, we make them laugh, we make them smile.’
‘And how long have you lived here at Talbots’, count?’ interrupted Ravenscroft.
‘I live here for past five years.’
‘You have never thought of moving elsewhere?’ suggested Ravenscroft.
‘I have my violin. I have my music. Turco he want for nothing else.’
‘Well thank you, count. We will leave you to continue with your music. Apologies for the interruption,’ said Ravenscroft beginning to take his leave.
‘You catch this infidel who poison this Jones?’
‘We intend to do our very best, sir.’
‘I no kill Jones. He no like my music, but Turco he is not a murderer,’ protested the violinist.
‘No one suggested that you were, sir,’ said Ravenscroft. ‘Good day to you. Oh, one more thing, count. Did you send me a letter concerning the death of Mr Jones?’
‘What letter? Turco he no send letters to anyone!’ said the violinist with a final gesture as he closed the door.
* * *
‘Well, he is a queer fish and no mistake,’ remarked Crabb as he and Ravenscroft stood on the landing once more.
‘Those Italians can sometimes be quite excitable.’
‘You think he poisoned Jones?’
‘Why, because our Mr Jones did not like his playing? Perhaps, but probably not. One thing I found very strange though. If Turco is as famous a musician as he makes out, playing everywhere from London to Birmingham and Liverpool, why is he still living in such a down-at-heel place as this? No, I think our Count Turco is prone to exaggeration. Either that or he is not all that he makes himself out to be. Anyway, let’s try and interview this Mr Cherrington and see what we can find out about him,’ said Ravenscroft tapping on the other door.
Receiving no reply, Ravenscroft repeated the action.
‘Seems as though he is out, sir,’ said Crabb.
‘I think you must be correct, Tom. We will need to come back later. Wait a moment, who is that coming up the stairs?’
‘Who is there?’ called out a voice from the second-floor landing.
‘Mr Cherrington?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Yes, who wants him?’
‘We are the police, sir. We would like a word with you concerning the late Mr Jones.’
The man said nothing as he climbed the stairs.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ said Ravenscroft observing that the middle-aged bearded man carrying a silver cane was immaculately dressed with a red carnation and gold tie pin. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Ravenscroft and this is Constable Crabb. We are making inquiries regarding the late Mr Jones and believe that you may be of some assistance to us.’
The man stared at Ravenscroft for a moment. ‘Yes, of course. A terrible business. I will of course help you all I can. Perhaps you would like to go inside?’
‘That is most kind of you, sir.’
Cherrington opened the door and lead the way into a poorly furnished room.
‘I am afraid it is not particularly salubrious here,’ smiled Cherrington. ‘But then you know what Talbots’ is like.’
‘I gather you have not been long resident here, sir?’ said Ravenscroft accepting a chair by the table in the centre of the room, that the other had indicated.
‘Two to three months. Of course, I do not intend remaining here for much longer. All a question of waiting for my funds to arrive. Do you smoke, inspector?’ asked Cherrington offering Ravenscroft a cigarette from a gold case. ‘Got them on the boat back from India from a man who had just returned from Turkey.’
‘No thank you, sir.’
‘You would not object if I. . . ?’
‘Of course not, sir.’
Cherrington lit a cigarette, seated himself in a large leather armchair before the empty fireplace and inhaled deeply. ‘Been out in India for the past five years. Still waiting for my goods and chattels to arrive. Bit of a nuisance doing without things. Not used to doing without. Can’t really move on. But enough of that. How can I be of assistance, inspector?’
‘You were in the Indian army, sir?’ enquired Ravenscroft.
‘Good heavens no! Tea. That’s what I was involved in. Tea. Had a plantation near Darjeeling,’ replied Cherrington leaning back in the armchair and blowing smoke out into the room.
‘But you came back here to England?’ continued Ravenscroft interested in knowing more of the man’s history.
‘Got rather bored with it out there. Nothing to do in the evenings, but go to the local clubhouse. Full of noisy army types always talking about polo and tiger shooting. Decided to sell up and come back home to the old country. There’s nothing like England is there? You ever lived abroad Ravenscroft?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Travelled all over the world I have. New York, Joburg, Cairo, Bombay, even Sydney, but England is still the best place to be. My rambling days are over. Hope to put down some roots now.’
‘You have no family, sir?’
‘Wife died in India about two years ago,�
� replied Cherrington stroking his well-groomed beard.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Damn fever carried her off. Not a good place India; climate is too damned hot, too many flies, people dying all over the place — but then I don’t expect you are interested in all that. I expect you want to know more about poor old Jones. Died of eating too much of that soup so they said. Didn’t have any effect on me, although I believe most of the others were ill. Poor man. Must have had a delicate constitution.’
‘We have since discovered that Mr. Jones was poisoned. Someone apparently put poison in his bottle of port,’ said Ravenscroft watching Cherrington to see what affect this disclosure would have on him.
‘Good Lord! Whoever would want to go and do a thing like that?’
‘Who indeed, Mr Cherrington? That is what we have come to investigate.’
‘Yes, well I can see that. Poisoned you say? Well, I am surprised,’ replied Cherrington before taking another puff on his cigarette.
‘Oh, why do you say that?’
‘Well, can’t see why anyone would want to kill him like that. He seemed quite a pleasant sort of fellow. Bit on the quiet side. I didn’t have much opportunity to speak to him of course, but he struck me as being quite inoffensive and reserved.’
‘Did Mr Jones tell you anything of his history, or what he might be doing in the future?’
‘No, I don’t think so. As I said, he wasn’t the sort of man you could have a long conversation with. Played his cards close to his chest, if you see what I mean.’
‘Can you think of anyone here who would have wanted him dead?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘No. I can’t see either of the Miss Fanshaws, or straight-laced Miss Martin, killing him, nor that mad Italian, or the miserable old professor,’ laughed Cherrington.
‘And Mr. Claybourne?’ asked Crabb.
‘Now there’s a mystery man if ever there was one. Claims to be some sort of commercial traveller, although what he is supposed to be selling I have no idea. Just seems to be here for two or three days each week. Where he goes to the rest of time, I don’t know. I suppose he might be your man.’
‘And Mr and Mrs Talbot?’ suggested Ravenscroft.
‘Talbot!’ exclaimed Cherrington. ‘That man is afraid of his own shadow. Completely under the thumb of that wife of his. He reminds me of a greasy fly waiting to be swatted. I suppose there is always the possibility that she could have killed poor old Jones. Perhaps she was repulsed by his amorous intentions or he complained about the cooking?’
‘Now I think you are jesting, Mr Cherrington,’ replied Ravenscroft. ‘Well sir, I think that will be all for now.’
‘Oh, is that all? I was quite enjoying our little chat,’ said Cherrington rising from his chair.
‘We may need to question you again, sir.’
‘Anytime, inspector.’
‘I do not suppose you are the author of a letter sent to me regarding Jones’s death?’
‘No. Why the devil would I want to do such a thing?’ laughed Cherrington.
‘I take it you won’t be leaving Talbots’ in the next week or so?’
‘Alas, no. As I said, waiting for my funds to arrive, then I shall put Talbots’ behind me as I head off once more to the capital. Catch up with a few friends, maybe buy a nice little place in Primrose Hill or Highgate. Yes, that would be nice. Can’t understand why they are taking so long. Then again the world of finance can often proceed at an annoyingly slow pace.’
* * *
‘Well, Tom, what do you make of our Mr Cherrington?’ asked Ravenscroft as he and Crabb walked back to their trap.
‘Rather a smooth character if you ask me,’ answered Crabb.
‘Yes, he had quite a disarming manner. I don’t believe he has been out in India for the past five years.’
‘Oh, why do you say that, sir?’
‘A man who has just returned from growing tea in India would have had a much darker complexion. I would be surprised if Mr Cherrington has got any further than the white cliffs of Dover. Although well dressed, with an expensive cane and gold cigarette case, I don’t believe that he is waiting for any funds to arrive. There probably aren’t any funds, that’s why he is reduced to staying at Talbots’. I could be wrong of course. I could be doing the man a grave injustice. Did you notice how he quickly suggested Claybourne as a possible murderer?’
‘Yes, but difficult to know whether he was being serious or not.’
‘He was certainly amusing regarding Mrs Talbot. She may be a formidable woman, but I can’t see her killing Jones, can you?’
‘No sir.’
‘How old do you think our Mr Cherrington is, Tom?’
‘Probably about thirty-five sir.’
‘I think I would put him as being much older than that, perhaps nearly fifty.’
‘Difficult to tell underneath that black beard and moustache.’
‘Yes. He takes a great pride in his appearance. I tell you something though, Tom. I had quite a distinct impression that I have seen our Mr Cherrington somewhere before, but I can’t for the life of me remember where, and when . . .’
CHAPTER FOUR
LEDBURY
Ravenscroft poured himself out another glass of sherry and stirred the dying embers of his fire with the brass poker. He noted that the grandfather clock showed fifteen minutes past twelve, before once more going over in his mind the events of the previous day.
He had hoped that his visit to Talbots’ Lodging House would have made clear why Jones had been poisoned, and that an early arrest could have been made, but instead his inquiries had only resulted in a deepening of the mystery. With no body, and no items of a personal nature remaining from the deceased man, Ravenscroft knew that he had very little to assist him in his investigations. Just who was Jones — if that was his real name — and what had he been doing at Talbots’? During his short time there he had apparently said little to his fellow guests. Everyone had remarked on how the man had liked to keep his own counsel. There was mention that he had been waiting for a letter to arrive. Had Jones received such a missive before his death, and if he had, why had he not then moved on? Had the fragment recovered by Crabb from beneath the man’s bed been part of such a letter?
Then there was the question of how Jones had been killed. Clearly it had not been the Brown Windsor, for, although all the other diners had been made ill through eating the soup, they had all recovered fully, but then of course Jones had not taken that dish at all. The mysterious letter that Ravenscroft had received claimed that poison had been placed in Jones’s tawny port bottle, from which only he had drunk, and the killer had made sure that the bottle had been removed promptly after the dinner in question, thereby destroying the evidence. The poison, however must have been of the slow-acting variety as the man had not collapsed immediately after drinking it, but had gone straight up to his room, where he had died in his bed sometime during the night.
So, who had killed Jones? And why? Could robbery have been the motive? Did Jones own certain valuables that the killer would have taken after the man had died? If that was the case, then suspicion must fall on Talbot. The maid, Maisie, had said that Talbot had cleared the room of the dead man’s effects, and Talbot himself had admitted that he had thrown the items away, but Ravenscroft had felt that the landlord had not been telling him the truth. There must have been some property that Talbot had appropriated for himself. He would have to question the man again, for he knew that if he were to find out more about Jones and eliminate a false identity, then he would need to recover and examine those personal items.
So, had Talbot poisoned his guest to acquire Jones’s valuables? But then did Talbot seem like a killer? There was certainly something rather grubby and underhand about the man. He had played down his wife’s boast that he had served in the Crimea, and then there had been that suggestion that he had had some kind of a relationship in the past with Miss Martin. If that had been the case, then perhaps Jones had somehow unco
vered this indiscretion, and the two men had quarrelled — but then, as Ravenscroft reminded himself, he was in danger of letting his imagination play tricks with his reasoning.
If Talbot had not poisoned Jones, either for financial gain, or in a pique of temper, then who had? He could rule out both the maid, Maisie — after all it was she who had alerted Ravenscroft to the case, through Stebbins — and Mrs Talbot, who clearly had no reason to kill her lodger. That just left the eight lodgers. One of them must have killed Jones, but which one — and why?
He had first interviewed the old Jewish professor, Jacobson, and his young wife. Could they have poisoned Jones? Jacobson had arrived in England some years ago, after choosing to leave his homeland in Russia where he claimed that he had been persecuted. Whilst in London he had met the youthful Rosanna, and the two had married, arriving at Talbots’ five years ago. Could there have been something in either of the couples’ past histories that linked them to Jones? No one had suggested that Jones had been Russian, so it was unlikely that he had originated from there, but could he have been some former lover of the woman? Jacobson had accidentally let slip that the couple met whilst Rosanna had been staying at the Crosskeys Lodging House in Whitechapel. Ravenscroft knew from his days of police service in that area that Crosskeys was not the kind of establishment where young ladies of virtue resided. Could Jones have been a former client of the woman — and if so, could she have poisoned him to prevent her secret being revealed to her husband? But then Jacobson must have known about his wife’s dark past, so perhaps Jacobson himself poisoned the man, to protect his wife? Jacobson claimed to be blind, but maybe that was a feint, and he could really see more that he claimed. Either way the couple seemed something of a mystery. Why had she married a man so much older than herself — and why had that room been so dull, so full of gloom and lost hope?
Ravenscroft next considered the Fanshaw sisters. Arabella, the eldest, seemed the more dominant of the two, she clearly saw herself as the younger sibling’s protector. They were the oldest residents at Talbots’, having lived there for some ten years or more. Why had they never moved on to more pleasant surroundings? Was there something in their past that had kept them at the run-down lodging house? Could they have met Jones many years ago?
