by Kerry Tombs
‘Such a brave thing to have done, don’t you think so, inspector?’
‘Indeed, ladies,’ agreed Ravenscroft.
‘Such a pity that Mr Cherrington won’t be staying with us for very much longer. The gentleman is waiting for his funds to arrive from India before returning to London,’ said Arabella.
‘So I believe,’ smiled Ravenscroft. ‘I wonder, did you ever observe Mr Cherrington and Mr Jones conversing together?’
‘No. I don’t think so. Did you ever notice them together, Clarisa?’
‘No.’
‘Thank you, ladies. I wonder if you would have a look at this letter for us,’ said Ravenscroft retrieving the envelope from his inside pocket, which he had received the previous day, and handing it over to the two ladies to read. ‘I wonder if perhaps you recognize the handwriting?’
The two sisters studied the contents of the letter intently.
‘No, I am afraid we cannot help you, inspector,’ said Arabella handing it back to Ravenscroft after some moments had elapsed.
‘Thank you. Well, we will not take up any more of your time, ladies,’ said Ravenscroft rising from the chair. ‘I must say that you have a nice collection of old photographs and ornaments — and that portrait on the wall opposite is quite fine. Who is the young man?’
‘Alas, that was poor Eustace, our brother,’ replied Arabella.
‘He died, about twenty years ago,’ added Clarisa looking away, a sad expression on her face. . .
‘I am sorry,’ sympathized Ravenscroft. ‘That must have been very upsetting for you both.’
‘Yes. It was rather difficult, but you have to accept these things. There was nothing we could so. So you see, inspector, we are now quite alone in this world,’ said Arabella shaking her head.
‘We will always remember him though,’ said the younger sister.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Ravenscroft realizing that his last question had caused some pain.
‘I hope that we have been of some assistance to you and your constable?’ said Arabella recovering her composure.
‘Indeed you have, ladies. You have been most enlightening. I cannot thank you enough,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘Let me show you out, inspector,’ said Arabella walking over to the door.
‘Do come again, inspector. We have so enjoyed your visit. It is not often that we get visitors,’ smiled Clarisa.
‘We will indeed. I wish you good day,’ said Ravenscroft, as he and Crabb stepped out onto the landing.
* * *
‘Delightful ladies,’ remarked Crabb.
‘Indeed, and most informative. They have provided us with several possible lines of inquiry. I think we will go and see Miss Martin next. I don’t believe that she had only a passing acquaintance with the dead man, and I would certainly like to know more about her relationship with Talbot,’ said Ravenscroft leading the way up the narrow staircase and onto the landing above.
‘She was definitely hiding something from us, sir.’
Ravenscroft knocked on the door, but received no reply. ‘Hum, she must be out at present. Let’s ask the maid as I see she is just coming down the stairs.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Maisie.
‘Good morning to you, miss. I wonder whether you have seen Miss Martin today?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘No sir. She has not gone out as far as I know. She was not at breakfast either.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘No, sir. Some of the guests do not always come down to breakfast. Shall I knock again for you, sir?’
Ravenscroft nodded, and the maid tapped on the wood.
‘I think we should try to open the door,’ suggested Ravenscroft pushing down the handle.
‘You don’t think something has happened to Miss Martin?’ asked Maisie apprehensively.
‘It may be better if I go in first,’ suggested Ravenscroft slowly opening the door.
The two policemen entered the room, closely followed by the maid.
‘Well Miss Martin does not appear to be in the sitting room. Let us try the bedroom,’ said Ravenscroft crossing over the floor and opening the door to the inner room.
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Crabb bringing his hand up to his mouth.
The maid let out a loud scream, before falling to the floor.
CHAPTER SIX
PERSHORE
‘See to the girl,’ shouted Ravenscroft as he rushed over towards the bed.
‘Here, miss, let me help you to this seat,’ said Crabb assisting the maid to her feet, and guiding her back towards a chair in the sitting room. . .
Ravenscroft looked down on the deathly white figure lying prostate on the floor by the side of the bed. ‘I think Miss Martin has been poisoned. There is a glass on the floor which looks as though it must have slipped from her hand, and a half empty flagon of water on the bedside table.’
‘Miss Martin,’ mumbled the maid, a look of horror on her face. ‘Is she. . . ?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Ravenscroft retrieving the glass from the floor before smelling the contents of the flagon.
‘Who could have done such a thing?’ sobbed Maisie.
‘Hum, there is no smell. Probably arsenic. No colour ’n’ no doubt the same manner in which poor Jones was killed, but this must have been a much larger dose as it appears to have killed her quite quickly, although she was also violently sick. She must have taken a drink whilst sitting on the side of the bed, before intending to retire.’
‘Don’t distress yourself, miss,’ said Crabb placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
‘Someone must have entered this room yesterday when Miss Martin was out and dropped the poison into the jug,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘Oh no, that was me, sir!’ cried the maid.
‘Whatever do you mean, Masie?’ asked Ravenscroft walking over towards the crying servant.
‘It was me, sir! It was me that bought the water up here to Miss Martin late yesterday afternoon.’
‘Yes that may be so Maisie, but I don’t for one minute think that it was you who put poison in the flagon?’ said Ravenscroft attempting to calm the servant’s distress.
‘No sir. I just poured the water out of the tap and bought it up here, as I always does,’ replied the tearful maid.
‘What time was that?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘At about six, sir.’
‘And was Miss Martin here when you entered the room?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And what did you do with the flagon?’
‘I put it on the bedside table as I always do.’
‘So someone must have entered the room afterwards, when Miss Martin was not here,’ suggested Crabb.
‘Or she entertained someone here in her room, someone who poured the poison into the flagon when she was not looking,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘But why Miss Martin?’ asked the tearful maid looking upwards into Ravenscroft’s face. ‘Why would anyone want to harm her?’
‘I don’t know Maisie, but I can assure you that I intend to find out.’
‘This is terrible!’ exclaimed the maid before burying her tear-stained face in her hands.
‘Crabb, would you be so kind as to escort Maisie downstairs. Tell the Talbots what has happened, but say that no one is to come up here,’ instructed Ravenscroft.
‘Yes, sir. Now you come along with me, miss,’ said Crabb placing his arm round the servant’s shoulder and assisting her towards the door.
‘And, Tom, will you send a message to Doctor Homer and then make arrangements for the body to be taken to the mortuary.’
Crabb nodded as he and the sobbing maid left the room.
Ravenscroft knelt down on the floor and examined the body of the dead woman. A few minutes previously he had been anxious to interview the suspect, believing that the answers she might have provided would not only unravel the mystery of her relationships with Talbot and Jones, but would also have drawn him closer to the solution of the
crime. Now, though, all that had been snatched away, leaving Ravenscroft with the realization that his task had just become increasingly difficult. If only he had trusted his instincts more, and questioned the woman more intently on their first meeting, perhaps then he would have arrived at the truth, Jones’s murderer might now be in custody, and Miss Martin might still be alive.
Why would anyone have wanted to kill the woman? Had she been a party to Jones’s death and been killed by her accomplice? Or had she known who the murderer was, and been poisoned to prevent her telling what she knew? Then of course there was another possibility — could Miss Martin have been Jones’s killer? Had she become unsettled by Ravenscroft’s questions and then decided to commit suicide rather than face the gallows? There seemed no way at present of proving which of these possibilities might be the correct one.
Ravenscroft rose to his feet and picked up the dead woman’s spectacles, which he placed carefully on the bedside table. Then he set about examining the contents of the bedroom. A large wardrobe in the corner of the room revealed three dresses in its interior; they were plain, inexpensive items of attire that seemed to complement their former owner’s appearance. The small chest of drawers yielded other items of clothing.
Then Ravenscroft returned to the main room. A few books lay on the sidetable near the chair. He examined the various volumes and found them to be mainly anthologies of poetry and historical novels, before holding up the individual titles and shaking the pages to see if there were any letters or other personal jottings enclosed within. He then crossed to the writing desk where he saw an open book lying there, with a sheet of blue paper at its side, and upon closer examination he found the book to be a volume of John Keats’s poems and that its reader had half copied the page entitled Ode to Nightingale. He picked up the sheet and after studying the words for some moments, folded the paper and placed it in his inside coat pocket.
Ravenscroft looked at the walls of the room, but could find no pictures or framed photographs. There seemed little to show for a life of nearly thirty years. He searched in vain for a diary, or any other documents of a personal nature, and then walked over to the window, where he stood for some minutes looking out at the view across the driveway towards the abbey in the distance.
As he turned once more to face the interior of the room, he felt again its cold and loneliness. Why had this young woman lived and died here, in this room full of such sadness and such emptiness? It was as if the room’s occupant had sought to eradicate all that had happened to her in the past, seeking no remembrance, whilst scarcely living in the present, but without any hope for the future. And yet there had been that poem, suggesting that its reader had perhaps glimpsed the unattainable, however briefly for a moment in time.
Ravenscroft’s thoughts were suddenly disturbed by the opening of the door.
‘I’ve left the maid with Talbot and his wife,’ said Crabb entering the room.
‘How did they seem when you broke the news to them?’
‘I thought Talbot was going to collapse, and his wife was speechless for once. Did you find anything in the room, sir?’
‘There are no personal diaries, letters, photographs or anything else of that sort. She seems to have been quite alone in the world. I did find this though,’ said Ravenscroft reaching into his pocket and handing the sheet of blue paper to Crabb.
‘Seems to be a poem of some sort,’ said Crabb after reading the lines to himself.
‘Ode to a Nightingale by Keats. The poem is not important, but the handwriting is. Compare it with the letter that was sent to me,’ said Ravenscroft passing over the other sheet.
‘Seems remarkably like the same hand.’
‘Exactly my thoughts, Tom.’
‘So it was Miss Martin who sent you the letter telling us that the poison had been placed in Jones’s port bottle,’ said Crabb handing back the sheets to Ravenscroft.
‘It would appear so, which means that if she knew how Jones met his death, she must also have known who committed the crime—’
‘And that was why she had to be poisoned—’
‘Before she could tell us. If only she had spoken out when we first interviewed her, all this could have been avoided. Now the poor woman is dead, and we now have two murders on our hands. What on earth possessed her to remain silent?’
‘Perhaps there were two of them in it, and she didn’t want to betray the other one?’ suggested Crabb.
‘A lover of some kind perhaps? That would suggest Talbot, I suppose — but if that was the case, why did she then send us that letter? After all we had all but given up the case until that letter arrived. Why write such a letter? She must have known that we would return here once we received it — and yet she was very much on her guard when we questioned her, giving nothing away. A strange business, unless — yes, of course, how stupid we have been! She was blackmailing the murderer!’ exclaimed Ravenscroft.
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Crabb.
‘Don’t you see, Tom, she knew who had poisoned Jones, and was hoping to receive some kind of payment, or favour, in return for keeping silent.’
‘I see that, but why then send us the letter?’
‘Because she wanted us to return and question the murderer further, thereby putting a greater value on her own silence.’
‘Very clever.’
‘Yes, but of course, the murderer decided to poison her rather than pay her for her silence. She must have thought that the killer would have paid her, believing that she was safe whilst she knew the truth. The killer of course thought otherwise, and decided to remove her before she could talk. The poor woman, she had so little, and must have seen that this was her one opportunity to escape from this dreadful place. If only she had told us, Tom, if only,’ said an annoyed Ravenscroft pacing up and down the room.
‘Terrible way to go,’ muttered Crabb. ‘She must have died quite quickly.’
‘The question we have to answer now, Tom, is who killed her? Someone in this house poisoned Jones, for some unknown reason, then decided to silence Miss Martin.’
‘Well I believe that Talbot is our killer,’ suggested Crabb.
‘Oh, why do you say that?’
‘Well it seems likely that the two of them had some kind of relationship, and that would explain why she didn’t come straight out with it that Talbot was our man. Then as you say, she told him that she had seen him put poison in the bottle of port, and promised to keep quiet in return for either money or personal favours,’ continued Crabb.
‘I must say I am inclined to agree with you. Talbot is our most likely suspect at this stage in our inquiries. I can’t see either Turco, or Jacobson, in a relationship with Miss Martin. I suppose there is Cherrington. He would certainly charm the young lady — and of course we have yet to meet the mysterious Claybourne,’ replied Ravenscroft deep in thought for some moments. ‘No, you are right, Tom. Let’s go and confront Talbot. He should be able to tell us more, and I don’t believe that he threw away all of Jones’s possessions either.’
* * *
‘Well, Talbot, this is a bad business,’ said Ravenscroft as he sat facing the landlord and his wife across the table in the dining room at Talbots’.
‘Poor Miss Martin. Who can have done such a thing?’ muttered the ashen-faced Talbot.
‘Who indeed? I am hoping that you may be able to cast some light on this matter.’
‘We will do all we can,’ said Mrs Talbot.
‘What can you tell me about Miss Martin? Did she ever mention any friends or relatives? We will need to inform them of her demise,’ asked Ravenscroft intently.
‘She never mentioned any relatives to us,’ answered Talbot.
‘Never had any visitors neither,’ added his wife.
‘Did she ever receive any letters or any other form of communication?’
‘No. Never ever saw any letters.’
‘So you are telling me that she was all alone in the world, without friends or acquain
tances?’
‘That’s how it was,’ said Mrs Talbot.
‘Strange, but then again I suppose some people do go through their whole lives without forming any close friendships. What was your relationship with the dead woman?’ asked Ravenscroft leaning forwards across the table, and staring directly at the landlord, over the top of his spectacles.
‘What relationship? I don’t know what you are talking about,’ replied Talbot defensively.
‘Oh, come now, Talbot, we know you and Miss Martin were quite close.’
‘Who says so?’
‘Your wife has indicated as such,’ continued Ravenscroft.
‘Just gossip. It was nothing,’
‘Look, Talbot, either you tell me now the full details of your relationship with your lodger, or you can accompany both of us to the station and we will continue with our questions there,’ said Ravenscroft becoming annoyed with his suspect.
‘He was infatuated with her,’ sneered Mrs Talbot. ‘You was always making some excuse to go up to her room. You think I don’t know what was going on between you two?’
‘Be quiet, woman! You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ retaliated Talbot.
‘I knows what you were up to. You can’t fool me. Think I’m daft?’
‘I never did anything. I was sorry for her. All alone in the world. It was all quite innocent. That’s all there was to it.’
Ravenscroft sat back his chair, realizing that if he remained quiet, and let the landlord and his wife argue against each other, then it was possible that the truth would eventually be forthcoming.
‘Lies, Talbot, lies! All of it lies. I’ve seen the way you looked at her,’ scowled Mrs Talbot.
‘I tells you, woman, there was nothing to it.’
‘The way you were always asking if she wanted anything.’
‘I was only being considerate.’
‘Considerate! You don’t know the meaning of the word!’
‘Why is it that you always sees the worst in me?’
‘’Cause that’s what you are like, you miserable little worm of a man. I wouldn’t mind so much, if she was the first, but no, there were others,’ sneered the landlady.
‘What others?’
