by Kerry Tombs
‘What brings you back to Talbots’? I trust you have caught the real criminal this time?’ said Quinton with a note of sarcasm in his voice.
‘You have evidently not heard, sir.’
‘Heard what?’
‘That Miss Clarisa Fanshaw is dead,’ answered Ravenscroft.
‘Good grief!’
‘She was found at the bottom of the stairs, just over an hour ago. Where were you then, Mr Quinton?’
‘Now look here, Ravenscroft, this will not do at all. If you must know I have been out walking for the past two hours. Thought I would have a last look at the place before I left this evening. What a terrible business. Was the poor woman pushed, or did she fall?’ asked Quinton casually.
‘We are not sure at present. In view of this tragic situation, I would be obliged if you would delay your departure for London.’
‘Sorry old boy. Train goes at seven this evening. Can’t oblige, I’m afraid,’ smiled Quinton turning away and walking up to the front door.
‘Insufferable man!’ exclaimed Ravenscroft as he and Crabb continued with their walk. ‘He knows perfectly well that we cannot detain him, and obviously delights in our failure to do so.’
* * *
‘Well, Tom, I can think of no solution to this mystery. Can you?’
It was later that afternoon, and Ravenscroft and Crabb were seated in one of the local hostelries partaking of their third tankard of ale.
‘No, sir, but I still think it was that awful Quinton who did away with them all,’ returned Crabb.
‘I suppose he could have left the house, then slipped back later unobserved, and waited for Miss Clarisa to come out onto the landing, before pushing her down the stairs and then affecting his escape whilst everyone else was distracted. I cannot see that however. Firstly the Jacobsons noticed no one on the landing when they came up the stairs, and secondly how would Quinton have known that Miss Fanshaw was about to step out onto the landing and that she would have been alone? Also if he was leaving Pershore tonight why would he have bothered to have killed the old lady at all? No, I cannot see Quinton having anything to do with the Miss Clarisa’s death.’
‘What about the Jacobsons? Their room is directly opposite the Misses Fanshaw. They could have waited for her to come out of the room, pushed her down the stairs, and then concocted their story,’ suggested Crabb.
‘Yes, that could be so, but again how would they know that Miss Clarisa would have been alone at that time? No, none of it seems to fit. Of course there is the obvious solution, that she tripped and fell. In which case her death was entirely accidental, and we have no case to investigate,’ said a resigned Ravenscroft.
The door of the inn suddenly opened and a breathless Constable Hoskings rushed into the room. ‘Ah, there you are, sir. I’ve been looking for you all round the town.’
‘We did tell you, Hoskings, where we would be,’ replied Ravenscroft taking another mouthful of ale.
‘Oh yes, sir. I forgot. Sorry, sir,’ said the apologetic policeman.
‘Yes, well what is it, Hoskings?’ asked an irritated Ravenscroft.
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. This telegram came for you,’ said the constable producing a crumpled envelope from his pocket and attempting to smooth out the creases.
Ravenscroft tore open the envelope and studied the contents of the telegram.
‘Good heavens! This changes everything, Tom.’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘A reply to my inquiry of earlier today. It seems that we have been following the wrong path. Of course, I see it all now!’ exclaimed Ravenscroft. ‘Come on, Tom. I think it is time we made an arrest!’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PERSHORE
Ravenscroft looked across at the assembled group of people seated around the table in the dining room of Talbots’ Lodging House. Jacobson was staring out vacantly before him, his arm gripped tightly by his anxious wife; Quinton sitting back in his chair with his usual air of casual indifference; a red-eyed Arabella Fanshaw staring down at her hands tightly clutching the handkerchief on her lap; Turco, the violinist moving uneasily in his chair whilst drumming his fingers impatiently on the table; Maisie the maid, biting one of her finger nails whilst staring vaguely down at the floor, and Talbot himself looking furtively around the room whilst his large wife sat immobile and seemed to tower over the landlord. Ravenscroft knew that if he presented his case well then within the next few minutes he would be successful in obtaining a full confession from one of the gathering.
‘Thank you, Constable Crabb, I think we are all here now, so you may close the door,’ said Ravenscroft taking up his position before the spluttering flames in the fireplace.
Crabb closed the door and he and Hoskings then took up their places at the entrance to the room.
‘Aren’t you forgetting one thing, Ravenscroft?’ said Quinton.
‘Oh, and what might that be, sir?’
‘Well, we are not, as you say, all here. You are forgetting Claybourne.’
‘As Mr Claybourne is not here to join us, Captain Quinton, then I believe we must proceed without him,’ replied Ravenscroft.
Quinton shrugged his shoulders and looked away.
‘Here, who’s this Quinton? I thought his name was Cherrington,’ said Talbot.
‘All will be revealed, my dear sir. When I first came to this house to investigate the death of Mr Jones I was not quite certain what I would find. Here was a man who had been with you for fewer than two weeks, who appeared to be unknown to all of you, and who had apparently died in his sleep after drinking too much Brown Windsor soup, only of course we all now know that that was not the real cause of his death. He had in fact been the victim of some kind of poison, which had been placed by someone in his tawny port; a suspicion that was later corroborated when we discovered that the bottle in question had been removed from this room, in all likelihood, by the person who had perpetrated the deed. When we tried to find out more about the deceased man we had little to help us, nothing of a personal nature, only a fragment from a letter. Even the corpse itself had been buried before our arrival and, although we later recovered the dead man’s pocket watch and pistol, these items added little to what we knew about him — besides revealing their owner’s real name to be Charles Murphy. Later we discovered that this Murphy had been a member of the Fenian Brotherhood, and that he had been sent to this area to await instructions to assassinate Lord Salisbury, the Prime Minister, at a meeting in Worcester.’
‘We would not have let him in through the door, had we known what he was,’ interrupted Mrs Talbot disapprovingly.
‘The question is, though, had Murphy discovered something of vital importance during his short stay here, or was he already known to one of you here present? Then we turn to Miss Martin. Why was she poisoned? I believe she knew who had poisoned Jones, and that she was blackmailing that person, seeing it as an opportunity to escape the life of near penury in which she had lived here. Like Keats’s nightingale she sought a better life for herself, but of course that life was cruelly cut short. So we return to Jones, or rather Murphy. He must be the answer to this mystery. One of you here had encountered the man, somewhere, and at some time in the past — but who? As we began to inquire further we found that this was a house of secrets, where everyone it seemed was not who he, or she, appeared to be, and where each of you had a secret to hide.’
Ravenscroft paused for a moment and observed that all his suspects had looked away from him, each anxious to avoid his gaze.
‘Count Turco, the eminent concert violinist, but it was clear to me that such claims of fame were entirely fabricated—’
‘You call Turco a liar?’ retorted the musician jumping up out of his seat. ‘Turco, he is very famous in Naples and Capri. People there they queue to hear the great Turco!’
‘That’s as may be, count, but a famous concert violinist has no need to live out a meagre existence in a cheap lodging house in Pershore, or to play his violin on the
streets of Worcester,’ continued Ravenscroft. ‘I would be obliged, sir, if you would regain your seat.’
Turco sat down muttering as he did so.
‘The question is — could you, count, and our friend Jones have met somewhere in the past? Then there is you, Professor Jacobson. I wonder if you and Jones met in St. Petersburg? And what was the real reason for your leaving there?’
‘I have told you why I left, inspector,’ answered the old man. ‘It is not my fault if you cannot accept what I have told you. And I certainly never encountered Mr Jones there or anywhere else.’
‘Then we come to Mrs Jacobson, who was anxious to hide from us her true status whilst living in London. Could Jones have been one of her former clients, threatening to expose her past to everyone here, and that was why he had to be silenced?’
‘That is all nonsense,’ replied Mrs. Jacobson.
‘I wonder if your husband knows where you go on certain afternoons?’ continued Ravenscroft.
‘Rosanna, what does he mean?’ asked Jacobson anxiously.
‘It is nothing, my dear, I will tell you later. It is past now,’ said the old man’s wife staring intently at Ravenscroft.
‘Did you know, professor, that your wife and Mr Claybourne had taken out a life insurance policy on your life, and that she had recently purchased a quantity of arsenic powder from the local chemists?’
‘Yes of course,’ laughed Jacobson. ‘The policy is to provide some security for Rosanna in the event of my death.’
‘Told you it was that fellow Claybourne, but you would not listen, Ravenscroft,’ said Quinton with an air of confidence.
‘Now let us turn to you, Mr Talbot,’ said Ravenscroft turning to face the landlord.
‘Now look here, we had nothing to do with this business,’ protested Talbot.
‘A man of many secrets,’ continued Ravenscroft, ignoring the outburst, ‘prone to exaggeration and deceitfulness. It was you who concealed the vital items of the dead man from us, thereby hindering our investigations. I also don’t believe you were ever in the Crimea.’
‘Told you, Talbot, we should have got rid of that picture long ago,’ interrupted the landlady.
‘Always seeking to cover up some assignation or other. I wondered whether you had met Jones long ago, and whether some untold criminal act had been committed then, an act that Jones now sought to expose?’
‘Poppycock!’ snapped Talbot.
‘And so we turn to you, Mister Cherrington, or should I say Quinton, as that of course is your real name, always seeking to hide the truth from us about your former lives in Pimlico and India. Could you have met Jones long ago, and did he know your secret, and was that why he had to be silenced?’
‘Nonsense, all of it nonsense. It is time I left. My train departs in just over an hour. I have heard enough,’ said Quinton rising from the table. ‘You clearly have nothing, Ravenscroft.’
‘But there you are wrong, captain. I now know everything. If you will resume your seat, I will not detain you for very much longer,’ replied Ravenscroft as Crabb took a step forwards.
Quinton stared at Crabb. ‘Oh, very well then. I suppose a few more minutes won’t matter.’
‘Thank you, captain. As we continued with our investigations we encountered one lie after another, and there was always one more deception to be revealed. I realized that if we were ever to obtain the truth about this matter, then I would need to know as much as I could about the deceased man. Who was this Jones or Murphy? We now know he was one of the Fenians, and like most members of the infamous Brotherhood he must have originated from Ireland. What had he left behind for us? The scrap of paper giving us the date and time of the important meeting in Worcester, the pocket watch which had revealed his real name, and the weapon which he intended using in his assassination attempt. It was finally the gun itself that was to reveal the answer to all these crimes.’
‘Go on, Ravenscroft,’ said Quinton leaning forwards. ‘This is all most intriguing.’
‘The gun revealed the name of its maker — “John Elliott”. Who was this “John Elliott?” In order to answer to this question, I sent a telegram to a colleague of mine at the firearms department of the British Museum. He was able to provide me with details of the maker. John Elliott was a gunmaker in Coleraine in northern Ireland.’
‘Still don’t see where all this is leading,’ interjected Quinton.
‘Coleraine. That was where Murphy originated. Then I remembered a story that had been told me by one of those present now, when I looked at a portrait of a young boy, who had died over twenty years ago in Coleraine. And so I decided to investigate further, and have today received a reply from my colleagues in the Special Branch at the Home Office,’ said Ravenscroft removing the crumpled telegram from his pocket. ‘I will read what is says. Or would you like to tell us, Miss Fanshaw, how once, long ago, your late brother and Mr Murphy had been business partners in Coleraine, and how Murphy was responsible for your brother’s untimely death. How you and your sister were then forced to sell the family estate to pay off the debts, and how eventually you came here to Pershore, where you lived in quiet seclusion, until one day a stranger arrived calling himself Jones. He did not recognize you of course, having never met you in person whilst in Coleraine, although the name must have familiar. You remembered him, without doubt, as the man who had caused your brother’s death, and so you decided—’
‘All right, inspector, there is no need to go on with all this,’ interrupted Arabella. ‘Yes, I poisoned that evil man who had destroyed my brother.’
‘Lord above!’ exclaimed Talbot.
‘I should have realized earlier, all those unanswered questions whenever your sister wanted to tell us more about your life in Ireland, and how you were always so protective towards her. Why did you then poison Miss Martin? She surely did not deserve to die?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘She saw me removing the bottle from this room, the morning after, and realized that we had poisoned that man. She thought she could extract money from us to buy her silence, but I realized that if we complied with her request she would only come back for more.’
‘And so you entered her room, when she was absent, and added poison to her drink. You were careful not to purchase any poisons locally, which would have aroused suspicion,’ said Ravenscroft.
Arabella said nothing as she stared down at her hands twisting the handkerchief between her fingers.
‘Poor Miss Clarisa,’ said an ashen-faced Maisie.
‘Lords! She must have thrown her down the stairs as well!’ exclaimed Talbot suddenly realizing the seriousness of the disclosures.
‘I do not think so,’ said Ravenscroft. ‘I believe that Miss Clarisa realized that once we had apprehended Flannigan in Worcester it would only be a matter of time before we discovered that the dead man here had originated from Coleraine, and that our investigations in that area would enable us to arrive at the truth. Rather than face the outcome, I believe that Miss Clarisa decided—’
‘Poor Clarisa’, interjected Arabella. ‘We knew that you would be coming for us, and she could not bear the outcome.’
‘Although of course, it may have been a simple accident,’ continued Ravenscroft. ‘I do not think that it will ever be possible to know.’
‘You English, you always do these things in such a quiet dignified manner,’ muttered Turco.
‘Hoskings, call in the other officers outside and then take Miss Fanshaw back to the station if you will,’ instructed Ravenscroft.
Arabella rose from her seat as the constable stepped forwards removing the handcuffs from his belt.
‘There will be no need for those, Hoskings. I am sure Miss Fanshaw has no intention of escaping.’
‘Thank you, inspector. My brother committed suicide you know because of that evil man and the ruin he brought on our family. He did not deserve that. You may do as you wish with me. I am content now that my brother has at last obtained justice,’ said Arabella directly address
ing Ravenscroft.
Ravenscroft gave a slight bow as Arabella followed Hoskings out of the room.
‘Well, that’s a fine turn of events,’ remarked Quinton.
‘Poor Miss Fanshaw,’ said Maisie crying out loud.
‘For goodness sake, girl, pull yourself together,’ reprimanded Mrs Talbot.
‘How sad,’ said Jacobson shaking his head from side to side.
‘Yes, professor, you are correct, it is a very sad case indeed,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘One good thing, though. If the old ladies had not poisoned old Murphy, then you would not have come here, and the Prime Minster would have been dead by now,’ offered Quinton.
Ravenscroft allowed himself a brief smile, before addressing the group for the final time. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, now that our work here is concluded, Constable Crabb and I will take our leave.’
‘What will happen to Miss Fanshaw?’ asked Rosanna.
‘Constable Crabb and I will return to the station where we will take Miss Fanshaw’s statement, after which she will be formally charged with the deaths of Charles Murphy and Miss Martin. She will then be taken to the gaol in Worcester where she will reside until her trial. Now, we will take our leave. Good day to you all. I wonder if I might have a private word with you, sir?’ said Ravenscroft addressing Quinton.
‘Yes. Yes of course.’
Ravenscroft, Crabb and Quinton stepped out into the hall and closed the door to the dining room behind them.
‘Captain Quinton, it seems that I owe you an apology. Because of your involvement in the Pimlico Poisoning Case all those years ago, I let that case deeply influence my investigations in this affair, to the extent that I, wrongly as it turned out, thought that you were the guilty party in this matter,’ began Ravenscroft somewhat hesitatingly, looking for the correct words to use.
‘Go on,’ said Quinton intently.
‘New evidence has recently come to light that proves your innocence in the Pimlico case. It seems that your wife did not write those last words in the diary shortly before her death, in which she accused you of poisoning her.’
