Kerry Tombs - The Worcester Whisperers

‘Absolutely nothing!’ said Ravenscroft closing the volume shut after what had seemed more than an hour. ‘Absolutely nothing. There are reports of quite a few inquests, but nothing that faintly resembles the death of a young boy.’

‘No luck here either,’ added a dispirited Crabb.

‘You know, I am beginning to think that both you and Dr Edwards are correct in your opinions, and that those Tovey sisters invented the whole business just to confuse,’ said Ravenscroft, a look of annoyance on his face.

‘Never mind. The boy’s death probably has nothing to do with the case anyway.’

‘You could be right. However, there is just one more avenue still left open to us. Call the librarian Crabb.’

Crabb made his way out of the room, returning a few moments later with the custodian of the books. ‘I understand that your search has been unsuccessful?’ said the librarian.

‘It would appear so. We were searching for a possible report into the death of a young choirboy in the year 1851, but it would seem that the newspaper failed to cover the story,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Ah, that would be the young boy who hanged himself.’

‘You know about the incident?’ inquired Ravenscroft optimistically.

‘Yes, I attended the inquest. I had just arrived in Worcester and everyone was talking about the poor boy. I had the afternoon free from my duties, and so decided to attend the inquest.’

‘Please, go on,’ urged Ravenscroft.

‘Well, sir, I can’t recall much about the actual inquest. It was a long time ago, but I do remember the coroner saying that on account of the boy’s age and given the circumstances of his demise, all reporters were asked to remove themselves and were forbidden to print any details relating to the case,’ said the librarian scratching his head.

‘So that is why there is no report in the paper,’ said Crabb.

‘Exactly. So the Tovey sisters did not invent the story, after all. Tell me, do you remember anything else about the inquest, — such as the name of the boy, why he killed himself, anything at all?’ asked Ravenscroft.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you any further. The memory is not what it was,’ said the librarian after some moments.

‘You have been most helpful. There is, however, one more thing that you might be able to help us with. Would you happen to know whether the Coroner’s original records were kept, and if so, where they might be?’

‘Oh, they’ll be over at the County Court offices, if they are still there. I believe quite a few of the records were destroyed some years ago in a fire, but you could be fortunate.’

‘Then that is where we shall go next. Thank you once again for your valuable assistance,’ said Ravenscroft before leaving, a new sense of purpose in his stride.

A few minutes later the two men found themselves in the outer annexe of the County Court buildings. Crabb rang the bell in the gloomy, dank room.

‘Yes?’ said an elderly clerk, presently appearing from an inner room.

‘We are given to understand that the records of Coroner’s inquests are kept here,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Maybe,’ came back the unhelpful reply.

‘We are interested in an inquest that was held in Worcester, in the year 1851,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Are you?’ sniffed the clerk, looking away.

‘Could you see whether you still have the records for that year?’

‘Can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’ asked Ravenscroft becoming annoyed.

‘Records are secret,’ mumbled the clerk, giving another, longer, sniff.

‘Why?’

‘Rules is rules.’

‘Yes, but why?’ persisted Ravenscroft.

‘Confidentiality! That’s why,’ retorted the clerk.

‘Now look here, I am Inspector Ravenscroft of the Worcester Constabulary-’

‘Don’t care who you are. Records are secret. Not to be disclosed to anyone.’

‘-and we are investigating the deaths of two, possibly three people,’ continued Ravenscroft showing the man his credentials.

‘Still can’t help. Anyway if you say who you are, why do you want to look at Coroner’s records that are nearly forty years old?’ replied the clerk, reasserting his authority, and sniffing again as he did so.

‘Are you going to let me see the reports for 1851, or not?’ asked Ravenscroft, angry at the clerk’s intransigence.

‘No!’

‘It may prove the worse for you,’ said Ravenscroft firmly.

‘Doubt that,’ sniffed the clerk, making ready to go back into his inner sanctum.

‘I want to have a word with your superior,’ said Ravenscroft, trying one last throw.

The clerk looked up and gave Ravenscroft a surely look. ‘There’s no superior. I’m in charge. Rules says you cannot look at the records, so you can’t look at them, and that’s all there is to it.’

‘If you don’t let me examine the papers, I will return with a search warrant within the hour, and you will find yourself in a cell in Worcester Gaol facing a charge of police obstruction! I trust I make myself clear? I want to see the coroner’s reports for 1851. I will not ask again,’ said Ravenscroft, in a determined voice and facing the clerk head on.

‘Wait here,’ said the clerk disappearing into the back room.

‘What a miserable, surly fellow,’ said Crabb, as Ravenscroft sought to regain his composure. ‘Whole place could do with brightening up.’

After a few minutes the clerk returned with a large ledger which he threw down on the desk.

‘Thank you,’ said Ravenscroft, opening the volume.

‘I’ll have to remain while you read it,’ said the clerk, taking up a defensive position in the corner of the room.

Ravenscroft ignored him, and turned over the pages of the book as Crabb looked on. ‘Ah, here we are: Inquest into the death of Martin Tinniswood, age thirteen, held on the 12 March, 1851. All Press asked to leave and not to report any details of the case.’

Ravenscroft read the rest of the coroner’s inquest in silence, running his finger along the lines of ink on the page as he did so. ‘Thank you my man,’ he said eventually closing the volume. ‘Good day.’

‘What did the report say?’ asked Crabb eagerly, as the pair made their way back along Foregate Street.

‘It appears that young Martin Tinniswood committed suicide because of the “distressed nature of his mind” to quote the Coroner’s words,’ said Ravenscroft deep in thought.

‘Then it would seem that his death has no bearing at all on our present investigation?’ said Crabb, feeling rather disappointed at the outcome of all their research.

‘Far from it. Far from it! I now know what had worried Evelyn for all those years and why he had felt compelled to lead the life of a recluse.’

‘You’ve lost me, sir.’

‘The choirboy hanged himself from one of the beams in the library — and it was Nicholas Evelyn who discovered the body!’

‘So it would seem that Nicholas Evelyn had something to do with that choirboy who hanged himself in the library, all those years ago,’ said Crabb.

It was the following morning and the two detectives were on their way to see Dr Silas Renfrew.

‘I think it was more than that. The event had a profound effect on the rest of Evelyn’s life. He became a recluse, immersing himself in his books, spending his evenings alone in that awful room, making no friends and avoiding all company. Somehow he must have felt himself responsible for the boy’s death. He withdrew into himself. Then one day someone came along and threatened to disclose Evelyn’s involvement in the boy’s death unless he stole the Whisperie — and when he had carried out the task he was brutally killed and thrown into the river,’ said Ravenscroft.