Kerry Tombs - The Worcester Whisperers

‘Radnor Lodge, you say?’

‘The house which is all boarded up, on the edge of town, with the overgrown garden,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Oh there, Radnor Lodge,’ nodded the second smoker.

‘Yes, the Tinniswood family,’ added Ravenscroft hopefully.

‘You remember them Tinniswoods, Glyn?’ asked the first speaker.

‘Lived at Radnor Lodge. They kept themselves much to themselves, them being English like. Just arrived one day,’ offered the third man.

‘How long were they here for?’ asked Ravenscroft.

‘Oh, about twenty year or so, then they left one day, and ain’t come back since.’

‘Can you tell me anything about them?’

‘There were MrTinniswood and his wife. They had two sons, I believe. One of ’em died when he was young,’ continued the man.

‘That would be the family,’ said Ravenscroft, realizing that he might be getting somewhere at last.

‘Buried in churchyard, along with them others, he is.’

‘What others?’ asked Crabb.

‘Other Tinniswoods,’ replied the man irritably, before resuming his game.

‘I see. Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Ravenscroft, turning back to Crabb. ‘It looks as though we don’t have much to go on. Our only chance is to pay a visit to the local church and see what we can discover there, once this wretched storm has passed over, but in the meantime let us first partake of some of this promising cheese and pickle which I see our host is bringing over to our table.’

Thirty minutes later, as the storm moved away from the town to be replaced by a light drizzle, the two made their way along the road towards the Church of St Mary. ‘Let’s get out of this rain and take a look inside first,’ said Ravenscroft pushing open the door to the church. ‘You take that side of the building, I’ll look this side.’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘A plaque, stone, effigy — anything which has the name Tinniswood on it.’

The two men walked around the church in silence, straining to read any form of lettering they could find in the darkened interior.

‘Nothing! No record of anyone called Tinniswood.’

‘They probably just weren’t important enough, sir,’ sympathized Crabb.

They turned, as the door to the church opened suddenly. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I see you have come to admire our lovely church, although this terrible weather does not show it in its full glory,’ said the new arrival, removing his hat and shaking the wet from its surface.

‘We are here to look for information. Perhaps you can assist us, Vicar,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘I will do my best, although I’ve only been parish priest here for the last fifteen years,’ he replied.

‘We are trying to find anything related to a family called Tinniswood. They probably left the parish over twenty years ago. Used to reside at Radnor Lodge.’

‘Ah yes, Radnor Lodge. Rather a fine building in its day; a shame that it has stood empty for so long. You would have thought that the owners would have returned by now,’ said the cleric, shaking his head.

‘Indeed.’

‘Tinniswood. Let me see. The name strikes a chord somewhere in my memory. Ah, yes. I have it. I’ve seen their gravestones in the churchyard.’

‘Can you tell us where they are?’ asked Ravenscroft, eagerly.

‘Are you related to them?’ enquired the vicar.

‘No, we are police officers investigating the death of a man in Worcester. We believe that a member of the Tinniswood family might be involved in some way.’

‘I see. Well, gentlemen, if you take the path that leads down from the church until you reach nearly the bottom of the hill then turn to your left, on the edge of the churchyard, you should find what you are looking for.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ravenscroft shaking the clergyman’s hand.

‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will remain in the dry. I have to prepare my sermon for the Sunday service.’

‘Of course.’

They left the church and made their way down a steep slope that led away from the building. ‘Rather overgrown in some places. I think we have gone far enough. Make your way along there, and see if you can find any Tinniswood stones,’ instructed Ravenscroft. ‘I’ll take this path.’

The two men began their search, bending down to examine each stone as they made their way through the wet undergrowth.

‘Over here, sir. I think I have found one,’ shouted Crabb excitedly.

‘Well done. Let’s clear away some of these thorns and grass,’ said Ravenscroft, joining him.

‘There, sir, the name Tinniswood.’

Ravenscroft dried his spectacles before reading the words on the slab. ‘In memory of Martin Tinniswood, Eldest son of Robert and Martha Tinniswood. Born 1838. Passed Away 1851. Always Remembered.’

‘Rather sad.’

‘Yes, they evidently brought the poor boy back to Hay and buried him here. Now he lies, all alone in this churchyard, forgotten and with no one to tend his grave. There must be others,’ said Ravenscroft moving on to the next stone in the row, and pulling out the grass obstructing the inscription.

‘Any luck?’

‘Yes, I can just make it out. Tinniswood. Oh, no!’

‘Whatever is the matter, sir?’

‘Take a look,’ said Ravenscroft standing up.

Crabb read the words on the stone — ‘In loving memory of Malcolm Tinniswood, youngest son of Robert and Martha Tinniswood. Born 1853. Unexpectedly Taken from Us After a Short Illness. 1866.’

‘So that is why Malcolm never returned to King’s at Worcester. He must have fallen ill and died. Perhaps there was a cholera outbreak in the town or some other pestilence that caused his death in the school holidays?’

‘I pity the parents, to have lost one son must have been hard enough, to have lost another must have been terrible,’ said Crabb, shaking his head.

‘I wonder why there was such a long gap between the birth of the first son in 1838 and the second in 1853?’ said Ravenscroft, mopping the rain from his face with his handkerchief.

‘Could be that they decided to have a second child after their first had died?’ suggested Crabb.

‘You could be right. There might have been a middle child.’

‘If there was, sir, there’s no record of him at King’s.’

‘Either way, it does not seem to matter. It looks as though our journey here has been futile. With Malcolm dead, that puts an end to our theory that a younger brother came back to Worcester many years later to gain his revenge on Evelyn. I’m afraid we have been following the wrong trail all along. Evelyn’s death clearly has no connection with the Tinniswoods. We have been wasting our time. Will this case ever have an end, Crabb? We are back at the start yet again,’ said Ravenscroft dejectedly.

‘It seems so.’

‘Come, let’s get out of this rain and catch the next train back to Worcester. There is nothing more we can do. Time I returned to London,’ said Ravenscroft, walking away from the stones.

‘Just a minute, sir, there’s another stone here.’ Crabb was kneeling before the next grave in the row. ‘Yes, I can just make out the name Tinniswood.’

Ravenscroft joined his constable, and the two men eagerly pulled the grass and weeds away from the stone, so that they could read the words.

‘Martha Tinniswood. This must be the mother’s grave. Born 1818, eldest daughter of- Good God, Crabb! See the name engraved there!’

‘This puts a whole new light on the case,’ replied Crabb.

The two men looked at one another, each not quite believing what they had just uncovered.

‘So our journey has not been in vain after all!’ cried Ravenscroft. ‘I think we now know who killed Evelyn. Time we returned to Worcester and laid a trap for our murderer!’