Kerry Tombs - The Worcester Whisperers

WORCESTER

It was late afternoon, on the following day, when Ravenscroft made his slow way up the winding steps of the tower of Worcester Cathedral. Although he had made the journey before, on the day when he had spoken with Brother Jonus, he still found the climb arduous, and paused frequently to ease the congestion in his lungs. He knew that he would soon be drawing the case to a conclusion, and the anxiety that even now he might not succeed in bringing Evelyn’s murderer to justice, or retrieve the Whisperie , weighed heavily upon his mind. A few weeks ago he had welcomed the opportunity of leaving the heat and noise of the capital behind him, to involve himself in a case which he could call his own, free from the interference of his superiors at the Yard. He had found the comparative calm, and ancient history of the city and its cathedral, strangely reassuring and rewarding in its own right, and there had always been the thought that the person for whom he most cared in all the world was but a short distance away over the other side of the hills. But now that hope had been dashed, and it was as though the narrow streets of the city and the ancient stones of the cathedral were seeking to overwhelm him with their mockery and stature. All he desired now was to bring the case to an end so that he could return once more to his home and place of work, where he knew that the encompassing arms of the metropolis would subjugate his thoughts and feelings, and where new challenges might yet await him.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the topmost step, and gently pushed open the door, half expecting to see someone standing on the platform but relieved that he had arrived first. Fastening the top button of his coat against the wind, he walked to the edge of the parapet and traced the course of the ever important river, as it threaded its way through the city on one side and the meadows on the other; the same river which had born witness to the great battle of centuries before, and which had recently seen the deaths of Nicholas Evelyn, Ruth Weston and Billy, the bargeman. Then Ravenscroft’s thoughts returned to the young choirboy, who, all those years ago had lived in the precincts of the cathedral and who had sung within its confines, until one day he had sought release from his anxiety and shame in the only way that had been left to him, in the taking of his own life.

Then he remembered again the choirmaster, Matthew Taylor raising his arms before him, urging his charges to greater levels of excellence, the American Renfrew turning over the pages of one of his ancient books, and Cranston, ever on the defensive and anxious to guard his secrets. Other figures began to crowd in upon his mind — Touchmore enjoying his newly acquired status as the dean of the cathedral; Edwards shouting disapproval at his pupils; Sir Arthur, seeking to retain his status and importance in the light of his daughter’s actions; the Tovey sisters talking amongst themselves — ever the eyes and ears of the building; Brother Jonus, a calm presence offering words of comfort and advice to those that would listen, and finally Mrs Kelly, the woman in black who had long occupied his thoughts and deliberations. Ravenscroft knew that when the last scene of this drama was played out, the truth would be revealed, and the killer would be within his grasp. Only then would he be free to leave.

The sound of approaching footsteps, nearing the end of the climb, reminded him of the purpose in hand.

‘Good God, Ravenscroft. What the blazes did you pick this place for?’

‘I thought we needed to be somewhere quiet, where our killer would think it safe to converse with us,’ said Ravenscroft, addressing his superior.

‘Damn it, you could have chosen somewhere less strenuous,’ said Henderson, mopping his brow and attempting to recover his breathing. ‘I am getting on in years, you know.’

‘Sorry, sir, but I knew you would be anxious to confront our murderer and would enjoy the satisfaction of arresting him yourself.’

‘So who is he?’ asked Henderson.

‘That we shall both learn shortly. This morning I sent letters to all our chief suspects, the contents of which would no doubt prove of little interest to the majority of them. One person, however, would see the importance of my words, and would desire to meet me here in an attempt to prevent his unmasking,’ said Ravenscroft with confidence.

‘All sounds rather too far-fetched for me. Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Ravenscroft?’ said Henderson, mopping his brow once more, before returning his handkerchief to his pocket.

‘Absolutely. In a few minutes, our killer will be making his way up those steps. He will think that I will be alone. What he has not counted on is that you will be here as well.’

‘Suppose you know what you’re doing,’ replied Henderson grudgingly.

‘Look down there, sir, on the green. Matthew Taylor, about to make his way into the cathedral,’ said Ravenscroft, pointing out the figure of the young choirmaster.

‘He’s your chief suspect then?’ enquired Henderson. ‘You think he could be on his way up here?’

‘We will see. Our killer may already be within the confines of the cathedral, awaiting his opportunity to make his way up here unnoticed.’

‘So, what have you unearthed about the case that makes you so confident?’ asked Henderson, gruffly.

‘When I first started my investigations, I believed that the case was all about the theft of the Whisperie , that someone had compelled Evelyn to steal the work, and that once he had done so, the murderer had no further need of him and killed him, so that the true circumstances of the theft would remain a secret. But then I learnt about the suicide of the young choirboy, Martin Tinniswood, all those years ago. 1851 to be precise. At first it seemed as though the two events could not be in any way connected, but the more I found out about the boy, the more I came to the conclusion that the reason for the events of this year had its origins back in that earlier event,’ said the inspector, walking up and down, and warming to his subject.

‘Sounds interesting, I suppose. Go on,’ interjected Henderson.

‘So I asked myself, why would a thirteen-year-old choirboy seek to take his own life? Perhaps he had been bullied at school, or was concerned about events at home, or was just desperately unhappy. But then when I read the report of the inquest, I discovered that the boy had been found hanging in the library, and I began to wonder why the boy had chosen that place above all others within the cathedral. Then it occurred to me that the boy had deliberately chosen the library because he wanted to show people that it was the place that had been witness to the scene of his own degradation — for, you see, Nicholas Evelyn had been the cause of the boy’s death. He had taken advantage of a young innocent boy, had violated his person to such an extent that the boy was so full of shame and remorse that he felt eventually compelled to take his own life, seeing his own death as the only way to escape from his torment. Nicholas Evelyn was therefore the main criminal in all of this.’

‘All this sounds rather too fanciful for me Ravenscroft. Can’t see the relevance of this to your case,’ muttered Henderson.

‘Bear with me, sir, and I will explain. After the boy’s suicide, Evelyn was full of remorse and withdrew into his own private world where he spurned company and sought solace in the ancient books and manuscripts of the cathedral library, but every day as he entered his place of work he will have remembered it as the place of violation and death. Then, thirteen years after the death of Martin Tinniswood, a younger brother, Malcolm, came to the school, became a choirboy and the whole ghastly business started again.’