Kerry Tombs - The Malvern Murders

‘That’s correct sir.’

‘During the evening you would have had cause to pass by the study many times. Did you, at any time, hear voices coming from inside? Think carefully.’

‘No sir, I heard no voices.’

‘Did you hear any other noises from inside the room?’

‘No sir. There was only the sound of something falling.’

‘Falling?’

‘Yes, it sounded as though Mr. Pitzer had dropped something on the floor.’

‘Excellent, Susan, you are doing very well. Tell me at about what time you heard this noise?’

‘At six thirty sir,’ replied the maid, a puzzled expression on her face.

‘How can you be sure as to the exact time?’

‘Why, by the clock in the hallway sir. I remember it chiming the half hour, just after I heard the noise.’

‘And you did not go into the study to investigate what had caused the noise?’

‘No sir. Mister Pitzer had left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed, on any account. I did tap on the door, but heard nothing.’

‘Thank you Susan. I am obliged to you for all your assistance. I think it would be better if you returned to your mistress. She will have need of you tonight. I will let myself out.’

The maid left the room. Ravenscroft stared into dying flames of the fire for some minutes, deep in thought. It had only been yesterday that he had spoken with Pitzer on the train, now here he was in the poor man’s house inquiring into the nature of his demise. It was ironic that his holiday now looked more likely to take second place to his investigations. Quite why he had been persuaded to take on the task of solving the crime, by the youthful enthusiastic constable, he was at a loss to comprehend. Then he returned once more to the study where he made a search through the drawers of the desk, before casting a final look round the room.

A few minutes later he began to make his way back along the dimly lit road in the direction of Great Malvern. The gas lamps threw pools of light onto the path before him, each one guiding him onwards towards the next, like islands in a sea of darkness. He drew the collar of his coat tighter round his neck, and pulled down his hat to protect him from the wind that blew off the common. Eventually the lights of the town came into view.

He now knew that Pitzer had been poisoned at six thirty that evening, and that whoever had written the letter arranging the meeting had not only sworn Pitzer to secrecy, but had also been careful to remove the same letter before he had hurriedly left the scene of the crime.

It looked to Ravenscroft that he would be staying in Malvern for a while longer. The case looked a challenging one, and he was now resolved to solve it. The pleasures of Brighton would have to wait for a while longer.

As he approached The Tudor he suddenly became aware of his own hunger, and realised that he had not eaten since lunch time. Perhaps if he was fortunate, Stebbins would still be up at such an hour, and be able to procure him a dish or two from the kitchens, before he retired for the evening.

A loud banging on the outside of his bedroom door woke Ravenscroft from the deep sleep into which he had finally fallen during the second half of the night.

‘Go away Stebbins! Leave me alone!’ He turned over on his side and buried his face in the pillow.

‘Can’t do that sir. Orders is orders. Doctor says yer must have your bath, and the bath you shall have,’ said the youth entering the room, throwing open the curtains, and reaching for Ravenscroft’s robe.

‘Why are you always so damn cheerful Stebbins?’

‘No time to be miserable sir.’

‘And where were you last night when I got back to the Tudor? I hadn’t eaten all evening and could have done with a morsel or two before retiring,’ grumbled Ravenscroft rising from his bed.

‘Say no more, sir. Stebbins is yer man. After yer bath sir, how about I arrange for a nice juicy leg of lamb and a lump of cheese to be brought to yer room?’

‘Stebbins, I see that we might be friends yet. Here is a shilling.’

‘Thank you sir,’ said the smiling youth biting on the silver coin with his crooked teeth.

The prospect of finally satisfying his deepening hunger encouraged Ravenscroft to make his way to the bath house where he forced himself to give even the attendant a brief smile. Returning to his room, after his treatment, he found the food and a jug of ale waiting for him on the table at the side of his bed.

After consuming the contents of his unexpected breakfast, he dressed quickly and began to make his way slowly up the hills towards St.Ann’s well house. Pausing half way up the winding path, he wiped his brow and stood admiring the view below him, where the Priory Church could be seen nestling within the confines of the town. Duty required him to present himself for his three containers of spring water when he arrived at the well house, but he also hoped that he might find his mysterious travelling companion again. In this he was disappointed. There was no sign of the black veiled woman. His curiosity on that score would have to wait for another day. There were only three persons present — the attendant, a young boy playing with his hoop and his nurse.

Ravenscroft raised his hat to the nurse, smiled at the child, and then went over to the old woman who poured him a container of water.

‘Perhaps you might care to read the local paper sir?’

‘Thank you. That would be most kind.’

Ravenscroft accepted the newspaper from the old woman and made his way across to one of the seats.

The Malvern News contained little to interest him — reports of Temperance Meetings, lists of important people visiting the town, the previous week’s Council meetings, advertisements for patent medicines and wine cellars — until a certain article caught his attention -

THE SHADOW OF THE RAGGEDSTONE.

ANCIENT MALVERN CURSE

Our readers will be interested to know that the ancient legend of the curse of Raggedstone Hill has been revived in a new novel written by Doctor Charles Grindrod. ‘The Shadow of the Raggedstone’ is based on the old monkish legend and the curse upon its shadow. Many of our older readers may recall the legend of the dying monk who had been turned out of his dwelling by the local people, and who before dying on the slopes of the Raggedstone Hill cursed all that would for ever fall beneath its shadow. Whilst we can inform our readers that there is little evidence to support the truth of the legend, we know of several of our more elderly readers who swear that they would never go anywhere near the hill. This reporter however can reassure his readers that he has walked both on the hill, and beneath its shadow, on a number of occasions, and that to date he has never met with any misfortune — .

‘Good morning to you, sir.’

Ravenscroft looked up from his reading, to see the figure of Doctor Mountcourt standing before him.

‘I see you are studying our local paper.’

‘I was just reading about the curse of the Raggedstone Hill.’

‘Stuff and nonsense, sir! A mere folk tale written to scare the feeble minded away from the hills. Good to see you taking the waters before breakfast Ravenscroft. Keep up the good work.’

Before Ravenscroft could reply, Mountcourt had resumed his walk, striding along the path, his cane tapping the ground at his side as he did so.

The doctor slowly disappeared from view. Ravenscroft continued reading the Malvern News before handing the paper back to the attendant.

‘Thank you for the newspaper. I have just been reading about Raggedstone Hill and the old curse. Where is the Raggedstone?’ he asked drinking his second beaker of water.

‘Over there,’ replied the old woman jerking her thumb in the air.