The Pershore Poisoners (17 page)

‘Never heard of anyone called Quinton.’

‘Oh, come now my man. The game is over. You will hang when my colleague here has finished with you. It will surely do your cause little harm to tell us about Quinton. Was he one of your members? Did he and Murphy have a falling out sometime in the past?’ asked an anxious Ravenscroft knowing all too well that he was clutching at straws.

‘I tell you I have never heard of this Quinton.’

‘Shall I tell you what I think happened? I think Quinton killed Murphy to stop him talking. Come on, man, admit the truth. You know who this Quinton is,’ said Ravenscroft raising his voice as he knew that he was getting nowhere, and that his time to question this man was quickly running out.

‘I keep telling you, I don’t know who this Quinton is,’ retaliated Flannigan.

‘And I tell you I think you are lying,’ shouted Ravenscroft.

‘Inspector, this is getting us nowhere,’ interrupted Forbes.

‘For goodness sake man, tell us what you know,’ urged a desperate Ravenscroft.

‘Go to the blazes!’ growled Flannigan.

‘That is all, inspector,’ said Forbes standing up abruptly and looking at his pocket watch. ‘If I am to get this man back to London tonight, I will need to leave now to catch the last train. I am afraid I cannot give you any more time. Men, put the cuffs on the prisoner and take him out of the room.’

‘Just another few minutes,’ pleaded Ravenscroft.

‘I’m sorry, Ravenscroft,’ said Forbes as Flannigan and the two policemen left the room. ‘I will certainly let you know if we obtain any relevant information relating to your inquiries when we question Flannigan in London. I must say good day to you.’

Ravenscroft said nothing in reply as Forbes left the room.

‘Damn it, Crabb, if only I could have had more time I’m sure we would have got the truth out of the man,’ sighed Ravenscroft.

‘Never mind, sir. At least we stopped the man killing the Prime Minister,’ said Crabb attempting to break his superior’s gloomy demeanour.

‘I doubt we even did that. I have the distinct feeling that if we had not stopped that man Flannigan from firing his weapon then Forbes would have stepped in to save the situation, but I
suppose we will never know one way or the other.’

‘We still have Turco in custody sir.’

‘You’re right, Tom. I had almost forgotten about him. I wonder what he was doing here in Worcester today? I suppose he could be a part of all this?’

‘Shall I go and fetch him, sir?’

‘If you will.’

As Crabb closed the door behind him, Ravenscroft rose from his chair and began pacing up and down the room. It had been infuriating that he not been given more time to continue with his questioning of the Irish gunman. He kept telling himself that another hour would have secured not only a confession, but also a confirmation of Quinton’s involvement and guilt, but all that had now been snatched away from him by Forbes and his special department at the Yard. Now he would be on his own once more, trying to discover the connection between the three men: Murphy, Flannigan and Quinton, and he was only too aware that time was rapidly running out. Tomorrow his chief suspect would be leaving Pershore, probably for good, and would be taking any solution to the case with him. All that remained now was the Italian musician, Turco. Would he provide the last minute evidence which Ravenscroft so badly needed?

The door suddenly opened and Turco and Crabb entered the room.

‘What is-a this? Why have you done this to Turco?’ cried the distressed man as he sat in the chair indicated by Crabb.

‘What were you doing in Worcester today?’ asked Ravenscroft resuming his seat and speaking directly at the man across the table.

‘I was-a playing my beautiful violin for the people of Worcester,’ replied Turco.

‘Seemed more like begging to me,’ muttered Crabb.

‘No, no! Turco he no beg. He only play his fine melodies. Turco he needs people to listen.’

‘Come now, Count, we saw the hat with the money at your feet. That is not the conduct of a famous violinist who gives recitals in the major concert halls of the land, but I don’t believe that for one minute. Famous men such as that do not eek out a miserable life in a cheap lodging house in Pershore.’

‘Maybe Turco he exaggerate. He sometime play in London,’ admitted the embarrassed musician.

‘And most days on the streets of Worcester?’ suggested Ravenscroft. ‘Unless of course that was just a deception.’

‘A deception? I no understand.’

‘Perhaps you are really a Fenian sympathiser, Count? Were you and Flannigan planning to assassinate the Prime Minister today?’

‘I no understand. Who is this man Flannigan?’ asked a puzzled Turco.

‘Oh come now, Count. You know that Lord Salisbury was speaking here today, and that he is not in favour of Irish independence. That is why you and Flannigan planned to assassinate him, was it not?’

‘What is this? Turco he no plan to kill anyone,’ replied the alarmed violinist.

‘The truth, man,’ said Ravenscroft raising his voice. ‘It looks bad for you. We know that Jones, or rather Murphy, was a member of the Fenian Brotherhood, and that together you were planning to join Flannigan in Worcester today to carry out your evil deed.’

‘I do not understand any of this,’ said Turco shaking his head and looking anxiously at Crabb as if he was expecting some help from that quarter.

‘Don’t deny it, Turco.’

‘This is a silly. Turco he is not a violent man. Turco he no
want to kill anyone. Turco is a man of peace not war.’

‘What I want to know is where does Mr Cherrington fit into all this? Was he once a member of your so called
brotherhood
? Did he and Murphy once argue and fall out? Did Murphy threaten to expose Cherrington? Is that why you and Cherrington decided to kill Murphy?’ said Ravenscroft becoming more and more animated.

‘Please, please!’ said Turco crying into his hands.

‘The truth, Turco!’ demanded Ravenscroft slapping his hand down on the table. ‘We want the truth! Come on, man!’

‘Stop! Stop!’ cried out Turco.

‘Well?’ demanded Ravenscroft.

‘Yes, yes. Turco he no play in concert halls in London and other places. I earn my money by playing on the streets. What is-a wrong with that?’ said the musician looking up at Ravenscroft with tears in his eyes.

‘No, not that, man,’ replied an irritated Ravenscroft. ‘We want to know about you and Quinton, and Murphy.’

‘I tell you I no understand. I have never met either this Quinton or this Murphy before.’

‘What was your part in this plot to kill the Prime Minister?’ continued Ravenscroft becoming increasingly aware that he was not getting anywhere with his line of questioning, but being still reluctant to admit defeat.

‘Plot? I know nothing of any plot. Please you let me go.’

‘You will go when we have finished with you. Why don’t you tell us all about your involvement in this plot. I am sure you will feel much better when you have told us everything,’ urged Ravenscroft.

‘I cannot tell you anything I do not know,’ pleaded Turco.

‘When did you meet Cherrington, or rather Quinton, before he came to Pershore?’

‘I have-a never met this man before.’

‘And Murphy?’

‘I know no Murphy. Please, I have told you everything I know. You let Turco go now?’

‘Were you having a relationship with Miss Martin?’ asked Ravenscroft changing his line of questioning.

‘No! The lady she no interested in Turco, and Turco he is only in love with his violin.’

‘Did you kill her?’

‘No! Turco he no kill.’

‘Very well, Count. You are free to go,’ said Ravenscroft leaning back in his chair.

‘Turco he go?’ asked the perplexed musician.

‘Yes, you may go.’

Turco looked across at Crabb as if expecting that the constable would march over to him at any moment and thrust his hands into the handcuffs, then he stared at Ravenscroft, who nodded, before rising from his chair and walking quickly out of the room.

‘I don’t think there was anything else to be gained,’ sighed Ravenscroft. ‘I believe him when he says that he was not part of this plot today.’

‘Why, sir?’ asked Crabb.

‘You may recall that we found no weapon on him when we arrested him at the rally, and if Turco is a Fenian sympathizer then Forbes would probably have known that, and would have wanted to question him. The fact that Forbes showed no interest in Turco, and allowed us to question him on our own proves my point. Nevertheless I felt I had to push him on this matter, just in case.’

‘He could still have met Murphy some time in the past.’

‘Possibly, but again I think he was telling us the truth when he said he had never met Murphy or Quinton before they arrived at Talbots’.’

‘So you don’t think that Turco poisoned either Jones or Miss Martin?’

‘It looks that way. I had so hoped that Turco would have broken down and confessed all, but it seems that was a false hope. He will certainly have an interesting tale to relate to the others when he returns to Talbots’ tonight.’

‘What do we do now, sir?’ asked Crabb.

‘It’s late, Tom. It has been a long day. Let us both go home. Tomorrow will be our last chance to arrest Quinton before he leaves the town, and who knows perhaps the mysterious Mr. Claybourne might at last decide to make an appearance,’ said Ravenscroft walking over to the door.

‘Jenny says that you are to dine with us this evening, sir, and that if you refuses she will be most put out,’ smiled Crabb.

‘Then, Tom, it would be ungracious of me to refuse. It will be a pleasure to dine with you and your wife, and to see my little godson, Samuel again. Lead on Tom, I must admit that I have quite an appetite.’

Ravenscroft pushed away his breakfast plate of bread and jam, and looked down again at the two opened letters that lay before him on the parlour table.

The first letter from Lucy telling of the family’s adventures in Weymouth, and urging him to join them as soon as possible, had come as a welcome relief, but had also increased the frustration he felt that his latest case showed little signs of coming to a speedy conclusion. The events of the previous day, rather than offering a satisfactory end to the case, had only sought to cloud the issue even more.

The second letter had plunged him into despair. Written by Robertson in a shaky, sometimes incoherent hand, the words had come as a profound shock—

Ravenscroft read the letter over again before burying his face in his hands. So Robertson had lied all those years ago. Anxious to secure a conviction he had manufactured the evidence. An innocent man could have been sent to the gallows, had it not been for the artful deliberations of Sefton Rawlinson Q.C. Worse still the lie, the deception, had been carried down the years, waiting for Ravenscroft to rekindle it in his present dealings with the man. Now his case lay in tatters. If Quinton had
not poisoned his first wife then in all probability he had not poisoned Jones and Miss Martin either.

Ravenscroft acknowledged that he had pursued and hounded an innocent man, and that his prejudice and narrow mindedness had led to his present failure to solve the case. How could he have been so foolish?

‘I suppose we will have to let him go,’ said Crabb as he and Ravenscroft walked down the road towards the police station in Pershore.

‘Yes, we have no reason to detain him,’ replied an irritated Ravenscroft.

‘He could still be our murderer,’ suggested Crabb.

‘If he didn’t poison his first wife, what possible motive could he have for killing Jones and Miss Martin? There was nothing to conceal or protect.’

‘I suppose you’re right, sir. He could still have poisoned his wife in Pimlico. Just because Inspector Robertson wrote that false entry in the diary still doesn’t mean that Quinton was innocent of that crime.’

‘You could be right, but in view of Robertson’s confession I feel that I have hounded the man too much,’ admitted Ravenscroft.

‘There could still be something in Quinton’s past that we don’t know about.’

‘You mean that he and Jones, or rather Murphy, may have encountered each other many years ago?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘To tell you the truth, Tom, I don’t know what to believe any more. Perhaps I should resign from the case and let someone else take over. I feel I have made too many mistakes,’ said a gloomy Ravenscroft.

‘By the time they send someone else out from Worcester,
Quinton will have long left the town. I am sure something will happen soon to help us solve the case.’

‘I wish I shared your optimism, Tom. Ah, here we are. Let’s go and see if Hoskings has any news for us,’ said Ravenscroft pushing open the door to the police station.

‘No one here, sir,’ remarked Crabb looking round the empty room.

‘Hoskings! Hoskings,’ shouted Ravenscroft.

The door to the inner room opened suddenly and the untidy, sleepy policeman rushed into the room.

‘Good morning, sir,’ stuttered Hoskings.

‘Good grief man, have you been sleeping on the job?’ asked an angry Ravenscroft.

‘Sorry, sir. Sorry. It was the babby,’ spluttered the constable hastily fastening the buttons of his tunic.

‘What baby?’ demanded Ravenscroft.

‘Me and the wife. Babby kept us awake all night sir. Sorry, sir,’ mumbled Hoskings.

‘Hoskings, this will not do. I care little for you, or your wife, or your baby. Your duty is to remain presentable and alert in this station whilst on duty at all times,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.’

‘It had better not, Hoskings, or you will find yourself out on the street – and that will be no good to either your wife or your baby.’

‘Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. Sorry, sir,’ replied Hoskings busily tidying up the papers on the front desk.

‘Well, Hoskings, has anything happened during our absence?’ asked Ravenscroft in a quieter tone of voice, realizing that perhaps he had been a little unkind in his references to the policeman’s offspring.

‘Yes sir. A telegram arrived for you, sir, earlier this morning.’

‘Yes man, where is it then?’

‘It’s here somewhere sir,’ replied the unfortunate constable searching frantically through the collection of papers.

‘For goodness sake, man,’ moaned Ravenscroft.

‘Here it is, sir,’ said Hoskings retrieving an envelope and passing it over to Ravenscroft.

Ravenscroft tore open the envelope and studied the contents of the enclosed telegram.

‘Anything important, sir?’ asked Crabb after a few moments of silence had elapsed.

‘It may be something, or nothing. Hoskings, give me pen and paper,’ demanded Ravenscroft.

‘Yes, sir.’

Ravenscroft wrote intently for a minute or two then passed over the paper to Hoskings. ‘Take this to the telegraph office with all speed, and see that it is despatched to the address indicated straight away.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Hoskings picking up the paper and walking over to the door before pausing.

‘Well man, why have you not gone?’ asked Ravenscroft.

‘Nearly forgot, sir. Someone was asking for you earlier this morning.’

‘Yes, who was it?’ asked an eager Ravenscroft.

‘Can’t remember his name, sir.’

‘Perhaps it was Forbes come back again?’ suggested Crabb.

‘Well, Hoskings? If you can’t remember his name, at least tell us what he looked like.’

‘He was a youth, sir. About fourteen I would say. Said he knew you. Think he said his name was Stephens, or something like that.’

‘Stebbins!’ exclaimed Crabb.

‘Yes that was it, sir. Stebbins that was his name. Cheeky young fellow,’ said Hoskings.

‘Did he say what he wanted?’ enquired Ravenscroft.

‘No, sir. Said he was going to see his girl over at Talbots’, and that he would see you later, sir.’

‘Right, Hoskings. You had better go now. And Hoskings?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘With all speed if you will.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the constable opening the door and leaving the station at a brisk pace.

‘I wonder what Stebbins wanted?’ said Crabb.

‘Probably just curious to know how the case is progressing. If he comes back again tell him I am indisposed. The last thing I want this morning is Stebbins telling me how to conduct my affairs.’

‘What was in the telegram, sir?’ asked an inquisitive Crabb.

‘Just another possible line of inquiry to follow. I will tell you about it later if it results in anything important.’

Suddenly the door was thrown open and a breathless Stebbins burst into the room.

‘Good heavens, Stebbins, whatever is the matter?’ asked Ravenscroft taken aback by the dramatic entrance of the young man.

‘You has to come, sir,’ panted Stebbins. ‘She’s dead!’

‘Calm down, Stebbins,’ instructed Ravenscroft.

‘I tells you she’s dead! At the bottom of the stairs. All in a heap!’

‘Who is at the bottom of the stairs?’ asked Crabb.

‘That old woman. Miss Fanshaw. She’s dead as a cold cucumber. You has to come, Mr Ravenscroft. I tells you, she’s dead!’

Ravenscroft and Crabb rushed out of the station and along the street, and pushed their way through the front entrance of Talbots’ Lodging House, closely followed by an agitated Stebbins.

A group of figures – Maisie, Mrs Jacobson, Talbot, and Miss
Arabella Fanshaw – could be seen clustered round a figure on the ground at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Lord help us!’ exclaimed Talbot looking wildly at the policemen.

Ravenscroft rushed over towards the body, and bending down on one knee examined it for any sign of life.

‘Dead as a stuffed pheasant!’ declared Stebbins attempting to gain a better view.

‘Stebbins, be quiet!’ reprimanded Ravenscroft. ‘I am sorry, but Miss Fanshaw is dead.’

Miss Arabella Fanshaw let out a loud cry and looked as though she was going to faint.

‘Perhaps you would be kind enough take Miss Fanshaw back to her room, Maisie,’ said an anxious Ravenscroft.

‘Yes sir,’ replied the maid placing a hand on the shoulder of the elderly sobbing woman and leading her gently back up the stairs.

‘Talbot, I want you to go and fetch Doctor Homer as quickly as you can. Stebbins, you can go with him,’ instructed Ravenscroft.

The lodging-house keeper stared at Ravenscroft.

‘Now man!’ shouted Ravenscroft.

Talbot ran out of the house, closely followed by an eager Stebbins.

‘How can it have happened?’ asked Mrs Jacobson.

‘That is what we intend to find out,’ replied Ravenscroft.

‘Rosanna, what has happened?’ called out a voice from above.

‘I must go to my husband, if you will excuse me?’ said an agitated Mrs Jacobson.

‘Yes, of course. That would be best,’ replied Ravenscroft.

‘Rosanna, where are you?’ called the voice again.

Ravenscroft waited until Mrs Jacobson had climbed the
stairs and returned to her room.

‘She must have fallen all the way down the stairs, hitting her head on the floor here,’ said Ravenscroft examining the corpse in more detail.

‘The poor woman,’ sympathized Crabb.

‘Probably lost her footing, or she may have tripped over something on the landing. There is also the possibility that someone may have pushed her,’ said Ravenscroft deep in thought.

‘A little old lady like that. Who would want her dead?’ asked Crabb.

‘I don’t know, Tom. Perhaps Doctor Homer will be able to tell us more when he arrives with Talbot.’

‘Must be very distressing for her sister.’

‘Yes. The poor woman. In the meantime we must make sure that no one comes into the hallway here.’

‘Well, Doctor, what can you tell us?’ asked Ravenscroft after the body had been removed from Talbots’ Lodging House.

‘Very little, I am afraid. It is clear death was caused by a fall down the stairs. If you expect me to tell you whether she slipped of her own accord, or whether she was pushed, then I am afraid that you will be disappointed,’ said Homer closing his medical bag.

‘Thank you, Doctor Homer,’ replied Ravenscroft.

‘I have given Miss Arabella a sleeping draught. She has had a terrible shock. It would be better if she were not disturbed for the next few hours.’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I will take my leave, gentlemen. Good day to you both,’ said Homer making his way out of the hall.

‘We have already examined the top of the stairs. There is no obstacle there that could have caused a fall,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘She must have come down these same stairs twice or three times a day for the past ten years. Why did she slip today, I ask myself.’

‘I reckon she was pushed,’ said Crabb.

‘Yes, but if that were the case, why was she pushed – and who pushed her?’ asked Ravenscroft. ‘I can see no reason why anyone would want the old woman dead, unless of course she had found out who the murderer of Jones and Miss Martin was, and that person decided to kill her before she could tell us.’

‘Then her sister could also be in danger?’

‘That could be the case, but I think it would be insensitive to interview the lady now. She is clearly distraught by the death of her sister, and as Homer said, should be left to sleep for the present. Well, Tom, this is a turn of events. What do you make of it? Accident or murder?’

‘I still think she was pushed,’ answered Crabb.

The door to the room opened and Stebbins peered round the edge of the woodwork.

‘Not now, Stebbins. We are rather busy,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘It’s Maisie, Mr Ravenscroft. She wants a word with you.’

‘Is it important?’

‘Yes sir,’ replied Stebbins opening the door wider so that the maid could enter. ‘Go on, Maisie my girl, you go and tell ’em what you saw.’

‘All right Stebby, don’t go on so,’ said the maid entering the room.

‘Maisie, how can we help you?’ asked Ravenscroft.

‘It’s about Miss Clarisa.’

‘Yes go on, Maisie,’ urged Ravenscroft.

‘Well sir, I may have seen something.’

‘You saw what happened when Miss Fanshaw fell down the stairs?’ asked Ravenscroft eagerly.