The Tewkesbury Tomb (15 page)

The two men worked their way through the piles of books, until Crabb let out a sudden cry, ‘
Evesham Journal,
sir!’

‘Well done, Tom.’

‘What year are we looking for?’

‘If the shooting accident happened approximately ten years ago, then we need to look for the year 1879.’

Crabb attacked the large pile of books, displacing many of the heavy volumes on the floor beside him. ‘Here we are. 1879. Runs to two volumes.’

‘Each volume must cover six months of the year. You take that one, and I will take this one.’

The two men carried the two volumes into the main room of the library.

‘Ah, I see, gentlemen, that you must have found what you were seeking,’ said the librarian looking up from his desk.

‘Indeed so,’ said Ravenscroft, placing his volume down on one of the tables. ‘You take the other volume, Crabb, and see if you can find any reports of shooting accidents.’

The two men worked in silence for some minutes, before Ravenscroft suddenly called out, ‘Over here, Tom!’

Crabb looked over his superior’s shoulder, as Ravenscroft read aloud from the newspaper:

‘Well, Tom, what do you make of that?’ said Ravenscroft looking up from the newspaper.

‘It certainly looks as though our Mr Ross is well and truly dead,’ replied Crabb.

‘So who was that man we interviewed in the house at Bredon’s Norton? If Ross was dead, killed at that hunting party, who was the man we were talking to? I think we need to go and make a call on this Lord Treaves and see what else we can discover about that hunting party,’ said Ravenscroft, closing the volume and standing up from the table.

‘I see that you have found what you were looking for,
gentlemen,’ interjected the librarian.

‘Yes, indeed. Thank you,’ said Ravenscroft, anxious to make his departure.

‘I wonder if you would care to return the volumes to the place where you found them, my dear sir,’ coughed the librarian. ‘I find that the carrying of such heavy tomes is not entirely conducive to my present condition. Indeed it does not. No, not at all.’

‘Oh, I’m afraid that will not be possible,’ replied Ravenscroft, reaching the door. ‘It is a matter of life and death that we leave as quickly as possible.’

‘But, sir, if the volumes are not returned to their proper place, no one will ever be able to locate them ever again. That won’t do at all. No it will not.’

‘As no one has ever requested such material in the past, I very much doubt, my dear sir, that you will be faced with such a difficulty in the future. Good day to you,’ shouted Ravenscroft, as he and Crabb stepped out quickly through the door and into the street.

‘But, my dear sir, this won’t do at all—’

Thirty minutes later, as Crabb drove the trap up the long driveway, with its neatly cut lawns and flowering shrubs on either side, that gradually wound its up to the front entrance of the imposing Georgian house, Ravenscroft wondered whether he was about to enter yet another darkened alleyway where the truth would seek to elude him once again. The newspaper report had confirmed that Charles Ross had died as the result of a shooting accident, yet it was clear that the man was very much alive, or at the least someone who was pretending to be the deceased man. But if that was the case, why would someone seek to impersonate a corpse? Now that it had been proved that the
Templar Knight had left no descendants, there would be little point in anyone trying to convince people that he was Ross, and that de la Pole was his ancestor. Ross’s house and lands were also not clearly worth the effort of anyone laying claim to them. They appeared to have stood empty and neglected for the past ten years. There remained the possibility, of course, that someone else after all had been killed in Ross’s place – but if that was the case, where had Ross been for the past ten years, and why had he decided to return now? Either way, Ravenscroft knew that he needed to find out more about that hunting party, and the death of one of its number.

‘Tidy pile this,’ remarked Crabb, pulling up the horse at the front entrance of the building.

‘This is how the other half live, Tom.’

‘Something like this could be all yours one day, sir, with a bit of luck.’

‘I doubt that, Tom, and certainly not on a policeman’s humble wage.’

‘There’s always the horses, sir.’

‘I don’t think so. A fool and his money are soon parted, as they say. Anyway, I am sure that Mrs Ravenscroft would not approve of such rashness.’

As Ravenscroft alighted from the trap, the door to the house was flung open and a manservant made his way quickly down the steps.

‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

‘Good morning. We would like to speak to your master,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’ enquired the servant, casting a cautious eye over the new arrivals.

‘No, but I am sure he will see us. We are here on police business. My name is Detective Inspector Ravenscroft and my
companion is Constable Crabb.’

‘If you would care to follow me, gentlemen, I will see if his lordship is free to see you,’ replied the manservant, indicating that the two policemen were to follow him up the steps.

‘If you would wait here, gentlemen,’ said the manservant, after Ravenscroft and Crabb had entered into the hallway.

‘What is it, Spurgeon?’ bellowed out a voice from somewhere above them.

‘It is the police, your lordship,’ said the manservant, as a tall, grey-haired, elderly gentlemmn wearing a well-worn tweed suit strode down the majestic staircase.

‘Lord Treaves?’ enquired Ravenscroft.

‘Police, you say? I suppose it’s those damned poachers again. Told me gamekeeper to deal with them. If you don’t keep a firm hand on them, things soon get out of hand. I’m sure my butler can answer any questions you may have,’ said the gentleman, turning away briskly and intent on entering one of the adjoining rooms.

‘It is not about the poachers, your lordship,’ called out Ravenscroft. ‘We are here making enquiries about the death of one of your guests.’

‘One of my guests? Dead, you say? Can’t remember anyone dying recently. Must have the wrong house,’ replied Treaves, scratching his head before turning away.

‘Mr Charles Ross to be exact,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Ross?’

‘Charles Ross from Bredon’s Norton.’

‘Ross. Charles Ross? Been dead for years,’ said Treaves, walking into his study.

‘That’s what we would like to ask you about, if you would be so kind to give my constable and myself a few minutes of your time,’ persisted Ravenscroft, following their host into his inner
sanctum, where the smell of damp tweed and stale tobacco smoke hung heavily in the air, and where the walls were hung with numerous hunting trophies and faded photographs.

‘Why would you want to ask me about Ross? Gave evidence to the coroner all those years ago. All finished with. Nothing else to add,’ said Treaves abruptly, pouring himself a drink from one of the decanters on a sideboard.

‘Then you can confirm that it was Mr Ross who was killed?’

‘Of course I can. I know when I see a dead man, especially when he was one of my guests.’

‘I believe he died as the result of a shooting accident.’

‘If you know that, why do you need to ask me about it? The man’s been dead for best part of ten years. Can’t think what you want to know after all this time,’ said Treaves draining his glass.

‘If you could just tell us what happened in your own words, sir, I would be obliged.’

‘Fellow went out hunting with my other guests who were staying with me for the weekend. Didn’t go with them; back playing me up that day. Shot whilst climbing over a stile, they said. Must have leaned on his gun and it went off. Nasty business. Blew away the side of his face, I believe. Silly blighter should have been more careful. You have to know what you are doing with guns. They can be dangerous things in the wrong hands. Not my responsibility. You shoot, Ravenscroft?’

‘No.’

‘You should take it up. Good for the constitution, and helps keep down the vermin,’ replied Treaves, stroking his moustache and staring vacantly out of the window.

‘You saw the body afterwards?’

‘What body?’

‘Mr Ross.’

‘Oh yes. I told you so. Face blown away. Poor blighter.’

‘So it was definitely Ross?’

‘Told you so, man. It was Ross,’ replied Treaves, expressing a degree of irritation as he replenished his glass from the decanter.

‘Was Mr Ross a frequent house guest here?’ asked Ravenscroft.

‘Not really. I knew he had lands somewhere locally, but I had never mixed with the fellow.’

‘So why did you invite him?’

‘Blessed if I know now. I suppose someone must have suggested his name to me. Of course, if I’d known all about that business in India beforehand, I would never have had anything to do with him.’

‘Oh, what business was that, sir?’

‘Fighting those Afghan fellows they were.’

‘Could you enlighten us further?’ asked Ravenscroft, anxious to know more about this new line in his enquiry.

‘Apparently, Ross and his men were escorting a party to one of the hill forts near the Afghan frontier when they were set upon by a group of the savages. All of them were wiped out except for Ross, who was more intent on saving his own skin. Left them all there to die, so they said. Bounder! All came out after his death. As I said, if I’d known beforehand he would certainly have not been invited here, I can tell you!’ snorted Treaves, growing red in the face.

‘I see,’ added Ravenscroft.

‘Can’t abide socializing with cowards who don’t do their duty!’

‘Indeed not. Thank you, Lord Treaves, you have been most helpful. I notice that you have a large number of photographs on the walls,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Like to take a photograph of all my weekend guests. Pleases the wife, you know. She likes to keep a record of who has been here, if you see what I mean. Got to keep the other half happy. What’s it to you?’

‘I couldn’t help noticing that many of the photographs are of hunting parties. You don’t happen to have one of Ross and his companions?’ asked Ravenscroft, looking at one of the many framed photographs on the wall.

‘Keep most of them in the albums over here,’ said Treaves, indicating a large number of books which lay on one of the tables.

‘I wonder if we might have a look through them, sir?’

‘If you think it will do any good,’ said Treaves reluctantly. ‘My wife usually writes the dates below each photograph.’

‘That is very helpful.’ Ravenscroft eagerly turned over the pages of an album which bore the date 1879 on the outside. ‘Ah here we are, November 1879.’

‘That’s Ross there,’ said Treaves, looking over Ravenscroft’s shoulder, and pointing to one of the dozen or so group of people who had been photographed standing on the steps of the house.

‘He certainly looks like the man we interviewed,’ said Ravenscroft, looking at the photograph intently. ‘Good God! Look, Crabb. If I’m not mistaken, that man there standing to the left of Ross, looks remarkably like Anstruther!’

‘I do believe you’re correct, sir,’ nodded Crabb.

‘Major Anstruther you say? It might have been Anstruther who recommended Ross to me as a fellow house guest. Can’t think why, especially as they were in the same regiment together. That man standing next to me is their commanding officer, Colonel Eames,’ said Treaves.

‘Eames!’ exclaimed Crabb.

‘Miss Eames’s late father. Lord Treaves, can you tell us who these two men standing in the back row are?’ asked Ravenscroft eagerly.

‘That’s Ganniford. I was a good friend of his father. We went to the same school together. Believe the other fellow is Jenkins,
friend of Ganniford. Recall he was a bit of a dry fish, but comes from a good family, I believe.’

‘This is quite fascinating. So Ganniford, Jenkins and Miss Eames’s late father were all members of the shooting party,’ said Ravenscroft, thinking out loud.

‘Blessed if I know why you find all this so interesting,’ said Treaves, turning away.

‘Just a minute, sir, who is that man at the back, just beginning to face away from the camera?’ asked Crabb, pointing to the photograph.