The Pershore Poisoners (14 page)

‘What development?’

‘May we come in, sir. It would be better if we could speak with you privately.’

‘I will give you five minutes, Ravenscroft and that is all,’ said Cherrington standing back from the door and allowing the two detectives to enter.

‘I will come straight to the point, Mr Cherrington,’ said Ravenscroft when he had seated himself. ‘Do you still maintain that you are not Quinton?’

‘This is ridiculous, Ravenscroft. I have already told you that my name is Cherrington and that I know nothing concerning this Quinton,’ declared Cherrington sitting back in his arm chair and lighting a cigarette.

‘So you keep saying, sir. Well I have to tell you that I have just visited your bank, and have had a most informative conversation there with Mr Mortimer. He was able to confirm the transfer of your funds from India, but a close examination of the papers showed that the money had been claimed on an insurance policy issued by the Bombay Insurance Company—’

‘You had the audacity to delve into my private papers!’ interrupted Cherrington. ‘You have gone too far this time, Ravenscroft.’

‘The policy had been claimed on the life of a Mrs Isabella Quinton. Your wife I presume, Captain Quinton?’ said Ravenscroft with affect.

‘Damn you!’ exclaimed Cherrington.

‘So I think we can now cease all this pretence. How did your wife die, Captain?’ asked Ravenscroft realizing that he now had the upper hand.

‘All right, all right. I have a perfectly valid explanation for all this,’ replied Cherrington moving uneasily in his chair.

‘I would be quite happy to hear it,’ said a satisfied Ravenscroft peering over the top of his glasses.

‘Yes, I knew Quinton. He was my business partner in India. Shortly before he and his wife died of the wretched fever they took out insurance policies making me the beneficiary.’

‘Oh, why sir would they have done that?’

‘To secure the business, man, so that if one of us died then the other would be able to continue knowing that he was still financially solvent. I likewise took out an insurance policy on my own life, so that in the event of my demise, Quinton would have been able to carry on after me. It all made good business sense,’ said Cherrington recovering his composure and puffing out smoke into the room.

‘This is all nonsense, Quinton,’ laughed Ravenscroft.

‘It may seem nonsense to you, inspector, but if you had ever lived in India, and been surrounded by all the death and disease there, you would have seen the necessity for such insurance.’

‘If all this is true, Mr Cherrington, why did you declare that you had never heard of anyone called Quinton when we questioned you?’ continued Ravenscroft.

‘I admit that does sound rather suspicious. One evening, in India, Captain Quinton told me the sad story of how he had been unjustly arraigned for the death of his first wife all those years ago in Pimlico, and how the police there had been mistaken in their investigations, and how he had been driven out of the country by false accusations after the trial. I, of course, sympathized with my poor friend’s predicament. Naturally when the name of Quinton was raised by you in your questioning, I thought it prudent not to admit the association with Quinton. I could see how such an admission might easily lead you to suppose that I was that man, and with Quinton dead there was no way of proving otherwise,’ said a confident Cherrington.

‘This is all very neat,’ said Ravenscroft taken aback by his suspect’s new line of defence.

‘I admit that it does not seem very plausible, inspector, but I can assure you that what I have just told you is the truth. I am not Quinton.’

‘This is all nonsense, sir. Come now admit that you are Quinton,’ insisted Ravenscroft.

‘I do not know how to answer you, inspector, only to tell you that you are completely misguided in your persistence,’ said Cherrington leaning back in his armchair before inhaling once again on his cigarette.

‘I know you are Quinton and, furthermore, I know that you poisoned Jones,’ said Ravenscroft beginning to feel unsettled by his suspect’s assurance and calm.

‘Oh come now, inspector. What possible motive could I have for killing poor Jones?’

‘I believe that you and Jones – or rather Murphy, as we have now established this as his real name – had met somewhere previously, and that this gentleman had threatened to expose you as Quinton.’

‘For goodness sake, man, that is quite ridiculous,’ laughed Cherrington. ‘And if I had been this Quinton, which I am not, why would I have wanted to kill Jones or Murphy? Quinton after all was innocent of his crimes, so he would have had nothing to fear from this man. There was nothing to be uncovered and certainly nothing of which to be ashamed. No, inspector, none of this holds up at all. I suppose you think I killed poor Miss Martin as well because I had met her sometime in the past?’

‘And did you not poison the poor lady?’ asked Ravenscroft becoming more frustrated by his lack of progress.

‘Of course I didn’t. Why would I have wanted her dead? Earlier today you said I was trying to marry the good lady for
her money. Now you say I poisoned her because she had learnt of some terrible secret I possessed. Perhaps you should make up your mind, inspector. All of this is quite absurd. I really think that you need to take a holiday, Ravenscroft.’

‘I know, Cherrington, that you are Quinton – and I know that you poisoned that young lady in Pimlico all those years ago, and that you have now poisoned Jones and Miss Martin,’ said Ravenscroft with determination and mounting anger.

‘Look, Ravenscroft there is a simple answer to all this. If you have enough evidence to prove all these wild accusations, then why don’t you arrest me and put me on trial. Well?’ taunted Cherrington. ‘No, I thought not. I think you had better go, and arrest the real perpetrator of these crimes.’

‘You may think you are very clever, Captain Quinton. I know that you cannot ever be tried again for the death of that poor innocent woman all those years ago, but I can assure you that I will find the evidence for your murders of Jones and Miss Martin, and that you will be brought to trial,’ said Ravenscroft rising from his chair.

‘Then I wish you well, inspector. I will be waiting for your return with eager anticipation,’ smiled Cherrington.

Ravenscroft and Crabb quickly left the room, and closing the door behind them, walked silently down the stairs and out of the lodging house.

‘The insufferable man!’ said a frustrated Ravenscroft as he strode into the police station.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Hoskings standing to attention.

‘There is nothing good about it, Hoskings,’ growled Ravenscroft bringing his hand down hard on the counter.

‘No, sir,’ replied the startled constable.

‘I thought we had him, sir. I was sure he was going to confess,’ said Crabb trying to sound encouraging.

‘All that nonsense about Quinton being his business partner! Lies all of it, damned lies! I know that he poisoned all three of them, and he knows that he has been acquitted on the first charge and that we have no evidence on the others. The conceit of the man,’ muttered Ravenscroft striding up and down. ‘What are we to do, Tom? How can I bring him to book?’

Crabb at a loss for words, looked down at his feet.

‘Oh, this came for you, sir,’ said Hoskings holding out an envelope.

‘Reply from the Yard. They were quick regarding our inquiries,’ replied a sullen Ravenscroft tearing open the envelope and reading the telegram. ‘Nothing regarding our man Charles Murphy, but apparently Robertson is still alive and I have his address here.’

‘Your old police inspector in Pimlico?’ asked Crabb.

‘The very same. I had thought him long dead, but he is now living in Whitechapel of all places. I shall go and visit him tomorrow.’

‘Whatever for, sir?’

‘He will be interested to know that Quinton has emerged again after all these years, and, who knows, he may be able to tell me something further about the man that may help us in our investigations,’ said Ravenscrott adopting a more energetic manner.

‘What shall we do about Cherrington while you are away?’ asked Crabb.

‘You will remain here, Tom and keep a keen eye on the man. Hoskings here can assist you. Do not let him out of your sight.’

‘What should I do if he attempts to leave the town?’

‘Arrest the man and place him in the cells,’ instructed Ravenscroft.

‘On what charge, sir?’

‘Oh anything, Tom. Anything you can think of. The main
thing is, don’t let him get away from us.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Now, Hoskings where is the Bradshaw?’

Ravenscroft sat back in the railway carriage and watched the ever-changing countryside pass as the train made its way through the country towns of Worcestershire and onto the honey-stoned villages of the Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire.

His thoughts turned to the previous evening when he had returned home late to Ledbury; he had entered the small cottage in Church Lane, the place which had been his home for the previous two years, and where he had come to value the happiness and warmth that his new life had brought him. The strangely quiet emptiness of the building had reminded him of the many years of futility and loneliness he had experienced in his previous existence in Whitechapel, and that painful recollection had weighed down heavily upon him, adding to the frustration and annoyance he had experienced earlier that day. He’d walked into the kitchen, where he had poured some water from the pitcher into a glass, before cutting himself two slices of ham from the remainder of the previous day’s joint, and he placed these between two pieces of bread. Taking this simple fare back into the living room, he had seated himself in his usual armchair and gazed into the empty
fireplace
. He half-expected that the quiet would be broken at any moment by the welcome return of his wife and children. When he finally climbed the stairs later that night it had been with a heavy heart that was full of unease and doubt, and when
he had woken earlier the following morning, after an unsettled and restless night, he found his dark mood had not lifted. Now as the train left Oxford and drew closer to the metropolis it seemed almost as though his recent life was slowly ebbing away, and was being replaced by old familiar, gloomy memories that he had sought to forget.

Why had he chosen to seek out his old mentor Robertson after all these years? To bring the old man some satisfaction? To tell him that at last he had encountered Quinton and that their past failure to bring the man to justice might now be superseded by this new opportunity to make him pay for both his past and present crimes? Or was it simply that Ravenscroft was too aware that the man might be escaping justice yet again, and that only Robertson might now provide him with the reassurance and encouragement he needed to press on with his endeavours?

As the train slowed towards the end of its journey and passed the rows of dirty tenement buildings that spread monotonously along the sides of the track, Ravenscroft felt the sky had darkened with the smoke from a thousand chimneys, and he again wondered at the futility of his mission. Was he taking this opportunity to visit his old superior merely as a means of avoiding another confrontation with Quinton? Should he not have remained in Pershore instead and pursued his quarry there? Was this foolish adventure nothing more than an excuse not to face the inevitable? Failure had always been something which he could not face.

Stepping down from the train, he made his way along the congested platform, and through the bustling thoroughfare, out into the road where he hailed a passing cab.

‘Where to, sir?’ asked the dour cabman.

‘Whitechapel, if you please,’ replied Ravenscroft opening the door of the conveyance.

‘What you want to go there? See the sights where all those
murders took place?’

‘No. I am seeking an old friend.’

‘They never caught him you know.’

‘Who?’

‘Old Jack. That man ran rings rounds all those idiot peelers.’

Ravenscroft allowed himself a brief smile as the cabman cracked his whip, and the vehicle sped away from the London terminus.

Alighting from the cab some minutes later, Ravenscroft handed the cabman some coins.

‘Many thanks, governor. Mind how you go. Not a nice area this.’

‘Thank you for your advice,’ said Ravenscroft walking away from the cab and beginning to make his way along the once familiar streets. Although he had known the area for nearly twenty years, the noise, dirt and squalor of the place still came to him as a shock, as he realized that his near three year absence from there had softened his sensibilities.

Reaching a large red-brick house at the bottom of the street he knocked on the door.

‘Yes. What do you want?’ said an old woman with a red face and grubby hands who opened the door to him.

‘I understand that Mr Robertson resides here,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Straight up the steps, two flights, second door on left,’ mumbled the woman wiping her hands on a dirty pinafore before turning on her heel and disappearing from view allowing Ravenscroft to enter the building.

He made his way up the two flights of creaking steps, and reaching the landing he steadied his breathing before seeking out the door and tapping gently on the wood.

‘Yes?’ enquired a distant voice from within.

‘Mr Robertson?’

‘Yes, who is it.’

‘An old friend. May I have a word with you?’

‘Come in then,’ replied the voice reluctantly.

Ravenscroft pushed open the door, stepped over the
threshold
, and found himself in a cramped, but simply furnished room. As he neared the light that shone forth from a warm, glowing fire situated at the far end of the room, he made out a huddled figure seated in an old armchair.

‘Mr Robertson?’ repeated Ravenscroft stepping nearer.

‘Who the devil are you?’

Ravenscroft looked at the old greyhaired man seated in the chair, a grey rug wrapped round the lower half of his body and an old paisley shawl draped over his shoulders.

‘It’s Ravenscroft,’ he replied.

‘Ravenscroft?’ coughed the old man.

‘Yes, Ravenscroft. We served together in Pimlico, over twenty years ago. I was a constable then,’ replied Ravenscroft hoping to awaken some recollection in his old superior.

‘Ravenscroft? Come closer where I can see you. Ravenscroft you say? My God, it is Ravenscroft!’ smiled Robertson before coughing loudly.

‘I am glad to see you again, sir,’ said Ravenscroft offering his hand which the old man shook limply.

‘What are you doing now, Ravenscroft?’

‘I left Whitechapel nearly three years ago. I am now a Detective Inspector at Ledbury in Herefordshire.’

‘Well, you have done well,’ said Robertson before indulging in a prolonged bout of coughing.

‘Can I get you some water?’ asked Ravenscroft.

Robertson pointed to a glass and jug on the table. Ravenscroft poured out some of the liquid into a glass, and handed it to the old man who bought it to his mouth with trembling hands.

‘You find me unwell, Ravenscroft,’ said Robertson leaning forwards and replacing the glass on the table. ‘I am an old man now. Not like the old days. I seldom go out now. Moved here two years ago. Ledbury you say? Detective Inspector. I always knew you would do well. Take a seat. What brings you to Whitechapel, my boy? You’re a long way from Ledbury.’ The words came in short, breathless sentences.

‘Do you recall the
Pimlico Poisoning
case?’ asked Ravenscroft seating himself on an old wooden chair.

‘Pimlico Poisoning
case? How could I forget it,’ coughed Robertson with bitterness in his voice. ‘That case did for me. They wanted me out after that failure.’

‘What did you do when you left the force?’

‘Got as far away from London as I could. Went to Manchester. Joined a private detective agency and did some work for them for a few years, until the old complaint caught up with me and finished all that,’ said Robertson before sneezing and blowing his nose.

‘Would you like some more water?’ asked Ravenscroft.

Robertson continued coughing as he pointed to a small cabinet in the corner of the room. Ravenscroft crossed the floor, opened the door and took out the bottle and two glasses that were inside and bought them back to the main table. He poured out some of the liquid into the two glasses, and handed one of them to Robertson, before resuming his seat at the old man’s side.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ said Robertson downing half the glass. ‘Now where were we?’

‘The Pimlico Poisoning
case. You remember Quinton?’

‘Quinton. How could I forget how that terrible man poisoned that young, innocent woman. We had him Ravenscroft, then he slipped through our fingers.’

‘You never doubted his guilt?’

‘Not for one minute. It was the diary that damned him. I can remember your reading it out when we questioned him. That last entry was all the evidence a jury would have needed to convict him, until that damned Rawlinson tore us to shreds. The man walked free. A grave injustice,’ said a breathless, but angry Robertson before resuming his coughing.

‘Well, I have some news of our Captain Quinton. At present I am investigating the deaths of two people in the town of Pershore. Both were poisoned. When I interviewed the people residing in the same lodging house as the deceased, I found that one of them was Quinton,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘The devil is back!’ exclaimed Robertson.

‘Calls himself Cherrington now. Told us some long tale about being out in India for five years, growing tea of all things. The interesting thing though is that he seems to have inherited a sum of money on his wife’s life assurance policy.’

‘Probably married her and poisoned the poor woman for the money, just like the first one.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘And now you say he has poisoned two other people.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why have you not arrested him, my boy?’ asked Robertson before coughing loudly again and covering his mouth with his handkerchief.

‘Because he denies he is Quinton, and because no one saw him do it,’ replied Ravenscroft topping up Robertson’s glass with the brandy from the bottle.

‘And I suppose you have questioned him and tried to break him?’

‘Yes, but to no avail. Just when we feel that we are getting close to extracting a confession from the man he turns the tables on us and comes out of it as fresh as a daisy,’ sighed Ravenscroft.

‘I see your predicament, Ravenscroft. What can I do to help?’

‘I don’t really … well I suppose what I really want is your backing or support,’ mumbled Ravenscroft.

‘You are beginning to have doubts?’

‘No, not at all. I know that this man is Quinton, and I am sure that he is responsible for these poisonings.’

‘Then you must go all out to get the man. Question him again. Break him down. Don’t let him get away with it this time, Ravenscroft,’ said Robertson gripping Ravenscroft’s arm and staring intently at him through his watery, reddened eyes. ‘I have waited over twenty years to bring that man to justice.’

‘I know, but if there is no evidence against him?’

‘Then you must find it, and if you cannot secure it, then you must make it,’ urged Robertson coughing again before taking another drink of the brandy.

Ravenscroft turned away deep in thought.

‘Look, Ravenscroft, you and I both know that he poisoned his first wife most cruelly, and that he has probably done away with others over the years, and now he has poisoned two others in Pershore or whatever it was. You cannot let him get away with it again. Tell me you will put him away this time, Ravenscroft. Promise me,’ implored Robertson becoming increasingly agitated.

‘I will,’ replied Ravenscroft.

‘Good man. Then I can finally die a satisfied man,’ sighed Robertson sinking back into the chair.

‘I am sure you will not die for many years yet,’ said Ravenscroft trying to sound reassuring.

‘Don’t patronize me, Ravenscroft. I have seen the doctors. I only have a week or so left if I am fortunate,’ coughed Robertson.

‘I am sorry for it. I see that I have tired you. I apologize. I should take my leave,’ mumbled Ravenscroft feeling uneasy,
and not knowing what to say, as he stood up.

‘It was good to see you, my boy. Good of you to come,’ said Robertson in a voice that seemed to Ravenscroft to be scarcely more than a whisper.

‘The honour was all mine.’

‘See that you send him down, Ravenscroft. I will be counting on you.’

‘I will.’

The old man closed his eyes as he head sank onto his chest.

Ravenscroft waited for a minute and then, realizing that he could do no more, slipped quietly from the room.