‘May have been the initials of someone in his family,’ suggested Crabb.
‘There is no S for Sommersby though. Nor a L that might have stood for Lechmere’s almshouses. B. M and W. No doubt the letters held some significance for Sommersby to have gone to the trouble of having them engraved on the handle of the walking stick.’
‘Perhaps it was given to him by a grateful parent.’
‘You could well be right Crabb,’ said Ravenscroft returning the stick to its stand. ‘Well I think there is nothing else here that can shed any light on why our good doctor was murdered. I don’t think we can do anything else here tonight. We will see what the morrow will bring.’
Ravenscroft woke with a start. He reached out for his pocket watch and spectacles and in the cold darkness of his room made out the hour to be not yet four.
The church clock had struck the hour of twelve when he had returned to the Tudor some hours earlier, but he had been unable to sleep for some time, his mind being occupied by the events of the previous two days. Why had Pitzer and Sommersby been killed? Who had killed the two men? What possible reason could there be for anyone to have acted in such a way? The more he considered the matter, the more the same questions kept repeating themselves. Then he recalled that both men had been trustees of the Colwall Almshouses. Perhaps the answer lay there? He had certainly not thought that Armitage had been exactly forthcoming with his answers and had taken a dislike to the man. Pitzer and Armitage had not worked well together. What had been Armitage’s relationship with Sommersby? Had they also had a falling out? Then there was Gladwyn and Touchmore, two more of the trustees. Did they know more than they were telling him?
Finally he had drifted off into a half sleep, during which he had seen again the old buildings in Colwall, and then the gothic exterior of Malvern College. He saw himself making his way up the windy path to well house, where the dark familiar figure of the veiled lady had appeared to be awaiting his arrival. He had called out to her as he had drawn near, but as he looked upwards, the falling bookcases of the College library tumbled rapidly down towards him. Now he had awoken to find his face covered in moisture and his throat parched.
Reaching for the tumbler at the side of his bed, he poured some of the water into the glass and wiped his brow on his sleeve. After swallowing the liquid, he lay back on his pillow and stared out into the darkness of the room. What on earth had possessed him to come to such a place? Why had he so readily agreed to take on the task of solving one murder, only to be faced now with trying to solve two? How had his holiday turned into this thankless task? Ravenscroft let out a deep sigh, turned over and buried his face in the pillow.
‘Good morning Mr. Ravenscroft; it’s time for yer treatment sir.’
Ravenscroft emerged from beneath the bed spread and gave Stebbins a bleary stare.
‘Late night was it sir?’
‘Mind your own business Stebbins.’
‘There is a nice leg of chicken in the pantry sir, I could get it for you.’
‘That won’t be necessary at the moment, but I might consider it for later,’ said Ravenscroft reaching for his dressing gown.
‘Been dining out have we?’ asked Stebbins grinning. ‘Doctor Mountcourt says he’ll see you at ten this morning.’
Ravenscroft made the well-worn journey to the Bath House.
‘Good morning to you Mr. Ravenscroft. Time for your new treatment today,’ said the attendant, a note of new optimism creeping into his voice. Ravenscroft’s heart sank. What new torture were they about to inflict on him now, he wondered? But then he considered that nothing could possibly be worse than that which he had suffered already.
‘If you would care to stand under this pipe sir,’ said the attendant indicating a cubicle situated in the corner of the room. Ravenscroft feared the worst, as he began to remove his sleeping attire.
‘Just stand there sir. Be over before you can say Queen Victoria.’
Ravenscroft wondered what her majesty had to do with the situation. Nervously he stood under the pipe and looked upwards. Suddenly he felt the full force of a waterfall of freezing cold water cascading over his body. He let out a cry that was part pain and part anger.
‘There you are sir! You’ll soon feel the benefit of that!’ said the attendant smiling and handing him a towel.
Ravenscroft muttered under his breath, and cursed the man, as he reached for the cloth. Now he knew what drowned rats felt like, and resolved that this would positively be the last time he was going to be humiliated in this way.
After dressing he made his way up to St. Ann’s Well. He had no desire to undertake the arduous journey yet again up the steep winding path, but he had little else to do before breakfast and thought that the exercise might at least bring some warmth back into his still shaking limbs. There was also the prospect that he might again meet with his veiled lady, and learn more of her circumstances.
He found instead only the old woman and a young courting couple at the well. Sitting on the seat, outside the well house, drinking his beaker of refreshing spring water, the events of the previous evening began tumbling back into his mind. Why had two prominent members of Malvern society been killed in two days? Who would have wanted to have killed them — and for what purpose? Then he recalled that he had asked himself the self same questions, before he had fallen asleep, and resolved to put such thoughts away from his mind and enjoy the spring morning sunshine instead.
The young courting couple, becoming aware of his presence, moved away from the building and began to make their way upwards towards the higher reaches of the hills. Ravenscroft promised himself that once the case had been solved, and before he left the town, he might also venture forth to complete the journey towards the Beacon. Closing his eyes and letting the warm sunshine fall upon his face, his thoughts turned again to the veiled lady. She clearly had nothing to do with the deaths of the two men, and yet the mysterious woman intrigued him the more he thought about her. He half expected to see her sitting on one of the seats when he opened his eyes, but knew that he would be disappointed. If only he had engaged her in conversation, when the opportunity had availed itself, then his curiosity might have been satisfied. Now, he told himself, she had probably left the area and he was unlikely to see her again.
He rose from his seat, dropped a coin into the beaker for the well woman, and deep in thought began to make his way back down the zig zag pathway towards the town. As he reached the bottom of the path, he looked up to see a tall shambling figure coming towards him. He recognized him as the same man he had seen the previous day loitering outside Gladwyn’s house. Although blind, the man seemed to be aware of the nature of the path beneath his feet. Ravenscroft uttered a few words of greeting; the other merely grunted as they passed by each other.
Upon reaching the town, instead of returning to the Tudor for breakfast, Ravenscroft decided to make his way to the Reading Rooms.
‘Good to see you again sir. The London papers have just arrived. Can I serve you with coffee?’ asked the attendant as he entered.
‘You certainly can. Do you have any information about the ancient curse of Raggedstone Hill?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘I think we might be able to accommodate you sir. Please take a seat, and I will see what I can find for you.’
Ravenscroft made his way into the reading room and was rewarded within a few minutes by the attendant returning, carrying his coffee and holding an old, leather bound book.
‘I think you might find a summary in there,’ said the attendant handing him the volume.
The book was entitled ‘Old Myths and Legends of Worcestershire’.