Ravenscroft worked his way through the pile of papers. ‘These seem to be mainly documents of a medical nature. Here is a copy of Gladwyn’s will. Let us have a look at that, see if anyone stood to benefit by his death’. Crabb peered over Ravenscroft’s shoulder, as he continued to read the document. ‘As we thought, there are no heirs or children — he leaves everything to his wife, except for one or two minor bequests to the town.’
‘Nothing there then sir, old Gladwyn cannot have been killed for his money.’
‘Seems you are right Crabb, keep on looking, there has to be something here.’
Fifteen minutes later, Ravenscroft slammed the door of the desk. ‘There is absolutely nothing; nothing all to suggest why poor Gladwyn was murdered. It seems as though we have drawn a blank Crabb. There is absolutely nothing in the doctor’s papers that might have given us a clue as to why he was murdered. This is all very frustrating. We might as well move on, but before we leave let us have a final look round the room in case of we have missed something,’ he said standing up and glancing at the walls. ‘Usual photographs of Gladwyn and his wife, taken some years ago by the look of it, medical certificate from Bangor Medical School when he qualified, a faded view of some obscure Welsh mountain scene. There is nothing to interest us here. Come Crabb let us be on our way.’
Ravenscroft strode out of the room, and made his way back into the hall, where he found the maid waiting to let them out. As she opened the door, something caught his eye in the hat stand.
‘Look Crabb. This is an almost identical walking stick to the one we found in Sommersby’s rooms. See here — the letters W.M.B. in the form of a monogram engraved on the silver handle of the stick. If I am not mistaken these are the same letters that we discovered on Sommersby’s walking stick.’
‘Interesting sir,’ ventured Crabb.
‘Would you take this stick to your mistress and ask Mrs. Gladwyn if she can tell us how long her husband has had the item, and if she knows what the letters stand for,’ said Ravenscroft addressing the maid.
The servant took the stick from him, and left the hall.
‘Is it not interesting Crabb that both men should have identical walking sticks with the same letters engraved on the handle?’
‘Perhaps they were both members of some club, like say the Oddfellows or a smoking club?’ suggested Crabb.
Ravenscroft nodded. ‘I wonder what the letters W.M.B. represent?’
Two minutes later the maid returned, still carrying the walking stick. ‘Mistress says all she can remember is the master having the stick for as long as she can recall, and that he probably acquired it shortly after they moved to Malvern, she thinks, but she can’t be sure. She does not know what the letters stand for. In fact, she was unaware that there were any letters at all on the handle, sir’
Ravenscroft thanked the maid, and returned the stick to its resting place, before leaving the house.
‘Well sir, no luck there.’
‘It would appear so, but I still think that stick may be of some significance to our investigations. But we will have to put that aside for now, for we have more pressing things to attend to. It is about time we paid our Mr. Troutbridge another visit. Let us go back to the station, and take some of your men out to the farm. Do you have any guns at the station?’
‘There is an old pistol sir,’ replied Crabb.
‘Then bring it with us, we may have need of it.’
Later that morning, Ravenscroft and Crabb accompanied by two other police officers made their way over the hills in the direction of Troutbridge’s farm.
‘Do you think we might find Armitage there?’ inquired Crabb.
‘There remains that possibility Crabb. He may well have been the face I saw at the window when we drove away last time.’
The police wagon made its way up the rutted track until it arrived at the farm.
‘We’ll try the shed again first,’ suggested Ravenscroft.
The group walked over to the milking shed and entered the building, Crabb calling out Troutbridge’s name.
‘No sign of him here sir.’
‘Let’s try the other buildings. You two men search the buildings on that side of the yard. Crabb come with me, we’ll try that old barn over there.’
They walked over to the building, but as they were about to enter the barn, they were suddenly confronted by Troutbridge, who stepped out abruptly in front of them. The farmer was holding a piece of old rope, the end of which was tied round the collar of a large Alsatian dog.
‘What do you want?’ he snapped.
‘Mr. Troutbridge. I would ask you to accompany us to the police station in Malvern for further questioning. I also have permission to search your property,’ said Ravenscroft. Crabb looked down nervously at the dog.
‘I told you that if you came back, I’d set the dog on you!’ snarled Troutbridge.
‘Have a care sir. I would advise you to tie the dog up and come quietly,’ said Ravenscroft eyeing the dog, which had now begun to growl loudly.
‘Go to hell!’ shouted Troutbridge seeking to restrain the dog, which was pulling violently on the end of the rope. ‘Get off my property, now, or I’ll let go of him!’
‘Come now Troutbridge put up the dog. There is no need for this,’ said Ravenscroft, trying to sound as confident as he could.
‘I warned you!’ shouted Troutbridge.
‘Don’t you threaten us my man,’ said Crabb.
‘Put up the dog, man!’ urged Ravenscroft.
Suddenly the dog broke free from its owner, darted across towards the two men, and jumped onto Crabb throwing him violently to the ground.
‘Call off the dog Troutbridge!’ yelled Ravenscroft, taking the pistol from his coat pocket and aiming it at the animal. ‘I say, call him off man!’ He saw that Crabb had covered his face with his hands and was trying desperately to free himself from the creature. ‘For God’s sake sir, shoot!’ shouted the constable.
Ravenscroft took steady aim and fired the gun in the direction of the dog and the forlorn Crabb.
‘You murdering swine,’ growled Troutbridge lunging at Ravenscroft.
‘Grab him men!’ Ravenscroft shouted instructions to the other two officers who had run across from the other buildings. ‘Put the cuffs on him!’
The constables wrestled Troutbridge to the ground and after a short struggle, secured his wrists with their handcuffs. Ravenscroft walked over to where the dead dog lay on top of Crabb.
‘Soon have you out from under there,’ he said pulling the animal away, ‘How are you Crabb?’
‘Grief sir! I thought my number was up! Another few seconds and he would have had his jaws round my throat. Tis a good thing we bought the gun,’ replied Crabb lifting himself of the ground.
‘Are you hurt, Tom?’ inquired Ravenscroft, placing his hand on the other’s shoulder, and looking concerned.
‘It just seems to be my hand sir, where the beast sank his claws. Afraid I shall need a new tunic though,’ said Crabb taking out his handkerchief and placing it on his bleeding wrist.
‘Here let me look’ said Ravenscroft, examining his constable’s hand. ‘We’ll go into the house and wash it, and I’ll try and find something to bind it with, until we can get a doctor to look at it. Sorry I was a bit late in firing. I didn’t want to shoot too soon, until I had a clear view of the dog.’
‘That’s alright sir, better late than never,’ replied Crabb holding his wrist.
‘He was certainly a vicious creature and no mistake. Dogs like that should not be owned by blaggards like Troutbridge,’ said Ravenscroft staring down at the dead animal.
‘Not the animals fault sir,’ added Crabb.