‘Miss Griffiths will see you now, sir,’ said the maid, returning from the drawing-room. ‘If you would care to follow me, gentlemen?’
The two policemen followed the maid into the room.
‘Inspector Ravenscroft, miss, and er-’ began the maid.
‘Constable Crabb.’
‘-and Constable Crabb, miss.’
‘Gentlemen, do both please take a seat.’
Ravenscroft observed that the speaker was of a tall, thin stature, her black hair contrasting with her pallid complexion. He estimated her age as being not much above twenty.
‘Thank you, Miss Griffiths. I very much appreciate you seeing us without an appointment,’ he began, seating himself on one of the drawing-room chairs, as Crabb took out his pocket book and stood by one of the bookcases.
‘I am sorry that my father cannot see you. He is a very busy man, as I am sure you will appreciate. He is with someone now in his study, one of his constituents, I believe. How can I be of assistance to you?’ she replied somewhat nervously.
‘You have probably heard about the death of the librarian at the cathedral, Miss Griffiths, and the disappearance of one of the old books from the library. We are making enquiries into both these concerns. As your house overlooks the Green, and has a fine view of the cathedral, I would be obliged if you would answer a number of questions for us.’
Their hostess smiled, but said nothing.
‘Nicholas Evelyn, the librarian: did you ever have cause to speak with him?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘No. I knew of him, of course. I have often seen him entering the cathedral in the mornings, but I have never spoken to him,’ she answered, a puzzled expression on her face. ‘I think the same would apply to my father,’ she added, placing her hands neatly in her lap.
‘Have you ever visited the library, Miss Griffiths?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘No, I don’t believe that I have ever done so. My father and I always worship at the cathedral on Sundays, of course, but we never visited the library. We had no reason to do so.’
‘Can I turn to the night of the theft of the Whisperie. Did you happen to see anyone entering or leaving the cathedral late that evening?’
‘No, I usually retire at just after nine. My room is at the back of the house.’
‘So you would not have seen anyone, miss?’ asked Crabb, looking up from his notebook.
‘I have just said, Constable, that my bedroom does not face on to the cathedral,’ she replied firmly.
‘Was your father here that night, or in London?’ asked Ravenscroft, quickly giving Crabb a brief sideways glance.
‘He was here in the house. I believe he also retired, shortly after myself.’
‘And his room, Miss Griffiths, where is that located?’
‘My father’s bedroom is also at the rear of the house. He will probably only confirm what I have just told you. I don’t really see the point of any of these questions, Inspector.’
‘We have reason to believe, Miss Griffiths, that Mr Evelyn, the librarian, was killed that night, at approx twelve o’clock, and that whoever killed him was seen emerging from the cathedral dressed as a monk at around that time.’
‘I’m sorry for poor Mr Evelyn, but as I have told you, Inspector, we had both retired to bed earlier that night,’ replied Miss Griffiths, showing signs of irritation at Ravenscroft’s questions.
‘As you just said. I wonder if we might have a few words with your servants. They might have seen something that night, and be able to help us in our investigations,’ said Ravenscroft smiling, and seeking to placate the lady of the house.
‘I’m sure that will not be necessary. I will make enquiries myself and inform you of the results. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some important tant correspondence to attend to,’ said Miss Griffiths standing up and ringing the bell at the side of the fireplace.
‘I will also need to have a few words with your father,’ said Ravenscroft also rising to his feet.
‘I have told you, Inspector, that my father had retired early for the night. I cannot see what good it will do you to interview him. My father is a very busy man, and is generally fully engaged both here and when he is in London. I can answer any questions you may need to ask in the future.’
‘Well, thank you, Miss Griffiths,’ said Ravenscroft, realizing that his hostess was anxious that he should leave, and that there would be little point in trying to continue with the interview.
‘Sarah, would you show the inspector out,’ said Miss Griffiths addressing the maid who had entered room.
‘Good day to you,’ said Ravenscroft.
As the two men made their way across the hall, Ravenscroft observed that the door to the study was slightly ajar.
‘-I am sure, Mrs Marchmont, that we can be of assistance to you, in your affairs,’ said the voice of a man, whose back was to the door.
Ravenscroft caught a brief glimpse of a lady seated on a chair, as he passed by.
‘This way, sir,’ said the maid opening the front door.
Ravenscroft and Crabb made their way out of the building, and strode quickly across the Green.
‘My God, sir, you look as though you have just seen a ghost,’ said Crabb, hurrying to keep up with his superior.
‘I have Crabb. That woman in the study with Sir Arthur-’
‘Mrs Marchmont, he said.’
‘Mrs Marchmont. When I saw her in Malvern last year she went by another name. Her real name is Mrs Kelly!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Tell me about your Mrs Marchmont, or rather Mrs Kelly,’ asked Crabb, as the two men sat drinking ale later that night at The Old Diglis.
‘Well, Crabb, it’s a very sad business. You may recall when we were investigating those murders in Malvern last year, I told you that I had met a woman on the train, who was dressed entirely in black,’ said Ravenscroft.
‘She wore a veil over her face if I recall. Evidently a widow,’ interjected Crabb.
‘I discovered that both her husband and her young son had recently died and were buried in the churchyard at Malvern Priory. It was there that I met her one day, and eventually learned the sad fate of her family. Her husband had been used to travelling up to London for a few days each month, on business, and it transpired that he was rather prone to indulging in extra-marital activities with certain young women of the night in the Whitechapel area of London.’
‘That’s your area, is it not, sir?’
‘It is indeed. I know it well. The place is filled with villains of every age, race and sex. There are people there who would steal the very clothes off your back or, worse still, murder you in some dark alleyway if they thought you were carrying money on your person. To escape its miserable streets, to experience the civilized pastures of Malvern and Worcester is paradise indeed! But to return to our Mrs Kelly: after a while, her husband fell ill and eventually died, probably as the result of picking up some sexual disease from one of those loose women. By the time of his death, he had already passed on the disease to his wife, and then their new born son became ill, and she had to nurse him through a long and painful illness before he, too, died.’
‘Poor woman,’ muttered Crabb.
‘Indeed. To nurse a sick husband through months of illness is one thing, but to see a son die and not be able to do anything to relieve his suffering, must be an agony too hard to comprehend. I remember she was quite bitter about everything — and with good reason — and that she swore that one day she would seek her revenge on the women of Whitechapel for the wrongs they had committed. I tried to reason with her, but must confess I felt utterly at a loss what to say, and before I could speak she strode away from the churchyard suddenly and that might have been the last I saw of her, except for one further encounter.’
‘You saw her again? In Whitechapel?’
‘The day I left Malvern and returned to London, I remember l was just outside Paddington Station when suddenly a woman rode off in a cab after telling the man to take her to Whitechapel.’