‘She is one of my constituents. She was consulting me on a legal matter concerning her late husband’s estate, I believe.’
‘And were you able to be of assistance?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Of course, that is my function.’
‘Thank you, Sir Arthur. You have been most helpful.’
As they walked away from the house, across the green towards the cathedral, Ravenscroft broke the silence.
‘And what did you think of the Member for Worcester and his daughter?’
‘A very close, canny couple, if you ask me.’
‘My sentiments exactly; the daughter seems very nervous and anxious to protect her father at all costs. I observed that on our first visit, when she was not at all willing for us to see him. He, in turn, obviously feels equally protective towards his daughter.’
‘He said she was ill.’
‘I would agree that she does not look to be in the best of health. I also find it strange that a prominent politician such as Sir Arthur Griffiths, would not have dismissed Ruth Weston, when he learned of her being with child.’
‘The daughter said her father was of a Christian disposition. Perhaps she had grown fond of her maid, and did not want to lose her, which is why she lodged at Glovers.’
‘You are probably right. Talking of Glovers, it seems more than a coincidence that both our victims were lodgers there. There is more to that lodging-house than first appears. We need to search Ruth Weston’s rooms and find out more about the others — the Baileys and this fellow Cranston.’
‘Oh it’s you, again!’ said the blotchy red face, staring through the narrow opening.
‘Good day to you, Mrs Glover. May we come in?’ asked Ravenscroft smiling.
‘Suppose you want to ask me some more questions?’ grumbled the old woman opening the door wider.
‘We won’t take up too much of your time, I can assure you.’
The landlady muttered some words which Ravenscroft could not quite comprehend, before leading the two detectives down the passage and into her sitting-room at the rear of the property.
‘Mind me figures,’ she said, giving Ravenscroft a warning glance.
‘Tell me more about your other lodgers, Mrs Glover.’
‘Told you last time, the Baileys are away in France for the month. Won’t be back until end of next week at the earliest,’ said the old woman, searching through a number of letters perched behind one of the large decorative figures on the mantelpiece.
‘How long have they lived here?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Three years. Ah here we are! I got this letter from them earlier this week.’
Ravenscroft took the letter and, after examining the postmark, opened the folded notepaper inside. ‘I see it was sent from La Rochelle, dated seven days ago. Says they are enjoying the scenery, weather is fine and they hope to visit Nantes on the way back to England. Thank you, Mrs Glover, that all seems in order. And Mr Cranston, I presume he has not returned yet?’
‘He came in about half an hour ago. I heard his footsteps on the floorboards. He didn’t stay long, said he was going out to get something to eat. I told him about Miss Weston, and said you would want to speak to him,’ replied Mrs Glover, replacing the letter on the mantelpiece.
‘Then perhaps he will return before our departure. How long has Mr Cranston been with you?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘About two years.’
‘While we are waiting for Mr Cranston to return, perhaps you would allow my constable and I to make an examination of Miss Weston’s rooms?’
‘Why do you want to do that for?’ mumbled the old woman.
‘We might find something there to suggest who killed her,’ replied Ravenscroft.
‘You best come this way then,’ sighed the old woman, as she led the way out of the room.
‘Tell me, was Miss Weston in the habit of receiving visitors?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Certainly not; lodgers is not allowed visitors in their rooms at any time. We don’t encourage that sort of thing here. This is a respectable establishment,’ replied the landlady, unlocking the door to the room.
‘Did Miss Weston ever mention to you that she was seeing anyone elsewhere?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Did she receive any letters from anyone?’ asked Crabb.
‘No. She never got no letters.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Glover. We’ll take a look round Miss Weston’s rooms if we may, on our own. We’ll give you a call should we need assistance.’
The landlady gave Ravenscroft a surely look, coughed, and opened the door, before making her way back to her sitting-room.
‘Close the door behind you, Crabb,’ instructed Ravenscroft, stepping into the room. ‘We don’t want either Mrs Glover or Cranston coming in here and disturbing us.’
The two men found themselves in the same simply furnished, gloomy sitting-room that Ravenscroft had seen when he had spoken to the young boy after his mother’s disappearance. A large table and some chairs were situated in the centre of the room, and there were two worn armchairs and a small bookcase, the shelves of which accommodated a small number of books. The table was covered with a needlework cloth of floral design; a vase of roses occupying its centre, the dying petals of which had fallen on to its surface. Another, smaller room led off the main room, where Ruth Weston and her son had slept.
‘Tell me what you see?’
‘Plain, rather drab room, sir. Clean and respectable like; nothing out of the ordinary,’ replied Crabb.
‘There certainly appears to be nothing of a personal nature on display. There is a Bible, one or two children’s books, but no photographs or portraits and no correspondence that I can see.’
‘No scraps of paper lying around this time to give us any clues.’
‘This tablecloth was evidently completed by Ruth Weston. Here, remove the vase of flowers so that I can have a closer look at it,’ said Ravenscroft, brushing the fallen petals into a neat pile. ‘Our Miss Weston was evidently an accomplished needlewoman. See here how she has managed to embroider the name Arthur in the centre of the design, and how she has interlinked it with her own name, Ruth. It is very cleverly done. It must have taken her hours to complete. I can just picture her sitting here in the evenings, doing her embroidery, whilst her son sits beside her probably drawing in that book.’
‘A pretty dull existence, if you ask me,’ said Crabb.
‘Indeed, but perhaps that is the way she wanted it. To me, the room seems to suggest that its occupants had not been prepared to make their home here; to them it was but a staging place on the way to somewhere else.’
‘You’ve lost me there, sir,’ said Crabb looking perplexed.
‘It is as though the room is speaking to us, telling us that Ruth and her son were prepared to accept its dull, drab interior, whilst waiting for better days.’
‘There are the flowers to consider.’
‘Yes, the roses. They are the one bright feature of the room, the one indulgence that Ruth allowed herself, but now even they have faded,’ said Ravenscroft looking sadly out of the window, and recalling the last time he had looked down at the body of the parlour maid.
‘It’s that poor boy I feel sorry for, all alone in the world,’ added Crabb.
The two men were suddenly disturbed by the sound of the outer door being opened and closed. Ravenscroft looked across at Crabb and they listened in silence to the heavy footsteps on the stairs outside the room.
‘I fancy that may be our Mr Cranston returned,’ murmured Ravenscroft.
‘Shall we go and have words with him?’
‘Give him a minute or two.’
Crabb replaced the vase of dying flowers on the table, as Ravenscroft took a final look round the rooms.
Closing the door behind them, the two detectives made their way up the flights of stairs, until they reached the landing, where Crabb knocked on the door facing them.
‘I won’t be a moment, Mrs Glover,’ called a voice from inside the room.
‘It’s the police, sir,’ said Crabb, knocking on the door again.