‘Generally we send them to the flour mills down at Tewkesbury, though sometimes they are transported upstream to the mills at Bewdley.’
‘Can you tell me whether anyone took grain upstream, from Worcester, say about five or six days ago?’
‘I will have to look in the ledger in the office.’
‘I would be obliged if you would do so.’
‘Here, Tom, keep an eye on things for a few minutes,’ said Snedden, sighing, and passing over the note pad to the workman.
Ravenscroft followed the owner into the warehouse, where some wrought-iron steps took them into a back office. Here Snedden consulted a large book which lay open on the desk.
‘Yes, here we are. The Mayfly loaded up five days ago, bound for Bewdley with about forty sacks of grain.’
‘And who owns the Mayfly?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘The Mayfly is a barge, run by old Billy from Diglis.’
‘Billy you say?’
‘Yes, rough sort of fellow. Big scar down the side of his face.’
‘I know him. My constable had reason to have words with him the other night at the Old Diglis Inn. Tell me, does Billy operate the boat on his own?’
‘Oh yes, with the help of the horse, of course. The Mayfly has long seen better days, as has old Billy. Between you and me he’s rather too fond of the bottle,’ said Snedden closing the ledger.
‘But you still employ him?’
‘He’s cheap — and he does the job.’
‘Thank you, Mr Snedden. Just one more question: would the Mayfly have reached Bewdley by now?’
‘She probably got there yesterday.’
‘Would she still be there now?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Most likely, I would think. Knowing Billy he’ll hold up there for two or three days whilst he drinks away his fee, before he decides to look around for another cargo on the river.’
‘Thank you once again, Mr Snedden,’ said Ravenscroft shaking hands with the merchant before making his way out of the warehouse.
‘And what did you find out about our Mr Cranston?’ asked Ravenscroft as the two men met up again outside the Talbot.
‘It is as he says, been employed by Worcester Porcelain for the past three years. He is one of their chief salesmen by all accounts. They seem quite pleased with the amount of business he has secured for the company. They can’t remember, however, where he came from. We could contact Wedgewood and see if they remember him,’ said Crabb, consulting his pocket book.
‘We’ll do that later. Right now, we have more pressing business. I thought it strange that Ruth Weston was found at Holt Fleet. If she had been killed here at Worcester, and then dumped in the river, we would have recovered the body downstream towards Upton and Worcester, but as the sack was recovered at Holt, the killer must have taken the body upstream.’
‘But why go to all that trouble? Why not just throw the sack into the river here?’
‘I believe the killer wanted to put some distance between himself and the scene of the crime. No, our killer was going north on business, and dumped the sack upstream believing that it might not be so easily found in that part of the river. Mr Snedden, who owns the warehouse, confirmed that one boat, or rather a barge in this case, called the Mayfly, left Worcester five days ago, bound for Bewdley. Holt Fleet is on the way.’
‘So our killer might be still in Bewdley on board the Mayfly?’
‘That might still be the case. Furthermore, the owner of the Mayfly is your old friend Billy!’
‘He’s no friend of mine. We should have clapped him in the gaol when we had the opportunity.’
‘The question is, Crabb, why would Billy want to kill Ruth Weston, if he is our killer? It just doesn’t seem to make sense. I don’t see how he could be involved with Evelyn’s death either, but I guess we won’t know the answers to those questions until we have tracked him down. You and I need to get to Bewdley as soon as possible and catch up with him. Let’s go back to the station and take the fly there.’
Within minutes the two men had left the confines of Worcester behind them as they travelled northwards through the sleepy villages of Hallow, Holt Heath, Shrawley and Astley, until eventually they arrived at the picturesque riverside town of Bewdley. The sinking sun was producing a golden glow over the waters of the river as Crabb tied the horse to one of the trees along the side of the bank.
‘There seem to be quite a number of boats moored up along here,’ said Ravenscroft alighting.
They made their way along the banks of the river, trying to read the names on the sides of the various boats and barges, in an attempt to find the Mayfly.
‘Here we are, sir!’ Crabb cried out suddenly. ‘The Mayfly, wonder she’s still afloat the condition she’s in.’
‘Draw your truncheon. Billy could still be on board and might prove dangerous,’ said Ravenscroft stepping on to the barge, and opening the door to the living-quarters.
‘Seems to be empty,’ said Crabb, following him.
‘You’r right, it looks as though our Billy is not at home,’ announced Ravenscroft looking round at the old rags and rubbish that littered the floor and bed.
‘Probably at one of the pubs, sir, drinking away his wages.’
‘This looks interesting,’ said Ravenscroft, bending down and holding up a reel of bright red cord. ‘If I’m not mistaken this is the same cord that was used to strangle Ruth Weston. If you look closely you can see where a length has been cut off the main reel.’
‘Looks as though you were right, sir. Billy certainly appears to be our killer.’
‘It seems that way; all the more reason to find the blackguard. He must be in one of the riverside taverns. There is nothing for it, we will have to search each one until we find him.’
They alighted from the boat, and stood on the cobbled path. ‘My guess is that he won’t have travelled far. There are a couple of inns down that way. We’ll try them first, and if we don’t have any luck, we can come back and try the ones upstream.’
Crabb pushed open the door of the first inn and the two men stepped into the crowded bar. Ravenscroft enquired of the landlord if he had seen Billy and, receiving a negative reply, they made their way to the second drinking place — where again they drew a blank.
‘Back the other way, sir?’ asked Crabb. Ravenscroft nodded and the two men retraced their steps to where the Mayfly was tied up.
‘The Cobblers. Sounds the sort of place Billy might frequent,’ said Ravenscroft, standing outside a tavern, from where loud singing could be heard.
They opened the door to a smoked-filled room full of drinkers attempting to keep up with the music being played by a buxom woman on an old piano. Ravenscroft pushed his way through the throng until he reached the bar. ‘We are looking for Billy,’ he said addressing the barman.
‘Why who wants him?’
‘So you do know him?’ said Crabb.
‘Over there!’ The barman pointed in the direction of the piano.
Ravenscroft strained to look past the revellers in the smoke and the gloom of the poorly lit room.
‘There he is, sir. By the piano!’ shouted Crabb, above the din.
‘Get the cuffs ready. He might not come willingly,’ said Ravenscroft, marching towards the singing sailor.
‘Hello, Billy. Remember us?’
The old sailor rubbed his eyes with a dirty hand, and lurched forwards in Crabb’s direction. ‘You’re that bloody peeler who threw me out of the Diglis!’
‘We’d like a word with you, outside,’ said Crabb, removing the sailor’s hand from his tunic.
‘The bloody hell you will. I’m ’avin me drink. Go away.’
‘Come on now, Billy. It will be best for you if you come quietly,’ said Ravenscroft, placing his hand on his shoulder.
‘And who the bloody hell are you?’ snarled Billy stepping forward and thrusting his grizzled features in Ravenscroft’s face.