‘There’s never any good news in the newspapers these days,’ said Ravenscroft, placing a piece of sausage on the end of his fork.
‘Two of them killed on one night in London. First one apparently had her throat cut,’ continued the landlord dramatizing the scene. ‘Killer was likely to have done more to her, but was disturbed and ran off before he was caught. Then the fellow goes on to kill another woman an hour later; can you believe it? Cuts her throat and does horrible things with her insides, displaying them all out on the pavement for everyone to gawp at.’
Ravenscroft returned his fork and sausage to his plate.
‘Mind you, I suppose those women got what was coming to them, if they will insist on carrying on like that. Still no one deserves to be cut up like that, and their insides taken out for all and sundry to view. Cut out her kidney as well, by all accounts, then, when he had satisfied himself there he had a go at her face. Cut her ear right off, he did. No need for that, was there? Breakfast not to your liking this morning, Mr Ravenscroft?’
‘I’m not particularly hungry, thank you,’ replied Ravenscroft, pushing his plate away from him.
‘The terrible things they get up to in London. Who’d live there?’ said the landlord picking up the plate.
‘Indeed. Who would? Is that the hour? Time I was on my way to catch my train. I might be back rather late tonight.’
‘Right you are, sir. Perhaps you would care for some reading matter on your journey? Read all the ghastly details like,’ said the landlord, smiling and holding out the newspaper for him to take.
‘I don’t think so, thank you all the same,’ said Ravenscroft, quickly making his way towards the door.
‘Don’t forget the beam, sir! Oh — too late!’
Ravenscroft escaped from the inn, and rubbed his head as he made his way down Friar Street and along Foregate Street, in the direction of the railway station.
After purchasing his ticket, he made his way up the steps and on to the platform. He checked his pocket watch with the large station clock and, realizing that his train would not be due for another ten minutes, pushed open the door to the waiting-room. A number of people were sitting on the benches, some engaged in conversation, others reading, one or two staring vacantly before them. An old bearded man, wearing a large hat and a ragged overcoat, was sleeping in the corner. One lady, dressed in black, looked up from her reading and glanced at him as he made his way across the room.
‘Good morning, Mrs Marchmont — or should I say, Mrs Kelly?’ said Ravenscroft raising his hat.
‘Inspector Ravenscroft. I thought it would not be long before we encountered one another again,’ she replied in a quiet assured voice.
‘May I join you?’ he asked, noticing that she seemed paler and more worn, than when he had seen her last.
She nodded her approval, and Ravenscroft sat down on the bench beside her. ‘Are you waiting for the Hereford train?’ asked Ravenscroft, not quite sure what he should say in the circumstances.
‘London,’ she replied. ‘And yourself?’
‘I go in the other direction to Hereford and then on to Hay.’
‘Your investigations take you far afield,’ she said, in the same plain, matter-of-fact voice that he remembered from the previous year.
‘In this case, yes.’
‘I hear that you have arrested Miss Griffiths for being involved in her maid’s murder.’
‘News travels very fast in Worcester,’ answered Ravenscroft, beginning to feel uneasy in her presence.
‘In a small town such as Worcester, you cannot keep secrets for long. But presumably your investigations still continue, Mr Ravenscroft?’
‘Yes. The killer of Mr Evelyn is still at large, and the Whisperie has not yet been recovered.’
‘Ah, the Whisperie.’ She smiled briefly for the first time during their conversation.
‘You are familiar with the work?’
‘I have never seen it myself, but I am aware of its value to the cathedral.’
‘You seem well acquainted with Sir Arthur.’
‘I have met him on a number of occasions. He was very helpful to me in the administration of my late husband’s estate,’ she replied quietly.
‘I see.’
‘And you are wondering, Mr Ravenscroft, if I am not mistaken, as to why I am known as Mrs Marchmont, when my real name is apparently Mrs Kelly.’
‘I must admit that the thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Always the detective! Marchmont was my maiden name. After his death, and the disgrace he had brought upon us by his behaviour, I thought it prudent to revert back to my former family name. So you see, there is nothing at all sinister in my motives. I am sorry to have to disappoint you on this occasion.’
‘I had thought that there was a logical explanation,’ said Ravenscroft looking away. ‘Do you live in London now?’
‘No. I purchased a small property just outside Worcester, in the village of Hallow, after I left Malvern. Why do you ask?’
‘Last year, I thought I saw you in London — and you said you were waiting for the London train today.’
‘You must have been mistaken. I have not been to the capital for some years now. Today I am awaiting the arrival of the London train. I am meeting an old friend who is to stay with me.’
Ravenscroft felt that she was not telling the truth, but knew that it would be futile to continue with that line of questioning. ‘And how is your situation now, since we last spoke?’ he enquired, without thinking what he was asking.
‘Are you asking, Mr Ravenscroft, if I still feel bitterness over the cause of the death of my husband and son? Of course: that pain can never go away. Why should it?’ she replied, a look of resignation forming in her eyes.
‘Then I am sorry,’ was all that he could say.
‘You might be interested to learn that Sir Arthur has asked me to marry him,’ she said suddenly.
‘I had no idea-’ said Ravenscroft, but she cut him short.
‘I think, Inspector, you are trying to be over polite. You have seen me there twice, at Sir Arthur’s house, and no doubt observed how the gentleman addressed me.’
‘And have you accepted him?’
‘Now you are being impolite.’
‘Forgive me, my dear lady,’ said Ravenscroft, uncomfortable and wishing that his train would arrive.
‘Sir Arthur is a good man. He is also very lonely since the death of his first wife. He thinks I could bring him happiness. In that, he is mistaken. To answer your question, Inspector — no, I will not be accepting his proposal. My destiny lies elsewhere. I am not well; the illness that struck down my husband and my son, has I fear, also begun to cast its shadow over me. No, please do not say that you are sorry for my condition. I would find such sympathy patronizing.’
‘I was merely going to say that it is a shame that you are unable to bring some comfort to Sir Arthur. Now that his daughter has been taken into custody, he will have need of friends, as indeed will you.’
Mrs Kelly reached into the pocket on her dress, and in so doing a small packet dropped on to the floor of the waiting-room, startling its owner as it did so.
‘Allow me,’ said Ravenscroft, leaning down and reaching out for the packet. As he grasped it, however, its contents — three brass rings — rolled away from his feet. He rose from his seat and, recovering the rings, wrapped them in the paper, and handed them back to their owner. The old man in the corner of the waiting-room coughed and pulled his hat further down over his face.
‘Thank you, Mr Ravenscroft,’ she said, replacing it in her pocket, ‘I should take greater care.’
Ravenscroft smiled — and wondered why she should be carrying three such items on her person.
‘And how are you?’ she asked quickly, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Do you still live in London?’
‘Unfortunately so,’ he replied, resuming his seat.
‘I think you would rather be here in Worcester — or Ledbury.’
‘I would indeed. Worcester is a pleasant enough city,’ he replied, wondering why his companion should have mentioned the latter place.