The Pershore Poisoners (6 page)

‘I wish you good day, ladies. You have been most helpful,’ said Ravenscroft as he and Crabb were shown through the door.

‘Well they seem a couple of nice ladies,’ remarked Crabb after the door had been closed behind them. ‘Wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’

Ravenscoft smiled. ‘It is no use our calling upon Mr Claybourne at present, as both the maid and Talbot said that he was away in London. So, I think we will go upstairs and see if we can find Miss Martin.’

Ravenscroft and Crabb retraced the steps of their previous visit and found themselves again on the second-floor landing where the dead man, Jones, had lodged, and knocked on the door opposite.

‘Good morning. Miss Martin, I presume?’ asked Ravenscroft addressing the tall, slim, young lady who opened the door to them. ‘My name is Ravenscroft, Inspector Ravenscroft. I wonder if I might have a few words with you regarding the late Mr Jones?’

‘Yes of course. Mr Talbot mentioned that you had called yesterday,’ replied the woman leading the way into the small sitting room. ‘Do please sit down, inspector.’

Ravenscroft accepted the chair and glanced briefly round the simply furnished room.

‘I was given to understand from Talbot that poor Mister Jones had died through eating too much of the soup,’ said Miss Martin sitting down on a blue, buttonbacked sewing chair and looking directly at Ravenscroft over the top of her spectacles.

‘That is what we were led to believe yesterday, but new
evidence has come to light to suggest that Mr Jones was deliberately poisoned,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘That is awful – but how?’

‘Someone put poison in his tawny, miss,’ said Crabb.

‘How terrible, but I don’t understand, why would anyone do such a thing?’ asked the young woman quickly rising from the chair, and walking across to the window, where she looked anxiously through the glass.

‘That is what we would like to find out,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘But he was such a nice gentleman. Poison, you said? I cannot comprehend such a deed.’

‘Forgive me, Miss Martin, I did not wish to cause you any alarm. May I ask if you had formed some attachment to the said gentleman?’ asked Ravenscroft rather hesitantly.

‘No. No, of course I had not. I had only known Mr Jones for just under two weeks. We had conversed once or twice together, that is all. Why do you ask such a question?’ asked Miss Martin.

‘It is just that Miss Fanshaw recalled you and Mr Jones talking together on the landing one evening,’ said Ravenscroft realizing that if he was to arrive at the truth regarding the relationship he would have to be more forthright in his questioning.

‘I do not recall such a conversation. Miss Fanshaw must be mistaken. The only time when I spoke with Mr Jones was at the dinner table when others were present,’ replied Miss Martin abruptly turning round to face Ravenscroft.

‘So you cannot provide us with any information, miss, regarding the said gentleman?’ asked Crabb.

‘No.’

‘He never spoke of where he had lived before his arrival here, or where he intended going in the future?’ asked Ravenscroft.

‘No. I have told you that Mr Jones did not confide in me,’
said the lady resuming her seat and placing her hands tightly together on her lap.

‘There has been talk of a letter,’ said Ravenscroft leaning forwards. ‘Apparently Mr Jones was awaiting delivery of a letter.’

‘I know of no such letter. Mr Jones did not mention anything about a letter to me.’

‘Can you think of anyone at Talbots’ who might have borne a grudge against Mr Jones?’

‘No. As I said Mr Jones was a very quiet man. He kept very much to himself. I would not have known if he had any enemies.’

‘Did you ever observe Mr Jones in conversation with any of the other residents? continued Ravenscroft.

‘No. As I said, he kept very much to himself.’

‘May I ask how long you have lived here at Talbots’ Miss Martin?’ asked Ravenscroft.

‘Why do you ask such a question? It surely cannot have any relevance to the death of Mr Jones.’

‘We are just trying to find out as much as we can about the residents here,’ said Ravenscroft, feeling somewhat disconcerted by the young lady’s offhand manner.

‘Because you believe that one of us may have poisoned Mr Jones?’

‘Indeed, Miss Martin. Someone in this house put poison in Mr Jones’s drink, and Constable Crabb and I have a duty to reveal and apprehend the culprit.’

‘I see. Well, to answer your question, inspector, I have resided here for the past three years. I have a small annuity left to me by my aunt which enables me to live a comfortable, but careful existence. Now, if that is all I can tell you …’ said Miss Martin rising quickly from her seat.

‘What can you tell me about the other guests here?’ asked Ravenscroft.

‘I do not see that it is my concern to pass any comment on other people.’

‘It would greatly help us in our inquiries, Miss Martin, if you could assist us in this matter,’ persisted Ravenscroft.

‘The two Miss Fanshaws have lived here the longest. Professor Jacobson came originally from Russia I believe, and his wife from London. Mr Claybourne is a commercial gentleman and is only with us for two or three days each week. Count Turco is a musician from Italy, and Mr. Cherrington I know little of as he has only been with us for a few weeks. That is all I can tell you, Inspector Ravenscroft.’

‘And Talbot?’ asked Ravenscroft keen to observe the other’s reaction.

‘I have little to do with either Mr Talbot or his wife,’ replied Miss Martin turning away from Ravenscroft and looking directly across towards the window once more.

‘Thank you, Miss Martin,’ said Ravenscroft rising to his feet. ‘I appreciate your assistance.’

‘I will show you out, inspector. I still cannot comprehend why anyone here would have wanted Mr Jones dead.’

‘Well someone did, miss,’ said Crabb.

‘Thank you again, Miss Martin,’ said Ravenscroft as he and Crabb left the room.

‘She’s hiding something, sir,’ whispered Crabb after the door had been closed.

‘I think you are correct, Tom. She was certainly very defensive in her answers. I think she knows more about the dead man than she is telling us, and did you see how she turned away when I mentioned Talbot. You may recall that Mrs Talbot hinted that her husband made have had some association with Miss Martin.’

‘Young lady all alone like that, with limited means, must feel
vulnerable at times.’

‘Yes. I wonder why she has never married? Plain, but not unattractive, probably in her late twenties. Not unnatural that she could have been drawn towards our Mr Jones,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Anyone would have been an improvement on Talbot,’ added Crabb.

‘I wonder what bought her here to Pershore? And if Talbot had been making unwelcome advances towards Miss Martin, why then did she not just leave?’

‘Limited funds?’ suggested Crabb. ‘Talbots’ is cheap.’

‘You are probably right.’

‘Shall we go back and question her more?’

‘No, we will leave that until we have interviewed the other guests. We still have one more flight. Listen, I think I can hear the sound of a violin being played,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Sounds a bit sad to me,’ remarked Crabb.

The two men followed the plaintive melody up the winding creaking staircase until they found themselves on a narrow darkened landing.

‘This must be where the musician Turco resides,’ said Ravenscroft banging on one of the two doors.

The music ceased and was shortly followed by the abrupt opening of the door.

‘Who is it that dares to disturb the wonderful tunes of the glorious maestro Paganini?’ enquired a bearded man glaring at Ravenscroft.

‘I trust I have the honour of addressing Count Turco,’ replied Ravenscroft. ‘Forgive the intrusion, count.’

‘Music is a sacred thing, sir. He who violates its flow has-a no inner feeling,’ said the man brandishing a violin bow in the detective’s direction.

‘My name is Inspector Ravenscroft. This is my colleague
Constable Crabb. We would like a few words with you regarding the late Mr Jones. If you could spare us some minutes of your time, we would be obliged.’

The musician flung open the rest of the door, and with a flourish indicated that the two policemen should enter.

Ravenscroft found himself in a near empty room where the only contents appeared to be a collection of music scores scattered around the floor, and a music stand which took centre place on a faded Turkish mat which had seen better days. The man’s wayward black hair, piercing green eyes and dirty bottle-green waistcoat and grubby breeches seemed to complement the spartan surroundings.

‘And what would you-a like to know?’ snapped the occupant.

‘You are aware that your fellow lodger Mr Jones was poisoned?’ began Ravenscroft.

‘That awful soup! I told them the soup was bad. They dare to call it a soup! This English food it is so bad, so bad!’ exclaimed Turco waving his violin in the air before leaning it against a wall.

‘No, it was not the soup. We have reason to believe that someone put poison in Mr Jones’s port.’

‘Hah! So it was not-a the soup at all. Perhaps it should have been. I know nothing of any poison. Now you-a go, and leave me with the beautiful Paganini. Yes?’

‘I wonder if you could tell us anything about the deceased man?’ asked Ravenscroft ignoring the last request.

‘Bah! Signor Jones, he-a no like my playing. He complain. Said I play to loudly, and that he could not sleep at night. He not appreciate good music. He should be glad I play. People pay good money to hear Turco play.’

‘So you had words with Mr Jones?’ asked Ravenscroft becoming interested in the Italian’s replies.

‘I-a close the door on him when he complain! No one else,
they no complain. Signor Cherrington opposite he no complain. Miss Martin below, she no complain. Talbot he no complain. So why does Jones complain? I do not understand this man. He has no soul. Where is his soul, I ask you?’

‘Gone to heaven now, sir,’ Crabb could not help remarking.

‘No, signor, he is-a not with the angels! Angels they like-a music. They would not want him. Let the devil have him. He would be good company for the Devil. Devil not like-a music.’

Ravenscroft smiled. ‘Did you and Mr Jones ever come to blows?’

‘Blows! I am not a man of violence, sir. Turco, he is a peaceful man. He come from Naples. The Turcos of-a Naples they are not a violent race. Turcos-a love Napoli! They love the sun, and the pasta, and above all the music. Above all Turco he love Paganini!’ continued Turco gradually becoming more animated.

‘Did you ever speak with Mr Jones about anything else?’

‘I-a not speak with Jones. Turco he not concern himself with such people!’

‘Did you see anyone tampering with the bottle of port on the night he died?’ asked Ravenscroft changing his line of questioning.

‘No. I see no one. Turco he see-a nothing.’

‘Did you at any time see Mr Jones in conversation with anyone else in the house?’

‘No. Jones he is no concern of mine. I not concerned who talk with him. No one talk with him. He has no soul.’

‘When did you come to this county, count?’ enquired Ravenscoft intrigued to discover more about the musician’s history.

‘Turco he leave his beloved Napoli twenty years ago. Why, I ask myself? Why do I come here and stay in this God-forsaken country? Is it the food? No, food is too cold and tasteless. Is it
the weather? No, weather is bad. Always it-a rains. The sun, he often disappears. Why is it always winter here?’

‘So why do you stay, sir?’ asked Crabb.

‘I stay for the music. It is the music that keeps me here.’

‘And where do you play, sir?’ asked Ravenscroft.

‘You have not heard of the great Turco? Turco, the famous violinist. The man of a thousand melodies,’ boasted the musician.

‘I am afraid not,’ replied Ravenscroft.

‘I play in Birmingham, at the Town Hall, with the great orchestras. I go to London and play with the orchestras there. I go to Liverpool and I play there. Everywhere Turco he is in great demand. The people they applaud the great Turco. They like-a my playing. They want for nothing more, and Turco he gives the people what they want. They love my Paganini. They love Turco. Paganini and I, we make them cry, we make them laugh, we make them smile.’

‘And how long have you lived here at Talbots’, count?’ interrupted Ravenscroft.

‘I live here for past five years.’

‘You have never thought of moving elsewhere?’ suggested Ravenscroft.

‘I have my violin. I have my music. Turco he want for nothing else.’

‘Well thank you, count. We will leave you to continue with your music. Apologies for the interruption,’ said Ravenscroft beginning to take his leave.

‘You catch this infidel who poison this Jones?’

‘We intend to do our very best, sir.’

‘I no kill Jones. He no like my music, but Turco he is not a murderer,’ protested the violinist.

‘No one suggested that you were, sir,’ said Ravenscroft. ‘Good day to you. Oh, one more thing, count. Did you send me
a letter concerning the death of Mr Jones?’

‘What letter? Turco he no send letters to anyone!’ said the violinist with a final gesture as he closed the door.

‘Well, he is a queer fish and no mistake,’ remarked Crabb as he and Ravenscroft stood on the landing once more.

‘Those Italians can sometimes be quite excitable.’

‘You think he poisoned Jones?’

‘Why, because our Mr Jones did not like his playing? Perhaps, but probably not. One thing I found very strange though. If Turco is as famous a musician as he makes out, playing
everywhere
from London to Birmingham and Liverpool, why is he still living in such a down-at-heel place as this? No, I think our Count Turco is prone to exaggeration. Either that or he is not all that he makes himself out to be. Anyway, let’s try and interview this Mr Cherrington and see what we can find out about him,’ said Ravenscroft tapping on the other door.

Receiving no reply, Ravenscroft repeated the action.

‘Seems as though he is out, sir,’ said Crabb.