The Inspector Ravenscroft Mysteries Box Set Read online

  THE

  INSPECTOR

  RAVENSCROFT

  MYSTERIES

  Six Captivating Historical Murder Mysteries

  KERRY TOMBS

  Click on the book you want to go to:

  BOOK 1: THE MALVERN MURDERS

  BOOK 2: THE WORCESTER WHISPERERS

  BOOK 3: THE LEDBURY LAMPLIGHTERS

  BOOK 4: THE TEWKESBURY TOMB

  BOOK 5: THE DROITWICH DECEIVERS

  BOOK 6: THE PERSHORE POISONERS

  This box set first published 2020

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  THE MALVERN MURDERS first published 2006

  THE WORCESTER WHISPERERS first published 2008

  THE LEDBURY LAMPLIGHTERS first published 2009

  THE TEWKESBURY TOMB first published 2011

  THE DROITWICH DECEIVERS first published 2012

  THE PERSHORE POISONERS first published 2014

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  ©Kerry Tombs

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  ISBN 978-1-78931-477-9

  CONTENTS FOR ALL BOOKS

  Book 1: THE MALVERN MURDERS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  Book 2: THE WORCESTER WHISPERERS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  INTERLUDE

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  INTERLUDE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  INTERLUDE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Book 3: THE LEDBURY LAMPLIGHTERS

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  INTERLUDE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  INTERLUDE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  POSTSCRIPT

  Book 4: THE TEWKESBURY TOMB

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  POSTSCRIPT

  Book 5: THE DROITWICH DECEIVERS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  POSTSCRIPT

  Book 6: THE PERSHORE POISONERS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ALSO BY KERRY TOMBS

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS

  A SELECTION OF BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY

  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG FOR US READERS

  Book 1:

  THE MALVERN

  MURDERS

  A captivating Victorian murder mystery

  Kerry Tombs

  For Joan, who came to Malvern and stayed,

  and to Samuel, who joined us there.

  PROLOGUE

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  LONDON, 1887

  Ravenscroft looked down at the bundle of rags that lay at his feet, hoping to see some signs of life from within. The only light came from the end of the alleyway and was of little help to him.

  He lowered one knee to the rough cobbles and turned back the clothes, knowing what he would find. He had seen many dead bodies before, here in Whitechapel, over the previous few years, but it still came as a shock to him. The victim was a young girl, probably no older than twelve years of age. There were red marks round her throat where she had been strangled. A small trickle of blood, from a wound at the back of her head caused when she had hit the ground, was already staining her clothes. He placed his hand on her face; the body was still warm. A few minutes earlier she would have been making her way along the alleyways that criss-crossed this part of London, perhaps on her way home after visiting some friends or returning from her work in one of the nearby factories. She had been someone’s daughter, sister, friend, helper — and now the people that had been known her would be anxiously awaiting her arrival, wondering what was keeping her and why she had not returned.

  Ravenscroft searched in the pocket of the girl’s apron, placing the contents on the ground. A broken comb, two farthings and the remains of a half-eaten sweet were all that was left behind — all that was left of a life of so few years. In a few minutes he would summon his colleagues and she would be taken away; notices would be posted in the vicinity and within a day or so someone would reclaim the body — and after the inquest she would be buried in an unmarked grave, mourned for a while by those that had known her, but ignored by all those who would come after her. Life in Whitechapel would continue, as it had done before, and whoever had committed this deed would fade back into the shadows, until perhaps someone who knew him gave him away — or worse still, until he struck again.

  He covered over the face of the young girl with her shawl, and as he did so, he suddenly became aware of another’s presence further down the darkened alleyway. His first impulse was to cry out and request the other’s assistance, but then the possibility that it might be the perpetrator of this terrible outrage who now stood silently in the shadows took root in his mind. Ravenscroft realised th
at he must have arrived on the scene only seconds after the girl had been killed. Her attacker, who must now face a blocked exit at the end of the walkway, had in all probability retreated into the darkness and was waiting his opportunity to make good his escape.

  Slowly Ravenscroft rose to his feet and turned in the direction where he sensed the killer was waiting.

  ‘Now then, sir. Step forward and show yourself!’ He tried to make his voice confident and full of authority, but he could feel a cold sweat forming on the inside of his collar.

  He waited for a few seconds, and receiving no reply took a step forwards.

  ‘It’s no good you know. My colleagues will be here in a minute. You cannot escape—’ but before he could finish, he found himself thrown against the wall by a force that had emerged from the darkness. Instinctively he reached for his whistle from his coat pocket as his attacker pounded down the narrow passageway.

  Ravenscroft sprang to his feet, gave a quick blast on his whistle, and set off in quick pursuit. As he reached the end of the alleyway, he could see his attacker running away from him down the street. A tall figure, his black cloak flapping behind him. Ravenscroft knew that he stood little chance of keeping up with him, even less of apprehending him, but he also knew that he would be expected to make the effort at least. There always remained the possibility that the other would fall or be caught either by one of his colleagues or a passer-by.

  He blew his whistle again and shouted, ‘Stop!’ in a strange voice that seemed unlike his own, before resuming the chase.

  The cloak turned left at the end of the thoroughfare. By the time Ravenscroft reached the corner he could feel his breath coming in wheezing gasps, and his face wet with perspiration. He blew on his whistle again, but although the street was full of men returning home from work, old ladies and small children trading their wares, and young women offering their services, no one seemed to be at all interested in either the gentleman in the black cloak or in his pursuer.

  He could still see his quarry in the distance and redoubled his efforts. If only the other would turn, perhaps he would be able to catch a glimpse of his features under one of the flickering lights. There was always the chance that Ravenscroft had encountered him in the past, and that such a simple recognition would provide him with a later opportunity for apprehension, but it seemed that he was to be denied even that hope.

  Ravenscroft could feel his chest tightening as his lungs began to cloud over with the old affliction. Surely one of his colleagues must have heard the blast from his whistle and come to his aid?

  Turning around yet another corner, he briefly lost sight of the black cloak for a moment or so, as he pushed his way through the throng of people who seemed intent on blocking his way. As he drew his sleeve across his spectacles in a futile attempt to clear the sweat that was clouding his vision, he could feel his heart beating loudly and his head throbbing with pain.

  As the ever-decreasing black figure disappeared finally from view, Ravenscroft knew that the chase was almost at its end. As he fought for every breath in his body, he felt his world becoming increasingly darker. The buildings on either side began to crowd in on him, as the voices of the street receded into the distance.

  ‘Here look out, mate!’ shouted a voice, as he stumbled into one of the passers-by.

  Ravenscroft could feel his descent towards the ground and flung out one of his arms in a forlorn attempt to help steady his fall. A sharp pain vibrated through his body, as he hit the hard surface.

  As he looked up at the strange faces who stared down at him, he knew that he had again failed to carry out his duty — and felt the darkness of despair closing in upon him.

  Then he heard the sound of grinding glass, as someone stamped on his spectacles.

  * * *

  ‘Come!’

  Ravenscroft opened the door of the office and stepped inside, coughing as he did so.

  ‘Ah, Ravenscroft, take a seat. Be with you in a minute.’

  He inched forwards into the centre of the room and seated himself on the carefully placed chair. He hated this inner sanctum of the Yard, with its dusty carpet, drab furniture and rows of ancient ledgers. The familiar smells of damp, decaying wallpaper, and yesterday’s stale tobacco smoke, hung together in the air. The solitary, hissing gas lamp on the far wall barely penetrated the gloom and the fire, lit earlier in the day, gave out its last dying glow.

  Ravenscroft sighed and recalled the other times when he had been summoned to this room, when the interview had always been depressing, and when the outcome had always been bad — and he knew that after the events of the previous evening he could expect little difference this time. The old clock in the corner ticked out its relentless pattern of sound, as the Commissioner continued his writing.

  Ravenscroft attempted to stifle his cough, but without success.

  ‘Won’t keep you long,’ said his superior, busily engaged in writing on a sheet of paper.

  Ravenscroft gazed out of the tiny window, at the grey streets, and the enveloping fog beyond, and wished he was elsewhere.

  ‘Now then, Ravenscroft, this won’t do,’ said the Commissioner suddenly looking up from his work. ‘It will not do at all!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I did my best. He was just too quick for me,’ he offered in his own defence, but knowing that his argument would fall on unresponsive ears.

  ‘Yes, but it’s not exactly the first time, is it? Look at that fiasco last month, when you let that pickpocket walk out of the station without charging him, to say nothing of the time when that swindler walked out the back door of the bank, just as you were coming in through the front entrance.’

  ‘I wasn’t to know he was there, sir.’

  ‘Your conviction rate is the lowest in your division,’ said his superior, ignoring his last remark and studying an open file in front of him. ‘No, Ravenscroft, this will just not do. It will not do at all. Look at yourself, man. When was the last time you thought of purchasing a new suit? You look absolutely terrible.’

  ‘It’s my asthma, sir. I’ve been plagued with it since I was a boy.’

  ‘What’s that do with it? And what has happened to your head?’

  ‘I caught it on the pavement where I fell. The bruise should be gone in a day or so.’ He coughed again and felt his chest tightening, as it always did in moments of anxiety.

  ‘How old are you Ravenscroft? Forty-nine, is it?’

  ‘Forty-two last month, sir.’

  ‘Not married, are you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Pity, a good wife would take you in hand.’

  Ravenscroft allowed himself a brief smile.

  ‘I’m relieving you of duty, as from now,’ announced the Commissioner, closing the file shut with a finality that indicated the interview was nearly at its conclusion.

  ‘But, sir, we have a full case load at the present. If only—’ he began, though he knew already that his protest would have little success.

  ‘Abberline will take over your cases. I’m ordering you to take two weeks’ leave. I will review your future with this force upon your return.’

  The Commissioner picked up his pen again and resumed his writing. Ravenscroft rose slowly to his feet. He knew that it would be futile to engage in any further debate. He made his way across towards the door.

  ‘Malvern!’ shouted the other suddenly.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘Malvern! Go to Malvern and take the water cure. My wife went there last year and came back several pounds lighter and with a fresh glow in her cheeks. She swears by it. Yes, Malvern, that’s the place. It will do you a world of good. Plenty of fresh air and exercise, that’s what you need. Malvern might also help to get rid of that damn cough of yours.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Ravenscroft unenthusiastically.

  He closed the door behind him and made his slow way down the old, well-worn staircase, and along the dank corridor, until he emerged once more into the fog-bound streets of London.


  * * *

  The guard had already raised his flag as Ravenscroft hurriedly made his way along platform number 7 of Paddington Station. The reception hall had been filled with crowds of people, and he had been forced to queue for his ticket and was now in grave danger of the train leaving before he could find a seat. He peered anxiously into several of the compartments but found them all fully occupied. He paused for a moment and lowered his case to the floor, as his cough threatened to erupt for the third time since his arrival at the station.

  At the sound of a whistle blowing, he realised that the train was about to leave without him. Quickly he swept up his case, dashed further along the platform and flung open one of the doors just as the train began to move.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he apologised breathlessly to his fellow passengers, as he hastily placed his case on the rack and found himself sitting in the only available seat. He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow and spectacles, coughing again as he did so, before letting out a deep sigh. At least he had not been compelled to wait for the next departure.

  As the train began to draw away from the station, Ravenscroft opened his newspaper and turned to one of the inside pages, where a certain story caught his attention.

  YOUNG FEMALE KILLED IN WHITECHAPEL

  On Tuesday evening a young female, not above thirteen years of age, was found murdered in the Whitechapel area of London. An inquest held yesterday revealed that the girl had been strangled by a person or persons unknown in a narrow alleyway leading off Brick Lane. At present the identity of the girl is unknown, but we have learned that the police authorities have posted several bills with details of her identity in the hope that someone who knows the deceased may come forward to claim her. Several citizens of the area stated that they saw a tall figure wearing a long black cloak leaving the scene of the crime in some haste. We learn that a member of the local constabulary gave chase but that he was unsuccessful in his attempts to apprehend the felon . . .

  Ravenscroft lowered his paper — ‘a member of the local constabulary gave chase but was unsuccessful’. He closed his newspaper, placed his head on the back of his seat and looked out of the window. The train was beginning to pick up speed as it passed the long rows of ugly tenement buildings on either side of the track.