The Ranfield Files: The Mystery of Ravencroft Manor

A Story by Danny-Dark0

Set in Victorian era England, Jack Ranfield is a surly, hard-bitten, but gifted detective whose manner and prickly demeanor have left him working alone. Here he is sent out of his comfort zone...

Chapter I

I wake, rub my heavy eyes and shake my head in a daze, I feel as though I've just been cruelly roused from a blissful existence. The carriage driver continues to incessantly prattle on about something or other, I'm not really listening, probably why I fell asleep, hollow conversation is my personal lullaby. Who needed the delicate, hypnotic strokes of Beethoven's great 'Moonlight Sonata' when you have 'Idle O Conversation' by General Populace, and that's free too, complete with unlimited reruns.
I brush my slightly worn, long coat down and adjust my top hat. I shift awkwardly in this laughably tiny box with windows.
A large expanse of bleak countryside now greets me as I look to my right. Sweeping fields of parched grass stretch as far as I can see. Imposing, slightly withered trees dot the land and our path, all with outstretched branches, now stripped of their summer splendor. The harsh wind carries their mighty partially naked arms forward and they swish in unison, almost as if they were all in some kind of fleeting embrace, though anything is preferable to the claustrophobic clutch of London's concrete jungle, the seemingly endless nest of dismal heaps of bricks that choked the life out of me like some unholy disease.
The clock of the horse hooves against the hard ground is providing the only ambience in this strange place, that and the wretched squawking of the driver of course.
This clear air is somewhat comforting, though the overwhelming stench of excrement, beer and smoke is hardly fair competition really. My lungs now feel as if they have been finally liberated from an oppressive smog that it's a wonder I'm not going through withdrawal and choking merely on the purity of the air, the body adapts I guess.
I do truly despise these Hansom cabs or any form of public transport in which I'm forced to endure long distances. This is a rare instance and one I hope will not be repeated. The horse I can tolerate, at least it doesn't speak.

“-And that's how I met Doris, a fine woman she is sir.” I hear the driver in the back say with unbearable enthusiasm, it appears the start and middle of this obviously joyful tale are lost on me but I appeared to have been awake for the best part: the end.

“I see...” I utter with feigned interest, “...Is it much farther to the manor?” I just wanted to be free from this prison, and the shackles of stale conversation gradually gnawing at my soul.

“No sir, the horses are in good spirits today so we should get there in twenty minutes no less. They enjoy these scenic routes.”

Did I ask whether the horses were of a good deposition I thought, or that..never mind and twenty minutes? I sigh, heavily, as if I'm bearing the weight of this man's unendurable verbosity that it's a wonder that this infernal carriage hasn't toppled over. Not only that but every mile is going to cost me an additional eightpence! No wonder the driver is so persistently jolly, he's going to leave me completely out of pocket at this rate. If so I'm the most elegantly dressed pauper that ever lived. I really did begin to wonder what possessed my superiors to send me all the way out here, I mean I obviously knew why but why ME exactly? Was I in fact been cast out to join the country hierarchy of cows, pigs and chickens? If so I welcomed this change in management.

“What brings you this far out, sir?” he questions.

I scoff almost at the man's imprudence, and "Sir?" a common courtesy I know and a term I had grown accustomed to now in my profession but never really felt comfortable with. I had always thought it was a courtesy reserved only for the upper 'echelons' of society, the kind who lived in lofty palaces that constantly smelt of magnolia, whose children were either taught by a perfumed governess or shipped off to school at birth, with the naval string still attached. I was as far from that as you could possibly be 30 years or so ago, growing up in the dreary slums of Southwalk. The fact he was addressing me as such was purely down to my dress sense (not my choice I might add, police-issue crap..) and the fact that these cabs were rather expensive.

"You can drop the 'sir'." I say with a certain icy undercurrent. "And I'm afraid I cannot discuss that. Police business.”

The usual line we use, though for me it was more a trusty parry to ward off the ferocious, relentless assault of banal conversation both in my professional and personal life.
Though I had revealed I was now police, a foolish slip of the tongue on my part.
I shake my head in frustration, what were you thinking Jack! I hope this did not cost me further torment, less of all more torturous questions that did not bode well for my sanity.

“Oh, I see. Of course...Mr.”

A wave of relief came over me, I do like these short exchanges, as they are so rare. They were like an exotic bird, one with a resplendent plumage, gliding gracefully across a drab little stretch of water with a radiant beauty that was almost tangible. Perhaps he is learning after all, and 'Mr' is certainly an improvement.

“I hear strange stories from that place. Word carries see, like the wind.” a sense of unease in his intolerably gravelly voice.

Alas, I spoke too soon, the vicious cycle continues. I tried to summon a particularly wounding retort that would put an end to this madness, but he was my only means of getting there, plus he did present an intriguing insight for once. It seems I was at an impasse.

“...What kind of strange stories?” I question, for once showing a level of interest in the man that almost made me shudder but this could be relevant to my case, could be.

“Well sir...I mean Mr, when a friend of mine used to live in the nearby village of Renwick many years ago he said that the lord who lives up there in Ravencroft Manor was a most strange fellow,” define 'strange' I thought to myself, “he said he would never leave his house, and the lights were always on even in the dead of night,” a dramatic tone to his voice, like he was reciting Shakespeare or something, “not to mention the reports of loud, strange noises he heard from the direction of that house.”

Hardly strange I thought to myself, I've heard stranger stories echo from the hollowed halls of a Presbyterian convent, namely the kind of society I was a part of once, a part of my life I wish to forget though. We parted ways when God couldn't account for man's indomitable stupidity and in the unimaginable suffering I have witnessed and have endured myself...or that the answers I received in response to those injustices were not remotely satisfactory to me. After all, 'adversity is the first path to the truth' Byron once wrote in one of his poems but I digress. I need to focus on the case at hand.

“Oh look, you can see the village of Renwick now.” the driver shouts with positive relish, the thrust of his whip compels the horse to move faster as we race forward with velocity.

I can now faintly see a series of what look to be thatched buildings in the near distance, huddled together with what appears to be the faint amber pulses of street lamps signalling the start of the evening..is that late already?! Blimey! I wonder if this journey will be recorded in the annals of exploration next to the likes of the great Captain Cook or Drake? It should, though this was one was devoid of any excitement.
It is refreshing to see that this quiet corner of England has not yet been swallowed up by the merciless tide of the Industrial Revolution. There is a certain tranquillity to the stillness of this landscape, as bleak as it appears, though the thick clouds I see overhead that hang over this village like an ominous shroud did certainly accentuate that bleakness.

“Where do you wish for me to drop you?” he stops.

I open the small door and stand up to get a better look, that and to be finally free from this box. A frigid wind immediately slaps me-bloody hell! I guess being so open does have it's disadvantages. That hit me as hard as any beer-swilling strumpet, speaking from personal experience of course...
I look ahead and see the distinct thatched buildings in sharper focus now. A large gathering of quaint, little cottages clumped together on either side with a large gravel footpath that divides them and seemingly runs right through the village. Small picket fences circle the properties and wisps of smoke billows out of some of chimneys, a wondrous concoction of savoury smells fill my nose, heavenly! The nondescript street lamps sparsely line either side of the path, bathing the place in a faint almost mystical yellow glow. It's like walking into an oil painting, the kind that adorned the walls of the chapel where I was taught.

“Is there an inn or pub here?” I reply looking back at the driver. His weather-beaten, spectacled face partially buried under bushy grey muttonchops.

"Why yes of course, the first cottage on the right." he points to the larger of the dwellings. "Crawford Hall."

Inns or alehouses are always an invaluable resource for me, and in a village like this the owner or patrons are bound to give some useful insight into this place before I venture to the manor. In addition I would be out here for a while so it only made sense to lodge here too.

"I see, well...thank you. How much?" I did dread the cost, was this one journey going to cost me a month's rent? Luckily most of my expenses were at least covered, my office better compensate me for this. I reach into my inside coat pocket and pull out my wallet.

The driver mutters to himself and eyes my uniform intently, "Well, since you are a policeman, a respectable profession, I will give a discount. I'll round it off to £1 and two shillings."

A generous man, he has certainly gone up in my estimation. "I'm grateful, thank you." I hand him a large handful of coins and flick him a florin.

"Thank you, best of luck to you." he smiles and nods.

I finally step off the carriage onto solid ground and I walk slowly towards the inn. It appears my case is about to finally begin, and I'm a long way from home.