The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

Violet

  CHAPTER 7

  West Road

  Lawrence got his wish to see West Ham Park about twenty-five minutes after leaving Buxton Road when Gil Cooper used it as a shortcut to Portway. The park was pleasant as parks go but Lawrence couldn't visit the area he wanted to see for fear of alerting Cooper to his intentions. He would rather have walked to West Road alone but Gilbert Cooper insisted on showing him the route. No doubt the man was trying to be friendly. Lawrence didn't want to offend his hosts' neighbour and tolerated the endless stream of gossip as they walked without comment. Gil Cooper was a jocular man, with a story for every circumstance. His ability to indulge in small talk without requiring a reply left Lawrence almost impressed. Almost, but not entirely. Despite barely having to take part in the conversation, Lawrence would rather have done without it.

  Having left the green lawns of the park, they crossed over Portway and soon arrived in West Road. Lawrence was about to thank Cooper and say his goodbyes when the man unexpectedly strode to the front door of number one and hammered loudly.

  "What are you doing?" asked Lawrence alarmed.

  "Introducing you to William Donaldson," said Gil. "He's lived here for twenty years."

  "Right," Lawrence said, feeling uncomfortable. He hadn't planned to speak to anyone unless it happened spontaneously and he was ill-prepared. He half hoped that Donaldson was out, but within moments the door opened, and a bearded man in his late fifties appeared.

  "Gilbert. How are you?" he asked, thrusting his hand forward. Lawrence detected a faint Scottish accent.

  "Well, my back is still giving me gip, but it could be worse." Gil Cooper smiled ruefully.

  "Get that woman of yours to make up a poultice," said Donaldson.

  "She has, and it didn't work. Now, I want to introduce you to Mr Harpham. He is a Suffolk reporter and has come here to write a piece on some of our crimes."

  "Pleased to meet you." Donaldson offered his hand, and Lawrence shook it firmly. "Why West Ham?"

  "I don't know. My editor particularly asked for an article on historical crimes. Perhaps he didn't think ours were interesting enough," quipped Lawrence disingenuously. It seemed to satisfy Donaldson.

  "I thought you could help," said Gil Cooper, "as you've lived here for a long time. I've told Mr Harpham about the local happenings, and he's expressed an interest in the missing girls. I expect you can recall the details."

  "I suppose so," said Donaldson reluctantly. "What do you want to know?"

  "Whatever you can remember at this stage," said Lawrence. "its early days."

  "You won't write about me?"

  "Of course not. It's the crimes themselves that are important."

  "You know the police never solved them?"

  "Hence my brief," said Lawrence, "unsolved crimes."

  "Come through," said Donaldson. "You too, Gil."

  "No. I must go to work later. I'll wander back now."

  Donaldson waved a hand in acknowledgement, then directed Lawrence through a door which he expected to lead into a parlour. But as Lawrence entered, he realised its function was utilitarian. A large, mahogany wooden desk dominated the room while wooden cabinets surrounded each side. Several dozen hooks peppered a noticeboard hanging from the wall, most of which contained keys.

  "Oh," said Lawrence.

  "It's my office," said Donaldson. "I'm a house agent."

  "I see. You operate from home?"

  "I do. I am fortunate to have ample space to run both my domestic and business affairs."

  "I'm sorry to intrude on you," said Lawrence. "I came to look at the area with no intention of troubling anyone. Mr Cooper took the decision out of my hands."

  "I'm free at the moment," said William Donaldson. "And Gilbert is an impulsive man. I'm sure he was only trying to help. He's right, you know. I've lived here for a long time, and I can tell you a certain amount about the girls, though I am sure you would get more from the police."

  "They have no reason to cooperate with me," said Lawrence, ruefully. "Though the same applies to you, and I am grateful for your willingness to talk."

  "What have you heard so far?"

  "I know of seven unsolved deaths or disappearances," said Lawrence. "All female – three in West Ham, three in Walthamstow and one in Barking."

  Donaldson nodded. "I suspect that there are more than that," he said. "And I am not alone in my thinking. Now, I am not prepared to discuss the Walthamstow crimes. I don't know enough about them. But I'll talk about what happened here. Take a seat."

  Lawrence sat, opened his notebook and began to write.

  #

  "She was a slip of a thing," said William Donaldson. "Eliza Carter, I mean. She was twelve years old when she disappeared, but a pale and underweight girl who could have passed for a child two years her junior. Eliza lived with her parents in Church Street. I never met them, but we all knew the girl because her sister lived in West Road. Number twenty-five, I think it was. Now, who was she married to?"

  Donaldson sighed and clicked his fingers as if trying to jog his memory. "Slaughter," he said triumphantly. "John Slaughter. He was a bricklayer and moved away a long time ago. Anyway, young Eliza was staying with the Slaughters the night before she disappeared, as she had so often before. That morning, she took some washing up the road to Mrs Sayer at number seventy, dropped it off and went on her way. Eliza usually took the back way across the common ground. But when they questioned Eliza's sister after the disappearance, she said she didn't see her going that way, so Eliza must have walked up West Road and along Portway near to West Ham Park instead."

  "I walked that route today," said Lawrence.

  "It's the only way you can go now. The strip of common land is long gone. They've built on it like every other piece of spare ground. I'm only surprised that they haven't demolished the park."

  "Isn't that to your advantage?"

  "Very much so from a business point of view," said Donaldson, "but I still remember my homeland and the fields and moors of Bannockburn. Sure, I have prospered here, but it is so dense with buildings that I will never acclimatise."

  Lawrence nodded sagely, knowing how much he would have regretted following Loveday to London. He had done the right thing in standing his ground.

  "But I digress. The last person who saw Eliza spotted her with a woman in a long Ulster and a black bonnet."

  "Did they name the woman?" asked Lawrence.

  "I couldn't say. The papers were full of rumours and speculation, but I didn't read every article, and it might have passed me by. Anyway, that was that. No more Eliza, although there was some excitement when they found her jacket."

  "Why?"

  "Well, it was a normal jacket, much like any other. But whoever took Eliza left her coat by the fence close to the corner of West Road. Inside the pocket, were a few crumbs from an arrowroot biscuit."

  "There's nothing unusual about that."

  "No, but whoever discarded the jacket didn't want it, yet they took the time and trouble to cut off all the buttons."

  "Strange," said Lawrence.

  "Isn't it? And they never found her, poor little mite. That was the last we heard of her."

  "And the other girl?"

  "Mary Seward? Yes. An almost identical story so full of coincidences that you won't believe your ears."

  "Try me."

  "Well, Mary was the youngest daughter of Lewis Seward. They lived at the top of West Road at number ninety-eight and had a married daughter. Guess where she lived?"

  "West Road?"

  "That's right. Both missing girls had married sisters in West Road. Mary's sister was Sarah Collier, and she married a baker. Surly looking chap if I remember. They lived at number fifty, which is slap bang in the middle of this road. Once again, the girl visited her sister to fetch some linen."

  "When?"

  "Good lord – my memory isn't that good. About a year later, I would say. But a decade has passed since then, and I can't remember the finer details.
Anyway, Mary Seward left home never to be seen again."

  "There are too many coincidences creating confusion," said Lawrence "It explains why this crime remains unsolved."

  "That's not the half of it," said Donaldson. "The best part of a decade passed. Both the Carters and the Sewards moved away, and we tried to forget all about it. Not easy when every mother and father was fearful of their child leaving the house. But after a few years, it seemed safe again, and life went on as before. Then, one day in January 1890, Millie Jeffs vanished from number thirty-eight."

  "West Road?"

  Donaldson nodded. "The Jeffs had lived here for about a decade in another house further up the road. They knew both of the missing girls, and when Amelia went out and did not return, Charles Jeffs suspected the worst."

  "You're not going to tell me she was visiting a married sister?"

  William Donaldson pursed his lips. "Not in this case and try not to be flippant. Millie grew up in this street. She was a quiet, unassuming girl, and we were fond of her."

  "I meant no offence," said Lawrence. "But I don't like coincidences, and there are too many here."

  "Yes, I can see your concern by the heavily underlined sentences in your notebook – more like a police officer than a reporter."

  Lawrence squirmed uncomfortably and changed the subject. "How old was Amelia?"

  "Fourteen, going on fifteen," said Donaldson. "She'd left the house to go to the fish shop in Church Street," he continued. "So, I expect she took the same route as the other girls – down West Road and along Portway."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "Because she never got as far as the fish shop. She was missing for the best part of two weeks. Then they found her lying dead on the floor in a newly built house at 126 Portway – a house, I might add, that is currently available to rent."

  Lawrence shook his head. "It's almost unbelievable," he said.

  "And tragic. Someone had strangled the girl with a piece of rope. She was foully outraged and thrust into the cupboard of the main bedroom. Her devastated parents, like the Carters and Sewards before them, moved out of West Road as soon as they could secure another property."

  "Were there any suspects?" asked Lawrence.

  "Several, notably the watchman and the builder at the property, both of whom were related. Joseph Roberts built the houses, and his father Samuel watched over them. The local children called Samuel 'Old Daddy Watchman,' and it was not a term of endearment, let me tell you. Samuel wasn't unkind, at least not as far as I know, but those houses were still and quiet, the roads incomplete and there was an extreme want of gas lighting. I disliked walking down Portway after dusk, and I'm a grown man. For a child, it must have been terrifying, pitch black and cold and made worse by candlelight shadows. Then, from nowhere, Old Daddy would shuffle past, lantern raised high, barking at them to stay away from the buildings. He must have put the fear of God into those young children. It's a mystery how someone lured Millie into that place under those circumstances, but they did, and the rest is a mystery."

  "Lured by whom? Not by Old Daddy Watchman?"

  "No. That's not what I meant. The coroner questioned Samuel Roberts at the inquest and found the Roberts family to be a tricky bunch, evasive and contradictory. They closed ranks, that's for sure. I won't try to tell you what subsequently happened to the key belonging to the house where they found Millie. It is almost impossible to recount with any level of accuracy, and the story is so wildly improbable that you would suspect me of making it up. But if you can lay your hands on an old newspaper report, you'd gain a lot from reading it."

  "I've got several newspapers," said Lawrence. "I haven't read them yet, but one will inevitably cover the story."

  "Make sure you do. Your readers will love it if you can simplify the account."

  "And that was the end of the killings as far as a connection to West Road was concerned?"

  Donaldson nodded. "Yes. No other crimes have touched us as closely as those three, although the Walthamstow outrages are too similar for comfort. And with Millie ill-used as she was, any comparable crime is of great concern. I've read about so many terrible crimes against children that these days, I avoid newspapers altogether."

  "What do you think happened to the missing girls?"

  William Donaldson rose from his seat and plucked a key from the hook. "I don't know," he said. "I can't offer you much of an opinion at all. Amelia Jeffs was the object of savage desire, but whether that was the case with the other two girls, I cannot say. But whoever murdered Millie, successfully gained access to a locked building. And if I were the police, I would have looked for people with a legitimate reason to be in an empty property."

  "Builders, carpenters, watchmen?"

  Donaldson nodded. "Anyone who might have known how to get his hands on the house key. Now, I don't wish to be rude, but I must press on."

  Lawrence rose and offered his hand. "Of course. I have taken up far too much of your time. But before I go, did you say that the house on Portway was available to rent?"

  "I did."

  "Through yourself?"

  "Sadly not. Manisier's got it."

  "Who?"

  "John Manisier. Number twenty-seven. But then, he's cheap, so what do you expect?"

  The question was clearly rhetorical, and Lawrence did not reply. Instead, he thanked William Donaldson and made his way back towards Portway.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Morse Family

  Thursday, February 16, 1899

  Dear Michael

  How can I begin to thank you for your prompt reply and all the useful information that you have sent me? It is so much more than I could have acquired myself. And yes, if it's easy to get copies of the last will and testaments of Ella and Arthur Morse, then please do so. This family intrigue me.

  I have added your information to my notebook. John and Anne Morse, whose former name is Howes which I now know thanks to your detective work, had eleven children. All but one has passed away. The eldest child was born in 1814 and the youngest arrived in 1830, so it is reasonable to assume that by 1899 most of them would be dead. But I no longer need to make guesses with the benefit of this week's progress. Your notes are invaluable, and together with my visit to the churchyard, I now have more information than I ever thought possible.

  At the start of the week, I knew nothing about their resting place. But I gave in to my inquisitive nature on Monday and made discreet inquiries about the Morse family to a lady in the tea shop. Elsie is a regular and has lived in Swaffham all her life. She is in her seventies, but sharp as a tack and interested in the church and all its doings. So, I asked her about the graveyard and casually dropped the Morse name into our conversation. I thought she would tell me about Ella's headstone. Instead, she started talking about another part of the church where they'd laid other Morse relatives to rest. Elsie was about to give me more details when the door opened, and a steady stream of customers kept me too busy for further discussion.

  I did not work on Tuesday and bumped into Elsie again while out shopping. Remembering my interest in the Morse family, she suggested we went for refreshments. Over coffee and cakes, she mentioned a glass window at the east end of the church where I could find a plaque dedicated to Ella Morse. Well, Ella must have held some influence within the town to have a window dedication, not to mention the funds with which to buy it. Had you not told me that her parents both died in 1830, I would have assumed that they were behind the acquisition of the window, but that cannot be the case. Anyway, that is not all that Elsie told me and what she said chilled me to the marrow. She says a manifestation haunts Swaffham churchyard and reports of it are plentiful. The apparition appears in the back garden of a cottage near Northwell Poll and walks towards the churchyard, searching in vain for a headstone. They say the grey figure is that of a woman. Some say it is Ella Morse.

  Michael, I don't believe in ghosts. I never have, and I never will. And though we could never account for the strange eve
nts at Chelmondiston Rectory, I did not consider them the work of the dead. To my mind, it was merely an unresolved investigation that we could have explained in scientific terms if we'd had more time. Yet an irrational part of me is irresistibly drawn to the notion of Ella Morse wandering the churchyard. I can see her in my mind's eye twisting and wrenching her stone trying to draw attention to some undiscovered ill. Giving voice to these thoughts is so unlike me. My rational mind is fighting fanciful ideas, but why? I wonder if I am having a nervous breakdown. Lawrence battled with depression, and I don't suppose he is the only one. Can a nervous complaint come from nowhere for no apparent reason? Or is it my sixth sense warning me to stay away? But I will not.

  Fear not, Michael. I have broken from this letter to make a pot of tea, and my reason has returned. I will carry on my story and do not pay any attention to my outpourings. Anyway, the next time I crossed the churchyard was yesterday. I heeded Elsie's words and located the graves to which she had directed me. The inscriptions on the stone lay crisp and clear, unmarred by the ravages of time. And having now seen all the Morse children's death dates, either from your research, or my own, I know that the last to die was Isabella in 1880.

  How clever of you to find her burial record and to have located clergy records relevant to several of the other children. I knew Jane Morse was Ella's sister but had not realised that she married a rector until your letter arrived. As you say, Jane died in 1860 and her brother Herbert, a curate in Emsworth, drowned in 1858. But you may not know that all but one child had already passed on by then. The eldest died aged forty-one and the youngest at not quite a year old. That's ten out of eleven children who died young with both their parents expiring unnaturally early. Only one member of the family still lives, and that is Margaret Ann Morse, who was born in 1821. I would like to seek her out, but I don't know on what pretext to approach her. Perhaps I could feign an interest in the glass window dedicated to her sister. Or tell her I would like to make a history of the brewery. I shall give it some thought. Or if you can think of a better way, then let me know.