The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  I lay there, shivering in fright, hardly daring to wipe the perspiration from my brow. It took a few moments to realise I'd been dreaming, but then something happened that made me wonder if I was still asleep. I heard the tapping sound again. It had not stopped, and a regular pulse of noise drummed against my window pane matching the rhythm of my racing heart, beat for beat. I clutched the bedspread to my chest and thought of rational reasons for the noise at my window. The regularity of the sound was unnatural, and I tricked myself into thinking that someone was trying to gain my attention. Perhaps they needed to deliver an important message that could not wait until morning.

  I fumbled on my nightstand, located a match and lit my night light. Then, taking a deep breath and with considerable trepidation, I threw back the curtains and peered into the inky blackness. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dark, and when they did, I saw nothing untoward. The sound had stopped, and nobody was outside – not a person or even a cat. It took a long time for sleep to come again. I lay awake until the small hours shivering and alone, trying to decide whether I had imagined the noise. Could I have thought I had woken when I was still in the dream? A kind of false consciousness. But much as I would like to, I don't believe it. Too much time had elapsed between my waking and opening the curtains. Enough time for rational thought and close consideration of circumstance which wouldn't occur in a dream state. Which only leaves one alternative – that someone or something was knocking at my window. And if so, who and why?

  Which brings me to the second matter – I left for work today intending to ask Elsie about the beneficiaries of the will, specifically the Halls. But my restless night chased this thought from my mind until now. I was still reeling from lack of sleep when I entered the tea shop. I had taken the long route from Norma's again. I will go through the graveyard soon, to prove I still can, but today was not the day for it. Olive took one look at my pale face and sat me down with a cup of strong tea and a bun. I could not have felt less like eating, but she insisted. I offered her no explanation for my condition but implied that I suffered from insomnia. I don't like misleading people, but I did not want to appear foolish in front of Olive, kind though she is. The constant state of turmoil in which I live is embarrassing enough without it becoming public knowledge. Groundless fear dogs my every thought, and if I am losing my mind, then my employer will be the last to know.

  Olive was right to make me eat. I could not face breakfast before leaving home and felt much better with something in my stomach. As it was Monday and Mildred was coming to work, Olive said she didn't need me to wait tables and would prefer me off my feet. Instead, she asked me to sit at the table in the corner of the room then she gave me a pot of boiling water and a napkin so I could give the cutlery a thorough polish.

  After half an hour, the pile of clean cutlery was growing, and I was feeling calmer having accomplished something practical. But not as calm as I thought. When the door next opened, I wasn't paying attention. The bell jingled, and I jumped out of my skin, tipping the pot of water over the table. I jumped to my feet and mopped up the watery mess with the tablecloth, then I took it away and fetched another. I shook the creases out, and as I spread it across the table, I glimpsed a scratch – a series of scratches. And the series of scratches formed two distinct words. ELLA MORSE.

  I sat back in the chair, gazing at the words in horror, then rubbed my eyes and looked again. They were still there. Olive was out the back, attending to some cleaning chores. Two customers were in the shop, both served and satisfied. Thankfully, they did not see my expression, for they might have come to my aid, and I did not want them to acknowledge the words because the repercussions were dreadful whether or not they were there. Either I was imagining things, in which case I was losing my mind, or the words actually existed, in which case – what? What would it mean? That a dead woman was haunting me? Not possible. There was only one thing to do, and I steeled myself for it. I waited until the tea room was empty, a series of hours that ticked past second by painful second. As fast as customers left, new ones arrived eager for conversation and a smile. Today I could provide neither. When the last person finally left the building, I could wait no longer and summoned Olive over. I pointed to the table with my heart in my mouth as I waited for the verdict. She frowned and regarded me with disappointment.

  "Did you do this?"

  And now you know. The words were there, gouged into the tabletop, but not by me, as I hastily explained to Olive. Her puzzled expression revealed concern about the truth of my response. After all, Elsie and I had discussed the Morse family in her presence a few times by then. And, as she said, "Why would anyone carve the name of dead woman onto my table?" I could not answer her for I do not know. I have only spoken of Ella to Elsie and Mathilda Brett, and I am as sure as I can be that Mathilda hasn't entered the tea rooms since I last saw her. In any case, there is no reason for her to frighten me.

  So, tell me, Michael, what do I do? What is happening to me? Or am I making too much of this? Some might see these events as trivial, but they are terrifying to me. I hope you will tell me not to worry and say that I am being silly. You will do that, won't you?

  Your friend

  Violet

  CHAPTER 18

  Trip to Walthamstow

  Lawrence regretted his continued use of the bicycle more than once during the long and arduous trip to Walthamstow. It was a relatively short distance to travel and shouldn't have involved much more than half an hour of his time on a slow day. But during the journey, a speeding cart had almost knocked him flying. Moments later a dog had chased him, and he'd narrowly missed running over a child who stepped out in front of the bike. How he had stayed upright, was a mystery. Not only had his headache returned, but he had a bruise on his behind that made cycling a feat of nightmarish proportions. Still, he was here now, and keen to familiarise himself with the area and particularly the ditches in which the girls had died.

  Lawrence knew it wouldn't be a covert operation. He was unfamiliar with the area and stood no chance of orientating himself without help. Lawrence stopped outside the only address he knew, and only because he had passed the road quite by accident on the way. Then he propped his cycle against the lamppost near fifty-one Markhouse Place, the former home of Annie West.

  The miserable terraced property bore more than a passing resemblance to those he'd already seen in West Ham. Almost every street and house were carbon copies of their neighbours, and necessarily so. Never had there been such demand for new homes, but they were soulless shells without craftsmanship or character. Lawrence sighed as he studied the house, caught unexpectedly by an overwhelming sense of homesickness for his beloved Suffolk with its pretty painted cottages and bountiful greens. He was adrift in this unfamiliar world, close to London but so distant from Violet. Violet – where had that thought sprung from? It had been years since he had seen her, and he didn't know how far apart they lived now. For all he knew, Violet could have a home here in Markhouse Place, unlikely though it was. But of course, the last time he had seen Violet was in Silvertown, which was only a short train ride away. Being this close would inevitably provoke memories, and it shouldn't come as a surprise. If only Violet were here now, she could tell him whether he was on the right track. Or indeed on any track. Lawrence knew he was blundering around with no logical plan in place. And even his instinct had absented itself from this investigation. Were it not for the enthusiasm of Samuel Higgins he would give it up as a bad job and go home to Suffolk. But even as the thought entered his head, Lawrence knew he wouldn't do it. He could not abandon all those missing and murdered girls to the indifference of the Metropolitan Police.

  Lawrence removed his notebook and reminded himself of the places he wanted to visit. Though Annie West had lived in Markhouse Place, the last sighting of her was in Collingwood Road, and she had died in a ditch at Low Hall sewage farm. Elizabeth Skinner had lived in Beaconsfield Road before being pulled half-dead from Paddy's Field wherever th
at was. Lawrence stared at his list. Yes. Paddy's Field was going to be the biggest problem. He had no chance of locating it alone and no explanation to offer about why he might want to know where it was, other than for ghoulish, voyeuristic purposes. Lawrence would need to rely on his reporter persona and hope that enough time had passed for people not to take offence at his interest.

  Brandishing a pencil and his notebook, he strode into the nearest shop, which was a greengrocer. Ten minutes later, and several coins lighter, Lawrence emerged with a bag of carrots which he thrust into his coat pocket. The shop owner had also given detailed directions to each of the locations of interest. Lawrence never set foot in a shop to procure information without having the courtesy to spend money first. Experience had taught him it yielded far better results. But the shop was small, his needs non-existent and carrots seemed like the least worst option. He climbed on the bicycle again, paper bag rustling in his pocket as he cycled, then made his way to Beaconsfield Road only a few streets away.

  As Lawrence cycled past the door of number five, a woman emerged with a young child, and he wondered whether she could be Elizabeth Skinner's mother. Could they still live in the same house? It seemed unlikely, and he was reluctant to stop and speak. There was little to gain from the family at this stage.

  Lawrence needed to connect locations rather than look for information. And it was turning out to be much easier than he'd anticipated. Annie West's last known sighting in Collingwood Road was on the same estate and close to Beaconsfield Road. The girls' paths must have crossed, and they would have known each other, at least by sight. And if the information from the shopkeeper about Paddy's Field was correct, then it wasn't far from Annie West's final resting place. It was to the latter location that Lawrence was now pedalling.

  Five minutes later, he arrived and pushed the cycle up a narrow lane running alongside an untidy area of scrubland. Lawrence held his breath as he parked his bike, trying not to inhale the putrid odour of the sewage farm. He picked his way across the grass alongside the ditch which ran almost the length of Low Hall Lane. The ditch was not only overflowing with rainwater and sediment but halfway along, Lawrence saw, then smelled the bloated body of a pig. No part of the ditch was clean, and weeds and long-abandoned detritus lurked in its watery depths. Lawrence shuddered, imagining Annie's last moments, submerged in this hellhole of decay, terrified and struggling to breathe. She must have known what would happen to her. But her short, unhappy life left her vulnerable to a predator, and she may have viewed the end of it with relief. It was not a thought to dwell upon, and Lawrence turned away to retrieve his bicycle, glad that he had found the place. One thing was sure. Only someone with an intimate knowledge of the area would know where to take a young girl and attack her mercilessly without fear of exposure.

  Lawrence had almost reached his cycle when he tripped over a stray tree root and staggered forwards. He recovered himself instantly, but not before the root dragged his boot off. He automatically planted his foot in the damp ground, leaning towards the boot with the intention of re-tying it but the lace had snapped clean in half. Sighing, Lawrence removed his soggy sock and stuffed it into his pocket. The boot would stay on his foot while riding, but he would need to get another lace before trying to walk anywhere. Abandoning his plans to find Paddy's Field, Lawrence hastened towards the row of shops he had passed earlier.

  There was no sign of life in the hardware store, and Lawrence checked the time to see if he was encroaching on the storekeeper's lunch hour. On closer inspection, he could see someone inside. As Lawrence tried the door a second time, a shape moved into view, and the sound of a key rattled in the lock. "Hold on," came a voice from the inside.

  Moments later, the door opened, and a shopkeeper fastening a leather apron across his midriff strode forward. "Sorry about that," the man said. "I'm just back from Alf's."

  Who or what Alf was, Lawrence failed to ask. He was only interested in acquiring shoelaces at the earliest opportunity. He offered the broken lace towards the shopkeeper who examined it, opened a drawer and put what could have been its twin on the counter.

  "Perfect," said Lawrence reaching in his breast pocket for his wallet and finding nothing there. He patted his chest, found no familiar bump, then panicking, he emptied his pockets. A moment later, the candle tin joined the rest of Lawrence's moveable possessions on the counter. He cringed at the sight of the bag of carrots and the damp sock, knowing that no amount of small talk would explain his reasons for carrying them. Then, to his relief, he found his wallet in his trouser pocket where he had inadvertently put it earlier. Lawrence opened it, extracted a few coins and handed them to the shopkeeper.

  "There's a name missing," said the man, pointing to the notebook which lay open beside the carrots. Lawrence peered at the page containing the names and addresses of the two Walthamstow girls. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

  "You've only written two names, but there were three murders."

  "Yes, I know. Mary Jane Voller's not on the list because she didn't live in Walthamstow."

  "I didn't mean her."

  "They found her dead body in the water though," said Lawrence, losing concentration.

  "I daresay. But I'm talking about Florrie Rolph."

  "Florrie Rolph? Who on earth is she?"

  #

  "Florrie was George and Martha's girl," said the shopkeeper, assuming a familiarity with the locals that Lawrence did not possess.

  "George and Martha?"

  "You must know George. He's a cabman. Works for Mr Reaves."

  "I don't know George, Martha or Mr Reaves, but I would like to hear about Florrie."

  "You're not a copper, are you?"

  "No. I'm a reporter."

  "That's not much better," said the shopkeeper warily. "And if you're a reporter, then why don't you know about Florrie?"

  "I'm from Suffolk," said Lawrence.

  "I see. Then I'll tell you about Florrie if you like, but if it gets busy, you must come back another time."

  Lawrence nodded. "I will if there's no other way but tell me what you can for now. When did Florrie die?"

  "In the summer of 1895," said the man. "And I know a lot about what happened because my missus is friendly with Martha Rolph. Best friends, you could say. Now, what's your name?" he asked abruptly.

  "Alistair Blatworthy," said Lawrence caught off guard and resorting to his nom de plume.

  "Dennis Parkes," said the shopkeeper, offering a scaly hand. Lawrence shook it half-heartedly, deterred by the man's obvious skin complaint.

  "Yes. Heartbroken, Martha was," said Parkes, resuming his story. "Poor woman. Wracked with guilt, you see."

  "Why?"

  "Because she sent young Florrie for beer, and if she hadn't done it, the girl would have been safe at home."

  "Where was home?"

  "Brown's Road, north of here. George liked a pint for his supper, so Martha gave the girl a can and sent her to The Rose and Crown."

  "Did she get there?"

  "Oh, yes. Florrie purchased the beer and must have been coming back when someone took her." Dennis Parkes shook his head. "Dear little thing she was too. Only six years old with her life ahead of her. Well, they missed her straight away. They loved young Florrie, and when she didn't come back, George went straight to the pub and asked if they'd seen her. Aggie Butcher served that night. She'd taken a shine to Florrie's checked pinafore dress and knew who George meant when he asked about her. Florrie looked like a proper little lady, she said. And she told George that she'd served her and sent her on her way."

  "And just to be clear, someone murdered Florrie Rolph."

  "Oh, yes. But not before he knocked her about."

  "Was she found in a ditch?"

  "No. Why would she be?"

  "Because Elizabeth Skinner and Annie West were both found in ditches."

  "Not Florrie. They found her under a pile of leaves in the rectory gardens."

  "When?"

  "The day after she went m
issing. The gardener found her with marks over her face and blood on her clothes. Your mates in the press reported it so graphically that I had to hide the newspaper from Mrs Parkes for the rest of the week. A man had used her, you see. Only six years old and subjected to that. Not the sort of thing for a woman to read, especially one who was fond of the girl."

  "I understand," said Lawrence. "And when you say used...?"

  "I mean he violated her," said Parkes. "Then he killed her to stop her from screaming."

  "How close is the rectory from The Rose and Crown?"

  "It's not on the way if that's what you mean. He decoyed her a fair distance from home."

  "Do you think that's what happened?"

  "Yes. Florrie must have gone willingly. Someone would have noticed if he'd tucked her under his arm and carried her off screaming. Besides, there was a can of ale next to her body in the rectory garden. I daresay he got it from Florrie when she left the public house and took it with him."

  Lawrence shook his head. "It doesn't bear thinking about."

  "Here, don't write a report about it, will you? George won't want it dredged up again, and I don't want my name in the newspapers."

  "I won't mention you," said Lawrence, "and my readers are in Suffolk."

  "Good," said Parkes, looking relieved. "Odd that you didn't know about Florrie though. Who else is on your list?"

  Lawrence took his notebook and turned a few pages to find the names he had written in date order before he knew about Florrie Rolph.

  "Here," he said, pushing the notebook over.

  Dennis Parkes squinted as he examined the writing. "Yes, these look familiar," he said. "It's been like a ruddy epidemic since those two went missing in West Ham. Do you think it was the same man?"

  "Do you?" asked Lawrence.

  "I don't know," said Parkes. "I'm not a copper, but then again, I could probably do a better job."