The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  "Of course," said Lawrence. "I can see why the Kerridge attack is so important. If it forms part of the series, it shows the date our murderer found a new hunting ground."

  Higgins nodded.

  "And it sets a pattern for the future killings which are, as we know, nearly half an hour from West Road using a bicycle, bus or tram. Not far, but not convenient either which suggests that the killer might have moved home."

  "That's what I was thinking," said Higgins. "If you take every location into account, someone can easily reach them from a point between West Road and Walthamstow. Though where that point lies, is anybody's guess."

  "Which makes my list redundant," said Lawrence.

  "Not necessarily," said Higgins. "Hang onto it, by all means."

  "But you're saying we need a second list with those men of the right age who were present in the 1881 census but not in 1891."

  "That would be a good use of your time," said Higgins.

  "I don't think I can face another night of research." Lawrence rubbed his eyes. He was bone tired and though ready to conduct a day of investigation, was less enthused about poring over census records.

  "I don't mind doing it," said Higgins.

  "The records are back at my lodgings."

  "Then it's over to you. Keep me informed of your progress."

  Lawrence nodded and left the building before wearily mounting his bicycle. Had he been more alert, he might have noticed the actions of two people watching as he cycled up the road. One figure gestured, and the other acknowledged instructions to follow.

  CHAPTER 26

  What Happened in West Road?

  "You're back. Thank goodness," said Agnes Ward as Lawrence stepped into the hallway of fifty-five Buxton Road.

  "Why? What's wrong? Has there been another break-in? I hope not. I don't think your husband will suffer any more disruption to his house."

  "No. Nothing like that. A man called for you."

  "A man? For me? Nobody knows I'm here. What did he look like?"

  "About your height, sandy hair and wearing a dog collar."

  "That must be Michael, an old friend of mine. But I can't think why he has come all this way. How was he?"

  "Agitated," said Agnes. "And keen to find you. He kept asking when you would be back. I said I didn't know."

  "Did Michael say what he wanted?"

  "No. Only that he needed to speak to you urgently."

  "I wonder if something has happened to Francis," mused Lawrence. "When will he be back? Where did he go?"

  "I don't know," said Agnes, "and I told him you were heading to West Road, so I daresay he's gone to find you."

  "Blast it. When did Michael leave?"

  "About half an hour ago."

  "Then, there's no point in trying to catch up with him. He'll have arrived at West Road by now and realised I'm not there. He'll either come straight back or go to wherever he's staying. It's probably best if I remain here and get on with things."

  "I'll let you know if he turns up," said Agnes.

  Lawrence climbed the stairs, went to his room and removed his coat, hearing a rustle from his pocket as he sat on the bed. He reached inside and pulled out the brown paper bag containing the ham sandwich that Agnes had made earlier. He had forgotten all about it. Lawrence unwrapped the sandwich and though a little squashed, he ate it with gusto as he began compiling the new list of names.

  The census records transcribed in varying hands were in no particular order. It had made last night's task time-consuming and would be no less tricky now. Lawrence squinted over the words, blinking back tiredness, but the longer he worked, the heavier his eyes grew. He was only ten minutes into the job when his attempts at fighting tiredness failed, and he woke with a start half an hour later when his notebook fell off the bed. Shaking his head, Lawrence advanced to the window and, despite the chill in the air, flung it open, determined to stay awake. As he looked outside, a shape darted away from the lamppost on the other side of the road. The fleeting movement happened so quickly that Lawrence wasn't sure whether he'd imagined it. But it was discomfiting, and he couldn't shake off the feeling that someone was spying on him. Lawrence retreated out of sight and waited silently by the open window, but the watcher did not reappear. Assuming that it was his imagination playing tricks, he returned to the task at hand.

  Lawrence had not appreciated how many men were working in the building trade in 1881. He soon realised that the second list would be longer than the first and began the cumbersome task of transcribing names – John Reeves, painter, William Pallant, bricklayer, Thomas Lanaway, carpenter. Name by name, the list increased, and moment by moment, Lawrence grew ever more tired. After falling asleep for a second time, Lawrence went for a walk to wake himself up. He popped into the kitchen where Agnes was preparing a meal and asked her to make sure Michael stayed at the house if he reappeared while Lawrence was out. Then, he made his way towards the cemetery to get some fresh air and gather his thoughts.

  It was after five o'clock by the time Lawrence returned to the house, and the welcome smell of roasting meat greeted him by the door. James was not yet home, and the evening meal was about an hour away, time enough to go back upstairs and resume his task. But almost as soon as he returned, he heard a rap at the front door and opened it eagerly expecting to see Michael. Instead, a glum-looking Gilbert Cooper was standing on the doorstep. "Here," said Cooper, passing him a bag of pastries. "The wife made them," he continued as he walked into the hallway. "Where's Agnes?"

  "I'm through here," Agnes called.

  Gilbert Cooper walked towards her and Lawrence opened the paper bag, raising an eyebrow at the misshapen objects inside. Had they belonged to him, Lawrence would have disposed of them at the earliest opportunity. He placed the bag on the dining table, intending to disappear upstairs while he had the chance, but Cooper reappeared before he left the hallway.

  "Have you got a moment?" Cooper asked.

  "Not really," said Lawrence making for the stairs. "Why?"

  "Ah, that's a shame. I could do with some company. Agnes is busy, and Hannah, my wife, is messing around in her shop. It's been a hard day."

  "I can imagine," said Lawrence, saying a mental goodbye to the idea of resuming his work before dinner. Gilbert looked miserable. He had changed out of his smart suit and was back in his paint-strewn overalls, which smelled as if they needed a good wash. Lawrence had only known Gil Cooper for a few days, but if Gilbert was desperate for his company after such a brief acquaintance, he must be in a bad way. The least Lawrence could do, he supposed, was take a break and listen to the man.

  "Inside or out?" asked Lawrence, gesturing to the door.

  "In," said Gil. "James will be back shortly, and he'll want his dinner."

  "Of course. Join me in the dining room, and we'll talk."

  Lawrence sat in his usual place at the foot of the table, while Gilbert Cooper took the chair to his right. He opened the bag of pastries and poked one moodily. "Here. Try them," he said.

  "No, thank you," said Lawrence, suppressing a shudder. "I'd rather not spoil my appetite."

  "We don't eat until eight," said Gil, taking a bite. He chewed for a moment then spat a small, hard object onto the table which pinged onto the floor. Gilbert did not explain, and Lawrence refrained from asking. Instead, he made a mental note to dispose of the pastries as soon as Gil had left before one of the Ward children found them.

  "Tough day?"

  Gil nodded and stared at the floor. Lawrence tried again.

  "Did you know him well?"

  "Who?"

  "Your workmate."

  "Not really. But it's always sad when people die – puts you in mind of your own mortality, doesn't it?"

  "Naturally," said Lawrence.

  "Did he leave a wife?"

  "I don't want to talk about it," said Gil.

  "Right." Lawrence sat for a moment, wondering about the pointlessness of the encounter. He understood why Gil might want companionship
but sitting in silence was awkward and uncomfortable.

  "Tell me what you've been up to," said Gil. "Take my mind off things."

  "Not a great deal," said Lawrence, unwilling to give too much away.

  "Talk to Donaldson again?"

  "No. I haven't seen either land agent."

  "I've been thinking about it myself," said Gilbert. "And racking my brains. Donaldson's a decent chap, but Manisier – well that's a different matter. I'm sure he had something to do with the Portway house sales."

  "I know he did. He showed me the property. Or to be more accurate, he gave me the keys."

  "I don't mean now. Back in 1890 when the Jeffs girl died."

  "Are you sure?"

  "No. I can't be certain, which is why I haven't mentioned it before. But something is nagging in the back of mind. There were always people in West Road – policemen and reporters, some we knew and some we'd never seen before. My memory is fuzzy after all this time. But there was something about Manisier."

  "Who might remember?"

  Cooper pursed his lips. "Phil Harris might. Perhaps Wally Veitch."

  "They're on my list," said Lawrence indiscreetly.

  "List?"

  "Not an actual list. Just the people I'd like to talk to."

  "I thought you'd nearly finished?"

  "Almost."

  "Can I read it?"

  "The story? Not yet," said Lawrence. "It's mostly research notes. I'll write it up properly when I get back to Suffolk."

  "When will that be?"

  "Sunday at the latest."

  "Right. Well, if I were you..."

  Gilbert did not deliver the piece of advice on the tip of his tongue. The front door opened, and James Ward strode inside.

  "Good day, Gil," he said, placing his hat on the stand in the hallway. "Time for dinner," he continued, looking pointedly at the mahogany wall clock.

  "Right you are," said Gil, rising to his feet. "I expect I'll see you again before you go, Mr Harpham."

  "I'm sure you will," said Lawrence, about to leave the table.

  Agnes rushed through and greeted her husband. "Don't get up," she said to Lawrence, before addressing James. "Dinner will be ready in five minutes. Just time for you to wash and change, my dear."

  #

  Agnes Ward's roast pork was one of the best meals Lawrence had eaten. He managed a second helping before starting on the pudding of treacle tart and custard. By the time he had finished, he was full to bursting and even less keen on the idea of spending the evening in his bedroom making lists. Besides, Gil Cooper's information was weighing heavily on his mind. Lawrence was unconvinced that the Kerridge attack was the work of the killer. Nor was he wedded to Higgins' theory that the murderer had moved houses. The idea had merit – a great deal of merit, but it was by no means certain. Yet if John Manisier had been selling new properties in Portway when Amelia died, it warranted further investigation. And what better way of finding out more than using a visit to Harris and Veitch as a pretext. Lawrence briefly returned to his room and noted the addresses of the two men. Harris lived at number seventy-six and Veitch at number thirty-five. So, Harris had lived opposite Amelia Jeffs in 1881, and Veitch lived opposite the family in 1890. It was inconceivable that they did not know each other, and the two men might have vital information.

  This small nugget of information excited Lawrence out of proportion to its relevance. His detective instincts were in full flow, and he was confident that West Road played a leading role in the mystery. He weighed up the prospects of staying indoors to research against going out to investigate and decided on the latter. It was nearly seven o'clock and the perfect time of day to catch families at home. He only needed to work out a plausible story to explain his interest. Harris was a bricklayer and Veitch a paper hanger. Perhaps he could start by offering them work. He decided to walk to West Road and flesh out the details on the way.

  Dusk was falling when Lawrence left Buxton Road and had settled into nightfall by the time he arrived. He walked past William Donaldson's house at the junction of West Road and Portway fighting the urge to call in. Donaldson had made him welcome during his previous visit, and Lawrence wasn't sure what reception he would get from Harris and Veitch. But he didn't want to intrude into their evenings by calling late and decided to bypass Donaldson and get on with it.

  Number thirty-five was on the right-hand side about a third of the way up. Lawrence hesitated briefly outside the small front yard while he double-checked his notes. Then he approached the front door and knocked loudly. Lawrence waited at the doorstep listening for the sound of footsteps in the hall but heard nothing above the raucous laughter coming from inside. He knocked again, this time with real effort and, within moments, a young lady opened the door.

  "Yes?" she asked.

  Lawrence stumbled over his words, not sure whether to ask for her father or husband. "Is the man of the house about?" he asked lamely.

  She turned away from him. "Dad," she yelled, "there's someone at the door for you."

  Walter Veitch was a small, rat-faced man with a greying moustache and a thin neck. His face, half-shaven but in all the wrong places, looked as if it would benefit from a new razor or an urgent visit to the barber. "What do you want?" he asked, eying Lawrence suspiciously.

  "A decorator," said Lawrence.

  "At this time of night?"

  "Well, no – but soon. I'll pay well."

  "Who told you about me?"

  "Gilbert Cooper," said Lawrence, hoping it wouldn't inconvenience Cooper at a later date.

  "Oh. Fair enough. Good of him to think of me. Come inside and tell me all about it."

  Lawrence entered the cramped terraced house, making his way towards the back room. He peered around the door to see a woman of Walter's age and five adult children, seated around the fireplace.

  "Not there," said Walter Veitch. "You'll get no peace. Back this way." He gestured towards the parlour and opened the door.

  "Sit."

  Lawrence perched on the edge of a green floral sofa noting its threadbare arms and prepared to embellish his story.

  "Right," said Veitch. "How big is your house and how much of it do you want to decorate."

  "I'd like to paper the hallway," said Lawrence.

  "Just the hallway?"

  "And the stairs and landing."

  "A big job," said Veitch, leaning back and flashing a toothy smile. "I'll do it at the weekend. Not Sunday, obviously."

  "I'm sure a Saturday will be suitable if the price is right," said Lawrence. "I take it you are in employment during the week?"

  "Yes. I work for a builder."

  "I noticed a lot of new houses in this area," said Lawrence. "In fact, I considered renting one before deciding to improve my property. I saw one of the three-storey houses near the park.

  "Which one?"

  "Number one hundred and twenty-six."

  "Bad luck," said Veitch. "Did Manisier show it to you, or was it his stuck-up wife?"

  "Manisier," said Lawrence. "Though I spoke briefly with his wife. She seemed nice enough."

  "She'll be putting on a face – all charm and good grace to her customers, but there's a proper harridan beneath the surface."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, let me count the ways," said Veitch, raising his index finger. "One, she's a busybody, two, she complains about everything, three she's a troublemaker, four she thinks she's a cut above everybody else. Is that enough? Or have I said too much? You're not friends with them, are you?"

  Lawrence resisted the temptation to pretend a close acquaintance with Mrs Manisier. It was on the tip of his tongue to claim kinship, but he wouldn't get what he wanted out of Veitch if he antagonised him. "No. I've never met either of them before this week, and now that I'm no longer in the market to rent, I don't suppose I'll see them again."

  "Lucky old you. Unfortunately, I can't avoid the Manisiers, living as close as I do."

  "Mr Donaldson didn't seem that kee
n, either. Are they universally disliked?"

  "Ah, you've met Jock Donaldson, have you? No. Any problems between him and Manisier comes from professional rivalry. With me, it's personal."

  Lawrence badly wanted to ask what the problem was but felt it would be a question too far. He couldn't quite judge Veitch's personality though the man was cocksure and full of himself. Lawrence couldn't imagine anyone else having the audacity to call William Donaldson, Jock. And Veitch was obviously doing it for effect. The little man sat with his arms firmly crossed, and an eyebrow raised, almost in challenge. Veitch was either a shocking gossip or cleverly testing the validity of Lawrence's story. Only careful interrogation would reveal which.

  "I suppose you'll want to choose the paper," said Veitch.

  "Naturally."

  "And I'll want to see your place before we talk about price."

  "Is that necessary? I can give you a rough idea of the size."

  Veitch snorted. "Not a chance. People have caught me that way before, and they'll only fool me once. You could invent the measurements to keep the price down. I want to see the building myself, or you can find someone else."

  "There's no need for that. You can come to the house," said Lawrence calmly, surprised at his sudden hostility.

  "Wait here then."

  Walter Veitch sprang from the chair and strode from the room, leaving Lawrence alone and somewhat perturbed. He was contemplating the lack of creature comforts in the parlour when Veitch returned, clutching a battered journal.

  "What did you say your name was?" asked Veitch, smoothing a page.

  "I didn't. But it's Lawrence Harpham."

  "Address?"

  "Fifty-five Buxton Road."

  "I know the house."

  "Does that mean you won't have to see it?" asked Lawrence hopefully.

  "There are no exceptions. Tuesday week, alright?"

  "Yes," said Lawrence, relieved. He would be long gone by then though he must remember to cancel the appointment before returning to Suffolk. It wouldn't be fair to add this to the list of domestic matters to be dealt with by the long-suffering Agnes.