The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

Michael stared incredulously. "Violet didn't know Catherine. How is this possible?"

  "It's not her doing," said Lawrence. "It wasn't fear in her eyes, but compassion."

  "Look, he's moving."

  The crossed legs under the table vanished as Violet stared ahead with a fixed expression. Moments later, they heard a door closing inside.

  "It's now or never," said Lawrence.

  CHAPTER 34

  As Bad As It Gets

  The two men stood either side of the back door relieved that their access inside was now unimpeded by a lock since the man's earlier foray into the garden. Lawrence, still carrying the shillelagh, stowed the lantern by a flowerpot and brandished his weapon as Michael opened the door. They crept nervously through the passageway, hoping to secure a non-violent rescue. Michael gently pushed the dining room door, which was still ajar, stepping back to allow Lawrence first access. Lawrence peered inside to see Violet still tied to a chair at the bottom of the table, but alone in the room. The seat where her captor had been was empty and the shotgun had gone. Lawrence rushed to her side, kneeling as he began the tricky task of untying her bonds. "Are you injured?" he whispered.

  "No. But you should go. There isn't time. He's quite mad, Lawrence. He will kill you."

  "Stay still. Michael, come and help."

  Michael was at Violet's side by the time Lawrence finished the sentence, trying unsuccessfully to free Violet without touching her flesh.

  "Now is not the time for modesty," snapped Lawrence. He watched in frustration as Michael blindly fumbled with the knots, his eyes averted from Violet's legs.

  "Don't worry about it," said Violet. "I'm so pleased to see you both."

  "That's one leg free," said Lawrence. "Come on, Michael."

  "Done." Michael stood and held out a hand to Violet. "Let me help you up."

  Violet stood, swaying uncertainly. She reached down and rubbed her calves. Deep grooves streaked her legs where the ropes had cut in.

  "Can you walk?" asked Lawrence.

  Violet nodded.

  "Then hurry. We don't have much time."

  Violet took a few steps forward, then stumbled as Lawrence and Michael instinctively reached to support her. They each took an arm and propelled her towards the door, towards safety. Then, as freedom seemed within their grasp, the unmistakable form of a rifle appeared through the door, followed by its owner.

  "What a touching scene," said a familiar voice. "Walk backwards towards the fireplace and sit on the floor. Go on."

  Lawrence gasped in shock, and Michael stood, ashen-faced, lip trembling and almost on the verge of tears.

  "You!" exclaimed Lawrence. "But why?"

  "Floor now," said their captor, pointing the rifle directly at Violet. "I don't want to spoil her face, but she doesn't want me. God knows I've tried. And if I can't have her, then she might as well be dead." He paused for a moment. "Or disfigured," he continued, menacingly.

  Lawrence took Violet's hand and retreated towards the fireplace before sitting on the cold, hard floor as instructed. Michael remained standing.

  "And you," said the man. "Don't think that blood ties will help."

  "But we're brothers," said Michael. "You've been like a father to me."

  "It didn't stop your betrayal."

  "I don't understand."

  "You didn't tell me you'd found her." Francis nodded towards Violet.

  "I didn't tell anyone. Violet asked me not to."

  "Then it's a good thing I found your letters, or I'd never have known."

  "How? You've been abroad for months."

  Francis Farrow laughed as he raised the shotgun again. "Sit down with your friends," he snarled, stroking the trigger.

  Michael stood motionless then took an uncertain pace forward. Francis pointed the shotgun at Violet again.

  "I'm a crack shot, don't forget," he said.

  "I can't believe this is happening," said Michael, as he joined Lawrence and Violet. "He's gone mad."

  "Don't be so offensive," snapped Francis. "I'm perfectly rational. Now, let me pull up a chair, and I'll tell you all about it. And then I'll decide what to do with you. The first thing you should know is that I haven't been abroad at all. I've been the length and breadth of England looking for Violet, stopping only to visit your respective residences. And you, the detective, were worse than useless," said Francis, glaring at Lawrence. "I've read your notes. You didn't get anywhere, did you? Then I thought I'd visit Michael's rooms just in case and wasn't that a good decision? He had recently encountered Violet, and she'd conveniently written a letter with her address on it."

  "But why did you want to find her so badly?" asked Lawrence.

  "Because I love her. I wanted her, and she abandoned me just as she abandoned you," said Francis.

  "You don't love me," said Violet. "It was an obsession. It started when we were in Felsham, and you must have realised how uncomfortable I felt. I tried to stay away from you and reduce our contact. But you kept finding ways to see me, and I soon realised that it would come to a head. I tried to let you down gently, Francis, but you wouldn't have it, and I worried about how you would react if I publicly rejected you. Lawrence was getting married, and he didn't need me anymore. I had responsibilities that I needed to live up to, and my safety was paramount. So, I sold my house and left. And if I hadn't bumped into Michael, you'd never have seen me again."

  "Enough." Francis spat the words as he glared at Violet. "You don't know what love is. I have pursued you, searching every day since you left. Lawrence gave up, but I did not. You haven't given me a chance, Violet. I could make you happy. You'd want for nothing."

  "But she doesn't love you," said Lawrence.

  Francis stood, face contorted with rage and fired a single shot towards the window. The glass exploded, sending shards tinkling into the outside yard. "Shut up, or the next shot will be in her head," he snarled, snapping open the gun and loading another cartridge.

  "For God's sake, Francis," Michael appealed. "What has happened to you? The person standing before me isn't the loving brother I've known all my life."

  "You know nothing about me," retorted Francis.

  "But you've always been so happy-go-lucky."

  "On the contrary, I've known nothing but disappointment. My life is an empty shell."

  "Hence all the toys," said Lawrence.

  "Toys?" Michael looked bemused.

  "New cars, expensive carriages – objects filling a gap in his life. Why didn't you take a wife like any normal man?"

  "I did," said Francis, lip curling.

  "I don't understand. You never married."

  "Were you behind the moving stone?" asked Michael, changing the subject at an inopportune moment.

  Francis grinned wolfishly. "Yes. Clever, wasn't it? I took a cottage here the day after I read your letter. At first, I thought I would announce myself to Violet, and gradually re-introduce myself back into her life. But I wasn't sure how she would react, so I decided to frighten her a little. Then she would be receptive to a friend, especially one who could offer protection. I watched her instead, noting her preoccupation with the Morse stone. After asking around, I soon heard the story of how the damn thing had travelled over the years."

  "And you moved it again," asked Michael.

  "To a point. There was something in the legend. The stone travelled unaided – tree roots or subsidence, I suppose. Quite unsettling to see it misaligned. And equally uncomfortable digging it up at night, which I did, of course."

  "I suppose you left the key and the crows?" asked Lawrence.

  "Naturally. And by then, I'd thoroughly scared Violet as I intended. Yet when I arrived at her cottage, she didn't want to come with me. She didn't seem pleased to see me at all, and it took a lot of persuading to get her to agree to join me the following day. Eventually, she capitulated, and I employed a local woman to cook us a meal. She left, immediately before Violet arrived and we ate and talked without an audience. Then I told Violet how m
uch I had missed her and asked her to stay. She refused, just like that. Wanted to collect the child, I suppose. I would have let Violet go if she'd agreed to return later, but she said it was best if she didn't come back. And I knew that if I allowed her to leave, I would never see her again. I had no choice, Harpham. Don't you see?"

  "You took her prisoner?"

  "Yes, he did," said Violet. "I have been here for days living this half-life tied up and with no control over my destiny. But I need to go. If you ever loved me, Francis, then release me."

  "No. I haven't gone to all this trouble to be alone again."

  "Find another woman, Farrow," said Lawrence. "She doesn't want you, and she never will."

  "No. Violet is irreplaceable."

  "And what did you mean about having a wife? You've never had a wife."

  A slow, satisfied smile slid across Francis' face. "Oh, but I did. I had yours."

  #

  "What the devil do you mean, man?" asked Lawrence, eyes flashing with anger. "Don't talk about Catherine. You're not worthy."

  "It's you that didn't deserve her," said Francis. "Always away – leaving her alone while you swanned off on your investigations."

  "I was a police officer," said Lawrence. "We both were. You of all people know the demands of the job. God knows you went away often enough yourself."

  "That was different. I had no wife or obligations."

  "Catherine understood the burden of my employment when she met me."

  "It didn't stop her being lonely."

  "How do you know how my wife felt? And why is Violet wearing her jewellery?"

  "Because I took the jewels when Catherine died. My colleagues recovered them from the house, and as a serving officer, I had full access to the evidence. I kept them and a few other trinkets besides."

  "Why didn't you tell me? They were mine. I should have had them."

  "You didn't deserve them."

  "Francis. The fire wasn't my fault. I have done nothing wrong. Why are you behaving like this?"

  "Harpham. You are entirely to blame. You are the reason Catherine died. You and you alone."

  "Don't listen to him," said Violet, her eyes filling with tears. "Don't. He's poison."

  Francis Farrow reclined in the wooden chair his legs splayed as he held the rifle on the floor with the barrel pointing to the ceiling. He scratched his head as he fought for composure. "Catherine wasn't yours. She was mine," he said. "She loved me, and I loved her, passionately, body and soul. We wanted to be together."

  "Don't you dare suggest that Catherine was unfaithful. She was a loyal and constant wife."

  "We were lovers," said Francis. "For years. She despised you and thought you were weak. But her family name was everything. She couldn't divorce you without a scandal, and we kept our love a secret."

  "No. Impossible. Catherine wouldn't have betrayed me." Lawrence clutched his hair grimacing in anguish.

  "She wrote letters to me while I was in Ipswich with messages under the envelope flap. How do you think I replicated them?"

  "You sent those crests to me? I thought I was going out of my mind."

  "That was my intention. You were getting too close to Violet, and I wanted her. Nothing could have made me happier than when Loveday came back on the scene. Well, nothing except having Catherine back, that is."

  "I don't believe any of this. I would have known." Michael was sitting bolt upright, arms around his knees and staring at Francis as if he was a stranger.

  "You were away at university, little brother," said Francis, scornfully. "What would you know of my affairs?"

  "Why am I the reason Catherine died?" Lawrence spoke quietly, fearful of the response.

  "Because we were desperate to be together, and while you were still husband and wife, it would never happen. Catherine couldn't divorce you without ruining her good name, so I planned to dispose of you, naturally keeping the details from Catherine. I didn't want her involved."

  "My disposal. Were you going to kill me?"

  Francis nodded. "Yes. It was the only way – nothing personal, old man. Well, actually, that's a lie. Of course it was personal. I hated you, Harpham. Not while we were at university. But I had my sights on Catherine from the moment I met her, and if I'd known the two of you would fall in love, I would never have introduced you. I don't know how I got through your wedding day, let alone acted as best man, watching you marry the woman I loved. Watching you steal my life from under my nose. As time went on, my hatred grew until I could barely control my loathing. I contemplated all the ways I could kill you and finally settled on fire."

  "It was you?" Michael stared at his brother in horror.

  "Yes. I set the fire. Catherine was going away to visit her family, leaving him in the house alone." Francis scowled at Lawrence as he stroked the barrel of the shotgun. "Only she didn't go, and I didn't know. And worse still, he wasn't even there when I lit the match. There was I thinking all my problems would soon be over and the next day I realised I had lost everything. Lost it all, yet still he lived."

  "You killed my family. You killed Catherine, and you killed Lily. You murdered my daughter."

  "My daughter," shouted Francis. "Lily was mine, not yours. For four long years, I let you claim paternity, but she was my child. You never had a daughter."

  Michael gasped, and the room fell silent, the full horror of the words settling over them like a poisonous fog. Then Lawrence sprang from the floor and sprinted towards Francis. "I'm going to kill you, you murderous bastard."

  Francis pointed the shotgun, but Lawrence's speed had surprised him. Lawrence reached for the gun, knocking it from Francis' grasp. It rattled to the floor. Lawrence tried to grab it, but Francis was quicker and rammed the butt in Lawrence's face. Lawrence crashed to the floor, blood streaming from his wound, but he didn't seem to notice and scrambled to his feet. "I'll kill you," he said again, advancing towards Francis.

  "Stop, or I'll shoot her. I mean it." Francis pointed the gun towards Violet again.

  "You'll only get one shot, and then I'll have you," snarled Lawrence.

  "But she'll be dead."

  "Go on. Shoot me." Violet slowly got to her feet.

  "Sit down," barked Francis.

  "No. Shoot me." Violet took a step forward.

  "Violet, stop." Lawrence managed to control his rage for a moment, but Violet took another tentative step.

  "I'll shoot." Francis waved the gun wildly, finger turning white against the trigger.

  She took a deep breath and advanced again.

  "You've done it now," snarled Francis pressing the trigger as Lawrence rushed forwards. He launched himself at the gun, tipping it off course as the shell exploded from the barrel and ricocheted off the fireplace. Cursing, Francis ran towards the door and took another shot at Lawrence. The bullet met its mark and Lawrence fell backwards with the impact of the shot. The last thing he remembered was Violet leaning over him, tears running down her face.

  CHAPTER 35

  Epilogue

  Thursday, March 23, 1899

  "Good morning, Mr Harpham." The nurse pulled open the curtains with a forced smile on her face. "What a lovely day," she said.

  He stared at her, unblinking. "I'm glad you think so." His voice was monotone, the inflexion neither rising nor falling – a grey voice in a grey and pointless world.

  "The sun is shining, and the daffodils are out."

  "I don't care, and I'd appreciate it if you shut the damned curtains. I don't care for daylight."

  "It's good for you," said the nurse. "Now, what can I bring you for breakfast."

  "Nothing," said Lawrence.

  "I'll choose for you then.," said the nurse, seemingly unaffected by his mood.

  "I won't eat it."

  "As you wish. But I'll bring something just in case you change your mind. I'll be back in a moment."

  Lawrence sighed and wished they would leave him alone. He hated being in the hospital, the forced cheerfulness of everyone a
round him and the fact that he was still alive. One inch to the right and Lawrence would be in the ground by now. And he might as well be dead. His life had ended the moment Francis had claimed Catherine and Lily for his own.

  The doctors had heavily sedated Lawrence during his first few days in the hospital. But as he'd regained consciousness, the pain of Francis Farrow's revelation settled on him like a malevolent wraith. It seeped into his thoughts, ruining former happy memories, and destroying all trust. Had he really known Catherine and had she ever loved him? Wracked with self-pity, Lawrence had sobbed for days, driven to distraction at the thought of it. Physician after physician had attended his bedside, trying to lift his mood, but nothing helped. Eventually, a mind doctor arrived and prescribed something that took the edge of his depression. But only the edge. His thoughts turned inwards, burning like acid through his brain. Rest came only with the aid of sleeping draughts, but the time asleep and temporarily unaware, made his life immeasurably harder. Each day, a torrent of terrible memories would accompany his morning rouse to consciousness. Every time he opened his eyes, he remembered his loss more acutely than the day before. Tonight, he intended to refuse the sleeping draft altogether and sleep fitfully instead. Then he would know what was coming the next day, and it wouldn't be such a dreadful shock.

  Michael had visited the previous week, sitting with Lawrence for a bare ten minutes. The matron, with her starched collar and equally stiff demeanour, had shown no sympathy when Michael had asked for more time with his friend. She'd pursed her thin lips and marched him out, brooking no further discussion. And it happened at the exact moment that Michael was trying to explain to Lawrence that just because Francis had said those things, did not make them true. But in his heart, Lawrence didn't need telling. It was obvious as soon as the words were out. Lily wasn't his child and never had been. And once the thought had embedded itself, he marvelled that he had ever missed her resemblance to Francis.

  On one particularly rational day, Lawrence wondered whether Francis had forced himself on Catherine, and she had conceived Lily in consequence. But how would he ever know? The words Francis had uttered became the truth from the moment they left his lips as there was nobody left to contradict them. Only Francis himself had the power and he would never use it. A man capable of tying a woman to a table, hoping she would settle into domestic bliss against her free will, lacked the capacity for introspection. Whether or not it happened, Francis believed his interpretation of the affair with Catherine. Lawrence would never know for sure and the little family he'd thought he had was only an illusion. Lawrence had never had a daughter and only a partial claim to the affections of his wife. Lawrence might as well be dead and not for the first time he contemplated purchasing a fast-acting poison.