The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  A crash interrupted Lawrence's musing, and he turned a careless eye towards the bed beside hims where a young man had dropped an empty metal jug on the floor. He grinned ruefully at Lawrence, who turned his head away and stared blankly at the wall. Thank God Lawrence only had one neighbour. The last thing he wanted was to be around people. There were eight beds on the ward, but only four patients and Lawrence was mercifully at the far end and away from most of the other men.

  "Here you are." The nurse had returned with a tray of something gloopy and a cup of brown liquid bearing a passing resemblance to tea.

  "I told you, I don't want it."

  She removed a jug of water from his bedside table and put it on a wooden chair, before replacing it with the breakfast tray.

  "And I said I'll leave your food here. You might feel hungry later, but you must be quick. You've got a visitor."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know. I'm just the messenger."

  "I don't want to see anyone."

  "That's not up to you. Matron thinks it would be a good idea, and I agree. Consider putting your robe on first, and I'll see to your bandages shortly."

  Lawrence glanced at his chest and the stained dressing where he had knocked his wound the previous evening.

  "Tell them to go away," he said, but she turned her back and walked down the ward.

  Sighing and resigned to his unwanted visitor, Lawrence reached for his dressing gown, wincing as he stretched towards the chair. He grabbed it by the sleeve and struggled into it, hearing the squeal of a child at play beneath his window. "Shouldn't let them near a hospital," he muttered.

  "Come on then." The nurse had returned with a wheelchair. "Hop in."

  "I can walk," said Lawrence.

  "I'll fetch matron."

  Lawrence removed the bedcover and limped to the chair.

  "Where are we going?"

  "To the visitors' room. It's just off the ward."

  "Why couldn't my visitor come here?"

  "She's a lady. It wouldn't be proper."

  Lawrence raised his eyes, about to give his views on propriety and what matron could do about it, but gloom enveloped him, and he couldn't raise the energy.

  He shook his head, and passively sat as she pushed him into a small, sparsely decorated room.

  "Hello, Lawrence. How are you?" said Violet, gazing at him with an uncertain smile.

  "As good as any man who finds out his life was a lie," he said with a lump in his throat. His heart ached as he regarded Violet. Under different circumstances, the sight of her would brighten his day. But not this time. He felt numb, bereft. She was another reminder of that painful night.

  "Don't believe everything Francis told you," said Violet, as if she had read his mind. Her eyes were tear-filled, expressing the same compassion as when he'd last seen her. But then, of course, she must have known what Francis was going to say. He'd held her captive for the best part of a week, and they must have talked about something during that time.

  "It's true, though."

  "You don't know that."

  "I do with hindsight. At least about Lily. I loved her so much, and she wasn't even mine. She didn't look like me."

  "She was yours in every way that mattered."

  "What happened to him? Is he in jail?"

  Violet shook her head.

  "Where then?"

  "He got away," she whispered.

  Lawrence put his head in his hands. "Great. So, they've carted me back to Bury, and that lunatic is close by."

  "No. Michael checked. Francis must have briefly returned to Netherwood. All his valuables, including his latest car and trunk, have disappeared, but Francis is long gone. He has escaped justice, Lawrence."

  "Damn it. I'll find him and when I do..."

  "I'm so sorry."

  "What about you, Violet? You're not safe in Swaffham."

  "I know. I've put my cottage up for sale, and I'm moving back here."

  "To Bury?"

  "Yes."

  "For good?" His heart fluttered with a faint ember of hope which died just as quickly as unbidden thoughts of Lily doused the flame.

  Violet nodded.

  "That's good," he said.

  "Perhaps I can help you with the business?"

  "I'm not interested in the business. It can go to hell and back, for all I care."

  "I need to tell you something."

  "What?"

  "The reason I left."

  "You've already explained it. I thought you left because of me, but it was Francis' behaviour that worried you."

  "Yes. But there was more to it."

  "I didn't marry Loveday, you know."

  "I know now, but only since Michael told me last week. It's changed everything."

  "I don't see why. Loveday and I parted ways over three years ago, and she married Tom Melcham. The fact that you've just found out is neither here nor there."

  "Oh, but it is. There is something I would have told you many years ago had our circumstances been different."

  "Violet. I'm more pleased to see you than I can say, but you're speaking in riddles, and it's exhausting."

  "When I left to visit my aunt, it wasn't just to spend time with her. I went away for a long time if you remember."

  "An exceptionally long time, and on two separate occasions. I missed you, Violet. More than you can imagine. If you'd been with me, I would never have – well, you know."

  Violet nodded. "I know. It was unavoidable. Too many secrets. If I'd told you when I first suspected, it could have been very different."

  "Suspected what?"

  "I fully understand the depth of your grief, and this may be the wrong time to tell you. It's risky. But there may never be a better opportunity. I don't know, and all I can do is take a chance. You think you're childless..."

  "I don't think I'm childless – I know it. I had a daughter, and now I don't."

  "But you do, Lawrence. You do."

  Violet stood and walked to the door, opened it, and beckoned beyond. Then taking a deep breath, she turned to face Lawrence, her fingers entwined in the pale hand of a little girl, clad in a pretty pink dress. Dark-haired and elfin-faced, the child looked nothing like her mother. But the resemblance to her father was unmistakable.

  "This is Daisy," said Violet pushing her forward. The child reached out and touched Lawrence's arm.

  His eyes filled with tears and his heart swelled as he clasped her little hand. Then he reached for Violet, and they clung together, heads bowed and united, at last.

  THE END

  CHAPTER 36

  Afterword

  I based the Moving Stone on a strange tale initially reported in the East Anglian Daily Press in June 1981. It concerned the unusual alignment of a stone cross belonging to Ella Morse. The stone, now broken, still lies in St Peter and St Paul's churchyard in Swaffham. At some stage, members of the clergy reorganised the churchyard, moving the older stones into straight lines. One day, the church sexton, Mr Frank Sandell, noticed the misalignment of Ella's stone during his walk from his house to the church. Seizing the initiative, he took measurements from the cross to a fixed point, proving that the stone had changed position. It continued to move for another seven years. The newspaper report described the grass around the base of the cross as flattened and bearing evidence of a twisting action. The cross itself had turned a full ninety degrees and faced north to south, contrary to every other stone in the churchyard.

  Once reports of the unusual activity hit the press, theories about Ella Morse abounded. The church contains a glass window dedicated to Ella Morse. Some suggested that her family purchased it to ease their conscience about their ill-treatment of her as no other family member had received such a tribute. Other theories touched on witchcraft or whether Ella might be mad. Ideas ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, the most outlandish being that someone else occupied her grave and was trying to get out.

  The truth, of course, is more prosaic. Ella Morse died on
14th September 1852 from an ovarian tumour. It's easy to trace her family history, which reveals that she was the daughter of John Morse and Ann Howes who died within six weeks of each other in 1830. John Morse was a well-regarded brewer and left his business to Ella's brother Arthur when he died. Ella and Arthur appear on the 1851 census records and lived together at 2 London Street, Swaffham, Arthur employing twenty-two men at the brewery.

  Sadly, all but two of the Morse children did not make old bones. Anne and Philip died as children and Caroline and Marian as young adults. Henry Porson Morse died off Dungeness on a voyage from Melbourne, and Herbert Morse drowned in Emsworth harbour while trying to rescue his friends. They were twenty-eight and thirty-one years old, respectively. Ella and her brother Arthur died within four years of each other, followed by their sisters Jane Edwards in 1860 and Isabella Rose in 1880. Only Margaret Morse lived a full life span, dying in the Lake District in 1903 aged eighty-two. So, it's fair to say that the Morse family did not have an easy time of it.

  But, if nothing else, establishing the provenance of the glass window dedicated to Ella Morse was relatively simple. Ella left a will – a very difficult to read will, as it happens, but presented well enough to see that she paid for the window herself. She also provided bequests to the church to move the organ to a superior position and increase the salary of the church organist. God-fearing and generous, Ella Morse left money to the poor of the parish and funded societies to spread the gospel abroad. However, her will was not straightforward and contained a statement at the end from her brothers, Arthur and Herbert. They jointly made an oath about a section of the will in which Ella used pencil for some names leaving gaps in the document. The brothers could not explain the missing words, but they identified the pencil marks as Ella's writing, and they proved the will in the normal way.

  Swaffham has been the focus of several hauntings over the years. One concerns a ghostly woman seen walking in the churchyard as if looking for a headstone. Another reports a figure who appears in the back garden of a cottage near Northwell Poll. There were many tragedies in Ella's life, but none of sufficient magnitude to bind her to this earth as an apparition – unless you know better. If you have any theories on Ella's stone or the West Ham disappearances, I would love to hear them. You can contact me or find out more about my books on the website below.

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  Also, by this author:

  Lawrence Harpham Murder Mysteries:

  The Fressingfield Witch

  The Ripper Deception

  The Scole Confession

  The Felsham Affair

  Short Stories featuring Lawrence Harpham:

  The Montpellier Mystery

  Box Set containing

  The Fressingfield Witch, The Ripper Deception & The Scole Confession

  Novels:

  Vote for Murder