No Stone Unturned

by Helen Watts

  Chapter 33 – 28th September 1860

  Sitting on her own in her kitchen, the whole cottage empty and eerily quiet, Alice was numb. When she first heard the news, she had felt dizzy and unable to breathe. She had heard someone hammering on Mr Greenslade’s front door and had rushed to open it, only to see a distraught Lucy Sherwood, tears streaming down her face, stammering something almost incomprehensible about Ted and the others. But the gist of it was clear. Four men, William included, were dead.

  Hearing the commotion, Mr Greenslade had steered the two ladies into the kitchen where his wife had made them both cups of strong tea, her kindness being rewarded by wracking sobs from Lucy and a shocked silence from Alice.

  Alice had insisted on going home, refusing to let Mr Greenslade or his wife accompany her. She had wanted to be alone. Besides, Billy would be home from school soon.

  Now that she was alone, Alice wasn’t sure what to do with herself. What were you meant to do when you had just heard that your husband had been hit by a train? It didn’t seem real. She didn’t feel anything.

  Looking about her, she noticed that the kitchen was unusually tidy. Neither her husband nor her son was very good at clearing away the breakfast things, and there was always something left out on the table or by the sink when she got home from work. But not today. Perhaps she should make a start on supper. She and Billy would have to eat, no matter what. At the thought of breaking the news to her son, Alice felt her stomach contract.

  She had just started peeling some potatoes over the basin when there was a knock at the door. The unexpected noise made Alice jump and the peeler slipped, taking a slice of skin off the side of her thumb.

  ‘Blast!’ she exclaimed, sucking the blood from her finger as she went to answer the door. She was surprised to find tears in her eyes. It was only a silly nick, after all.

  For a moment she wondered if it was Billy, home from school early, but Billy would never knock at the front door like that. He always let himself in through the back door from the garden.

  It was William’s foreman, holding a damp cardboard box with her husband’s name scrawled hastily on one side. Alice had seen him in church many times and he always acknowledged her and Billy, so she had him marked as a good man. Well-mannered at least. For church he wore his hair neatly slicked back, and his clothes were clean and freshly pressed. Today he looked altogether different. The colour was drained from his face and his eyes were red-rimmed and blood-shot. He was soaking wet and filthy too, and Alice recoiled when she noticed what looked like a smear of blood on his sleeve.

  ‘I am so sorry about your husband, Mrs Denton,’ he stammered. ‘He might not have been the best timekeeper, but he was a good worker and he was popular among the lads. It’s just terrible. They couldn’t hear anything you see, ’cos of the southbound train.’

  Alice held up her hand to silence him. She wasn’t ready to hear it yet. Besides, what could knowing the details change?

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing to the box.

  ‘It’s a couple of William’s things. They have taken the…’ the foreman swallowed, ‘…the bodies to the mortuary in Stratford-upon-Avon. But there were a few clothes and things, scattered about. I thought I should gather them up and return them to the families straight away.’

  ‘The mortuary?’ asked Alice. ‘Can I go and see him?’

  The foreman looked down at the box, searching for the right words. ‘The doctor said the bodies would be taken straight from there to the undertakers and put in closed coffins. They were… well, the train hit ’em pretty hard, Mrs Denton. To be truthful, they had trouble recognising who was who.’

  Alice swayed, falling against the door frame. The foreman lunged forward to catch her arm, dropping the box as he did so. ‘Oh, Mrs Denton, I apologise. I’ve said too much. Let me take you to a chair.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Alice reassured him, regaining her balance and touching her brow with a trembling hand. ‘Don’t worry about the box. I’ll deal with it. Please, please, just leave me be.’

  The foreman still lingered, his face lined with worry. ‘Are you on your own, Mrs Denton?’

  ‘My son will be back any time now. Really, you can go. I’ll be fine. Thank you for bringing William’s things.’

  The foreman retreated, and Alice bent down to pick up the contents which had spilled from the box onto the floor. A few coins in a small leather money purse which William always kept in his jacket, a door key, his left boot and his cap. Was that it? Was that all she had left of him?

  Alice slipped the purse and the key into the pocket of her cardigan then put the boot back in the box and slid it gently under the hall table. She carried the cap into the kitchen with her, sank down in the chair and stared at it in her lap. Some of the blood from her finger had seeped into the material on the peak and she absent-mindedly rubbed at it with her sleeve.

  ‘Trouble recognising who was who,’ the foreman had said. Alice closed her eyes and tried to block out the horrific image that kept appearing in her mind. Suddenly she didn’t want to be on her own any more. She needed Billy to come home.

  She listened to the clock in the sitting room ticking off the minutes from the end of the afternoon. Billy was normally home by now. What if someone had stopped him on his way back from school and told him what had happened? Panic rose in her chest. She didn’t want her son to hear the news from anyone but her.

  Her unease growing, Alice became aware that she was wringing Willliam’s cap in her hands. She checked herself, and gently smoothed out the cap on her knee. It was then that she noticed the initials which, months ago, she had so carefully embroidered on the inside to stop William from moaning that he kept leaving for work with a cap that was too small. She went cold. She was looking at the letters B T D.

  William must have picked up the wrong cap this morning, Alice told herself. He was in a rush. It was early. It was dark.

  She shifted in her seat. Then she went into the sitting room to check the clock. She was right. Billy was late.

  Alice dropped the cap on the floor and ran to the coat rack by the back door. A second cap, still there. She snatched it down from the peg. Perhaps she had misread the letters. No, there, in her own neat little stitches, were the letters W T D.

  The boxroom! Alice took the stairs two at a time to check the room to which she had banished her inebriated husband the night before. She threw open the door and was hit by a stomach-churning stench. There was a pool of vomit on the floor by the bed, hastily half-covered with one of her best linen towels, and she put her hand over her mouth as she tried not to retch. She took in the crumpled bedspread, the pillow knocked onto the floor. Everything suggested that William had left in a hurry.

  For a moment, she felt relieved. Her theory had been correct. William must have been in such a rush to get to work that he simply picked up the wrong cap. Then she felt guilty. She didn’t want William to be dead of course. But if she had to choose between him and her son…

  Breathing deeply, Alice shut the door on the distasteful scene and crossed the landing into Billy’s room. She was surprised to see that Billy’s bed wasn’t made either. Then she saw his satchel, sitting packed and ready on the rocking chair beside the bed.

  The sense of dread returned. ‘Please, God, no!’ she cried.

  Alice dashed down the stairs. ‘William? Billy?’ she called out, over and over, as she searched every room and peered out of the front window. She no longer knew what to think. In her panic, she ran blindly out into the back yard, through the side gate, and flew down the track in the direction of the railway. She didn’t feel the cold wind, or notice the rain on her face. Her mind was focused on one thing alone. Finding her son.

  She took the short-cut along the footpath through the wood. She knew it would be muddy, but from the other side of the trees she could pick up the canal towpath and come out on the main road just down from the station. The path was slippery and more than once Alice tripped and nearly fell, but
she didn’t care. She had to keep on going.

  As she stumbled through the trees she came to the new shed that William and his workmates had built to store all their tools and equipment. Something about it caught her eye. The door was usually locked when no one was around. Now it was ajar and she was sure she could see a shape or detect the tiniest of movements inside. There must be someone there. Perhaps they could help her.

  Slowly, yet inexplicably nervous, Alice walked up to the door and peered inside. Then she fell to her knees. Hanging from a roof beam, the knotted rope around his neck gently creaking, was William.

  Chapter 34 – 28th September 1860

  You’ve heard the news, I presume?’

  It was Sir Francis, his face grim as he burst into Sir Charles Barry’s study.

  ‘It’s terrible,’ Barry replied, close to tears. ‘So close to the opening. Just dreadful.’

  ‘Indeed, the timing could not be worse. But don’t worry, my friend. It’s all in hand. I have Adkins’ assurance that the train has been able to continue its journey via Birmingham, and it won’t delay the official opening of the branch line.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant!’ snapped the architect. ‘I meant how terrible it is for those poor men. It’s heart-breaking that they have lost their lives at all, but at this stage of the project, after all those months of labour, when they were so close to finishing.’

  ‘Well, yes, of course,’ sniffed Sir Francis. ‘Tragic. But it needn’t reflect badly on us.’

  ‘How can it not?’ enquired Barry, appalled. ‘What about the families of the men killed?’

  ‘Surely they understand that railway work is dangerous.’

  Barry gasped. ‘Maybe they do, but everyone knows that those men have been asked to work at twice the speed. They will suspect that corners were cut. People are bound to ask why a fully-laden goods train was running on a line that hadn’t yet been officially opened. They will want to know if the men were put at unacceptable risk. Deadlines or not, as shareholders we still have a duty of care. The families could have a case against the railway company for negligence or worse!’

  Sir Francis paced back and forth in front of Barry’s desk. ‘The families might think they have a case, but they could never prove anything. This was just an unfortunate accident.’

  Barry felt sick. ‘But the driver should have been told that there were workmen on the line. At the very least there should have been a look-out, a signal of some kind. Those poor devils had no warning.’

  ‘Well, the driver’s too knocked out to say anything at the moment,’ Sir Francis remarked. ‘The doctors have given him something to calm him down. They say he was in a very bad state of shock. And I doubt he’ll say anything that would reflect badly upon his employers—not if he values his job. The driver of the other train said he didn’t see what happened. So the only other witnesses were the victims. Luckily they were all killed instantly, so they didn’t have chance to blame anyone.’

  ‘Luckily?’ Barry couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘The engine made a mess of them, that’s for sure, especially the two who were struck first. It’ll be closed coffins at those four funerals!’ Throckmorton let out a small chuckle.

  Barry shot to his feet. ‘This is no joking matter, Francis! These were human beings.’

  ‘Look, my friend,’ said Sir Francis, his face turning serious. ‘Building railways is always dangerous. A few corners may have been cut, but you need to remember why. There are plenty of people, including everyone in that godforsaken village, who will benefit from the new railway and from that quarry staying in business.’

  Beads of sweat were forming on Barry’s brow, and he felt unsteady on his feet. He leaned on his desk for support. ‘Will the board offer the relatives some compensation, at least?’ he croaked, after a few moments of silence.

  Sir Francis sighed. ‘Perhaps. As long as it’s without admission of guilt.’ His face brightened. ‘Even better if it were a settlement rather than compensation. The men were going to get a bonus anyway. We wouldn’t have to top that up by a great deal, and in exchange we can ask the families to agree that no further action against the railway company will be taken.’

  ‘Those men deserve a decent funeral. The cost of that should be covered too,’ Barry insisted.

  ‘Yes, there’s no reason why we can’t do that. The bodies have been taken to the mortuary in Stratford-upon-Avon, but we could arrange for the undertakers to bring them on a special train back into Wilmcote for burial. We can’t do finer than that. But I shall warn the families that the deceased will get no such ceremony unless everyone agrees to the settlement.’

  ‘I am sure you will,’ sighed Barry, defeated. He mopped his brow.

  Sir Francis continued, ‘Furthermore, I will insist that any memorials are kept plain. We don’t want everyone being reminded of the accident for years to come. And I will stipulate that no one can talk to the newspapers.’

  Barry made a strange choking noise and pulled at his collar.

  ‘Good lord, man, are you all right?’ demanded Sir Francis. ‘You’ve turned a very odd shade.’

  ‘Am I all right?’ sputtered Barry. ‘No, I’m not all right. How can I be? I’m the architect of one of the country’s greatest buildings, yes. But at what cost?’

  Irritation flashed across Sir Francis’s face. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and checked his fob watch.

  Barry waved his hand at the MP dismissively. ‘Yes, yes, it’s late. It’s been a long day. I think you’d better take your leave. I’m sure you want to start putting your plan into action. And I’ve heard as much as I can stomach. Goodnight to you, Sir Francis.’

  As soon as Sir Francis had left the room, Barry cast his eyes to the ceiling. He had never felt under such pressure. The weight of it was sitting heavily on his chest, like a vice tightening his rib cage, restricting every breath. He lurched across the room to the circular marble table positioned in the recess of the large bay window. Sitting upon it was a perfect, small scale model of the Palace of Westminster. Almost falling across it, Barry swept the model onto the polished wooden floor, letting out a roar of frustration as the model splintered into hundreds of tiny pieces.

  The old man began to sob, his breaths becoming gasps as once again he grappled with his collar. The pain in his chest was unbearable now and was shooting down his left arm. Paralysed by it, Barry collapsed onto the floor amid the pieces of the building which had been his greatest dream.

  By the time his beloved wife Sarah found him, Sir Charles Barry’s body was stone cold.

  PART 7

  Chapter 35 – April 1861

  The weather on the morning of Alice’s final goodbye to her son was much as it had been on that dreadful day, six months earlier, when the train had struck him down. The rain was falling in slate-grey sheets and the bottom of Alice’s skirts, as she crossed the grass of the churchyard, were sodden and rimmed with mud. The small bunch of daffodils she carried, hand-picked from the garden at Stone Pit Cottage and tied with a blue ribbon, was already battered and bruised from the unforgiving wind which had swept Alice along as she walked down through the village to the church.

  Arriving at the grave, Alice paused to read the verse that she, Sarah and the other wives had chosen for the headstone, its true meaning known only to their families, before crouching down in front of the last little footstone in the row of four. She pulled away the clumps of long grass which had already began to swallow the three carved initials, and placed her bouquet down next to the space she had cleared.

  She traced the letters with her index finger and swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. W. T. D. No one but Alice and her father knew that the William who lay beneath the cold soil was her beloved son. Her Billy. Her rock.

  As the tears spilled down her cheeks, scenes from that terrible day flashed up in front of her eyes. Her shock at seeing her husband hanging from the roof beam like a grotesque marionette in the dark, musty shed had turn
ed to anger as she realised that William had taken the easy way out. Everything had fallen into place then. She had known for certain that the body they had scraped off the track was that of her precious son. And William had discovered that too. He had risen from his drunken slumber too late to prevent poor Billy from taking his place—from being killed in his place. William was to blame for everything. She had known it, and he had known it. But rather than face up to what he had done, William had left her to cope with her grief on her own. Just as her father had always predicted, William had brought shame on her and her family. Yet even her father, who had despised William from the moment he met him, could never have imagined the deplorable means by which he would accomplish it.

  Time after time, she and Billy had stood up for William in the face of her father’s criticism. He had not deserved their loyalty. And now the shame that he had brought upon her with his drinking had been compounded in his death by suicide. How could she ever forgive him for that? No, she had decided, she wasn’t going to let him tarnish her family’s name with this scandal. He had taken enough from her already.

  That was when Alice had made the decision. No one would know.

  As she knelt by her son’s grave, Alice recalled the struggle to cut down her husband’s body with the saw she had found inside the shed, then drag it to the disused well outside. She had found the strength, drawing on her grief and her anger, and thankful for the slipperiness of the rain-soaked grass beneath his back. She had stuffed his pockets with rocks from the piles waiting nearby to be crushed into ballast, and had heaved his corpse over the side of the well, trying not to look upon her husband’s shocking purple, bloated face. Then she had let him fall, breathing heavily yet strangely calm as she watched his body disappear down into the darkness.

  After the initial heavy splash, Alice had waited until she could no longer hear any more ripples gently lapping against the sides of the well. Then she had prayed that the Lord would forgive her and allow his body, and the nature of his shameful death, to remain a secret in those cold, dark, murky waters.