by Helen Watts
‘So what did she do?’ asked Kelly.
Alice cleared her throat, evidently feeling less comfortable sharing this part of her family history. ‘My great-grandmother didn’t record all the details in her diary, but she said enough to convince my mother and me that she hid the body somewhere.’
‘I think I know where,’ whispered Kelly, sitting back in her chair and putting her hands together and up to her mouth as if in prayer. An image of a deep, dark hole in the ground filled her mind. ‘There’s an old shed in the woods, between the canal and the railway. I’ve been there. I think that might be where Alice found William. And there’s an old disused well right by it. Do you think he’s down there?’ Kelly gasped, appalled by her own theory. ‘Urgh! What a horrible thought!’
Alice blew out. ‘I don’t know. He could be. Not that there would be much left of him now.’ Then, seeing the revulsion in Kelly’s expression, she added, ‘Look, I don’t think that hiding the body was something my great-grandma was very proud of. Perhaps that was why she could never bring herself to tell anyone, or write more in her diary about it. Perhaps it was just easier for everyone if he remained unfound.’
‘So…’ Kelly slowly picked up the thread. ‘Alice never told anyone what had happened to Billy? It was covered up?’
Alice nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it. Keeping it all a secret was made easy for them. The railway company knew that they could have prevented that accident on the line but they had the power and the means to keep that quiet. So it was hushed up. And from Alice’s point of view, there was nothing to be gained by the world knowing that William had committed suicide. What good would have come of dragging her family’s name through the mud? So she told everyone that she had sent Billy away. Then one day, after the inquest, she simply disappeared. She didn’t even tell her father where she had gone. I don’t suppose he would ever have dreamed that she had gone to the other side of the world.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Kelly, shaking her head.
‘No,’ agreed Alice. ‘It’s quite a story. But I think Billy would like it to be told, don’t you?’
Kelly nodded, a lump building in her throat.
‘In fact,’ added Alice, ‘one of the things I want to enquire about while I’m here in England is whether I can put a new stone on the grave, showing Billy’s full name and age. It seems only right, don’t you think? It might not be possible, but I feel I should at least try.’
‘Oh, yes,’ croaked Kelly, swallowing hard. ‘I think he would like that. The headstone says rest in peace. I think he would have more chance of doing that if his life and his death were acknowledged in some way. Otherwise it’s like he never existed.’
‘I have a photo of Billy, you know. It was the only picture my great-grandmother had of him among her things. I think it must have been taken at school here in Wilmcote. Perhaps we could get you a copy of it for your project?’
Kelly’s head shot up. ‘Do you have it with you?’
‘Yes.’ Alice delved into the handbag hanging off the back of her chair. ‘It’s in here with all my legal documents about the cottage.’
She pulled out a plastic folder, opened it, and flicked through the contents. ‘Here you go. It’s only a photocopy I’m afraid, and the original was quite faded, but you can tell he was a lovely-looking boy.’
Kelly took the piece of paper from Alice and held it closer to the candlelight. The boy in the photograph, standing proudly by the school gate, holding what looked like a certificate in front of his chest, was Ben.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Like Kelly’s adventure in No Stone Unturned, this book began with a dog walk. My golden retriever Dexter and I like to walk around the edge of a disused quarry, long transformed from a sheer-sided hole to a wildly overgrown nature reserve. I always try to imagine how different the peaceful, rural scene that I see today would have looked in the nineteenth century when the quarry was in its heyday.
Then one day, while browsing through a book called A Passage Through Time produced by my local History Society, a fact caught my eye: limestone from the quarry was used for the flooring of the Houses of Parliament when it was rebuilt after it was destroyed by a massive fire in 1834. I was amazed that what was now a hole in the ground on the edge of a small rural village could have such impressive connections!
I was determined to find out more. So I started doing some digging of my own, into the archives, and No Stone Unturned was unearthed.
Sir Charles Barry was the architect chosen to design the new Palace of Westminster. Born on 23rd May 1795, Barry loved Italianate architecture, and designed many country houses and gardens and public buildings in Britain, including the north terrace of Trafalgar Square and its two fountain basins. His design for the Palace of Westminster, bearing a portcullis as a symbol, was chosen from ninety-seven entries and reflected the desire for a magnificent building in the Gothic style.
For help with his drawings and with the execution of the interior design on the project, Barry teamed up with architect and draughtsman Augustus Pugin (1st March 1812–14th September 1852). Pugin suffered a mental breakdown and, in 1852, spent time in an asylum for the insane: the Royal Bethlehem Hospital, known by Bedlam, which stood where the Imperial War Museum now is today. For the purposes of the story, Pugin’s death is brought forwards in time to January 1852.
Many of the details in the story about Barry’s setbacks and problems during the building of the Houses of Parliament are true. The project overran massively both on time and budget. The first foundation stone was laid by Sir Charles’ wife, Sarah, on 27 August 1840, and the building was not completed until ten years after Sir Charles died, with his son Edward finishing the job his father had started.
The stresses and strains of the Westminster project took their toll on Barry and he suffered repeated bouts of illness. It is said that he died of a heart attack at home with his wife in the afternoon of 12th May 1860.
The railway accident which killed Billy in my story is based on a true event in the village of Wilmcote, but the real-life tragedy happened later, on 24th March 1922. Four men were killed while repairing the railway line. At their funeral, a special train was laid on to carry their bodies, and more than 200 railway workers joined the local people who came out to pay their respects. According to its log book for 29th March 1922, the village school closed for the afternoon ‘because of the funeral of those parents killed in the railway accident’.
The bodies of the four men lie in a shared plot in my local churchyard, each marked with a small footstone bearing their initials. When I visited their grave, I had already given William his name. So I was moved to see that one of the real-life victims bore the same Christian name.
William Thomas Bonehill was just 27 when he, along with his three fellow labourers, was hit by a northbound light engine which had just passed another southbound goods train close to a bend in the track. At the inquiry, a farm bailiff walking in fields near to the railway cutting testified that he had seen some men packing the ballast on the line without a lookout, and that when the first train passed them, they did not stop working.
As in our story, the jury in the inquest returned a verdict of Accidental Death and no mention of the terrible accident which took the men’s lives is made on their headstone.
Many of the places featured in the story are real or are inspired by genuine locations in and around Wilmcote and Stratford-upon Avon. I have taken the liberty of tweaking some historical details. For example, in my descriptions of the Arden Inn, some of you may recognise the Mary Arden Inn, which dominates Wilmcote’s village green. However, the inn did not exist in 1839 and I invented Sir Charles Barry’s short stay there. The building was originally a private residence and did not become an inn until around 1870, when it was known as the Swan Inn.
Limestone was quarried in Wilmcote as long ago as the sixteenth century but it was in the 1800s that activity in the quarry increased most rapidly,. The initial boost to the industry wa
s the completion of the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal in June 1816, but it was the arrival of the Stratford-upon-Avon railway, which opened in 1860, which enabled the village to reach its full potential.
The home of fictional quarry owner Richard Greenslade resembles the property known today as Gypsy Hall Farm. In the nineteenth century, Gypsies who travelled to Wilmcote to work in the quarries near to the farm—which was originally called Stone Pits Farm—were given permission by the farm owner to camp in his fields near to the house; hence its name change.
* * *
So there you have it. The germs of so many fascinating stories, found within walking distance of my back door. If you enjoy sniffing out a good story, or telling a tale or two of your own, then you might not need to go far for inspiration. Take a good look around you. Leave no stone unturned. There could be something special hiding there!
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the Aston Cantlow District Local History Society for providing the first, helpful stepping stones on the path which led to this book. Had it not been for a short snippet of information tucked away in the corner of a page about working life in Wilmcote, in their publication A Passage Through Time in a Warwickshire Parish edited by Brian Twigg, I would never have known that the limestone from the old abandoned Wilmcote quarry had made its way down to London and to the Houses of Parliament.
I would also like to say a massive thank you to my team of family and friends who read my manuscript at an early stage and gave me their feedback and honest opinions. That includes my mum and dad, David and Irene Watts, Merle Yeomans (who turns out to be a brilliant proof-reader) and Keith Yeomans, Carolyn, John and Adam Gallagher and my dear friend Kate Whyman. All your support and advice is invaluable and much appreciated.
Thank you too, to the Reverend Richard Livingstone for your advice on the relationship between Billy and his grandfather and for checking my facts with regards to the Sunday service.
Of course, this book would be nothing more than an idea in my head were it not for the encouragement and utterly brilliant editing talents of Kate Paice at A&C Black/Bloomsbury. Thank you once again for believing in me, Kate, and for handling my manuscript which such a gentle touch. Thank you too, to Emily Diprose and everyone else at A&C Black/Bloomsbury, including the design team who did such a smashing job on the front cover.
Thank you Dexter dog, for taking me on such great adventures around the lanes and fields of Wilmcote. And as always, huge thanks to my children Jack and Georgia, and to my lovely husband Jon, without whose love and support Kelly and Ben’s story might never have made it onto the page.
Copyright
To Jonathan, with all my love
In memory of
Christopher Charles Goodson
(29th September 1965–6th May 2013)
First published 2014 by A & C Black,
an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square
London WC1B 3DP
Bloomsbury is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
www.bloomsbury.com
Copyright © 2014 A & C Black
Text copyright © 2014 Helen Watts
The right of Helen Watts to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
eISBN: 978-14729-0541-3
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the prior permission in writing of the publishers.
Printed and Bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
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