The Murder Stone

by Charles Todd

  “Actually, I didn’t. The maid at The Spotted Calf told me about it.” He gestured toward the inscription. “She said that it had been there since she was a girl. And look—there are other names scratched here. Marianne. Sarah. Laura. A Roman burial for other women?”

  Francesca Hatton had been educated with her male cousins. She knew what he was talking about. If one threw a handful of earth on a corpse and repeated Hail and Farewell three times over the body, in the sight of the gods it was now buried and at peace. Only here the names had been scratched in stone, close by the churchyard, as if to give them peace as well, and keep them—wherever they lay buried—from walking in the dark . . .

  “It could be the names of girls who came here to find their lovers,” she answered lightly, shaking off her own morbid thoughts. “You’ll never know. Nor shall I. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  He stared at her, not bothering to disguise his frustration and anger and impotence. “Did you scratch your own name among them?”

  “I was twelve. No. I was afraid my grandfather might learn what I’d done,” she replied steadily. “Don’t you see, that’s the whole point? This Valley is close—and closed. We keep to ourselves, we keep our business to ourselves—and yet we know almost at once if a mouse so much as sneezes under the baker’s bed! It would have been the height of stupidity for Grandfather to bring an unwilling woman here, much less murder her here or bury her in the churchyard! The servants would whisper among themselves. Sooner or later rumors and gossip would begin to trickle through the village, and the outlying farmers would hear it at The Spotted Calf. They would carry the tidbit home with them, or to market—”

  “Are you telling me that Mrs. Lane would gossip about her employer? I don’t believe it!”

  “Mrs. Lane has a very—puritan view of life. She might not gossip—but she would leave Grandfather’s employ at once, if he did something she couldn’t approve of. Screaming captives in the attic might well fall into that category.”

  “You’re making fun of me,” he said tightly.

  Her anger flared. “No, I’m telling you that you can destroy my grandfather’s reputation—his memory—with your prying questions and your insistence that he was a monster,” she retorted. “He was the most respected man in this Valley. What if, after all, you’ve been chasing a shadow? What if, one day, the police charge another man with this alleged crime? The harm will have been done here. How will you undo it? Will you write nice letters to the people of Hurley, explaining that you’d been wrong from the start? That it was all some terrible mistake?”

  “It will never come to that—Alasdair MacPherson is a fair man! Do you think he would have told me who murdered my mother, if he wasn’t absolutely convinced he was right?”

  Absolute conviction was one thing—absolute proof might be another, she thought. MacPherson had lost a beloved daughter—his only child. He would want to see blame squarely placed—he would want to put his hands around the throat of the man who had destroyed Victoria and slowly choke the life from him. She might have been Thomas Leighton’s wife, but it was Alasdair MacPherson who was avid for revenge, who hadn’t forgotten—who drove the instrument of his hate until he’d distorted the vision of his grandson.

  But then, a little voice reminded her, might it be your own vision that’s distorted? Where in God’s name does the real truth lie?

  On the heels of that caveat, as if he’d read her mind, Leighton inquired, “Were you ever curious about your own mother?”

  “I asked for her when I first came here—my grandfather would show me her picture and tell me how hap—” She stopped, and then said, “As I grew accustomed to this life—to my newfound cousins—the old one faded away.” But she and her cousins had been much younger than Richard Leighton when his mother vanished. “At any rate, Grandfather never encouraged us to dwell on the past. I suppose he believed it was for the best.”

  Because of a murder—his own son’s murder?

  “My father drank for five years, before he pulled himself together and found another woman to love. She was good, very plain, the antithesis of my mother. I came to value her, if not to love her. As he must have done. There’s one other stop, if you’ll spare me the time. I’d like to visit Miss Trotter’s cottage with you.”

  “What, again? You don’t give up easily, do you?”

  “If you recall, she’d told me about the drowned serving girl. But she wasn’t quite as forthcoming about your grandfather. Perhaps if you’re there, proving that I’m not doing this behind your back, she’ll tell us both what we want to know.”

  “It’s you who wants to know! But all right, this one last thing. After that, you’ll leave the Valley and leave me in peace.”

  “It’s not a bargain I’ll make,” he replied grimly.

  They walked on up the road to the tiny cottage that Miss Trotter occupied. It was old but well tended, and the walled garden in front was fragrant with herbs and flowers. Chamomile and tansy, horehound for sore throats, foxglove for the heart, and strawflowers that the village girls bought and tied with ribbons to decorate their summer hats.

  Miss Trotter appeared happy enough to find two unexpected guests at her door. She shooed the sleeping cat off the chair by the hearth and dusted it with a rag before offering it shyly to Francesca.

  Leighton leaned against the stone mantel shelf, tall and out of place in this diminutive room.

  “I was just finishing the bottling of my horehound cough syrup,” Miss Trotter told them, explaining the aromatic steam coming from a pot on the hob. “It’s already in demand, what with this uncertain weather.”

  “Mr. Leighton has come to speak to you, Miss Trotter,” Francesca began.

  “Yes, about his mother. He’s been here before, and Mrs. Horner at the Rectory told me about him, too.” The vague blue eyes, like a china doll’s, moved from Francesca to Leighton. “Mrs. Leighton wasn’t the drowned girl, I did tell him that. But he thinks perhaps I’d been wrong about it.”

  Leighton stirred uncomfortably. “You couldn’t remember her name. And bodies which have been in the water aren’t always readily identified.”

  “Why should I remember the poor girl’s name?” Miss Trotter answered soothingly. “I didn’t know her. But someone did. That’s all that matters.”

  “Why did Francis Hatton pay for her burial? Was it guilt?” he pressed.

  “It was a kindness. It was the sort of man he was,” she replied, turning to set the filled bottles on a shelf. “Your grandfather now, what manner of man is he? Would he have left the poor soul to Potter’s Field?”

  “My grandfather?” he repeated, surprised. “Alasdair MacPherson is a good man. He loved his daughter very much.”

  “And spoiled her into the bargain, I daresay. Fathers do, you know! Did she marry the man she wanted, or did Mr. MacPherson choose a husband for her?”

  Leighton didn’t know how to answer her. “I—don’t think it ever occurred to me to ask. I— My father was some years her senior. But it didn’t seem to matter to either of them.”

  “Perhaps she preferred older men. Or thought she did. Spoiled girls sometimes will.” Miss Trotter’s voice offered no judgment, only speculation.

  But her questions had annoyed Richard Leighton. “It’s Francis Hatton I’ve come to talk about.”

  “I thought we were talking about him.” She smiled, distracted by the arrangement of the bottles. “It might help to look at a photograph of your mother, if you have one. I see things in faces.”

  He toyed with his watch chain as if reluctant to answer her. “I—didn’t bring it with me—it’s in my bags at the inn.”

  “Yes, it would be.” She appeared not to be disappointed. “You loved her memory dearly, I can see that.” It was an odd choice of words, and Francesca looked up from stroking the cat on the windowsill as Miss Trotter went on. “And what you’re asking me is whether or not she loved you as much. I wish I could answer you. It’s a heavy burden for a child to carry alon
e, you know. I can understand why she haunts you still. It’s there in the darkness you live in.”

  His very silence revealed the old woman had struck home. And he didn’t answer her directly. Instead he said, “There isn’t much time left. My grandfather isn’t a well man. He deserves the comfort of knowing. Was Hatton my mother’s murderer? And what did he do with the body? Your own mother worked for the family during that time. Surely there’s something you can tell me that will point me to the truth!”

  “I doubt he did her any harm, sir. It wasn’t Francis Hatton’s way. He’d lost someone he loved, you see. He knew the grief of that.”

  “Did you know my grandmother?” Francesca asked, surprised and curious. “Can you tell me anything about her?”

  “Your grandmother?” Miss Trotter asked, turning. It was as if Francesca had changed the subject. “She wasn’t from the Valley, of course. A Somerset family, I always was told. But her people had lived here more years ago than anyone can remember. And it may be true, for all I know.”

  “But what sort of person was she?” Francesca persisted.

  “Quite a pretty little thing, more than a little vain. It was an arranged marriage. Her sons took after her, which was a heartbreak for Mr. Hatton. Handsome, headstrong. Vain. Easily led.”

  “Why do you say it was a heartbreak?”

  “Did Mr. Francis never tell you? Your father now, Mr. Edward, he took a fancy to card games and was ruined. Your grandfather sent him off to Canada, for his own good. How was anyone to guess it would be the death of him? But Mr. Hatton blamed himself all the same. It was a terrible grief to carry. And Mr. Tristan, he was one for the drink and soon fell into bad company. His wife was leaving him . . .”

  In disgrace . . .

  Francesca hastily moved on, aware that Leighton was listening to every word. “And Mrs. Leighton—Victoria Leighton. What do you think became of her? Have you ever heard whispers that could point Mr. Leighton toward an answer?”

  “I know most things. But not that.” She bent to sniff another pot that was steaming gently. “I’ve wondered, from time to time, if Mr. Hatton was a scapegoat.”

  Francesca, pleased, glanced across at Leighton. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever stopped to consider that.”

  Miss Trotter hadn’t finished. “Still, if I stood in your shoes, sir, I’d look away from the Valley. This is where Mr. Hatton’s family lived. He’d not be likely to keep his secrets here, would he? Gloucestershire, now—”

  “Gloucestershire?” Leighton asked quickly.

  “Happens it’s the first county popped into my head. But you might take your pick of any and have better luck than here.”

  Francesca stood to leave, satisfied to let Miss Trotter have the last word.

  Leighton followed her to the threshold, bending his head under the low sweep of the thatched roof. It was as if he couldn’t let it go—but was reluctant to challenge the old woman directly. Finally he said, “My grandfather was always sure the answer lay here. Which of you ought I to believe?”

  “I’d have been told, sir, if I was wrong.” Miss Trotter spoke the simple words as if she had ears in the village—or familiars—or a sixth sense about life. The cat stretched, yawned, and watched them malevolently as Leighton thanked her and turned to go.

  Miss Trotter turned to the shelves and brought down a small glass flask. “Here’s more of my dandelion wine, Miss Francesca. You might have need of it again.”

  Francesca stared at her, stunned.

  Miss Trotter closed the younger woman’s fingers around the bottle and smiled with kindness. “I know my own wine when I smell it,” she said softly. “He didn’t mind. It brought back pleasant memories and a better end. A little was on Miss Honneycutt’s breath, too. The nurse. It was a kindness to both.” And in a softer voice still, certain not to carry as far as Leighton’s ears, she said, “If I stood in your shoes, I’d be mindful of what young Master Simon was always saying, that in any battle knowledge is strength.”

  It was an uncanny echo of what she’d told herself less than an hour before.

  “And I’d be likely to stay on Mr. Leighton’s good side until I discovered what it was he really wanted.” Miss Trotter glanced over Francesca’s shoulder toward the man waiting on the path. “He won’t make old bones, that one. Mark my words.” Then she added, “Better for whatever it is he fears to die with him.”

  Badly shaken, Francesca turned away and walked through the garden to the path.

  Leighton greeted her impatiently. “What is it? What did she tell you? What did she give you?”

  Francesca looked down at the flask in her hands. “It’s dandelion wine. My grandfather was quite fond of it—”

  And to her absolute astonishment, tears began to roll down her pale cheeks. Fumbling for his handkerchief, Leighton looked away.

  She was glad that her downcast lashes concealed the agony of guilt.

  CHAPTER 10

  They walked together back in the direction of River’s End, Leighton silent to give her time to recover, and Francesca struggling to overcome a despair that seemed to blot out every other emotion. And then she became aware of the man at her side, took a breath to steady herself, and tried to bring her mind to bear on the present.

  “I’m sorry Miss Trotter wasn’t more helpful. But I did warn you.”

  “She knows more than she’s willing to say.”

  “Does she? Or is it that you don’t have an open mind, willing to hear what she is saying?” Before he could retort with his customary swift anger, she went on, “If it were my family, I’d listen to every side of the argument rather than try to force what I do hear into a preconceived notion.”

  “Aren’t you doing the same, in an effort to defend your grandfather?”

  “All right, then. A bargain. We’ll work together, shall we? I to clear my grandfather’s name, and you to find your mother’s fate.” She waited for a space, remembering that in chess, nothing was rushed.

  She had been taught the game well. On rainy afternoons there had been fierce competitions among the cousins, Robin challenging Peter, Simon attacking Freddy. She and Harry, the youngest, had wrestled with their chessmen until one or the other brother was victorious and came to their aid. Her greatest triumph was at the age of fourteen when she conquered her grandfather. Simon had stood silently behind her chair, watching every move, and howled like a banshee when she called out a shy “Checkmate!” Harry had turned a somersault, and Peter brought out an empty bottle of champagne and saluted her. Freddy and Robin, scrutinizing the board, congratulated themselves on being excellent teachers. And her grandfather, grinning, had replaced the empty bottle with an unopened one, as her reward. The champagne had made her dizzy.

  “There’s always the possibility that your mother is still alive,” she told Leighton quietly. “You don’t want to believe that, of course, but for a moment, just one moment, ask yourself where your mother might have gone if she had had a very strong reason to leave you and your father.”

  “I confess, I did consider that. When I was fourteen and grown up enough to understand that most marriages have their secrets. Still, I couldn’t imagine that she could choose someone as old as your grandfather to take up with.” He paused, then added with some restraint, “It was impossible to picture her in bed with a man of that age. Now I know better, that he was as physically capable as a younger man of satisfying a woman’s needs. Or taking her against her will.” He ran a hand over his gaunt face. “I assure you, there was nothing loverlike in her departure! And if it wasn’t kidnap and murder, if it wasn’t a passion for another man, what reason can there be for going away without a word?” There was anguish in his voice, and long years of wishing. And of hating.

  Francesca stopped on the drive, her eyes on the trees that shaded it. “I don’t know. But my grandfather might have known—and felt he couldn’t betray her.”

  “Yes, there’s that.” His agreement was grudging. “But what would make him side against my
father, who believed himself to be a friend? That hurt more than you realize. My grandfather was half mad with grief—and I couldn’t imagine what was happening to me or to her. Why leave all three of us in an agony of uncertainty? It makes no sense! It’s little short of cruel!”

  A sharp report echoed again through the sunlit trees. Leighton swore, then said, “I’ve come to hate guns. I’ve seen what they can do to flesh. I wouldn’t put an animal through that terror.”

  Francesca walked on. “Was it bad?”

  “The Front? I can’t describe it. And you wouldn’t believe me if I tried.”

  “No, perhaps not. But I’ve seen the wounded, coming through London. What struck me most was their courage, their acceptance. They were so very brave. I know I’d hate the people who destroyed my lungs or took away my eyes and left me helpless!”

  “You don’t hate the enemy, Miss Hatton. You just accept the need to kill as many of him as possible, before he can kill you, so that everyone can go home. Bravery has nothing to do with it. Bravery is just not making an ass of yourself in front of men who are depending on you to get them through alive. If the whistle blows, you go over the top in a hail of fire, and take what comes.”

  “That’s an odd way of putting it!”

  “No, it isn’t. No man wants to let his comrades down. It’s the worst sin, far worse than dying. Anything but that.”

  It was the first time the two of them had spoken together in normal conversation, rather than meeting each other as adversaries. Francesca said, “That isn’t how my cousins saw war. When they were boys, playing in the back garden.”

  “Boys have never been to war. It’s easy to believe that it’s all a game. That the dead will get up off the grass in time for tea.”