The Murder Stone

by Charles Todd

She was a Hatton, and not to be intimidated. She returned his stare measure for measure, her chin high. And it was Francesca who broke off contact first, turning her back on Alasdair MacPherson and walking out of his house as if he had been a rude host and she wanted no part of him or his.

  Richard Leighton hadn’t seen the exchange, and she said nothing to him as he handed her into the motorcar.

  But she felt herself shiver, even in the warmth of the sun. I saw his eyes, she told herself, even though she knew it was impossible. I saw them, and they were as cold as death. . . .

  Proof, if any was needed, that MacPherson was convinced beyond any possible doubt that Francis Hatton was a murderer.

  “Where to now, Miss Francesca?” Bill was asking her.

  She wished she could tell him to drive directly to Devon.

  But there was one more thing left to do.

  CHAPTER 19

  The house in Somerset was set back in broad lawns at the end of the town of Falworthy. The whitewashed and handsomely thatched cottages ran out at a copse of trees, and just beyond that stood tall stone gateposts capped with swans. The rain had stopped and the air glistened with moisture, adding a soft golden glow to the sunlight.

  Bill gestured with a gloved hand. “That should be it, Miss. The Swans. Just where the postmistress said.”

  Leighton got out to open the gates, and caught his breath as he turned back to step into the car. He motioned Bill to pass through, but when Francesca turned, she could see that he was holding on to the gate with one hand as if in need of support, his face tight under the brim of his hat.

  Aware of her scrutiny, he said only, “I’ll walk to the house.”

  She agreed, needing this private moment to prepare herself.

  The drive was not long, and two large beeches graced the sweep that ended before the steps.

  She could see now what the solicitor, Branscombe, had told her earlier. The Swans had once been a sizable manor, but was hardly more than a comfortable dower house by the time her grandfather had bought it. He’d added graceful wings with an eye to doubling the space as well as making the building better proportioned. Behind the house, there rose an old tithe barn, which had also been restored, next to a stone stable that must hold half a dozen horses. Not as pretty as the house in Essex, with nothing of the air of lovers about it. Still, a very attractive estate and fairly prosperous.

  Who lived here, then? And what did the occupants have to do with the Little Wanderers Foundation?

  She had walked around the side lawns and then back to the main door before Leighton had caught up with her. His face, still strained, was grim.

  In answer to her knock a young girl with her hair pulled back by a green ribbon opened the door and said in pleasing accents, “I’m sorry. There’s been a small accident, and Mrs. Gibbon has gone to see to it. If you will come in and wait in the drawing room, she’ll be with you shortly.”

  Francesca thanked her and followed her into what was called the drawing room but was actually a comfortable room with chintz covers on the chairs, polished tables, and landscape paintings on the walls. It spoke of family warmth and contentment.

  Leighton said, as soon as the girl had gone, “This house, at least, is inhabited.”

  “Yes . . . I wonder who the girl may be. My solicitor told me there had been no rent paid on the property. And yet a family lives here.” In the distance they could hear other children’s voices, singing together.

  A woman swept in, dressed in gray that matched her hair, blue eyes tranquil behind a pince-nez on a gold chain hanging to her ample bosom.

  “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting! One of the children had cut himself in the barn and I was called to attend. I’m Mrs. Gibbon. How may I help you?”

  Francesca gave her name and was immediately overwhelmed by an outpouring of sympathy.

  “Francis Hatton was a wonderful man, my dear! I have to tell you, we have cried our own tears over his passing. If my duties had allowed, I would have come to the service. But we had three little ones convalescing from measles, and I didn’t like to leave them. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last—your grandfather loved you so dearly!”

  But there was a wariness behind the effusive greeting that caught Francesca’s ear. Mrs. Gibbon was not best pleased at all. And even after Richard Leighton had been introduced, the older woman glanced his way several times as if his reasons for being there were still a mystery.

  And you are no less a mystery for us, Francesca thought.

  She chose her opening accordingly. “I’ve long wanted to come and ask about the Little Wanderers Foundation—”

  “My dear, of course. I’d like nothing better than to show all that we’ve accomplished! Mr. Hatton’s generosity has been repaid a thousandfold by the children who have come through these doors over the years. And we’ve always been proud of each of them. But you must see for yourself, not take my word.”

  “This, then, is an orphanage—” Francesca commented in surprise.

  “Indeed, no, Mr. Hatton insisted we never call it that. Our children live as in a family, you see. Just as any other child might do. It promotes a sense of worth, rather than obligation.”

  Mrs. Gibbon conducted her guests through the rooms where her charges slept, a classroom where lessons were in progress, the dining room where they took their meals, and a nursery for the very young. The children Francesca could see from the doorway were well behaved, smiling, indeed almost like a large family that got on well together.

  “Where do these children come from? How do you find them?” Leighton asked, following the women.

  “It doesn’t take long for word of us to reach the ears of those who find themselves in trouble. Or in need.” Mrs. Gibbon turned to face him. “Sadly, since the war we’ve seen more than our share of tragedy. Young men dying before they could even be told they were fathers. And young mothers with nowhere to turn for money, giving up their children because the Army refuses to accept their legal existence. Or come to that, doesn’t want to know! There is only so much we can do, without being overwhelmed ourselves. We take the most promising, to give them a chance. And pray others will be speedily adopted into a good family. We’ve been lucky, I can tell you. Much of the credit for that went to your grandfather, Miss Hatton. He worked tirelessly on our behalf. Everything is handled quite discreetly, you see. That’s our hallmark.”

  “How did my grandfather come to take an interest in orphaned children?”

  Mrs. Gibbon hesitated. “I don’t really know the answer to that. Although he did say once that an unfortunate death had shown him his way.”

  Francesca was immediately alert. A suicide? Suicide was a disgrace, something a family swept under the carpet. Like murder . . .

  Moving on to another classroom, Francesca asked, “There was a young woman—Elizabeth Andrews. Was she one of your charges? As I remember, she felt she owed my grandfather for his care of her.”

  “As a rule, I don’t discuss our children, but since you already know about her, I can tell you that was true. Mr. and Mrs. Andrews had just lost their only child to diphtheria, and Elizabeth was so shy and sweet-natured. A perfect match. Poor as church mice, the vicar and his wife were, but such a loving home! A Mr. Chatham knew of their situation, I believe, and that’s how Mr. Hatton came to hear of it.” Mr. Chatham had been rector at St. Mary Magdalene before William Stevens had come to the Valley. . . .

  “And this is a working farm,” Mrs. Gibbon continued, gesturing to the outbuildings they could see from an upstairs window. “We grow most of our food here, and the children are taught to help. No task is too menial, but the point is not labor so much as understanding that working with one’s hands is not a disgrace. Even those who go on to public school or university are taught this way. It wouldn’t do, in Mr. Hatton’s opinion, for a child to look down on those less fortunate. Education and respectability. Those were his watchwords.”

  They were passing a small room that had been set aside as a chap
el, and here Mrs. Gibbon paused. “Religious training is fostered as well. And you’ll note this table in the back of the chapel. Here we keep our ‘family,’ our collection of photographs. Mothers with children, fathers and mothers together—grandparents—happy faces, loving faces. We put them here so that our little ones might feel that each has had a family, and look upon that as a natural progression—”

  But Francesca was no longer listening. Among the photographs was one she instantly recognized. It had, until only a matter of days ago, been standing on the table by her grandfather’s bed—

  CHAPTER 20

  She went directly to the collection of photographs. Picking up the silver frame that held that of her parents, she said sharply, “How did this come to be here?”

  It wasn’t a duplicate—she recognized the design of the frame, the feel of the silver filigree, the weight of it.

  Mrs. Gibbon said, “It’s strange that you should ask. We don’t know. Last week, when one of the senior girls was dusting in here, she noticed that it was new and she spoke to me about it. I’d never seen it before. But another photograph was missing, and we have no idea what’s become of it or even when it was taken.”

  “This is my grandfather’s. It was in his room when he died. And then it disappeared from there—”

  She looked up at Leighton. She had even suspected him at the time. . . .

  “Good heavens, Miss Hatton! Are you quite sure? You must by all means carry it home with you! I don’t know how such a thing could have happened—it’s terribly odd—!” Mrs. Gibbon looked distractedly from one of the framed photographs to the other. “I have no idea—and where has ours got to? We’ve never had problems of this nature before—!”

  Francesca turned to Leighton. “The photograph you have. Will you fetch it now? Please?” It was the only excuse she could come up with to send him away while she held a brief private conversation with the older woman.

  To her relief, he didn’t refuse her request.

  Mrs. Gibbon was still apologizing profusely, but Francesca said as they moved on in Leighton’s wake, “No, please, it isn’t your fault. But I should like to have this again, if I may.”

  Then, when Leighton was out of hearing, she changed the subject. “I’m glad to learn that Elizabeth Andrews was one of your successes. She came to my grandfather’s funeral, you know. It was kind of her.”

  “Elizabeth’s adoptive father wrote regularly every year until his death, giving us reports of her and expressing his gratitude to Mr. Hatton. It doesn’t surprise me that Elizabeth was brought up to revere him.”

  “Do you keep records of all your children? How they came to be here, who their parents were, where they went to live if they were placed? What became of them when they grew up? Who was on the staff? That sort of thing.”

  “Yes, of course, that’s so important. I have the current ledger here, but Mr. Hatton sent for the rest of them in July. Just before we learned he was taken ill.”

  “Did he? Didn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “He was always content to keep them locked up in our strong room. I was considering writing to you and asking if we might have them back—at your convenience, of course!”

  “Did he leave anything else for safekeeping in your strong room? Letters, family documents—” Confessions or last words . . .

  “I don’t think such a thing would ever have occurred to him!” Mrs. Gibbon smiled. “He was such a private man, wasn’t he? But he did have a remarkable way with children. He called himself an ostrich, taking all the hatchlings under his wing.”

  Mrs. Passmore had said something about ostriches. . . .

  Nodding her head toward the motorcar, just visible outside the entry, Mrs. Gibbon was saying, “Do you believe this photograph Mr. Leighton is fetching is the one we’re missing from the chapel? But how did it come into his possession?”

  “I’m quite sure it isn’t yours. I wanted an opportunity to ask you about a woman, a Mrs.—”

  Leighton was near enough to hear them now, and Francesca was forced to break off.

  To her surprise, in his hand was not a frame but the pocket watch he sometimes wore. As he came up to them, he flicked open the gold case. And in the back, where the rim had been designed as a miniature frame, a young girl’s face looked out at them, smiling. The photograph had been professionally tinted, and had the luminous quality of a painting on ivory.

  Victoria was captured much earlier than Francesca had expected. Her expression was spirited, a little quizzical, more mature than the still unformed features. Life hadn’t yet touched her. Her hair was as bright as the sun, held in place by a pale green ribbon that accentuated its fairness. Her eyes were very blue, with darker depths.

  You couldn’t tell here, Francesca thought, what Victoria Leighton might have become. A loving mother—a wandering wife—a terrified woman.

  Yet somehow the eyes weren’t as innocent as the face. . . .

  Francesca looked up from the smiling gaze to Leighton’s eyes.

  His were harder. He had seen a cold and bitter world, and he knew he was dying.

  Mrs. Gibbon was examining the likeness with interest but shook her head. “No, this is quite lovely, of course, but it isn’t the one that we’re missing. I’m so sorry to have troubled you for nothing.” She handed the watch back to Leighton, and then said to Francesca, who was moving on toward the door, “It’s interesting, all the same. The shape of the face reminds me of the child we were just speaking of. Were you possibly suggesting that they could be related?”

  Francesca, who was just a little behind Leighton now, had the chilling feeling that Mrs. Gibbon’s next words would—however unwittingly—destroy every illusion that Richard Leighton treasured.

  She made a sudden movement, intent on catching Mrs. Gibbon’s eye. When she did, she shook her head vehemently and only once.

  It was all going wrong—! Instead of a private moment to discuss her grandfather’s past, she was finding herself thrust into Richard Leighton’s!

  “Child?” Leighton’s voice was tight with tension. “What child?”

  Mrs. Gibbon frowned, uncertain. Her glance faltered and slid back to Francesca for guidance. “We were just discussing—a case where a child had been brought up to revere Mr. Hatton for—for his care of her. I found that rather—touching. I didn’t intend to suggest—”

  She was stumbling over herself in an effort to mend whatever damage she might have done with her comment—and was unaware of the pit she was still on the brink of falling into.

  There was such anger in Leighton’s face that Francesca impulsively touched his arm. “We’ve taken enough of Mrs. Gibbon’s time—”

  “What child?” he asked again, not moving.

  Mrs. Gibbon stiffened. “I really can’t give you names, Mr. Leighton. It’s against our policy. But it was intended as a compliment—I hope you’ll take it as such. She was one of our dearest charges.”

  He turned to stare at Francesca, who was firmly thanking Mrs. Gibbon before she could say any more. Behind him Mrs. Gibbon, noticeably upset, begged Francesca with her eyes to explain.

  But that would be impossible in front of Leighton.

  “We’ll be on our way now—”

  “But the disposition of the house—” Mrs. Gibbon began.

  “I see no reason to change anything that my grandfather has done. I only wish he’d brought me here sooner.”

  “He often said he wished he had brought his sons here before they died.”

  “Can you tell me about the photograph that’s missing? Was it a family—a woman—”

  “It was a mother and a child. Very lovely, both of them, and quite a favorite of the little children. We were so sorry to discover it had gone—”

  “Has a Mrs. Passmore come to this house recently? Or perhaps she called herself Miss Weaver. An attractive woman in middle age?”

  “We have visitors from time to time, and that description could fit any of them. Frequently they�
��re mothers hoping to learn what’s become of their son or daughter. But I don’t recall meeting a woman by either name. Sometimes, of course, the name they give isn’t their own . . . We are used to that as well.”

  In the motorcar, Leighton said furiously, “Did you put her up to it?”

  “Up to what?”

  “That hint that a child in that house might have been my mother’s? To see a resemblance between my photograph and one of the orphans?”

  Francesca allowed herself a count to ten before answering, thanking whatever gods there were that he hadn’t known the background of the conversation. More than anything, Elizabeth Andrews didn’t deserve to be caught up in the coils of the Leighton family’s wretched affairs, and it was important not to bring her name back to this obsessed man’s attention.

  Instead she said, “This quest of yours—it might be the only thing on your mind, but the rest of us aren’t absorbed by it! Mrs. Gibbon has a very responsible position at The Swans, and she’s hardly likely to suggest to a stranger that the young girl in the photograph in his pocket watch later became the mother of one of her charges! She merely said there was a resemblance—she thought I was suggesting more than that! And I hadn’t—”

  “Then why did you ask me to show the photograph to Mrs. Gibbon?”

  “All right—I’ll tell you! I wanted to ask her questions about my grandfather. Personal questions that had nothing to do with you. It was a ruse, for God’s sake!” Her quick sympathy earlier had been trampled in his anger. And she wondered why she had even felt the need to protect him from disillusionment.

  Did they truly look anything alike, Elizabeth Andrews and Victoria Leighton? Had Mrs. Gibbon seen something there. . . ?

  Francesca doubted that Leighton had glanced twice at Miss Andrews on the day of the funeral. She herself was finding it hard to recall the girl’s face. There had been vulnerability in it, and shyness, the softness of adolescence. A touching innocence, so real in Elizabeth Andrews—and belied in the photograph by knowing eyes. Surely all these two women had in common was an English fairness and, purely by chance, youth.