The Murder Stone

by Charles Todd

  Francesca pulled off her glove, wanting to reach out and touch the familiar, cool surface. Then withdrew her hand, hesitant. Finally, after a deep breath, she stooped and laid her fingers against the stone.

  It seemed to quiver under her touch. Or was that her own flesh trembling? She rose to her feet.

  She was doing the right thing, leaving here. Even the stone agreed.

  And who is superstitious now? she asked herself as she walked back to the house.

  The Valley was wreathed with heavy fog when Bill drove her in the carriage to Exeter, where she was to take the train for London. She had smoothed Tyler’s head and scratched behind the old dog’s ears, and tried to keep the tears out of her voice as she bade him farewell. Mrs. Lane had pressed a tin of freshly baked biscuits into her hand “for the journey.” The rector had waved to her from the bridge but hadn’t come to the house.

  At the station, Bill clasped her gloved hand without a word, his face saying what he could not.

  “I’ll be back soon, I promise,” she told him. But both of them knew it was a lie. Nothing would bring her back before the war’s end.

  Except, she told herself, unanswered questions. Yet the break-ins had stopped with the departure of Richard Leighton, although the shooter had fired again at first light. She had heard the echo as she was dressing.

  The train was over an hour late. Exeter was blanketed by a sea mist, the red sandstone dark with wet, streets so murky that lights from shop windows hardly penetrated the gloom, casting an eerie glow as if they were at the bottom of the sea. As soon as Bill had disposed of her baggage, she urged him home again before visibility grew even worse.

  “I know the city, and I shall be safe as houses at the station,” she reminded him. “And God knows when we shall see the train. Mr. Branscombe’s office isn’t far, I can call on him if I need anything! I’d rather know you were safely in the Valley before the daylight fails entirely.”

  In the end he put her into the charge of the elderly station master and reluctantly left.

  Shortly before noon, when the train still hadn’t arrived, Francesca, famished, finally went in search of the station master and asked when the train was to be expected.

  The old man pursed his lips. “There’s been a storm to the east and debris on the line,” he confessed. “I’m told it’ul be another three quarters of an hour before we can hope to see the train.”

  “Then I shall have time to find something to eat.”

  He directed her to a nearby shop where she could find tea and sandwiches, cautioning her to have a care in the fog.

  The tea shop seemed to swim alone, an island in a gray sea. Its coziness was welcoming as she stepped inside. Other refugees from the railway station were already being served, and it was nearly a quarter of an hour before she could place her order. As she was finishing her potted ham sandwiches, the whistle of the incoming train startled her. She hurried to pay her reckoning and went out into the street.

  If anything, the fog was worse. Sounds were muffled, confusing. She was just skirting crates stacked by the roadway when the man behind her missed his footing and stumbled. Trying to catch his balance, he jostled her into someone else and the next thing Francesca knew, she was in the street. She could hear a cart coming at speed, looming out of the mist, and leapt toward the walkway, but the crates pinned her in the road.

  As she cried out, the lead horse struck her hard on the shoulder, spinning her first into the crates and then, in a hard rebound, directly in the path of the oncoming high rear wheels. She managed to roll beneath the cart in time, and then as the carter shouted curses at her for being in his way and tried to rein in his team, another vehicle crashed into him and a hoof caught her leg with a glancing blow.

  A laborer ran into the road and dragged her to her feet to push her to the safety of the walk. One of the horses, startled by his sudden appearance almost under its feet, reared, sending the laborer and his burden reeling across the walk. Francesca struck her cheek hard on the damp stone of a building.

  The train’s clanging bell echoed in her ears as darkness came down.

  It was quiet when Francesca opened her eyes. She tried to think where she was. The bed was too hard to be hers at River’s End, and a shielded lamp burned at the end of the room on a table where her windows should have been.

  Her throat was parched. She moved a little, thinking to go downstairs for a glass of water, but there was something heavy and clumsy pinning her leg to the bed. Trying to shift it hurt too much and she stopped. Lying there, searching for familiarity in her surroundings, she fell asleep once more.

  A woman’s voice woke her, asking her name, wanting to know if there was someone who should be contacted on her behalf. Francesca answered fretfully that there was no one left—her family was dead.

  When another woman asked the same question much later, Francesca was beginning to think more rationally.

  “My name is Hatton, Francesca Hatton,” she replied. “I don’t think I know this place.”

  “The casualty ward at Queen Victoria Hospital, Miss Hatton.”

  “Yes,” she answered, for some reason annoyed. “Many little girls were named for the old Queen—” Then the words broke through the confusion and she repeated, “Hospital?”

  “You were found at the scene of a road accident, Miss,” the nursing sister told her, kindness in the soft voice. “Rather battered and bruised, I’m afraid. We’ve let you sleep and heal.”

  “I don’t remember anything!” Her head was aching. The sister turned to speak to someone out of sight. A cup of tea appeared as if by magic and she was lifted against pillows to drink it. Every bone in her body complained vociferously. “Mrs. Lane?” she called to the shadowy second figure, and then was too busy drinking thirstily. “What’s wrong with my leg? There’s something in its way—”

  “It’s broken, Miss, and in splints. Does it still hurt? I’m afraid it’s too early to give you anything more for the pain.”

  The tea was soothing. Francesca answered drowsily, “Have I been here long? I mustn’t miss my train.”

  She never heard the answer or felt the cup removed from her hands.

  Hours later she woke again, this time clearer-headed and hungry. Her body still ached, but the pain was more bearable as if bruises were subsiding.

  The staff was kind, but she learned that she hadn’t been the only victim of fog-related mishaps, and the small hospital had accepted the worse cases, mostly broken bones.

  “Luckily,” a middle-aged sister informed her, “in your case it’s not the weight-bearing bone. But see the older woman across the way? Compound fracture,” she explained darkly. “Ah, here’s a tray for you. Can you manage? I’ve more mouths to feed than I have hands!”

  Francesca stopped her as she turned away. “I remember—I was taking the train this morning.”

  “Not this morning, my dear!” Sister answered with amusement. “You’ve been here nearly two days! What do you think of that? If there’s anyone you want to come and fetch you, tell Matron. She’ll see to it.”

  Mr. Branscombe, Francesca thought immediately, and then changed her mind. She wasn’t up to his fussing over her, commandeering a private room and making the overworked staff wretched. She wanted to go home. If Matron would send word to River’s End, she told herself, Mrs. Lane and Bill would come at once and take her home.

  They had sedated her again as the leg began hurting. That reminded her of Richard Leighton, and she wondered if he had seen the Army surgeon as he’d promised.

  Someone came to set pillows under her leg to support it, and she finally managed to drift into sleep.

  She woke to the sound of Francis Hatton’s voice, and his strong hands holding hers. The ward was dark save for the night lamp on the table by the door.

  “Oh, you’ve come!” she exclaimed, tears filling her eyes. “You don’t know how I’ve longed—”

  The sedative had fuddled her wits. Grandfather was dead—yet she could
hear him saying, “Dearest girl—I’ve been frantic!”

  “No, you mustn’t worry, I’m much better,” she assured him. “Just terribly drowsy. My eyes feel as if there were pennies weighing them down.”

  “Sleep then. I’m here. I’ve asked to sit by you for a while. They won’t throw me out—”

  His lips brushed her forehead, and then she heard him moving away. He came back with a basin of cool water and began to bathe her face and hands, the sponge moving gently over her skin. He was saying something about a telegram.

  “Harry’s dead, isn’t he?” she demanded forlornly. “The telegram said he was.”

  “Yes. Your cousin is dead.” The voice was low, careful not to disturb the patients on either side. Its warmth seemed to make Harry’s fate less unbearable, because they were sharing this last enormous grief.

  Tears slipped out of the corners of her eyes, and she could feel her lip tremble. She was so very tired—there had been no one to comfort her for so long.

  “You won’t leave me, will you? You won’t let them throw you out!”

  “No. I’ll be here when you wake, I promise.”

  But when she woke at first light, there was no one in the chair beside the bed. “Grandfather?” she called softly, thinking he might be somewhere just out of sight.

  As the last dregs of sleep faded, she remembered that Francis Hatton was dead and would never come again.

  It was Richard Leighton who came striding through the ward half an hour later. He was freshly shaved, his clothes pressed. And his fair hair was damp as if he had just bathed and was too much in a hurry to brush it fully dry.

  “You’re actually awake, I see!” he said cheerfully, in a mood so different from the darkness that usually held him in a tight grip.

  Startled to see him, she exclaimed, putting a hand up to her disheveled hair. “Where did you come from?”

  “The hotel. They threw me out in spite of my pleading. Matron told me six, and it’s barely two minutes past.”

  She remembered that his watch held Victoria’s photograph, but said, “Whatever are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to take you home. I expected to find your solicitor here, but Matron informs me you’ve had no visitors.”

  “I didn’t care to see him, if you want the truth. I sent word to the Valley as soon as I could.”

  She told him about the fog and her accident, but he already seemed to know the details.

  A sister, young and pretty, came down the ward toward her, bringing flowers in a glass jar. “For you!” she said, her eyes sliding to Leighton’s face.

  “How lovely! Where on earth did you find violets at this time of year!” she asked Leighton as the young woman set the jar on the table and went away with a last lingering glance at Francesca’s visitor.

  “There’s a shop Matron told me about. Not a great selection, but fair enough. I’ve spoken to someone at the hotel—about arrangements to drive you to River’s End.”

  “Bill should be here soon. You needn’t go to so much trouble!”

  “It isn’t trouble. Ah—there’s Matron. I’ll be back shortly. Where is your luggage?”

  “I don’t know!” She frowned, trying to think. “I suppose—it must have been sent on to London. I left it at the station when I went to the tea shop. How awkward!”

  “Then I’ll see what can be done. Sister will help me. She’s just going off duty.”

  An unaccustomed flare of something—jealousy? Impossible!—raced through Francesca. She could see the pretty young woman waiting for Leighton at the ward door. The smile on her lips.

  She said, to change the subject, “I dreamed about my grandfather last night. It was—comforting.”

  “Matron tells me the clothes you were wearing were in no state to be saved. I’ll ask at the railway station for your luggage before seeing what’s to be had in the shops.”

  Taking Francesca’s hands, as he had done the night of the Zeppelin raid, he said, “I won’t be long.” Once more his eyes were on her face as if expecting a response. When she didn’t reply, he added, “You’ll be home by teatime, if I can manage it.”

  She had been bathed and her hair washed before Leighton came back.

  This time Bill was at his heels, lines of strain marking his face. But he smiled when he saw Francesca, saying only, “Miss?”

  She watched his gnarled hands twist his cap through his fingers as he came to stand awkwardly by the bed.

  “It’s not serious, I promise you,” she said, gesturing to the splints, just visible under the coverlet. “Did you bring Mrs. Lane with you?”

  “No, Miss, we didn’t know where you were! The station master sent word by one of the carters that you hadn’t got aboard the train, and no one had any idea where you’d got to. We were that worried! Rector, he went to London, but you weren’t there. Gave us a terrible fright, that news did! But Mr. Leighton, here, saw me on my way to Mr. Branscombe’s office and hailed me. A bit of luck that was, to be sure!”

  “But I sent word—” She remembered giving one of the Sisters her name and could have sworn she’d spoken with Matron about a message to River’s End! Had it really happened? Or, like her grandfather’s visit, was it only another drugged dream? They had kept her quiet with sedatives, and her wits were still so muddled— “Never mind! All that matters is that you’re here. And Mr. Leighton is here. Now I must think what to wear home!”

  “Your luggage is in the boot of the motorcar, Miss. The station master held it for me. Tell me what you need and I’ll fetch it. Is it that gray case?”

  By late morning Francesca was nestled among cushions in the rear of the motorcar. Leighton was beside her, just as he’d been on the journey to Essex.

  Miss Trotter had been right, she told herself, ignoring the nagging ache in her leg. Richard Leighton was coming back to the Valley. She refused to examine the question of why it mattered.

  She could feel his shoulder next to hers, his body bracing hers behind the shield of cushions against the jolts of the badly rutted road. The passenger’s seat had been shifted forward to allow room for the cumbersome splints on her leg, covered now by a rug.

  They had given her something at the hospital to ease the pain of the journey. She was content to sit quietly and listen to Leighton talking with Bill as they drove out of Exeter and turned north to the Valley.

  “. . . Miss Hatton sent me a telegram,” she heard Leighton explaining to the old man at the wheel. “From hospital. I took the next train out of London—”

  “A telegram? But I never sent you any telegram! I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.” She tried to turn and look at his face.

  But she could feel a physical withdrawal in the man at her side. As if he had shut himself off from her without warning.

  And after that, he spoke only when he was directly addressed, his coldness so apparent that even Bill subsided into silence.

  She wanted to explain that she hadn’t had his London direction—that it would have been impossible to reach him. That she was glad that he had come to her, however he’d learned about the accident. But something in his manner made it impossible to confide in him.

  Her violets, wilting in the cold air, seemed to mock her as she looked for a way to break through the impenetrable barrier that had so unexpectedly been thrown up between them. After a time she set the flowers aside and pretended she wasn’t hurt by the abrupt change in Richard Leighton.

  Why had he lied to Bill about a telegram? And how had he come to find her? Why was it that every time she warmed to this man, he cut her overtures short and shut her out?

  Had his grandfather taught him only hardness and cruelty? Or was he afraid that if he set down his burden even for a little while, he could never lift it up again?

  Mrs. Lane had opened the house again and was in the kitchen, cooking, when the motorcar turned into the drive. Mr. Lane and two brawny men from the village were summoned to bring down a bed and set it up in the sitting room, so t
hat the patient wouldn’t have to manage the stairs. A cheerful fire already blazed on the hearth. Tyler was there, to wag a ferocious welcome, his stiff, thick body corkscrewing in delight.

  Mrs. Lane also found a boudoir chair in the box room, dusty but in good repair. That was brought down and cleaned. Ensconced on that, her leg propped up before her, Francesca leaned back and said with a sigh, “It really is good to be home!”

  The rector, who had heard the motorcar and hurried to the house for news, said, “I’ll be on my way and let you rest. I’m glad you’re safe! Leighton, shall I bespeak a room for you at the inn?”

  “Yes, if you will. I’ll be there on your heels.”

  Francesca thanked the rector warmly for traveling to London for her sake and wished him good night. Then she turned to Leighton. The house was quiet around them, the dog asleep under the bed.

  “I have you to thank as well—”

  He was standing at the window, not looking at her. “Why did you deny sending that telegram? There’s no one here but the two of us. You can tell me the truth.”

  “But I have told you—I never sent a telegram to you or anyone else. And if you think about it, I couldn’t have known how to reach you.”

  “I gave my card to Mrs. Lane. Or you could have asked at The Spotted Calf.”

  He turned and held out a telegram form.

  Francesca read it with rising indignation.

  Am seriously injured. Please come as soon as possible. Queen Victoria Hospital, Exeter.

  And it was signed Francesca Hatton.

  “But who could have done this? I never spoke of you to the staff—”

  He considered her for a moment, and then said flatly, “It doesn’t matter. You had no reason to summon me, I can see that. Perhaps it’s on a par with these. One was waiting for me at the flat, and the other arrived just after I returned.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew several envelopes.

  Before he had even put them into her hand, Francesca recognized the writing on each of them.