The Murder Stone

by Charles Todd

  “What do they say?” she asked with trepidation, her eyes going to his grim face.

  “Go ahead. Read them.”

  She opened the first. The sheet contained no salutation and no signature. But the words that had been written there in black ink leapt out at her.

  If you find the proof you are looking for, what will you do with it?

  “What proof? About your mother? Or my grandfather?” She looked up at him. “Do you know who wrote this?”

  “Proof of murder, I suppose. I have no idea who may be behind it. Someone from the Valley? Someone in Sussex who knew my mother? Read the second.”

  Francesca opened it. This message was as straightforward as the first.

  You have so little time left. Will you waste it—or use it wisely?

  She looked up at Leighton. “What does this mean?”

  “I never told you. There’s a bullet lodged next to my spine. The military doctors disagree on the prognosis—whether it will cripple me first or kill me outright. They do agree I don’t have a long and productive life ahead of me. It’s pressing on the nerves.”

  It was true, then. The rector had suspected it . . . but that was not the same as hearing it from Leighton himself. She could think of nothing to say, and he made no effort to help her.

  “How many people would know such a thing?” she asked.

  “A handful. But I shouldn’t think it would be difficult to learn I was invalided out of the Army. Or why.”

  “It still doesn’t explain why you should have received such letters. There have been others—similar ones—sent to me. And I thought perhaps it was—” She stopped, unable to say that she could almost believe they’d been sent by his grandfather. She had sensed the intensity of Alasdair’s hatred, there in the shadows of the stairs. Who else would have hated Francis Hatton enough to write them? And why send them to his grandson? To remind him of his duty? Trying for a moderate tone, she continued. “—was something to do with my grandfather. The first two I burned. You should have done the same with these!”

  “First two? You kept the others?”

  She gestured to the desk. “In the top drawer. Under the stationery and that book of household accounts.”

  Leighton opened the desk and looked where she had indicated. He took out letters identical to his own.

  “May I?”

  Francesca nodded, then thought better of it. “No, let me open them.”

  She did, and read aloud, “‘You are surrounded by enemies. Trust no one. Not even the solicitor!’ ”

  “A warning then,” he said. “Whether a friendly one or not, it’s hard to tell. And the other?”

  Francesca opened that, and didn’t immediately read it aloud.

  “What does it say?” Leighton prompted.

  “‘If you find your brother,’ ” she read slowly, “‘you will understand everything.’ I don’t have a brother. I never did. Well, it shows us, doesn’t it, that this is nothing but ridiculous nonsense!” She set the letters aside with distaste.

  “Is it?” Leighton asked. “What about the two you burned? What did they say?”

  “I— They were about Grandfather—my family.” She didn’t want to tell him the truth, that they had questioned her paternity.

  “Strange how everything comes back to your family. My mother’s disappearance, the vultures who attended the funeral, whoever it is who has walked with impunity into this house at night. Secrets that have no answers. Small matters, apparently. All of them. But there has to be something behind what’s happening—or someone.”

  “The vultures came because of the Times obituary—just as you did. And the man shooting in the Valley is a deserter, you suggested that yourself. He probably doesn’t even know Francis Hatton existed. Next you’ll tell me that my accident on an Exeter street was somehow my grandfather’s fault!”

  He smiled briefly. “No, that needed no human agency. A storm cut a swath of damage across a good part of southern England. That’s why your train was delayed. We’ll grant you the storm and the shooter, then! But I have a feeling that the telegram and these letters are of a piece. Why were they sent to you? Why were they sent to me? My mother is the only tie between us!”

  Too weary to argue any longer, she replied, before she thought, “My grandfather is dead and buried. There must be someone else who knows—or believes he knows—what became of your mother. And the only two people I can think of who could tell us are your father—or your grandfather. But that brings up the question of how either of them could have discovered I was in Queen Victoria Hospital?”

  Richard Leighton stared at her for a moment. “Yes,” he answered slowly. “You bring up a very good point!”

  CHAPTER 23

  Francesca’s leg ached in the night, and the sitting room was stuffier than her bedchamber. Getting down from the high bed was possible—climbing back was not. And she hadn’t had the foresight to stock the table beside her with books to read. As the hall clock struck one, she even found herself seriously considering taking up the needlework she’d abhorred as a girl—it would help pass the time.

  Mrs. Lane, who had stayed the night, was upstairs and out of reach, out of hearing. Nothing less than a scream would rouse her, and Francesca even had her doubts about that.

  The old house seemed to creak and stir with different voices from those she was accustomed to in her own bed, and a gusting wind rattled the windows and touched the sitting room door, as if someone had tested the latch.

  At long last Mrs. Lane came bearing a tray of hot tea and a pitcher of warm water for bathing. Francesca sat up, brushed her hair out of her face, and answered the housekeeper’s subdued greeting.

  “Did you sleep well, Miss?”

  “Not at first. Oh, this tea is lovely—”

  “I’ve got a little bad news for you this morning, Miss.”

  Francesca stopped stirring her tea and looked up.

  “It’s old Tyler, Miss. I found him lying just outside your grandfather’s door. Already cold. He hadn’t wanted to come downstairs, you know. The poor old creature seemed to be set on staying in your room. And I left the door ajar-like, so that if he needed to get out, he could, without waking us all.”

  “He’s dead? You’re sure—” Francesca set her tea aside.

  “Oh, yes, Miss. I asked Bill to come and fetch him, and bury him in the bottom of the garden. It’s what Mr. Hatton had always said he’d do, if the dog went first. ‘He likes the garden best,’ he’d say. ‘And I think I’d like to be buried there as well, if it was all the same to the rest of the world. But it’s the churchyard for me, and the garden for dear old Tyler.’ ”

  The boys, her grandfather—the dog . . . all gone.

  She felt like burying her head in her hands and weeping.

  But the dog had missed her grandfather dreadfully. Had he finally given up waiting for his master to come back again . . . and decided to join him?

  “I’m glad,” Francesca said, “that you remembered. Thank you, Mrs. Lane.” But she could see that Mrs. Lane hadn’t finished. The housekeeper busied herself in the room, tidying here and there.

  At length she said, “Somehow I’m not comfortable staying here of a night, Miss Francesca. Not with that shooter about. And when I come down this morning, I found doors open that I’d swear I’d closed. It’s fair to giving me the willies.”

  “But if you aren’t here to help me—”

  Mrs. Lane turned to face her. “It’s time you went to the Rectory, Miss. Mrs. Horner could help care for you, and the rector could lift you and carry you where you needed to go. His foot’s not so bad that it’d hurt him. I can’t do that. And it makes Mr. Lane uneasy when I’m not there of a night. It’ll be a while before you’re walking well again, Miss. And I’m not up to doing for you and for him, day and night. I’d come every day to see to the house, mind you. While it was light. Wash and dust, and set out a meal for Bill. But I don’t quite see myself sleeping another night here, what with
the dog gone now and you not able to move.”

  “But I don’t want to leave,” Francesca protested, feeling as if the world was collapsing around her. “And you’ll see, I heal quickly, I always did.”

  “Not with that leg broke, Miss. No, it’s best. I thought it through while I was making your breakfast, and I feel it’s the best thing for both of us.”

  The housekeeper was adamant, tension in her face. She was afraid . . .

  Francesca said without committing herself, “We’ll talk about it later. I think, if you could help me—I desperately need to find something to read, and my torch, if you please. My comb and brush—a small mirror.”

  “Yes, Miss, I’ll see to them.”

  The housekeeper was gone, before Francesca could add to her list.

  What am I to do? I wish I’d gone on to London.

  But she knew she didn’t mean it.

  When Leighton came, Francesca told him sadly, “Tyler is dead. My grandfather’s dog. And Mrs. Lane refuses to stay here at night again. She wants me to move to the Rectory.”

  Leighton frowned. “Is that a good idea? The rector, after all, is not a married man.” He didn’t seem best pleased.

  “He has a housekeeper. Mrs. Horner. I can’t walk, I can’t manage on my own. And who’ll come from the village to stay the night, if Mrs. Lane won’t? The women are a suspicious lot; they’ll be sure something is wrong here.”

  “You could try Miss Trotter,” he suggested. “The healer.”

  Francesca brightened. “Yes. She just might come.”

  “There’s news of the shooter,” he went on, taking the chair next to the bed, for all the world like a visitor in a hospital ward.

  “Indeed! Mrs. Lane heard him again this morning. Have they caught him?”

  “No. But the Army thinks it has a line on him. A patient went missing from a military hospital in Hampshire some weeks ago. And he stole the night guard’s rifle and belt. The man was asleep at his post.”

  “It’s a long way from Hampshire to the Valley,” she remarked skeptically. “He’d have done better, if he’d come this far, to make for Exmoor. Or Dartmoor.”

  “It’s possible he may have lived near here. That he’s trying to make it home.”

  “Near the Valley? Who is he?” she asked quickly.

  “The Army didn’t give a name. It could mean they themselves don’t know. Or aren’t prepared to say.”

  “If he was a patient, there ought to be records—! Who told you this story?”

  “It came with a milk cart returning up-valley. The carters are better than a newspaper. I heard it at the inn this morning.” Leighton paused. “The hospital in Hampshire takes difficult cases. Officers mainly. Head wounds. Shell shock. Troubled men. The refuse of war. I visited a friend there once, when I had leave. He sat twitching and jerking like a broken puppet. He had no idea who I was. Come to that, I nearly failed to recognize him. A fortnight later, he slashed his wrists with a broken glass. It was reported that he’d died of his wounds, peacefully and honorably. They often lie in such circumstances. To spare the family.”

  “An officer? But the only officers from the Valley—” Francesca felt cold. “Not—not Harry, do you think? Or Robin? Not—one of the cousins!”

  “No, of course not!”

  But he had spoken too quickly, Francesca noted, and she wasn’t comforted.

  “I’d wanted to see him caught—taken away from here,” she confessed. “Now—I’m not so sure. If he’s one of ours—anyone from the Valley—but I’m tied to this bed, I can’t do anything to help!”

  “Whoever he is, he can’t go on living rough with winter coming. And if he’s in need of medical care, he won’t get it out in the hills. The Army won’t shoot him—”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “If he’s not a deserter, Francesca, there’s nothing to fear.”

  “If only I could walk—!” But it would be weeks before she could expect to see that much improvement.

  Dismissing the subject of the man in the hills, Leighton said, “Shall I call on Miss Trotter and ask if she’s willing to come?”

  “Yes, please! I don’t want to go to the Rectory—especially not now! And there’s a pair of field glasses in the cupboard in my grandfather’s study. Could you bring them to me, before you go? I can at least amuse myself a little, looking out the windows.” She was afraid to ask him as well for Simon’s pistol.

  But she hadn’t misled him. He said, “No. Stay away from that man, Francesca! He’s dangerous, even though he hasn’t killed anyone yet. He isn’t one of your cousins, and he isn’t someone you know.”

  Who had come into the house at night?

  Francesca remembered what Leighton had said earlier: “He’s trying to make it home.”

  “I’ve been lying here until I’m ready to go mad! Can you help me to the boudoir chair?”

  “I’ll even move it to the window, if you wish it. But no glasses.”

  He did move the chair, and then gave her his shoulder to help her limp to it, saying, his arm around her, “They were reported dead, remember that. The Army seldom gets the count of its dead wrong.”

  “Mr. Stevens told me once that sometimes bodies were only so much flesh, hardly recognizable as human.”

  “He had no business telling you that.” He settled her in the chair, and drew a rug over her feet and limbs. “Are there books I can bring to you?”

  “Yes, but they’re beside my bed upstairs. Mrs. Lane will have to fetch them.” She smiled. “If she caught you rummaging around in there, it would shock her no end.”

  “I’ll go in search of Miss Trotter, then. To set your mind at ease about staying on here.”

  “It’s kind of you—”

  “No. Not kind.” He gave her an odd smile. “Perhaps I’m only trying to get on your good side.”

  “I don’t have a good side,” she answered ruefully. “Not anymore!”

  But as he reached the door, she asked for a second time, “Why did you come back to the Valley?” He had brought her home . . . he needn’t have stayed in the Valley. He was such a contradictory man. She wished she could understand him.

  He looked at her over his shoulder, hesitated, and then said, “I thought I knew. Now I’m not sure.”

  When he came again, Francesca was finishing her luncheon on a tray in her lap. Beside her were some half-dozen books, set in a tidy stack.

  “What news?”

  “Miss Trotter was difficult to persuade. I asked her to come this afternoon and give you her answer.”

  Francesca sighed. “That means no. She’s so reclusive—always has been.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Lane would stay—if someone else spent the night here as well?”

  “You?” she asked bluntly.

  “I was here for two nights, when I was concussed.”

  “You were in no condition at the time to threaten my maidenly virtue. The doctor probably told her as much.”

  He grinned. “The way the woman slept, I don’t think your virtue weighed too heavily on her mind.”

  In the event, Miss Trotter did not come, although Francesca had told Mrs. Lane that she expected her before dark. Uneasy about leaving, the housekeeper lingered until the light began to fail, then scurried off down the hill as if all the devils of River’s End were at her heels.

  Francesca had asked her to leave the kitchen door unlocked, and as the hours ticked by, she began to think about that. There was no way to reach it and lock it again—and Miss Trotter wasn’t coming.

  The house seemed noisier in the wind. She had always watched Tyler, when the floorboards began to creak or the ceilings cracked and settled. If he raised his head to listen, she took note of it. But when he slept on, twitching with his dreams, she’d known there was nothing to worry about.

  Now she was aware of every sound, not precisely afraid, but feeling claustrophobic in this small room where there was nowhere to run.

  I’d give anything now for
Simon’s pistol—!

  Mrs. Lane had settled her in her bed again, with her dinner on a tray within reach, a pitcher of water to hand, and books close on the table.

  It was a little before seven-thirty when the door knocker’s heavy clang rang through the house. Francesca, sighing with relief, waited for Miss Trotter to walk around to the kitchen door. Surely she’d think of that, even if Leighton hadn’t thought to tell her.

  The knocker rang out twice more. Francesca waited. It was useless to call out, no one could hear her— She had only to be patient.

  But time passed without an appearance by Miss Trotter.

  Leighton, then. It had been Leighton who had come to see if she was all right. Or the rector, concerned that Miss Trotter was frail company for a woman unable to walk. Perhaps Mrs. Lane was right, that staying in the Rectory made more sense. But she hated giving up her independence, even for a matter of weeks. And if the rector was in love with her, it would be uncomfortable for both of them.

  She leaned back against her pillows, her mind now on the kitchen door.

  Twenty minutes later, Francesca looked up, startled. Surely—surely someone was moving quietly down the passage toward her—

  Ah. Miss Trotter, bless her! Either she’d gone down to Hurley to ask Mrs. Lane which door was unlocked or she’d thought about the kitchen door on her own.

  Francesca had opened her mouth to call out when the door opened tentatively and a stranger stared at her, as shocked as she was.

  Even as she was reaching for the knife on her dinner tray, Francesca realized she knew the frightened woman standing in the doorway.

  Mrs. Passmore, who had claimed to be Francesca’s nanny for the first months of her life here at River’s End—the woman who had stolen a photograph from the house in Somerset—

  “What do you want?” Francesca asked, her voice cold and hard, but her hands were shaking so much that she dropped the knife and hid them beneath the bedclothes.

  “Oh—oh, my good God—I knocked—I knocked, truly—no one came—I thought the house was empty, that you’d returned to London—”