The Murder Stone

by Charles Todd

  And then Bill, the old chauffeur, said quite strongly, “That’s not the man who fired the shed! I’d swear to it!”

  The sergeant, swinging around, was angry. “I was told that nobody—”

  Bill, standing his ground, said, “You never asked me, did you? I only glimpsed him—but he was fairer, thicker. Older. That’s not him.”

  There was such conviction in his voice that the sergeant demanded, “You’re willing to swear to that under oath?”

  “I am.”

  The rector stepped forward. “Sergeant, this wretched man has been a spectacle long enough. If you’ll clear out this crowd, I’ll speak to him. And those cuts need to be seen to. Some clean clothes found. Now.”

  The attack from an unexpected quarter silenced the sergeant. Then he said gratingly, “He’s my prisoner.”

  “Argue with me, and Captain Leighton and I will have a word with your commanding officer,” Stevens retorted coldly. “This man is a wounded English soldier, whatever else he has been through. Now get rid of these spectators, and one of you help Mrs. Passmore back to the inn. Mrs. Horner, if you’ll find hot water and some cloths. Miss Hatton, if you will, some decent clothes are in order. I’m sure your cousins must have left behind something that could fit.”

  “I—yes! I’m sure!”

  Tearing her eyes away from the shooter’s face, she hobbled through the throng back to the motorcar. Bill was already turning the crank, his face red with emotion. And then they were out of the village, heading toward River’s End.

  “Bill?” she asked the stiff, straight back in front of her.

  “Don’t say anything, Miss. For God’s sake, don’t say anything. And you mustn’t cry, it won’t do for you to go back with a red and swollen face!”

  “No—”

  It was difficult getting up the stairs at River’s End. She sent Bill ahead to bring clothes from Peter’s room.

  “No, Miss, it won’t do if they fit! Something of Mr. Simon’s!”

  “Yes, you’re right. Go, I’ll come as quickly as I can.”

  They pulled out underclothes and stockings, shoes, a shirt and sweater, corduroy trousers, and a warm coat. A case to carry them in.

  Unable to take the stairs fast enough, Francesca tossed her crutches after Bill and then slid down, her splinted leg bumping ahead of her.

  By the time they arrived at the village, Mrs. Horner and Mrs. Passmore between them had cleaned up Sergeant Nelson’s prisoner, although nothing could be done about his unruly hair and his beard.

  Francesca said, pitching her voice to carry as she handed her bundle up to the waiting rector, “These are Simon’s clothes. I’m not sure they’ll fit, but they’re clean and warm.”

  “Well done,” he approved.

  Mrs. Ranson had lured the sergeant and his men, except for two guarding the prisoner, back into the inn for a celebratory drink. From doors and windows all over the green, faces watched the lorry, intent and anxious.

  As she waited, Francesca wished she knew what they were thinking. Had any of them guessed—had someone seen any small indication, any sign that there was something familiar about this man? The villagers knew the cousins well enough. Or had they been too absorbed in Mrs. Passmore’s drama?

  From behind the flap of the canvas, she could hear grunts as the rector and the two women got the prisoner into fresh clothes. Then Stevens ushered the women out, holding the flap high long enough for Francesca, standing at the lorry’s tail, to see the man clearly.

  He looked ready to drop from exhaustion, but he was more presentable and seemed to hold himself with a little more dignity. Mrs. Horner was leading Mrs. Passmore into The Spotted Calf. She, too, looked near to collapse. Francesca heard her say, through her tears, “He must have known who I was! Did you see how he let me bathe his dear face?”

  Stevens said peremptorily to the guards, “Step away from the lorry. I’ve been asked to pray with him.”

  Reluctantly they dropped back. Someone—Leighton, she realized—brought pints out to them, and they drank thirstily, joking about their prisoner. But Francesca was trying to hear the low murmur of Stevens’s voice as he spoke rapidly and carefully to the man imprisoned in the lorry.

  And finally, in a voice that sounded rusty from disuse, there was a reply.

  The sergeant came out the pub door, ordering his men into the vehicles. Francesca, eaten up with the need to hear, wished them all at the devil.

  Stevens lifted the flap again and got down with some difficulty. But his face showed nothing.

  “I’m going with you to Hampshire, Sergeant,” he said, then came to where Francesca was standing. “Will you be all right, here alone?” His hand cupped her elbow, his face strained. “I don’t like leaving you! But there’s his need as well—”

  She nodded, then asked, “What did he say?”

  “Sometimes he can’t remember whether he’s in France or back in England. He thought he’d somehow been separated from his unit, trying to make it back to his lines. He won’t tell me his name. I don’t know— He needs care, Francesca. More than anything else right now. I don’t know—”

  “I have money . . . a private clinic—doctors—whatever he needs! Will you see to it for me?” She tried to keep the despair out of her voice. “Will you do that? Whoever he is! It doesn’t matter.”

  “Trust me. Yes.” He added, “I had a feeling he recognized you.” But was there conviction behind the words? Or was he simply offering her a measure of hope and of peace? She herself was uncertain now, flustered by the sudden turn of events, unable to think clearly.

  And then he was off, limping back to the rectory, to pack a valise.

  Francesca stood there on the green even after a light rain blew in across the river. She wanted to lift the flap, defy everyone, to put her mind at rest. Then she remembered the begging in the man’s eyes.

  She didn’t see Peter again. . . .

  Leighton stepped out of the inn and crossed to where she was standing.

  “They didn’t hurt him,” he told her. “Just roughed him up a little. It’s what happens. Francesca, Mrs. Passmore doesn’t have the money to travel to Hampshire. I’ve given her what she needs. She hopes to take the train tomorrow morning. If you can spare Bill to carry her to Exeter?”

  “By all means! How kind of you to think of it. Is she still convinced this man’s her son?”

  “I don’t know whether she is or not. She needs him to be. That’s what matters. Did you recognize him? I thought perhaps you had. And then you said nothing.”

  “I don’t think he wanted to be identified. But it seemed—he might be Peter. I’m afraid to hope! I’ve lost so much. Whoever he is, I pitied him,” she said, her eyes on the road where the lorries had vanished around the bend beyond the bridge. “I didn’t know how to help—I wanted to cry. He belongs to someone, surely!”

  “I saw your tears. I wondered if Stevens had as well. If that’s why he went with the prisoner.”

  “The rector will see he’s treated properly. A voice of sanity in the midst of frenzy.” Then she asked, “Did you hate that man for having shot at you?”

  “I never hated the Germans,” he answered, stung. “I can’t hate a damaged soldier who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  Mournfully, Francesca said, “I want to go home and not think about this anymore. It hurts to think about anything—”

  He got her into the waiting car and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “I’ll be all right. Truly.”

  He hesitated as if uncertain how to comfort her.

  Bill had cranked the motor and was climbing into his seat. His face was gray.

  They were nearly at the bottom of the drive when Francesca said to him, “Do you think they believed you? That he hadn’t set the fire?”

  “It wasn’t him, Miss, I’d swear on my sister’s grave it wasn’t. But there you are. He was to hand, you might say. Why should they look any further?”<
br />
  “I’m convinced it was Walsham! But no one will listen.”

  “What’s to become of him, Miss?”

  “Mr. Stevens will see to him for us now. With proper care and help— Who knows? I’ll be going to the clinic to visit him as soon as I can manage the journey. I’ll bring him back then, if it’s Peter. In time for the wedding.”

  But that night she dreamed over and over again of shots fired on the hills above the river, and that when they found Peter this time, he was dead.

  CHAPTER 32

  In the morning, well before Mrs. Lane had walked up from the village, there was a loud knocking at the front door.

  Fog had wreathed the Valley. Trees loomed out of the chill white mist like disembodied creatures, now visible, now swallowed again. Sounds were muffled, the world wrapped in cotton wool, and the knocking seemed to shock the senses.

  Miss Trotter, already awake and preparing to leave for the day, went to answer the summons for Francesca.

  There was a woman standing on the threshold, the drive nearly invisible behind her, the insubstantial light a contrast to her substance. It was as if she had been deposited on the step by unseen means. No horse stamped in the mists and no carriage’s outline was sketched in the swirling whiteness behind her.

  Without hesitation she presented her card to the unlikely-looking parlor maid and asked for Miss Hatton.

  Miss Trotter, without a qualm, shut the door in her face while she carried the card to the sitting room.

  Alice Woodward, Francesca read there in elegant script. The name seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  “I don’t believe I know her. Where is she?”

  “I left her on the doorstep. I didn’t like her.” It was a warning, as if whatever other senses the old woman relied on had awakened with urgency. “You’d best let me send her about her business!”

  “It’s an absurd hour to pay a social call!” Francesca agreed. “Still—there may be a reason for it. In the drawing room, Miss Trotter, if you don’t mind. And—don’t go too far away!”

  As she flung open the double doors of the drawing room, she could feel the airlessness rush out at her. She hadn’t set foot in here since the day her grandfather was buried. Now she unconsciously steeled herself to find the undertaker’s black crepe still hanging from picture frames and the tops of the long mirrors. Even though she had ordered it dismantled on the evening of the funeral, the image seemed burned in her memory.

  Miss Trotter saw that Francesca was comfortably settled, and then brought Miss Woodward to the room. Francesca surveyed her frankly, not knowing quite what she had expected.

  A tall woman, slim, with thick fair hair and brilliant blue eyes, elegantly dressed in a traveling suit of black trimmed with silver embroidery. She, too, surveyed Francesca, noting the crutches lying beside the velvet upholstered chair. Then, without invitation, she sat down.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know you,” Francesca began, “or why you should call so early!”

  In a rich contralto voice, the woman replied, “Good morning, my dear. I’m your mother.”

  Francesca stared at her.

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “No, it is I who should beg yours!” she said. “You’ve turned out quite well, I must say. Your father must have been very proud of you.”

  Fumbling for her wits, Francesca kept her voice level and without inflection. “You’re mistaken. My mother died abroad—”

  “No, I’m seldom mistaken. I was never the motherly type, you know. It was boring. Francis, when he got me pregnant, thought it would bind me to him. He should have known better.”

  “Fran—I don’t believe you!”

  The woman replied philosophically, “No, of course you don’t believe me. But there it is.”

  Francesca fought to keep a rising revulsion under control. “Come to the point. Who are you—and why have you come here? What do you want?”

  A belated vulture . . . like the others. Even Mrs. Passmore, in her own fashion, had wanted something.

  “You’re a very wealthy young woman,” the rector had reminded her.

  “It’s not for anything sinister, my dear, if that’s what you fear. I rather enjoyed my liaison with Francis. He was a far better lover than my husband. No, I came to tell you that you are about to make a rather serious mistake. I’m broad-minded, but even I have my limits. It wouldn’t do for you to marry your half brother. However much you may fancy him!”

  CHAPTER 33

  “Half— What half brother?” Francesca’s voice was tight with anger as she looked straight at the woman sitting across the thick carpet from her. “Where is this brother? Who is he?”

  And then she could feel her anger turn into something else, an icy steadiness that was startling. As if Francis Hatton had rested a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her.

  One of the anonymous letters had said something about a brother: “If you find your brother, you will understand everything.” This visit was about more than a clever attempt at blackmail.

  She looked more closely at the lovely, serene face, and she began to see beneath the superficial smoothness of the skin, the erect carriage, the elegant clothes. Those blue eyes were familiar, and although the shape of the face had changed, matured, begun ever so slightly to age, something in the expression—quizzical and self-contained—brought back the memory of a girl’s likeness in the round frame of a gold pocket watch—

  And then she knew.

  Victoria Alice Woodward MacPherson Leighton . . .

  Alive, well, and in her drawing room. It was so unexpected that Francesca drew in her breath. Alive— Alive. Not murdered, not dead—

  Before she could absorb that, Mr. Chatham’s words seemed to ring in her ears . . .

  “You don’t know what you are doing if you meddle in this wretched business!”

  He had spoken them after she had told him she was going to marry Richard Leighton.

  Was this what he had meant? That it would be incest?

  For a moment Francesca was very still, her mind racing through the last weeks, scrambling through tiny scraps of fact, trying to glimpse a pattern of events.

  As if following her thoughts, Victoria Leighton smiled. “Yes. You do know who I am now, don’t you? Certainly not that silly little fool who married Edward Hatton and died with him in Canada!” Self-possessed, she sat there watching Francesca with interest.

  This—this was the woman who had let Richard believe she was dead—who had blackened Francis Hatton’s good name. Who had caused so much misery, done so much harm. Francesca said, “I’m not sure who you are or what you want of me. And I don’t really care. Please leave.”

  Mrs. Leighton looked about her at the long, handsome room. “Is this where he lay in state? I would have come to the funeral, but I was away visiting friends in Northumberland and hadn’t heard. Yes, I’m sure you’d be happy for me to go. But the truth is, I can’t. Does Richard believe I’m dead?”

  “Your family believes it.”

  “That’s why I came at such an ungodly hour, before that prune-faced housekeeper of yours usually climbs the hill. I thought it best not to encourage gossip. Can you trust the old hag who let me in?”

  “Far more than I can trust you,” Francesca retorted.

  “No doubt that’s true! Miss Trotter, is it? She was always especially fond of Francis. I used to tease him about her.”

  “A cruel thing to do. It was a worse cruelty to let your family grieve for years! I can’t understand how anyone could do such a thing!”

  “I didn’t care much for children. And most certainly not for a tedious existence in a remote country village where the harvest festival is the most exciting event of the year! Tom was a fool; he thought that what he loved I should love. And so I simply walked away one afternoon.”

  “There was blood on your shawl—hardly ‘simply walking away one afternoon’!”

  “Yes, well, if you’re going to disappear, the best way is
the most dramatic way.”

  “And my grandfather was left to take the blame for what you did!”

  “I should hope he did! I spent enough money in bribes to make everyone believe it was true! A small measure of revenge. And it was his fault in a way.” She smiled, reminiscing. “The truth was, I was still half in love with Francis. And when I wrote to him, telling him I was leaving Tom, asking if he’d take me in, he refused. He found me in London, and it wasn’t long before I’d brought him around to my way of thinking. He would never bring me here, of course. He feared a scandal, and he didn’t want it to touch those precious boys of his, even though they were all adopted.”

  “Peter wasn’t,” Francesca answered her harshly. “He had my grandfather’s eyes.”

  “My dear child, Francis was no fool. The boys had the proper coloring and a tendency toward height. His sons had disappointed him. Bad company is often ruinous. And so after Edward and Tristan were dead, he started over.”

  “Daughters are often equally disappointing. Where did your wild strain come from?” Francesca snapped.

  A peal of laughter filled the room. “Well, well, the child has spirit! I didn’t particularly like my father. He’s selfish, a grasping, narrow-minded man with a temper. Haven’t you discovered that? He drove my mother to an early grave, and I felt no compunction about letting him suffer in his turn. As for Tom, I only married him because he promised to take me to London when no one else would. And then just before the wedding I met Francis. Alas, too late.”

  “You’ve left such appalling wreckage in your wake. Do you ever consider that?”

  “No, why should I? It’s my life, the only one I shall ever have. I prefer to enjoy it. And I have.”

  “So far I haven’t seen any proof for your claims.” It was difficult, with the woman’s seemingly open and frank manner, to tell when she was lying—and when she was not. “For all I know, you aren’t who you say you are.”