The Murder Stone

by Charles Todd

  The second shot spun her around and Francesca could see, clearly, the shock of disbelief in her blue eyes—so like her son’s.

  “By God—” she murmured. Against the dark blue cloth of her coat, the blood was black, almost invisible.

  Appalled, Francesca couldn’t move.

  Victoria stood there, smiling, surprised, almost pleased.

  “You haven’t got the courage to finish it,” she said.

  Francesca didn’t know if she could pull the trigger a third time or not.

  Then, without a sound, Victoria sank to the floor, as graceful in death as she had been in life.

  Francesca cried out in horror, the pistol slipping from her fingers.

  Miss Trotter was at the door, her face grim.

  Kneeling by the body, the old woman felt at the throat for a pulse. She looked up, shaking her head.

  “What have I done!” Francesca whispered wildly. “I’ve only made matters worse—” Then her mind seemed to clear, as if she had found her way. “Richard mustn’t see her! He can’t be told she was ever here. Or it’s all for nothing. Miss Trotter—will you help me? There’s no one else. I’m so sorry I must ask you!”

  “It’s no matter, Miss Francesca. I’ll just find Bill.”

  “She’s—”

  “I’ve seen dead bodies before, Miss. And laid them out. I must find Bill, Miss. Mrs. Lane will be here in another hour. And we can’t manage, the two of us. There’s too much to be done. Don’t fret, it will be all right.”

  She was gone, lily of the valley floating in her wake.

  Francesca stared down at the body of the woman who had called herself her mother. I can’t feel anything for you, she thought. Except relief that it’s over.

  In another few minutes Bill arrived, still pulling his suspenders over his nightshirt, a horse blanket under his arm.

  “Whatever happened, Miss?” he asked, staring in his turn at the dead woman.

  “She was intent on hurting Richard. She’s his mother.”

  “In such close quarters you were bound to hit her. Well, Mrs. Lane will be here soon. I’d best hurry!”

  He unfolded the blanket and bent to roll Victoria Leighton into it. “She won’t be getting away this time,” he said harshly. “It’s her. The one dying on the Murder Stone.”

  “I must help you.”

  “No, Miss, you won’t do anything of the sort! We’ll keep her out of sight for now, and I’ll take her away later.”

  Francesca tried to think. “She had a carriage—something—she didn’t come on foot. Mrs. Lane heard a horse, when Mrs. Leighton was here the first time.”

  “All the better. I’ll just move it around to the barn, and who’ll see?”

  Miss Trotter came in, carrying a cup. “Drink this, Miss Francesca.”

  It was dandelion wine. Francesca looked at it, then at the old woman, fright in her eyes.

  “There’s only the wine, and a little something to soothe,” Miss Trotter said kindly. “You’ll need your wits about you. I’d drink it all, if I were you.”

  The body was bundled out of the room, and Miss Trotter was back again with bucket and water, a brush in her hand. “It won’t do for the blood to stain the wood. There wasn’t all that much. Her fine wool coat soaked it up. And there’s nothing to be done about the splintered frame of the door. We’ll just say you had bad dreams and in the night fired Mr. Simon’s pistol, thinking someone was breaking in.”

  “People have broken in before,” Francesca said. “Do you suppose it was she?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past the likes of her. Snooping.” She picked up the dead woman’s handbag, where it had been pushed behind the door. “We must be rid of this as well.” She passed it to Francesca.

  “Of course,” she went on, “I was of the opinion it was Rector, come to look for the ledgers. He was one of the orphans, you know. He asked Mr. Hatton once if he could see them and find out who he truly was.”

  “Mrs. Passmore thought they were here, too.”

  “And so they were. But Mr. Hatton burned them all. When Mr. Harry died,” Miss Trotter said. “I smelled the smoke on the night air. Mrs. Lane thought they were only the letters the boys wrote. But I know different. He’d always said he might burn them.”

  “He told you more than he ever told me.”

  “No, Miss, he didn’t. I just knew him better than most. I came that night and looked through the ashes. There was a bit of leather from one of the ledgers that hadn’t burned through, and a few edges of paper.” She smiled sadly. “No one minds me, Miss Francesca. I’m old and not important. You learn a good bit, being invisible.”

  But Francesca had the feeling that sometimes her grandfather had talked to this woman, because she did see and understand so much.

  “If I were you, Miss Francesca, I’d ask Mrs. Lane to dress me in my own bedroom. There’ll be no need for her to come in here, until the floor is properly dry. I’ll make up the fire when I get shed of this.” She indicated the handbag. “Don’t you worry. Nobody will ever find her. And if Bill takes the horse and carriage away tonight, after you’re gone, why so much the better.”

  “It’s not right to hush this up—”

  “She killed herself. It’s the kind she was. She dared you, and you’re Francis Hatton’s granddaughter. You did what was best for your family.”

  Francesca opened the handbag and looked inside. Under a lawn handkerchief, she found a photograph of an aging man sitting by the hearth, looking into the fire. His face was harsh, lined with more than age. Alasdair MacPherson, the man she’d glimpsed on the landing that day near Guildford. But how had it come to be in Victoria’s possession? It had surely been taken in the last months. Perhaps to remind his grandson to hurry with his search.

  Dear God! was her first thought. Were they in this together? To prevent the marriage?

  By the time Mrs. Lane had arrived, Francesca was in her own bedroom, her bath finished, and her wedding clothes laid out. Mrs. Lane fussed over her hair, smoothed the pale rose gown Francesca had chosen for her wedding, and helped to snap the catch on the string of pearls that had belonged to her grandmother, Sarah Hatton.

  Slipping her feet into her shoes, Francesca surveyed herself in her mirror, but seemed to see, behind her, the tall, slender figure of Victoria Leighton.

  I can’t marry him, not with your blood on my hands— But I couldn’t let you hurt him—I couldn’t let him see what you truly were! I can’t marry anyone, not now. Not ever. But he’ll be safe—

  Victoria Leighton would win, even in death.

  But Miss Trotter, her shawls floating like living things, handed her another small glass of dandelion wine, and Francesca obediently drank it.

  Mrs. Tallon and her husband came for Francesca at a quarter to eleven, their spirits high, their voices loud in the house. Francesca had hoped to find five minutes to slip away to the stables, but it was too late.

  She used her crutches as she’d promised, and had stepped into the drive when Bill came to the side of the house, dressed in his best suit, a hand-me-down from Francis Hatton. He smiled at her, and touched the brim of his hat in salute.

  She tried to return the smile and felt it freeze into a grimace on her lips.

  The drive to the church seemed to take forever. Half a dozen village children ran beside the Tallon carriage, shouting and wishing her well.

  She felt cold as she came around the bend and saw that the church door was open, waiting for her.

  Somewhere near the altar was Richard Leighton, looking for his bride.

  I cannot do this—

  The rector was standing by the door, taking her hands to steady her as she got down from the carriage. He passed her crutches to someone, and then tucked her fingers under his arm.

  They began to walk slowly toward the altar, faces of guests upturned, looking at her, smiling.

  She could see Richard now, tall and erect, his face smiling as well.

  And on the walls of the nave
were the memorials to her cousins, shining white in the light of dozens of candles. They were her blood . . .

  There were no flowers, but silk ribbons had been tied in rosettes and hung about the columns, over the backs of chairs.

  She could feel her shoes touching the long brass of the Somerset knight, lying in wait to trip her feet.

  But she passed over him safely, and was nearly to the altar when a voice rang out behind her.

  CHAPTER 37

  A man was standing there, his bicycle just outside the heavy door, and there was an envelope in his hand.

  “Is there a Richard Leighton here? I’ve an urgent telegram for him.”

  Richard was still, as if turned to stone. Then he strode down the aisle, touched Francesca on the arm as he passed her, and put out his hand for the telegram, offering the messenger some coins.

  He held the envelope for an instant, looking at it as if reluctant to open it.

  Over the heads of the wedding guests, she could just see Bill’s face, a mask of fear.

  She’s going to tell them—from her grave—

  Her knees felt as if they were buckling, but Stevens, his hand firm on her elbow, whispered, “Steady! It won’t be much longer—your crutches are just there.”

  Richard was opening the seal, and she watched his face as he read the message inside. There was a frown, nothing else. Folding it to thrust the telegram into a pocket, he walked back down the aisle, kissed her lightly on the cheek, much to the delight of the assembled guests, and took his place again.

  “Do you, Francesca Elizabeth Mary Hatton—”

  Francesca remembered nothing of the ceremony. She made her vows without hearing them, felt the ring being pressed onto her finger.

  And it was over. She was married.

  Someone handed her her crutches at the church door, smiling up at her.

  It was Miss Trotter, her face bright with tears.

  There’s still time, she told herself, to walk away.

  But Richard’s face, bent toward her, was smiling as well, his hand warm in hers, a serenity in his eyes she had never seen before.

  They were nearly to the Rectory, where the wedding breakfast was waiting, when he reached into his pocket and drew out the telegram.

  “Not—now,” she protested, not wanting to know.

  “No. You must read it. It was held up by military traffic.”

  Your grandfather died this morning, 13 Dec., peacefully in his sleep. He maintained to the end that 2 nights ago Victoria had come to sit with him and talk with him. It gave him great comfort to believe it was true.

  It was signed Thomas Leighton.

  Yesterday.

  They walked on. She said, “He was at peace at the end. I’m glad.” Had MacPherson given his daughter the photograph that night? Or had she taken it?

  “Yes. The mind’s amazing, isn’t it?” Richard was saying. “More than anything he’d wanted to see my mother again before he died. He brought her back in the only way he could.”

  Mrs. Horner was at the Rectory, waiting for them; Mrs. Lane, just behind her, had tears in her eyes, and Bill stood to one side, his glance fixed on Francesca’s face.

  It was an hour after the cutting of the cake before she could find an opportunity to speak quietly with the old coachman.

  “Richard’s grandfather has died,” she told him.

  “Yes, Miss, thank you, Miss.” He paused. “While you’re on your wedding journey, we’ll be digging out the Murder Stone and shipping it away, as your grandfather wanted. The sooner the better, in my view. There’re too many memories—you won’t want to look at it now.”

  “Yes. I’m grateful, Bill.”

  “And if you have no objection, Miss, before that I’d like to take a little time and visit my family in Bude. They’re hard men, fishing men, and the boats go out in any weather.”

  Victoria Leighton would be put to rest in the sea.

  “Beyond the Pillars of Hercules . . .”

  Miss Trotter came up, shyly wishing Francesca happiness.

  And then she said, “The dead don’t walk, Miss. But that one will reach out of the grave and hurt you if she can. If you let her. You must make up your mind she’ll do no more harm.”

  For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Francesca remembered the old woman’s canny warning. She would carry it in her heart to the end of her life.

  CHAPTER 38

  There was once a white stone at the bottom of the garden. I remember it well. My cousins called it the Murder Stone. That was Simon’s doing . . . he had a taste for war and bloody games.

  When they dug it out to carry it away, there was a skeleton deep in the earth beneath it. Old bones, I was told. A Celtic woman from a time before the Romans, they said. I was on my wedding journey and never saw her. I have always wondered who put her there so long ago, and why. Was she murdered—or had she died young, a suicide? Was she sacrificed for someone else’s happiness?

  My cousins’ tutor would have been pleased. He’d always avowed that the Murder Stone was older than Avebury and Stonehenge.

  No one could tell me how she died. But there were gold amulets with the body, and a ring on her finger. It caused quite a flurry, and someone from a museum in London came to look at the jewelry.

  It didn’t matter. I knew now why the stone had always seemed to possess a life of its own. And I knew why my grandfather had wanted to be rid of it in the end.

  It had seen too much blood.

  Our new rector gave the woman Christian burial in the churchyard, saying that it was fitting and he hoped she’d found peace at last.

  I put flowers on her grave from time to time. It comforts me.

  I will go to my own grave soon. I’m an old woman now, and I talk to my dead when I sit in the late afternoon sun and drowse. They comfort me as well. I had a happy marriage. It lasted far longer than either of us had expected. And we watched our children grow up at River’s End. They had been adopted from Falworthy; five boys and a girl.

  The curse on my house was lifted, you see.

  I have not set eyes on the sea again, not since the day I left Mr. Chatham’s cottage that last time. The water was gray under a curtain of rain, and dreary. I have no wish to see it clear as crystal, the sun shining well into the depths, exposing the bones of wrecked ships and drowned sailors.

  “You’re so very like your grandfather. . . .”

  It was the only mistake she made.

  THE END

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  A word to railway enthusiasts. I haven’t overlooked the line that ran from Stoke Canon to Morebath, both a lovely excursion and a commercial success for so many years. The tracks were taken up in 1964, and this journey has become a distant memory for everyone but people who care about old trains, as I do. And so the right of way has returned to an earlier solitude and, when I was last there on a late winter afternoon, I saw another story to be told. The haunting whistle once heard echoing through the hills, like a spotted calf’s cry, has become folk memory.

  Also by Charles Todd

  A TEST OF WILLS

  WINGS OF FIRE

  SEARCH THE DARK

  WATCHERS OF TIME

  LEGACY OF THE DEAD

  A FEARSOME DOUBT

  THE MURDER STONE

  A Bantam Book / November 2003

  Published by

  Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2003 by Charles Todd

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written per
mission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Visit our website at www.bantamdell.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Todd, Charles.

  The Murder stone / Charles Todd.

  p. cm.

  1. World War, 1914–1918—England—Fiction. 2. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. 3. Exe River Valley (England)—Fiction. 4. Grandfathers—Death—Fiction. 5. Women—England—Fiction. 6. Revenge—Fiction. I. title.

  PS3570.O37M87 2004

  813'.54—dc22

  2003056299

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  eISBN: 978-0-553-89812-5

  v3.0