Blood From a Stone

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘You say whatever Florence had in mind had something to do with this magazine?’ he asked.

  Mavis nodded. ‘I think so. As I say, she was excited for some reason. I dunno why, but she was. Do you really write for a magazine, sir?’ she added wistfully.

  Jack smiled. ‘Yes, I do. Would you like me to send you a copy of the next issue? I’ve got a story in it.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mavis in a sort of rapture. ‘That would be lovely. My mum won’t believe it when I tell her I’ve met you!’

  ‘What would you call a sharp young woman who takes “nice presents” from people who want her to keep quiet?’ asked Jack as he drove Ashley back to Lewes.

  ‘I’d call her dangerously close to a blackmailer,’ said Ashley. He looked at Jack speculatively. ‘I know I laughed at the idea earlier, but I wonder if Florence Pargetter did know something about Terence Napier?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Maybe, but what seems to have really got her going was the picture of the sapphires in the magazine. The same magazine picture,’ he added, ‘that turned up in our victim’s wallet.’

  Ashley digested this slowly. ‘Well, there’s one thing about the victim in the train,’ he said with a grin. ‘Whoever it was, it wasn’t Florence Pargetter.’

  Jack spent that evening with Aunt Alice, Uncle Philip and Isabelle. The next morning, with Isabelle beside him in the car, he drove from Hesperus to Breagan Grange.

  ‘You haven’t been to Breagan Grange before, have you, Jack?’ asked Isabelle as Jack negotiated the Spyker through Breagan Hollow and turned up the long drive to the Grange.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said Jack, swerving to avoid a pot hole.

  After the homely prosperity of Hesperus, he felt his spirits dulled by the sight of Breagan Grange. He had been told that Frank Leigh had found it a struggle to hold onto the Grange after his father had gambled away the family fortunes but he could have guessed at the struggle, if not the cause, from the unkempt air of the place.

  The lawns on either side of the drive were ragged and the house itself, although beautifully proportioned, was badly in need of pointing and painting. Discoloured patches of grey grime and damp marred the white façade. Even the surrounding countryside appeared shabby and down at heel. The woods behind the house, climbing the slope of Breagan Stump, seemed dusty in the heat and the tops of the surrounding hills were scorched a dull dun colour.

  ‘It looks as it could do with a bit of spit and polish, I must say,’ he continued. ‘If I’d just inherited a string of sapphires, I’d be tempted to cash them in and spend the money where it was needed.’

  ‘So would I,’ said Isabelle, ‘but there’s no chance of that, I’d say, judging from what Celia says.’ She tutted in irritation. ‘I do hate seeing a place run down like this.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Mr Leigh can do much about it,’ said Jack.

  ‘There’s lots he could do,’ said Isabelle robustly. ‘He could put his foot down for a start and stop his wife squandering money.’

  ‘Celia’s been bending your ear, hasn’t she?’ said Jack with a sideways glance.

  ‘I suppose she has,’ said Isabelle with a giggle, ‘but I do think she’s got a point.’

  ‘The real point is that Celia and her stepmother don’t get on very well, isn’t it?’

  ‘What d’you expect? Celia didn’t mind her father remarrying,’ she added tolerantly, ‘but if he had to jump off the dock again, she expected it to be with Mary Hawker. She’s a neighbour,’ she continued in answer to Jack’s questioning look. ‘Her husband’s dead and she’s obviously got a real soft spot for Mr Leigh. Celia likes Mrs Hawker. She’s one of those efficient women, the sort who’s always on committees and who ropes you into things. I bet she worked her socks off during the war. You’re bound to meet her sooner or later.’

  ‘She sounds a bit tweedy,’ said Jack. ‘It couldn’t be that Celia’s jealous of Evie’s style, could it? After all, Celia’s a bit tweedy herself.’

  ‘D’you know, she is,’ said Isabelle with rueful recognition. ‘I’ve never thought of her like that, but you’re right. By the way, Jack, try not to be too fascinating with Celia. She’s fed up with Ted and I’ve got a feeling she’s regretting having returned you to store. In fact,’ she added, ‘she’s virtually said as much.’

  ‘Oh, blimey, has she? I thought as much the other day, but I hoped it was a passing mood. I must try to be as repellent as possible.’

  ‘Just be yourself,’ suggested Isabelle. ‘That should do it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jack with a grin, turning the car into the broad sweep of gravel in front of the house. ‘Forewarned is forearmed.’

  When Jack came down to the hall after he had been shown to his room, he found Frank Leigh waiting for him, together with a plump, cheerful looking man of about thirty-odd with a round face, a thick thatch of butter-coloured hair and humorous blue eyes.

  ‘Hello, Haldean,’ said Leigh, with a brief smile. ‘I heard you’d arrived.’ He indicated the man beside him. ‘This is Mr Aloysius Wood, who’s been looking into things in Topfordham for me. Come into the study,’ said Leigh, leading the way. ‘We can talk in there without being disturbed.’

  Jack was favourably impressed by Wood. Mrs Mountford, he remembered, had liked him too.

  Frank Leigh looked at Jack expectantly. ‘Did you discover anything in Topfordham?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir, but I’ve got a few ideas.’

  Frank Leigh and Aloysius Wood listened attentively as Jack ran through the events of the previous day.

  ‘Wood went to Topfordham last week,’ said Leigh when Jack had finished. ‘You wondered about the servants, didn’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t realise Bright had disappeared,’ said Wood, looking worried. ‘That’s a clean sweep. I don’t like the sound of that at all. I was concentrating on Mrs Welbeck and Florence Pargetter. As the general impression was that Mrs Welbeck had returned to the north of England, I’ve advertised for her in the Leeds Mercury, the Manchester Guardian and the Liverpool Echo as well as the national papers, but, so far, I’ve had no luck. Where Florence Pargetter has got to is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Have any of the servants approached Mrs Leigh for a reference, sir?’ Jack asked Frank Leigh. ‘With Mrs Paxton dead, Mrs Leigh is the natural person for them to turn to.’

  ‘No, no they haven’t.’ Frank Leigh moved uneasily in his chair. ‘But look here, Haldean. Mrs Welbeck went more or less right away, Florence Pargetter left three weeks ago and Bright pushed off last week. Surely it’s nothing more than coincidence.’

  Jack looked at him curiously. He had the distinct impression that Mr Leigh was holding something back. There were strained lines round his mouth and his forehead was furrowed.

  ‘Servants come and go all the time,’ continued Frank Leigh, ‘especially in the country. I’m more interested in Sandy Paxton.’

  Jack rubbed his nose hesitantly. ‘Yes ... I’m not sure if I’m on the right lines or not, but there’s a suggestion that Paxton was an associate of the Vicar’s.’

  ‘The Vicar?’ exclaimed Leigh. ‘The maniac who tried to murder Duggleby, you mean?’

  ‘And my cousin, Isabelle, yes.’

  Frank Leigh gaped at him. ‘But that’s incredible!’

  ‘Is it?’

  Frank Leigh started to speak, then fell silent. ‘As a matter of fact, I suppose it is possible,’ he admitted grudgingly.

  ‘I also think,’ said Jack, ‘there’s a possibility, not to put it stronger than that, that Paxton stole your sapphires.’

  For a few seconds Frank Leigh looked completely thunderstruck, then he laughed dismissively. ‘He can’t be. The man who came here, you mean?’ He put his hand to his mouth and sat for a while in silence. ‘That can’t have been Paxton. Dash it, he was murdered.’ He shook his head, bewildered. ‘Murdered on the train. You mean to tell me that you think that was my cousin, Sandy Paxton?’

  ‘I think he could’ve been.’

  Frank
Leigh shook his head once more then sat back in his chair. He took a cigarette from the box on the study desk and lit it in an abstracted way, before pushing the box towards Jack. ‘Sorry, major. Help yourself.’

  Leigh smoked the cigarette down to the butt, stubbed it out slowly and took a deep breath. ‘I have to say there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be true. Paxton was an actor.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know if he was a good or bad actor, but he was certainly an actor. The man who turned up here could’ve been him.’ He looked at Jack and shrugged. ‘What on earth gave you the idea?’

  ‘It was something Dr Mountford said. If Mrs Paxton confided in anyone in the village, she confided in him. She told him about the trouble she’d had with her son. She hoped Paxton would reform and even hoped he’d go into the Church.’

  ‘A likely story,’ said Frank Leigh with a snort of derision. ‘That young devil? I don’t think so.’

  ‘No, neither did I. But when I questioned Dr Mountford, what Mrs Paxton had actually said was that Sandy Paxton had a close friend who was a vicar. He wanted to follow in his footsteps.’

  Wood stared at him. ‘My God,’ he said quietly. ‘I wonder if it’s true.’

  Frank Leigh sat in stunned silence. ‘That,’ he said eventually, ‘is oddly convincing.’ He shot an acute glance at Jack. ‘It’s all speculation, though, isn’t it? I don’t see how you can prove it.’

  ‘Dr Mountford said Mrs Paxton had a photo of her son. I believe that all Mrs Paxton’s things are here. I wondered if

  I could look for it.’

  ‘Feel free,’ said Frank Leigh. ‘There’s a fair few boxes to hunt through, though. Strictly speaking, they belong to Evie, but I can’t see she’ll have any objections.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Wood. ‘The boxes are in the old barn, aren’t they, Mr Leigh?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. They’re in the hayloft. But you can’t look now, Major Haldean,’ he added, as the dinner gong sounded in the hall. ‘It’s time for lunch and Celia wants to take you and your cousin round the temple and cave this afternoon.’ He smiled fleetingly. ‘Duggleby’s taken his role as an amateur archaeologist very much to heart. He’s itching to show off his knowledge.’

  After lunch, under Celia’s direction, the party set off across the grounds to the wooded path that led up the slope of Breagan Stump to the temple. Frank and Evie Leigh were at the head of the group with Celia and Leonard Duggleby a few paces behind, while Jack and Isabelle brought up the rear.

  ‘I don’t want to be catty,’ said Isabelle quietly to Jack, ‘but don’t you think Celia’s getting a little bit too friendly with Mr Duggleby?’

  There was no doubt that Celia had taken a real shine to Duggleby. Jack had noticed as much at lunch.

  ‘At any rate, I think you can stop worrying,’ said Isabelle, dropping back a few paces. ‘Duggleby’s an attractive man, you know.’

  ‘Duggleby?’ repeated Jack in hushed disbelief. Despite himself, he couldn’t help feeling piqued. ‘You must be joking. He’s a weedy sort of beggar and years older than she is. He can’t hold a candle to Ted Marchant.’

  ‘Or you?’ said Isabelle with a sly grin.

  ‘Well, I ...’

  ‘I thought as much!’

  ‘But what on earth does she see in him, Belle?’ protested Jack.

  ‘Duggleby’s the sort of man who women want to look after. That’s a very powerful urge, you know, especially with someone like Celia. It’s why you always bring her up sharp. You’re far too capable.’

  ‘I suppose I should be grateful,’ murmured Jack. ‘Do girls really like incompetent men?’

  ‘Not incompetent exactly, but she needs to be needed. She does the hero-worship bit, too. For instance, she never could give a toss about the temple and the cave, but now Duggleby’s here, she’s all for them. I hope she does manage to patch things up with Ted Marchant,’ she added in a worried voice. ‘If he’d only stop telling her what he thinks she wants and start listening to what she actually does want, things would be a lot better.’

  She broke off abruptly as Celia, squeezing Duggleby’s arm, broke off her rather giggly conversation and turned back to them.

  ‘Isabelle, I hope you put walking shoes on. It can be ever so muddy along these paths, even in dry weather.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ called Isabelle. ‘Mr Leigh doesn’t like it,’ she added quietly. ‘I saw him looking daggers at lunch and he made a point of dragging Ted’s name into the conversation.’

  ‘You’re worrying too much,’ said Jack uneasily. ‘Celia’s far too straight-laced to start flirting.’

  ‘Celia’s unhappy with Ted,’ said Isabelle. ‘That’s dangerous.’

  Frank Leigh reached the top of the path and turned to encourage the stragglers. ‘Come on, Mrs Stanton. Nearly there! How did you find the climb?’ he asked Isabelle. ‘I did wonder if it might be a bit too much after your accident.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. My head’s still a bit sore but nothing to complain about.’

  Jack walked out onto the grassy clearing. His first sight of the temple took his breath away. After the shade of the woods,

  the sunlight on the gleaming white limestone was dazzling. ‘My word, sir, this was worth the walk!’

  ‘It’s not bad, eh?’ said Frank Leigh with modest pride. ‘Vanbrugh designed the house and we think the temple is his as well.’

  The temple, thought Jack, certainly had the inspired stamp of a master. Against the shadows of the surrounding trees and the sparkling green of the wind-ruffled grass, the arched

  and colonnaded temple was as brilliant as the Mediterranean in midsummer. Beyond the trees, Jack could make out the elegant lines of the house and, beyond that, the sparkling turquoise of the lake. It seemed the essence of a dream of an urbane, classical world.

  He swallowed. He didn’t know why, but a sudden aversion to that wickedly innocent-looking temple on its inviting grassy mound flared up inside him.

  ‘What d’you think of the temple?’ asked Leonard Duggleby. ‘Quite a sight, eh?’

  ‘I’ve always felt a presence here,’ said Celia, ignoring Isabelle’s derisive snort. ‘I told Len as much.’ Isabelle and Jack swapped glances. So it was Len now, was it? ‘Aunt Mary – Mrs Hawker – says there’s something about the place which isn’t quite canny.’

  ‘I hardly think so,’ said Evie.

  Duggleby cleared his throat. ‘I’m not so sure, Mrs Leigh,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’ve sensed something here.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Frank Leigh robustly.

  ‘Why have the trees been allowed to grow so thickly round the temple?’ asked Jack curiously. ‘As the house and the temple were built at the same time, I’d have thought that the temple was meant to be seen from the house and grounds.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Celia. ‘I think the trees were allowed to hide the temple.’

  Frank Leigh sighed in exasperation. ‘If you’re determined to frighten yourself with fairy-tales, my girl, I can’t help you. It’s just superstition, eh, Duggleby?’

  Caught between Celia Leigh and her father, Duggleby resorted to diplomacy. ‘There are many superstitions connected with this area,’ he agreed. ‘Most of them can be satisfactorily explained. For instance, it’s perfectly natural this area should be thickly wooded. We’re in what was the ancient forest of Andred. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles warned travellers to be wary of Andred. It covered a huge area and was so dense that even William the Conqueror’s men couldn’t penetrate its depths for the Domesday Book.’

  Celia shuddered and Jack laughed. ‘You’ll have to try harder than that, Duggleby, if you want to make it less creepy. Incidentally, I’m amazed by your erudition,’ he added lightly. ‘Do you often curl up with the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles?’

  ‘I’ve made some fascinating discoveries,’ said Duggleby earnestly. ‘My chief source has been a history of the area written in the 1830s by the local vicar, the Reverend Bertram Throckmorton, who was a noted antiq
uarian. There’s a copy in the library in the house and it’s been invaluable. It was the Reverend Throckmorton who excavated the Altar Cave.’

  ‘The Altar Cave?’ asked Jack.

  ‘It’s an absolute gem,’ said Duggleby, ramming his glasses firmly onto his nose. ‘The altar, I mean. Wait till you see it. The temple was built to make a fitting entrance to the cave. Throckmorton ascribes the altar to the native British god, Euthius. There’s one other dedication to Euthius in Britain, but it’s nothing like as fine as this.’

  ‘The Breagan Bounty was found under the altar, wasn’t it, Mr Duggleby?’ asked Evie.

  ‘That’s right, Mrs Leigh,’ said Duggleby earnestly. ‘Throckmorton believes that the Breagan Bounty was hidden beneath the altar to put it under the protection of the god when this area was torn apart by the fall of Rome.’

  ‘It was my ancestor, Jasper Leigh, who found it,’ said Mr Leigh. ‘He’d been on the Grand Tour, and built the temple as a memento of his travels.’

  ‘There were human remains found, weren’t there, Mr Duggleby?’ said Celia raptly. ‘Human sacrifices!’

  Duggleby nodded earnestly. ‘So the Reverend Throckmorton believed.’

  Celia gave a contented little sigh. ‘It’s very sad, no doubt, but isn’t it fascinating? I wonder if they had a priestess. A priestess,’ she said dreamily, ‘steeped in the wisdom of the ages. Men would have died of love for her. I wonder what she wore? Gold, perhaps, with purple robes and maybe a headdress, rich with exotic stones.’

  Duggleby coughed awkwardly, taken off-guard by this flight of fancy.

  ‘It seems unlikely,’ said Frank Leigh looking dubiously at his daughter. ‘I’ve never known you take much interest in the temple before, Celia.’

  ‘It’s different,’ said Celia, ‘when there’s someone who can make it come alive for you. It’s totally thrilling, isn’t it Isabelle?’