A Study in Stone

by Michael Campling

  Alan ran a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell. They shouldn’t have treated you like that. Surely, you had your rights, a contract.”

  “None of that mattered. It was better for me to walk away quietly. They knew it, and so did I. And when they took my car, it was the last straw. I had to get away, to disconnect. I phoned my sister to borrow that wreck of a Toyota, and she suggested I use her holiday cottage, told me it was empty while she was trying to get it refurbished. The rest, you already know.”

  For a long second, Alan stared at him, then he plunged his hands into his pockets and said, “You know what? It’s time for a tea break. Let’s go home.”

  “What about Cyril? We were going to search for him.”

  Alan shook his head. “I don’t think he’s even here. Think about it. Why would there be a message about Cyril on Gordon’s headstone if the genuine article was close at hand? The line from the poem, the coded message from the garden, they’re the act of a man trying to get something off his chest. For some reason, Gordon was denied the satisfaction of erecting an official headstone to Cyril, so he vented his grief elsewhere, and he did it quietly, making veiled references that other people wouldn’t understand.”

  “Why?”

  “That, I don’t know, but with one thing and another, I don’t want to hang around in this place for a second longer than is strictly necessary. So take a picture of the stone if you want to, then we’ll head back to the car. We can talk about all this later, or tomorrow.” He sent Dan a smile. “You know, when I’m working on a book, if I get stuck on the plot, I set the whole thing aside and go and do something else. I take a long walk or something, and it gives my ideas time to percolate. By the time I’m ready to start work again, the solution is usually ready and waiting for me.”

  “You could be right. I certainly feel like there’s something obvious that we keep missing.” Dan nodded thoughtfully. “I’m starting to wonder if we were right to let David Kenning slip through our fingers. He probably would’ve told us everything we needed to know, and then the whole thing would’ve been wrapped up.” He smiled. “But I keep telling myself that the old boy doesn’t owe us anything, and so, on balance…you were right. I’m glad we didn’t bother him; he might’ve been upset, and that would’ve been awful.”

  “Good Lord,” Alan breathed. “There’s hope for you yet.”

  “Oh, I do hope not,” Dan said, turning away from the grave. “I don’t suppose you happen to have any cake lying around at your house, do you? I could murder a chocolate brownie.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Alan patted his stomach. “I don’t keep that kind of thing in the house. I need to watch my waist, and if I had a cake, I’d eat the lot in an afternoon and then regret it.” He frowned. “Anyway, cakes are crammed with butter, aren’t they? They’d be no good to you.”

  “You can make them dairy-free,” Dan protested. “I know a recipe you can make in a mug. You just mix flour, cocoa powder, sugar and vegetable oil in a big mug, and then bung it in the microwave. Takes two minutes.”

  “Well, I’ve got a microwave, and we might be able to rustle up the rest. If you fancy a go, you’re welcome to brave my kitchen cupboards.”

  “Deal,” Dan said, his spirits lifting. But as they strode back towards the car, his step faltered.

  There was no mistaking the figure who stood beside the car, his arms folded and his expression stern: David Kenning. And he wasn’t alone.

  CHAPTER 8

  Bovey Tracey

  The man standing beside David Kenning was perhaps in his early fifties, but although he was dressed in the kind of casual hiking clothes that bristled brand names, he somehow managed to look as though he was in full uniform and preparing to inspect the troops. He remained perfectly still, his arms by his side, but he radiated a sense of restrained energy, and he was staring at Dan and Alan with ill-concealed anger.

  Dan found his pace slowing as he approached the two men. He’d faced down plenty of boardroom bullies in his time, but here, walking on grass rather than commercial-grade carpet, and surrounded by gravestones, he felt exposed, out of his depth. He glanced at Alan, searching for a cue, and perhaps his uncertainty showed because Alan said, “Maybe you should let me do the talking. I’ll try to explain the situation.”

  But Dan shook his head. “Somehow, I don’t think he wants explanations, and he looks like a man who’ll be infuriated by excuses.”

  “He’s certainly not happy,” Alan muttered. “What’s your plan then?”

  “At a guess, I’d say he wants to get something off his chest. It might be better to let him get on with it. I know that look in his eye.”

  “Okay,” Alan replied doubtfully. “But be polite. Don’t antagonise him.”

  “We’ll see.” Dan lifted his chin and returned the man’s stare. “Hello,” he called out. “Can we help you with something?”

  “I might say the same thing to you,” the man said, his tone austere. “I’m Kenning, Martin Kenning, and I take it that you two are the gentlemen who visited my house this morning and harassed a member of my staff.”

  This was the opening salvo, a marker thrown down, but although Dan’s heart began to beat a little faster, there was no way he was going to tuck his tail between his legs like a whipped dog. No. His spirits stirred, a cool surge of confidence washing over him, and Dan knew that the setting may be different, but this was his arena, and all he needed to do was keep his cool and trust his instincts. I can do this, he told himself, and for the first time in a while, he felt like himself. Perhaps it was the effect of unburdening himself to Alan a few minutes earlier, but Dan felt stronger, ready to slip into his professional persona, the familiar air of self-assurance wrapping around him like a well-cut suit. He wore his most unflappable smile, and he strode close to Martin, his hand extended for a shake. “Daniel Corrigan and this is my associate, Alan Hargreaves.”

  Martin cast an appraising glance over both men before shaking their hands in turn, but he did not return their smiles. Instead, he turned to David. “Okay, Dad, I’ll take it from here. There’s no sense in you standing around getting cold. Why don’t you wait for me in the car?”

  David Kenning squared his shoulders and looked ready to argue, but before he could say anything, Martin patted him on the arm. “It’s all right, Dad. We’ll soon have this straightened out. I’m sure that these gentlemen will listen to reason.” Martin looked at them for confirmation, and Dan nodded with a reassuring smile.

  “All right,” David said, “but listen, what’s this all about? Why the devil are you following me around? Are you journalists or something?”

  “Nothing like that,” Dan said quickly. “We were just—”

  “Poking your noses in,” David interrupted. “Well don’t. There’s no sense in dragging up the past. What’s done is done. It was a long time ago. Let it lie. Let the dead rest in peace.”

  Alan shifted his feet, and he looked as though he was about to make a grovelling apology, so Dan spoke quickly, making his voice firm but unthreatening. “I can assure you, Mr Kenning, that we mean no offence. Our interest is purely academic. A personal project.”

  David screwed up his mouth as though he’d like to say more but couldn’t quite bring himself to utter the words.

  “Seriously, Dad,” Martin said, “please go back to the car. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “Hm. Well, don’t keep me waiting.” David turned on his heel and marched away.

  Martin watched him go, concern in his eyes, and when he turned to Dan, some of his anger seemed to have dissipated. “Well, you certainly know how to put the cat among the pigeons. I’ve had Arthur on the phone, telling me that you went wandering around and upsetting the gardener. And just the day before, my dear sister called me up, practically in hysterics. She was wittering on about two men who came asking questions, and that has to be you two, yes?”

  Dan nodded. “We met Deborah in her café, and to be fair, she showed us the message on the sto
ne slab. She was more than happy for us to try deciphering it.”

  “I see.” Martin raised an eyebrow. “And what did you make of it?”

  “Don’t you know?” Alan asked.

  “No. And I’ve never really thought about it. It was some old piece of nonsense. Gordon’s probably. He was a bit of a crank. All kinds of gear in the attic. Most it got shipped off to the museum. Deb wanted the Roman knick-knacks for her little coffee shop, and I was glad to see the back of them.”

  “But, the stone slab was in the private garden, wasn’t it? In the wall behind the bench.”

  “Yes,” Martin replied. “And now I know why the gardener was upset. No one is supposed to go down there, not yet, anyway. It’s not up to scratch. We had to have the wall fixed up before the damned thing fell down, and the carved piece was loose. It would’ve cost a lot more to have it cleaned and set back in its place, so when Deb asked if she could have it, I was all in favour.” He paused. “So, what does it say?”

  “It was a memorial to Cyril,” Dan said, his hand sliding into his pocket. “I have the text here.”

  “No need,” Alan put in. “I know it by heart. It said, In memory of Cyril Kenning a beloved brother taken too soon by the folly of a senseless war.”

  Martin’s face fell. “Good Lord. All these years and I never knew. We all assumed it was some sort of motto. Carpe diem, or some such.” He shook his head sadly. “Poor old Cyril. A sad story. Well, I suppose I’ll have to sort all this out and smooth down Deb’s feathers. Damned nuisance, but it can’t be helped.” He let out a weary sigh. “It’s a bit misleading, the message, but I expect you knew that already.”

  Dan frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “Cyril of course. He wasn’t killed in action. Far from it. The Great War was over when he died. 1919 if I remember correctly.”

  “That explains why we couldn’t find him on a roll of honour,” Dan said. “But why does the message say he was taken by the folly of war?”

  Martin hesitated. “Cyril was my great grandfather’s older brother, and by all accounts, they were close. Inseparable. The boys lost their father at an early age; Gordon was only five years old. So when Cyril died, my great grandfather was bereft and bitter. I can’t say why he blamed the War. Maybe he thought Cyril was never the same after everything he’d been through. But I do know that Gordon turned his back on the military, the church, and even his own class. We’re an old family, and we’ve been at the Knightsbrook estate for hundreds of years, but Gordon went his own way. He turned to commerce, and much to everyone’s surprise, he was damned good at it. He made his fortune, knocked down most of the old manor house and had the present place built. After that, he became something of a recluse.”

  “He married though,” Alan said.

  “Oh, yes. They say that my great grandmother ran the estate. A formidable woman. Ahead of her time.”

  “We found her headstone,” Alan began, “but…” Alan left his sentence unfinished, his lips clamped shut as if he’d said too much.

  “What?” Martin asked. “What do you think you’ve found out? Come on.”

  “I’m not sure how you’ll feel about this,” Alan replied, “but the quote on your great parents’ headstone might not be dedicated to either of them. You see, it’s from a poem called To My Brother.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Martin lifted his chin. “Can’t say that it makes much difference.”

  “It suggests that Gordon never forgot his brother,” Dan said. “I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but where exactly is Cyril buried?”

  Martin’s gruff manner was back, and he squared his shoulders. “He’s not here. Don’t waste your time.”

  “Where is he then?” Dan asked. “We’d like to see this through, if just for the sake of completeness, and we’re keen to know what happened to Cyril.”

  “And what would you do with that information?”

  Dan held out his hands, his palms upward. “Nothing. As I said earlier, we’re not reporters. This is purely a personal project.”

  “No websites or blogs or social media?” Martin said the words as though they left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Nothing of that sort?”

  Alan shook his head. “Nothing you tell us will be made public in any way.”

  Martin took a breath, his nostrils flaring. “It’s very simple. From what I know, Cyril spent time in an isolation hospital in France. The War was over, but there was a massive outbreak of Spanish flu.”

  “A pandemic,” Alan put in. “It killed millions around the world. There were more fatalities than the war.”

  Martin gave a curt nod as though that ended the matter.

  “Where was the hospital?” Dan asked. “It’s always nice to have the details.”

  “Calais,” Martin said. “And that’s all I have to say. There was no glory in it, and my father wants it forgotten. I bring him here to tend to the graves, and to the church too, but he served his time in the forces, as have I, and we don’t dwell on Gordon’s antics. My great grandfather had some pretty unpopular opinions in his day, and we don’t want the family embarrassed. I hope that’s understood.”

  “Yes,” Alan said quickly. “I suppose that’s why Gordon wrote his message in code; he didn’t want his anti-war sentiments to be widely known.”

  “There’s such a thing as survivor’s guilt,” Dan added. “Gordon was in a reserve unit, so I doubt whether he saw any action. Maybe he felt that he should’ve fought alongside his brother.”

  Martin stiffened. “I heard that you queried the authenticity of the Croix de Guerre, and I’ll admit that a mistake was made. Arthur is a good man, and he means well. He knows his kings and queens, but he isn’t a military man, and he doesn’t appreciate the importance of the details. The uniform and the medal belonged to Cyril, but my father didn’t want Cyril’s name displayed, and I bowed to his wishes. Gordon’s uniform is identical except for the insignia, and it’s displayed alongside Cyril’s. The caption must’ve been moved by accident. A minor slip up and easily corrected. I’ll see to it myself.”

  “I see,” Alan said. “Thank you for straightening that out.”

  “Glad to be able to set the record straight,” Martin replied. “I hope that this draws the matter to a close.”

  Dan nodded, but he remained tight-lipped.

  Alan cast him an inquiring glance, then he turned his attention back to Martin. “Please assure your father that our researches have reached an end. I hope we haven’t caused him any offence.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Martin said, extending his hand for a shake. “It’s a good thing that we ran into you. Best to get these things sorted out.”

  “Yes,” Dan said, shaking his hand.

  “Thanks for your help,” Alan added as he took his turn to shake hands.

  “Right, I must be off,” Martin said, and turning on his heel, he marched away.

  “Who’d have thought?” Alan mused. “We go for a coffee and end up talking to a retired major about Spanish flu. What are the chances of that?”

  “Virtually nil,” Dan said. “But there’s just one problem.”

  Alan furrowed his brow. “What?”

  “He was lying. His story doesn’t add up.”

  “You can’t know that,” Alan argued. “It all sounded plausible to me.”

  “The best lies often do,” Dan said. “But if this is just about the Spanish flu, why did David assume we were journalists? Why was Martin so concerned about whether we’d be publishing the details online?”

  “The family’s reputation—”

  “Nonsense,” Dan interrupted. “They’re trying to cover something up, and I want to know what that is.”

  “But I told him we’d stop.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t agree to that,” Dan countered. “I want to go on, and despite himself, Martin gave us the next clue.”

  Alan hesitated, thinking. “The isolation hospital in Calais.”

  “Exactly. Martin doesn’t
have the imagination to make up something like that, but I’m willing to bet he hasn’t told us the whole story.”

  “I think you might be right,” Alan admitted. “His stiff upper lip routine was a bit over the top. After all, a soldier dying from an illness is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Exactly,” Dan said. “And we’re going to uncover the truth.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Exeter

  Dan turned around on the spot, gazing up at the glazed roof of the Royal Albert Memorial Museum, taking in the sweep of the grand staircase, the curve of the archways perched atop the polished pillars. “Not bad,” he murmured. “Not bad at all.”

  “I’d forgotten how nice it is,” Alan said. “I should visit more often.”

  Dan raised an eyebrow. “Nice? Is that the best you can do? Some kind of writer you are.”

  “Which, might I remind you, is how come we were able to make this appointment. There are very few times when being an author is useful, but it lends a certain legitimacy to any research project.”

  “It gives you an excuse to show off,” Dan shot back. “Anyway, it worked, so I’m not complaining, but where is he, do you think, this Doctor Jenkinson chap? We’re on time, aren’t we?”

  Alan checked his watch. “Yes. It was very good of him to see us at such short notice.”

  “Short notice? You sent an email five days ago. I’d almost given up hope.”

  “Yes, well unlike you, I tend to assume that other people have real lives to be getting on with. Not everyone can drop everything and hare off on a wild goose chase when the fancy takes them.”

  “Apparently,” Dan said. “Anyway, there’s an information desk over there. Why don’t you go and have a word? It might get things moving.”