The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  "But why?" asked Lawrence.

  "Because, like Isabel, I am gravely concerned about these girls. A series of crimes have dominated the papers over the last twenty years. You would think by now that the police would have done something. But no. Not a sign of the missing girls and not a decent suspect for the murdered ones."

  "Why do you think that is?" asked Lawrence, leaning against the wall as he tried to read the intricately looped writing next to a picture marked 'Amelia Jeffs'.

  "I don't know," said Higgins. "I mean he's clever – the murderer, that is. He changes his modus operandi often, not to mention the location of the crimes."

  "Which would suggest that he wasn't responsible for all of them."

  "That is what the police believe, and it is why they cannot find him."

  "Him?"

  "Oh, yes. The monster violated several of the girls."

  Lawrence grimaced. "Isabel said some of the victims were very young. I hope they were not outraged."

  "I wish I could give you that assurance," said Higgins, shaking his head. "The man is ruthless, organised and without conscience."

  "I'm going to need details," said Lawrence. "Isabel didn't tell me much. She wanted me to judge any connection between the crimes without being prejudiced by her thoughts."

  "Very sensible and an example I intend to follow," said Higgins, gesturing to a chair in front of the desk. As Lawrence took a seat, Higgins reached down the side of a wooden cabinet and withdrew a folding stool which he opened and placed next to Lawrence. He sat down heavily, wincing in pain.

  "It's my back," he said. "Now, Mr Harpham. I fear I have already told you too much. Isabel is right to be cautious. To avoid influencing your investigation, we must stick to the facts, at least to begin with. I am quite sure that you will form an opinion very soon."

  "But you'll start me off with the salient points?" asked Lawrence, removing a notebook from his jacket pocket.

  "I'll do more than that," said Higgins. "He reached past Lawrence and heaved open the bottom drawer of the sturdy desk. "This is for you," he said, pointing to a brown paper parcel tied with string.

  "What is it?"

  "Any spare press cuttings I've acquired about the missing and murdered girls," said Higgins. "It's not comprehensive, but the collection will help you understand what's been happening around here."

  "Hmmm. Some light bedtime reading," said Lawrence, placing the large package beneath the chair.

  "It will give you nightmares," said Higgins. "Those poor girls..."

  "How many crimes are we talking about?"

  "At least seven."

  "That many?"

  "I said at least. There may be more."

  "But on reflection, seven deaths in twenty years isn't excessive."

  "No. But the manner of their demise and the geography is troubling."

  "Tell me about it."

  "I'll tell you the bare facts. That will have to do for now."

  Lawrence looked at his pocket watch. "I see what you mean. Time is running away with me, and I need to find lodgings."

  "Remind me about that before you leave. I'll be able to help." Samuel Higgins slowly inched himself off the stool and got to his feet before placing his index finger on a black and white line drawing of a young girl. "This is Eliza Carter," he said. She was twelve years old when she vanished. She left home to run an errand never to return. And one year later, the same thing happened to Mary Seward." His hand moved towards another drawing.

  Lawrence licked his pencil and took notes. "How old was she?"

  "Fourteen."

  "Was she running errands?"

  Higgins nodded.

  "Then what happened?"

  "Nothing," said Higgins. "It went quiet. The girls vanished never to appear again, and life went on until January 1890, almost nine years to the day that Eliza Carter disappeared."

  Lawrence twirled his pencil, waiting for Higgins to continue, but the reporter stared into the distance, lost in thought. Lawrence coughed, and Higgins snapped back to the present.

  "Sorry. But it still affects me. I'll never stop wondering how two healthy girls can vanish into the blue. There were no witnesses, no clues, nothing. Those poor parents – endlessly waiting for news that will never come."

  "I can only imagine how they felt," said Lawrence. "Losing a child is bad enough, but not to know how or if you will ever see her again..."

  "Anyway. Nine years passed, and another girl vanished, but this time they found her. Amelia Jeffs was fourteen years old. Her parents raised the alarm as soon as they missed her. They contacted the police and searched the streets but did not locate her for another two weeks."

  "Where was she?"

  "Strangled and violated in the upstairs cupboard of a newly-built property close to where she lived."

  "I see," said Lawrence, lowering his notepad. "So, the first two girls vanished, and nine years later somebody strangled Amelia Jeffs. There is a logical connection between the first two incidents but no link whatsoever to the third girl. The circumstances are dissimilar and the timing highly unlikely. What man leaves almost a decade between crimes?"

  "Indeed," said Higgins. "The timing is a significant flaw in my theory. But there is an important connection between the three events of which you should be aware. Amelia Jeffs was living at number thirty-eight West Road when she died, and Mary Seward dwelled at number ninety-eight West Road. Eliza Carter lived in Church Street, which is not far away and would ruin the connection, but for one thing. Eliza had a married sister who lived at number twenty-five West Road and Eliza slept at her sister's house the night before she died. The last sighting of Eliza Carter was as she delivered laundry to number seventy West Road. Nobody ever saw her again after that."

  Lawrence whistled. "Then they all went missing from West Road. I don't believe in coincidences," he said.

  "Neither do I," agreed Higgins, scratching the skin beneath the band holding his glasses to his head.

  "Were the other girls connected to West Road?"

  "Not as far as I know. Apart from the child who vanished from East Ham, the remaining three lived in Walthamstow."

  Lawrence opened his mouth to speak.

  "I know what you're going to say. Walthamstow is a long way from West Ham."

  "Exactly."

  "I'll tell you what happened in chronological order. In December 1892, they found Annie West, aged ten, dead in a ditch at Low Hall sewage farm, Walthamstow. Six months later, a man went off with Elizabeth Skinner in full sight of her brother and friends, leaving her for dead in Paddy's Field. That's also in Walthamstow if you are wondering. Her attacker attempted to violate her, and she survived against all the odds. Then, on the last day of December in 1898, they removed the body of poor little Mary Jane Voller, a child of only five, from Loxford Brook."

  "Where is that?"

  "Not far from Upton Park."

  "So closer to West Ham than Walthamstow."

  "Indeed." Samuel Higgins nodded enthusiastically.

  "It bridges the geographical gap," said Lawrence. "But if not for that murder, it would look like the work of two distinct killers."

  "Yes. And only time will tell where the next corpse will turn up."

  "I hope you don't mean Bertha Russ?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "You don't think they'll find her alive?"

  "I'm certain of it. Bertha is already dead. They just haven't found her body yet."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "This is where I must stop talking," said Higgins. "Inside the envelope on top of the papers is a timeline of the crimes – names, dates, ages, addresses. Everything you need is there. Take your time and see what conclusions you come to and be sure to let me know. Isabel values your opinion, and that is good enough for me."

  "But you have discovered so much already," said Lawrence. "I can't see how I can improve on your research."

  "My research hasn't got us anywhere," said Higgins. "And if we don't put a
stop to it now, how many other girls will die?"

  "It sounds like you need more than an opinion," said Lawrence.

  "Exactly." Higgins uncrossed his legs and gestured to the right-hand desk drawer. "In there, are all the newspaper reports I haven't had the time to check. It's quite a number, and there could be more unconnected crimes than those we have discussed. That's my task for the next week. As for you, please read everything you can. If you come to the same conclusion, then start investigating the crimes as you would have done if you'd taken the case at the outset. The police have missed too many clues already. And that is not only my opinion. The inquest reports contain detailed accounts of the inadequacy of the investigations to date."

  "But why me?" asked Lawrence. "I've only a cursory knowledge of West Ham and I didn't know the girls. There must be much better qualified local private detectives who could pursue the investigation."

  "I don't think so. The crimes have been going on for so long that the police have become jaded. They have forgotten the parents' grief and the pitifully brief lives of the victims. And even though they acknowledge their mistakes, the Metropolitan Police won't collaborate. In short, they don't listen. And I fear private investigators would be the same. You know what it's like when you visit somewhere for the first time. You don't have to look hard to see the surrounding beauty. But the grand buildings and exquisite gardens in the town in which you live, don't warrant a second thought. In other words, everyone here is too close to the killings now. We need a fresh pair of eyes."

  "Except you," said Lawrence. "You haven't become complacent."

  "No. But I am not getting any younger, and I lack the physical strength to deal with this myself. If you choose to help us, you will need to visit the murder scenes, talk to witnesses and make a nuisance of yourself. Those days are behind me now if I was ever capable of such things."

  Lawrence took the envelope and removed the paper summarising the deaths. He scrutinised the page and after a few moments, looked at Samuel Higgins. "I wouldn't agree to this case but for Isabel," he said. "Yet parts of it are compelling, and a particular fact bothers me enough to make an immediate start. I will find lodgings tonight and read through your notes. If I agree that there is something worthy of pursuit, then I will begin in earnest tomorrow."

  "Excellent," said Samuel beaming. "And what is it about the case that bothers you, if I may ask?"

  "The seven-and-a-half-year gap between Mary Seward's disappearance and Amelia Jeffs' murder."

  "Exactly." Samuel crossed his arms and regarded Lawrence with a Cheshire cat-like expression. "In that case, I am sure I will see you again soon."

  CHAPTER 4

  Introducing Ella Morse

  Thursday, February 9, 1899

  Dear Michael

  Thank you for your letter, and I am sorry to hear that you have been suffering from influenza. All week in bed without fresh air or company must be lonely and made tolerable only by the amount of reading you say you have managed while confined. I too have read stories by Charles Dickens, but I find his tales rather depressing and cannot think they will help your mood. I am pleased you are feeling better. You must eat plenty now that food is palatable again. You can ill afford to lose weight.

  I have had a strange week, Michael, reminiscent of my last month in Fressingfield. But I will start at the beginning and tell you all about it. You will have plenty of time to indulge me in reading what will probably turn into something of an epistle.

  As you know, my little cottage is on one side of the churchyard which I cross every morning on my way to the tea room where I work. Well, yesterday was Monday. I don't work at the weekend and left for the tea room with a spring in my step, eager to spend time in adult company after a few days at home. On the way, I popped in to see Norma as usual, but as I closed her gate and walked away from her cottage, I had the strangest feeling that someone was following me. I held my umbrella firmly in my hand for the greying sky was a mass of dark clouds, and rain threatened at any moment. But even though I wanted to rush onwards, I could not. The feeling of eyes upon me, boring into my back, caused me to seek an excuse to stop and turn around without it being obvious. I surreptitiously dropped my umbrella, and as I knelt to recover it, I peered behind. Nobody was there, Michael. Nobody. So, I proceeded up the path and towards the church, my senses still alive to the possibility of a presence that I could feel but not see. I cannot adequately describe how keenly I sensed it. My imagination must have been running riot. I felt as if the hidden stranger was about to plunge a knife straight into my spine at any moment. I don't know what has got into me, Michael. I have never been fanciful, not even as a child.

  As I reached the side of the church, my eye fell upon a stone cross, set askew from the other gravestones in that row. But it was not so much the stone itself as the item that had fallen upon it. At first, I wasn't sure what it was, but as I advanced towards it, the dreadful truth caused me to gasp out loud. The unwanted visitor was a dead bird – a crow. Can you believe it? My thoughts naturally turned to that awful day in Fressingfield when you and Lawrence found the trunk full of decomposing crows. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if Hannah Roper had escaped from gaol. But she is now in an asylum and will never see the light of day again. I can only suppose that the position of the crow was a random act of nature. But I don't like coincidences and, as Lawrence often said, I don't believe in them.

  I hastened to work and tried to put the matter from my mind to no avail. I could not concentrate at all that day and dropped a large china basin on the floor. But I rallied, and when I returned home later, I made a point of examining the cross on the way through the churchyard. The sexton must have tidied the stone for the crow had vanished, and not a mark remained, not even a feather. But the inscription on the grave was fresh and clear. It read, 'Ella Morse, September 8, 1852, aged 37, By thy Cross and Passion, By thy precious death, God deliver us.' Thirty-seven is no age to be in the ground. I have already lived longer than she ever did.

  I can't say why, but her stone intrigues me. It stands out, being a cross among tombstones and out of kilter in the row. I have little with which to occupy myself in the late evenings and will try to find out something about Miss Morse if anyone remembers her after all this time. The local brewery bears the name of Morse, so that might be a good place to begin.

  A day has passed since I started this letter, and it is now eight o'clock on Tuesday evening. I avoided the churchyard on the way to the tea room this morning, but not on the way back. It is too foolish. I will not deviate from my daily routine because of a dead crow and a strange feeling of fogginess in my head as if I were dreaming.

  But I have wittered on enough and have selfishly failed to ask your news. Who is preaching sermons in your absence? And who is looking after your domestic affairs? Is there a servant to prepare your food while you are unwell? I am sure there must be someone to minister to your needs, but you have never mentioned it – hardly surprising after all these years with no contact. Please tell me everything about your situation in your next letter to make up for my self-indulgence in this one. I must close now and will post this on my way to work tomorrow.

  Yours ever

  Violet

  CHAPTER 5

  Digs in Buxton Road

  Thursday, March 2, 1899

  Lawrence woke to the sound of a door slamming, then peered at his pocket watch and curled into the warmth of his blanket. His bedroom was colder than usual, and six o'clock was too early to be rising if it wasn't strictly necessary. He slid back into a peaceful slumber, and the next time he checked his timepiece, a chink of light heralded mid-morning. He cocked his head and listened as an unfamiliar noise intruded from outside, hearing the chatter of children's voices followed by a hissed reprimand from a woman pleading for quiet.

  Children? Why were children in his house? Lawrence sat up and rubbed his eyes, then stared at his hands. They were filthy with newsprint, and he was lying in an unfamiliar bed next to a copy of The Ill
ustrated Police News. His notebook lay crushed beneath his elbow, and something was jabbing into his back. Lawrence reached behind and recovered a pencil as recollections of the previous evening flooded back.

  He had left Barking with a bundle of newspapers and his suitcase, then caught a cab to fifty-five Buxton Road. Samuel Higgins had obligingly given him a shortlist of lodging houses ranging from small hotels to room shares. Lawrence had settled on a home at the edge of Forest Gate occupied by a family, no doubt trying to eke an extra income by letting out a bedroom. Though the room was far from comfortable, the location was ideal for his needs, being close to a railway station, and only a short walk from West Ham. Lawrence could have stayed in a grander location, but decided he was more likely to gain the trust of the local people if he lived among them.

  He had knocked on the door while the family were eating their evening meal. The room was still available, and a man with a northern accent had welcomed him inside and introduced himself as James Aslin Ward. His wife had insisted that Lawrence must join them for dinner and had served him with a hearty bowl of stew while Mr Ward took his bags upstairs. Agnes Ward had asked his trade just as her husband returned to the dining room. Having also carried the bundle of newspapers upstairs, James Ward immediately assumed that Lawrence was in the newspaper trade, guessing his occupation as a printer's compositor. Lawrence smiled, pleased at the notion. A connection to the newspaper industry suited him well, and he didn't want to lie to the pleasant young couple but Lawrence would have to ask questions in the course of his investigation. With this in mind, he guided the conversation towards a more active role in the print office. Without Lawrence misleading them, the Wards concluded he was a reporter. Lawrence studied them as they speculated about his employment. Hearing no objection to a pressman in their home, he allowed them to accept it as a matter of fact. Being a reporter was the perfect way to amass information without suspicion. The easy subterfuge left him eager to begin the case.