The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  Three of the Ward children played nearby during the evening meal while Agnes Ward balanced her one-year-old on her lap while they ate. For young children, they were tolerably well behaved. And although Lawrence might have thought twice about taking the room if he'd known there were so many youngsters in the house, their presence was not disruptive. The children were as quiet as was reasonably possible and he could talk to the Wards without interruption.

  Loathe as he was to engage in excessive small talk after a long day, Lawrence politely enquired about his hosts. James Aslin Ward was an iron moulder at the local foundry in Canning Town. The work, he said, was hard and laborious but it provided a steady wage for the young family. The arrival of their fourth child, little Mabel, had stretched the family's finances. Reluctantly they had rented out the back bedroom. So far, their lodgers had proved amiable, and it was a small price to pay for a more comfortable existence.

  Lawrence had mopped the rest of his stew from the bowl with a large slice of bread and butter, then politely took his leave. He'd retired to the bedroom and looked through the papers. But after a day of travelling, a meeting with Isabel and another with Samuel, his concentration had lapsed. His eyes had grown heavy and his head lolled back. He'd forced himself to get up and undressed intending to continue reading in bed in his pyjamas, but it was not to be. Lawrence fell asleep without completing his ablutions with a newspaper still clutched in his hands. It had been a long day.

  All this flashed through Lawrence's mind as he orientated himself ready for the day ahead. As he rose from the bed, his stomach growled. No wonder. It was after nine o'clock and well past breakfast time. Lawrence inwardly groaned with embarrassment as he contemplated presenting himself at the table at this late hour. He rose, washed and dressed, then having neglected to do so the previous evening, he unpacked. After scribbling a quick letter to Michael, he finally made his way downstairs, well after nine thirty. Lawrence peered into the dining room, expecting to find it cleared. To his relief, the table still contained a single knife and fork and a glass of water. He turned as a voice greeted him.

  "Good morning, Mr Harpham. What would you like for breakfast?"

  Agnes Ward stood in the doorway with the baby on her hip and her little boy toddling beside her.

  "Anything," said Lawrence. "I hope my late start hasn't been inconvenient," he continued.

  "Not at all," said Agnes. "The baby's sleepy. If you give me a moment to put her down, I'll bring you something."

  "Before I forget, can you point me towards the nearest post box?"

  "I can, but I'm going past it later. Leave your letter on the table, and I'll take it for you."

  Agnes left the room, and Lawrence read through his notes as he waited. They were scant and barely legible, reflecting his fatigue when settling down the previous night.

  A heavy rap at the front door roused him from his thoughts, and he waited for Agnes or James Ward to appear. Neither answered the door, and the knocking began again. Ward must be at work, thought Lawrence as he realised Agnes was upstairs settling the baby. Sighing, he decided that the least he could do for this hard-working couple was to help by opening the door. He ventured down the hallway as the third series of raps began. Then Lawrence wrenched open the door to find a wiry man with a greying moustache and a bucket under his arm. The handle of the bucket had come away on one side.

  "Who are you?" asked the man.

  "A lodger," said Lawrence. "I've taken the back bedroom. And you are?"

  "Gilbert Cooper, from number forty-three," he said, waving vaguely down the road. "My bucket's broken."

  "Mr Ward is at work," said Lawrence, and I'm not sure his wife can help you."

  "Oh, but she can. I borrowed their bucket last time it happened."

  "I see. Well, Agnes is busy."

  "Hello, Gil," said Agnes cheerily as she descended the stairs. It was the first time Lawrence had seen her child-free. "I see you've met our neighbour," she continued. "And thank you for answering the door. Mabel's asleep and your namesake has joined her," she continued, smiling towards her visitor.

  "Dear little chap," said Cooper. "And young James and Agnes?"

  "Both at school. Anyway, how can I help?"

  "It's broken again." Gil Cooper held the bucket aloft as Lawrence watched, wondering whether to stay put or retreat to the dining room. He was standing uncomfortably between Gilbert Cooper and his host.

  "You'll be wanting to borrow ours again, I daresay?" Agnes replied. "Come inside. You're letting all the warm air out. I'm brewing a pot of tea for Mr Harpham. Come and join us while I fetch the bucket."

  She stood back, and Lawrence followed her as Gil Cooper squeezed through the door, still carrying the pail.

  "Put it down there and go inside." Agnes directed him towards the dining table, took the bucket and proceeded to the kitchen.

  Lawrence resumed his seat, and Gil slid into the opposite chair.

  "Nice couple," he said, lounging back against the chair with his legs splayed. "Very accommodating, the pair of them. Always ready to help. Hannah and I aren't getting any younger."

  "You don't look that old," said Lawrence, struggling to find the correct response.

  "Well, we're not old, old," said Gil. "But I'm nearly fifty and no spring chicken, as you'll know yourself."

  "I'm still in my forties," spluttered Lawrence, affronted.

  "Keep your hair on. I'm only joking." Gil Cooper grinned as pulled a handkerchief from his paint-spattered overalls and loudly blew his nose. "What's your game, anyway?"

  "My game?"

  "Your occupation. What do you do?"

  "I see," said Lawrence. "I'm a reporter."

  "What? Fleet Street?"

  "No. Nothing so grand. I'm from Suffolk."

  "What are you doing down here? Are you lost?"

  "No," said Lawrence, searching for a suitable story. "I'm doing a piece on local crime."

  "Well, there's plenty of that," said Gilbert. "Why here, though? Doesn't Suffolk have criminals?"

  "Many," said Lawrence. "But my editor wants a historical piece set in or near London."

  "About gangland crime?"

  "Yes, some of that," said Lawrence, feeling out of his depth. He didn't know of any criminal gangs who operated near West Ham although London had plenty. "Gangs like the Wild Boys," said Lawrence, snatching a name he'd once heard from deep in his memory. "That sort of thing, though any murder and mayhem would be of interest, particularly crimes that have happened over the last few decades."

  "The Wild Boys were fictional," said Cooper, suspiciously. "Though I know what you mean. There's plenty like them in the East End. But you've come to the right place if you're looking for unsolved crimes."

  "So, I believe," said Lawrence "I hear you've had more than a few people go missing in West Ham."

  Gilbert nodded. "Quite a number," he said. "Though your pals in the local press have done themselves no favours exaggerating the numbers. Several missing people have turned up never having gone anywhere. Reporters make it up as they go along. Anyway, where do you go to track down old crimes then? Are you going to rub shoulders with the police? Don't get too friendly. They're not trustworthy."

  "I won't," said Lawrence. "I've got a lot of information from newspapers already. "But first, I must get to know the area. I'm not familiar with West Ham."

  "Tea," said Agnes Ward, as she bustled in with a large tray containing three cups and a plate of toast and bacon.

  "That looks good," said Gilbert, eyeing the meal.

  "It's not for you," said Agnes. "I'll pour you a cup of tea. I've put the bucket in the hallway, and you can take it with you when you go. James will take yours to the foundry tomorrow and have it welded."

  "Appreciated," said Gilbert. "Anyway, how does it feel to have a spy in your midst?" He winked at Lawrence.

  "Spy? What do you mean?"

  "He's a reporter," said Gilbert.

  "He is our paying guest," said Agnes, pursing her lip
s. "Mind your manners."

  "I'm used to it," said Lawrence. "Nobody loves a pressman."

  "At least you're not a bluebottle. It could be worse." Gilbert chuckled at his joke, then leaned forward. "Where are you going first?"

  Lawrence set his knife and fork down and consulted his notebook. "I'll go to Walthamstow tomorrow," he said. "I daresay I will pay a visit to the police station, for all the good it will do. But first, I'll take a walk to West Road."

  "West Road?" Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Why there?"

  "Several of the missing and murdered girls lived there. It seems like a good place to start."

  "So, you're more interested in the girls than the gangs?" asked Gilbert. "I should have thought knife crime and larceny would be more interesting to your readers than a couple of missing children. They left the house, and that was that. It doesn't make much of a story."

  "I'll take notes anyway," said Lawrence, trying to divert attention away from his real purpose. "My editor will make the final decision."

  "Well, if that's your choice, I'll take you there myself," said Cooper. "I can introduce you to one or two of the residents."

  "Of course. You used to live near there, didn't you, Gil?" said Agnes, draining the last of her tea.

  "Yes – a while ago now and before Hannah got the shop. I pass through often and still see many of the old faces. You wouldn't think so with the number of houses they've built around here. There's a lot of property to rent, and it's cheap too. It's having the park nearby that does it."

  "I'll want to see that too," said Lawrence.

  "Finish your tea then. I don't have to be at work until midday. I'll take you there now."

  CHAPTER 6

  The Moving Stone

  Sunday, February 12, 1899

  Dear Michael

  I hope this letter is not an unwelcome surprise, following on so soon from the last. After all these years with no contact, you must be getting fed up with me. But you expressed such kindness in your reply and acknowledged my letter with such haste, that I hope you will not mind. Please don't feel any obligation to reply straight away.

  I am glad to hear that your illness has passed and that you are back in the pulpit on Sunday, and I am pleased you enjoyed your trip to Netherwood. What a fortunate coincidence that Flora Johns was visiting her uncle when you arrived. Young Bertie must be quite the little boy now. Did you see him? It is a pity that you missed Francis. You said he was abroad, but you didn't mention where. I hope he appreciates your vigilance in keeping an eye on the house. Not that it's essential as his butler is so reliable, but Albert is getting on a bit, and you are not. I am surprised that Albert hasn't retired by now, but he seems happy enough, and with a servant to rely upon, his duties are not onerous. Anyway, I am rambling, Michael, and torn between seeking your advice on a particular matter and embarrassment at mentioning it at all. But I have decided upon the former as I appreciate both your wisdom and discretion.

  You will remember that I mentioned the gravestone of Ella Morse in my last correspondence. Well, I have enquired into the family and have learned more about her. Ella was the eldest daughter of John and Ann Morse, and her father was a local brewer who operated out of White Hart Lane in Swaffham. Well, his son took over the brewery and ran it for several years and on his untimely death, it passed to his business partner who traded as Morse & Woods. A company in Norwich has only recently acquired the brewery. So, that is the background, and I am sure you will agree that it is not especially exciting.

  I have continued my twice-daily walk through the churchyard despite my earlier concerns. But some days I have to force myself, Michael, and on one or two occasions have been, quite literally, sick with dread. I cannot account for it. The walk is pleasant, and the church structure easy on the eye. There are no strange gothic features and nothing untoward, at least on the outside. I am rarely wholly alone, and people are usually within sight. But I cannot shake off that feeling that someone is watching me. From the moment I leave Norma's home until I reach the tea room, I am in a constant state of nerves. So much so, that I wonder whether I ought to see the doctor. And what I have learned this week has unnerved me further still.

  The place in which I work is called The Singing Kettle. It is a small establishment with few employees kept busy serving tea and cakes with little time for anything else. So, the administration and upkeep of the business fall to Olive, the owner, including all the cleaning. But in January, Olive fell victim to the weather when she slipped on the icy pavements and broke her wrist. She couldn't manage any physical work afterwards. The doctor strapped up her wrist, but it didn't offer enough pain relief to keep up with the chores. The solution presented itself in the form of a charlady by the name of Mrs Brett. Mathilda Brett is my age, but recently widowed and dependent upon the paltry income she earns from her toils. With two young children to support, her life is hard, yet she is of a cheery disposition and eager to share the local gossip. I hope my behaviour won't shock you, Michael. I don't normally encourage hearsay since retiring from private detective work. But I wanted to find out about the Morse family, so I engaged her in conversation and led it towards the Morse brewery. That might seem like an odd place to start an investigation, but I did not want to draw attention to my interest in the family. Finding out about a long-standing Swaffham industry seemed like a sensible and casual starting point. My approach immediately paid dividends. Though resident in the village only since the early eighties, Mathilda knows everything about everyone, inclined as she is, to talk. But unlike most village gossips, she is not only a talker but a listener too and what she told me chilled me to the marrow.

  The people of Swaffham speak of a legend – a tale often told about the churchyard, directly concerning the Morse gravestone. You may remember that I said the cross is out of kilter. That is to say, it is more or less lying at a forty-five-degree angle compared to the other stones in the row. But it was not always the case. The stone has moved and not only once, but several times before. The stone began turning several decades ago, and travelled over time, inching around every year until it reached a difference of ninety degrees. The vicar remained unperturbed, assuming that tree roots or subsidence had caused the movement. He couldn't be sure, of course, but he never wavered from thinking it was an act of nature. But the travelling stone caused great upset among the townsfolk. They were superstitious and refused to accept his rational explanation. In the end, he deemed it wise to reposition the stone, which was not a straightforward task.

  The base of the monument is square and heavy with a large cross set above. It took several men to complete the job. But finish it they did it, and the cross settled back in line among the other headstones. A few years passed by and nobody thought any more about it, then the vicar appointed a new sexton who was particularly vigilant in his duties. One day, while carrying out his daily tasks, he noticed the stone seemed crooked, and he mentioned it to the vicar. They watched the grave for several months until they were confident that it was on the move again. Not only did they regularly check the stone, but they surveyed the movement to prove it was not a figment of their imagination. And it was not. Their carefully recorded measurements proved it. Under cover of darkness, they repositioned the stone again and kept its travel secret. Except that there is no such thing as a secret in a small town. It so happened that Mathilda's husband Peter was a licenced victualler. One night a labourer who had helped move the stone started talking about it while in his cups. He had consumed a great deal of ale, and the first time he spoke of it, Peter assumed he was telling a tall tale. But when the labourer repeated the story while sober, Peter told Mathilda and it didn't take long for the account to get around town. Since then, they've moved the stone and repositioned it on at least one other occasion, and now it is moving again.

  Hearing this tale has not diminished my fears of walking through the graveyard. But as I still consider them wholly irrational, I refuse to give in and take the long way around. Yesterday, I returned t
o Ella's stone and examined it again. Flattened grass at the base of the cross bore evidence of a twisting motion, but when it happened and how long it took, is impossible to deduce.

  So here is my dilemma, Michael. I was already fearful of the graveyard before learning of this local legend, and there is no doubt that it has preyed upon my mind. Yet, I long to learn more about the tragic Morse family, especially why so many of the Morse children died young. I know there is a mystery here, and for the first time in a long while, I find myself missing the thrill of the chase. My life here is quiet, and I occupy myself only with work and domestic matters. You know me well, Michael – sometimes better than I know myself. What do you think I should do? Walk away or immerse myself in something that does not concern me, for which there is no financial reward, and which could challenge my sanity? But then, abandoning the matter could have an equally detrimental effect.

  Do you still have easy access to parish records, Michael? I could ask the vicar here, but I have made Swaffham my home and do not wish to involve myself openly in matters that don't concern me. The townsfolk might tolerate nosiness from a long-time resident, but I am a newcomer. Can you find out how many children were born to John and Ann Morse, and whether any of them are still alive? That information would give me a starting point to understand the family better without asking too many questions. Their descendants may still live in Swaffham, and I am sure they would not appreciate indelicate enquiries.

  I must close now, but before I go, I have not asked you about your sister Ann or young Sidney. Though I have not been in touch these last three years, I still think of them often and would like to know that they are safe and well. Much as it grieves me, please do not send my regards or wishes as I must preserve my anonymity here and it is all too easy to slip up.

  With best wishes