The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  I cannot help but walk past Ella's grave. It sits there like a malevolent will-o'-the-wisp, luring me, daring me to approach. And even if I did not feel drawn to it, I would make myself go there because I will not give in to this irrational dread. So, yesterday, I passed it as I always do, but even from a distance, I could see it had changed. The grass had disappeared as if pulled from below. Not a blade remained. And in its place was a mound of earth piled high on one side, the stone now listing towards the church more angularly than before. The soil lay churned and disturbed in such a way that it seemed as if the grave's occupant was trying to escape – almost as if Ella herself was on the move. I stopped dead in my tracks, Michael, nearly faint with horror. And then I caught sight of something glinting in the soil. I reached towards it, half expecting a skeletal hand to shoot from the grave, circle my wrist and haul me in. But it did not. Instead, I found myself pulling out a length of chain on the end of which was a key with a skull fashioned into the design. I could hardly believe my eyes and stood there for a few moments, hoping I was dreaming.

  Then I heard a loud voice bellowing behind me. I turned toward the shouting and saw an old man bent over a walking stick. He wore a dog collar around his neck, below which hung an ornate cross. I stood, open-mouthed, as he hobbled towards me, expecting him to sympathise. Instead, he began berating me for the condition of the grave. But the fear in my eyes must have been apparent, and after a few moments, he stopped, surveyed the damaged cross, and apologised. He said he had made a mistake and I evidently could not have caused the damage, at least not without a strong man and a spade. Then he stopped talking and stared at the ground for a long time.

  I did not know what to do or say, so I waited, and eventually, he spoke. "Last time the stone moved naturally," he said. "This is a new development." I asked him what he meant, and he told me that when he first arrived at the church, he heard rumours of the moving stone. He disregarded them until early in eighty-one when it began to twist again. "But never," he said, "has the earth spewed forth like this. The stone has travelled, and the grass has shown signs of disturbance, but these mounds of soil are a different matter." He stroked his chin as he contemplated the damage and then asked me if I had seen anything unusual in the preceding days. I said I had not and only happened upon the scene moments before he arrived. I did not mention the key. I know I should have done, but I could not help myself. I kept it, and it is currently in my purse where it will remain for the time being.

  My fear vanished with the arrival of the elderly priest. You might know him, Michael. His name is George Winter, and he is long retired though you may have seen him when you visited recently. Anyway, he suspects the movement might be man-made rather than supernatural, which has left me feeling better, of course. Yet, if so, why was a key left lying in the earth as if thrust up from below? But isn't that a silly thought? Whoever damaged the grave must have dropped it. It's by far the most rational explanation, though why anyone would disturb the remains of a long-dead woman, is a mystery. Ella Morse was a God-fearing woman and a loyal and well-loved sister. She cannot have had enemies in her lifetime, much less forty years after her death.

  I have pondered on these matters all day. Now that we've finished supper and completed our ablutions I find myself unable to sleep for the thoughts streaming through my head. Writing this letter is cathartic, and I am glad to have your sage counsel to call upon if required. Recalling the day's events and the sensible conclusion of the clergyman has put my mind at rest, at least for now. So, I will close and wish you a peaceful and productive week.

  With my fondest regards

  Violet

  CHAPTER 11

  The Press Office Calls

  Monday, March 6, 1899

  "Hold on. I'm on my way."

  Lawrence awoke to the sound of shouting coming from the direction of the hallway at his lodging house in Buxton Road.

  "I said, hold on."

  Lawrence kneaded his eyes and opened his pocket watch. It was too dark to see, so he fumbled on his bedside table and lit a candle before checking again. It was a little after five in the morning, and someone was urgently hammering on the front door. He rose, donned his dressing gown and peered downstairs to see a half-dressed James Ward yanking open the door.

  "What the devil do you mean creating all this noise at this time of the morning. Stop it at once before you wake up the children." But it was too late. A high-pitched wail came from the back bedroom where the baby was sleeping.

  "You'd better have a damn good reason for this," hissed Ward.

  Lawrence craned his neck to see a young boy waving an envelope in the air. "I've got an urgent message for Mr Harpham," said the boy. "And I'm not to leave until he's read it."

  Lawrence descended the stairs and approached Ward sheepishly. "I don't know what this is about," he said, "but I apologise for the disturbance."

  "I was getting dressed anyway," snapped Ward. "I start at the foundry at six thirty, and Aggie will see to my breakfast, but they don't need to be up yet." He gestured towards the room where the children slept."

  "I really am sorry."

  James Ward shook his head and retreated upstairs.

  "Who are you?" asked Lawrence, regarding the boy with an air of resignation.

  "I'm the Barking Advertiser messenger," said the boy. "Mr Higgins told me to bring you this note and make it snappy. So here I am, and here I'll stay until you've read it and given your answer."

  Lawrence tore open the envelope and squinted at the page, but it was still too dark to see.

  "Use this," said the boy holding a bull's eye lamp aloft that looked suspiciously like the police issue version.

  "Where did you get that?" asked Lawrence

  "Ask no questions, tell no lies," said the boy, winking. "Now, are you going to read your message or not?"

  Lawrence held the note beneath the light.

  Dear Mr Harpham

  Little Bertha Russ is dead as I predicted. They found her in the early hours of this morning. I am at the press office now working on the morning edition. Please come as soon as you can."

  Samuel Higgins

  Lawrence folded the letter and shoved it in his dressing gown pocket.

  "Are you coming?" asked the boy.

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "I'll be there by eight o'clock," said Lawrence.

  "Right you are." The boy took his lamp, turned, and scurried up the road.

  #

  Lawrence was as good as his word. After a hurried breakfast served by Agnes Ward while she tried to pacify two tired and fractious children, he left for the press office. Lawrence was growing fond of Agnes and her offspring, but today he was glad to be going. James had left in a foul mood, and Agnes was quiet and subdued. Lawrence suspected they'd had words.

  The door to fifty-five The Broadway was closed when Lawrence arrived. His mood darkened, irritated at the impediment to quick access having been hauled halfway across town for an urgent meeting. But after a few seconds, the door opened, and he came face to face with the boy he had last seen only a few hours before.

  "Good. I thought it must be you," said the boy. "I've been waiting for your knock. Mr Higgins won't have the door open unless there are plenty of people around."

  "Where is he?"

  "In his office," said the boy, jabbing at the air.

  Lawrence entered, and Higgins jumped to his feet. "Oh, good. Thank you for coming," he said, holding out his hand. "Take a seat. Shall I ask Stanley to rustle up a cup of tea?"

  "No need," said Lawrence. He had already eaten a perfectly adequate breakfast. Besides, there was something about the messenger boy that suggested his tea making would be a slapdash affair. His hands, and particularly his nails, were not in a state of cleanliness that inspired confidence.

  "So, they've found the girl," said Lawrence.

  Higgins nodded. "Yes. It was only a matter of time, but even I could not have predicted the circumstance of her death."
r />   "Tell me about it," said Lawrence. "And how did you come to hear about it?"

  "The other fellow at my digs works at the mortuary in Wakefield Street," said Higgins. "I suffer from extreme insomnia and was still awake reading into the small hours last night when I heard my neighbour come home. Gustav dropped something as he came up the stairs after finishing at the mortuary. I opened my door to check all was well, and it wasn't. The poor chap looked dreadful, and when I asked him what was wrong, he blurted it out. I took him inside, and we talked at length over a glass of port."

  "Is he the mortician?"

  "No. Nothing so grand. Gustav prepares the corpses for burial or hands them over to the surgeon if they require an autopsy. And he sees young children all the time, of course. But not like this. Someone had murdered Bertha Russ and squashed her body into a cupboard."

  "How did she die?"

  "From suffocation. The police called James Shimeld, the divisional surgeon as soon as they found her. He ordered the removal of her body to the mortuary then conducted an immediate autopsy. It is my good fortune that Gustav was there throughout. Seldom is there such a felicitous opportunity to learn so much about a crime so quickly."

  Samuel Higgins flipped open a notebook. "I didn't like to make notes in front of Gustav, but I did it the moment he left, my memory not being what it once was. Now, there's a lot to get through".

  "First, there was a great deal of post-mortem staining on the body. Bertha's hair came out easily, indicating that she had been dead for some time. She probably met her end on the day that she went missing. Her body was normal in all other ways, and Shimeld concluded that somebody had placed an object over her face causing suffocation. They stuffed her into the cupboard and later rigor mortis set in."

  "Just like Amelia Jeffs," said Lawrence. "But that was nine years ago."

  "I haven't told you where they found her yet," said Higgins, pushing his glasses up his nose. The threadbare strap securing them to his head looked as if it was about to snap. Lawrence averted his eyes, not wanting to know what lay beneath the blacked-out lens. But not before he noticed the scarred, inverted dent on Higgins temple between his absent ear and his eyebrow. Whatever had happened to the man, had caused substantial damage.

  "Did you hear me?" Higgins had cocked his head and was peering at Lawrence.

  "Yes. You said Bertha was in a cupboard."

  "More to the point, she was in a cupboard in an empty house in Ilford," said Higgins. "Seventy Lawrence Avenue, to be precise, assuming Gustav has remembered correctly."

  "Ah," said Lawrence. "No doubt they set out to search all the empty houses. Perhaps they have learned something from the Jeffs murder, after all."

  "You would think so," said Higgins. "But I'm told that the prospective tenants found her when they viewed the property?"

  "Surely not?" Lawrence gazed at the pressman, open-mouthed. "It shouldn't be possible. The police would have searched all the empty houses as soon as Bertha went missing."

  "Well, if they did, they made a poor job of it."

  "Could she have wandered in and shut herself in the cupboard?"

  "One police officer asked that, and Shimeld said not."

  Lawrence leaned back in his chair and looked outside, deep in thought. "Was a house agent involved in showing the property?" he asked.

  "I couldn't say."

  "It's important. All the articles I've read about Amelia Jeffs suggest the involvement of a workman in her murder. The killer definitely had easy access to the property, but wouldn't that be equally true of a house agent?"

  Higgins considered the matter. "Well, of course, it could," he said. "But who and why?"

  "I don't know, but two agents are living and working in West Road," said Lawrence. "And both had dwelled there long enough to have been around when Millie Jeffs died."

  "It's worth considering," said Samuel Higgins. "But I'm certain of this. Whoever killed Amelia Jeffs also killed Bertha Russ, however unlikely the timescale suggests."

  "If that's true, it would imply that the same person has been killing young girls for at least ten years, and possibly longer."

  "Quite – which is why I asked you to come straight away. The police refuse to understand that this is the work of one person."

  "But why?"

  "Their objection is mainly geographical. The constabulary can't grasp that the distance between West Ham and Walthamstow does not rule out the same killer. At least now, there can be no doubt. Even an idiot can see that the deaths of Amelia Jeffs and Mary Jane Voller bear too many similarities with Bertha's to disregard. They have run out of excuses."

  "I haven't read about Mary Voller yet," said Lawrence.

  "Well, you need to get on with it then. Or you won't understand what I mean."

  Lawrence scowled. He had read what felt like dozens of papers from cover to cover. It would have helped if Higgins had marked the relevant articles rather than present him with the whole thing.

  "Are you going to help me, Harpham?"

  "Yes. Of course. Don't worry that I'm not quite up to speed. Even with a little knowledge, I can see the connection. I'll do anything to assist. I had a daughter once." Lawrence's voice broke as he tried to say her name, but he could not bring himself to do it.

  Higgins's voice softened, and his lip trembled momentarily. "Then you must do your research. Finish reading everything tonight. Get your notebook and come with me."

  Lawrence followed Higgins into the hidden room containing his files.

  "Write this down," Higgins commanded, before reeling off a list of names and dates. When Lawrence had finished, he examined the page.

  "There's still an eight-year gap before Amelia Jeffs and a five-year gap after Elizabeth Skinner," said Lawrence.

  "There isn't," said Higgins. "There's more to come, and I'm yet to complete my research. Go home and read everything you can find. Let this murder be the last."

  CHAPTER 12

  Dead in a Ditch

  The loan of a Rover safety bicycle from the press office aided Lawrence's journey back to Buxton Road considerably. Higgins had initially purchased the bike for young Stanley who refused point-blank to use it. It surprised Lawrence to hear this. The boy had presented an unusually confident demeanour and should have been a perfect candidate for a cycle given his role as a runner. But he viewed it with wary suspicion and insisted on walking.

  "It's rusting in the workshop," Higgins had said. "If you don't use it, it will end up with the totter." And Lawrence had acquiesced. It wasn't because he cared less whether the cycle went to the rag and bone man, but because he could take a direct route back and save time.

  Higgins lingered outside after handing the bicycle over. Lawrence waited for him to leave, having no intention of mounting the beast with an audience. Eventually, Samuel Higgins took the hint, closed the door, and went inside. Lawrence gritted his teeth and put his weight on the pedal, before heaving himself into the saddle. It had been a long time since he'd last ridden a cycle and he wobbled through the abbey grounds as he tried to get his balance and his bearings. Half an hour later, Lawrence found to his relief, that the streets were recognisable and within a few brief minutes, he was back in Buxton Road. Lawrence was cycling towards his lodgings, thoughts elsewhere, when a shout momentarily startled him. He braked hard, then saw a man crouching on the other side of a wooden fence by the side of the road. As the man stood, Lawrence recognised him at once. The shouting man was Gilbert Cooper.

  "I can give you something for that," said Gilbert, waving a paintbrush in his hand.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "That squeaky wheel. I could hear you coming a mile off."

  "I hadn't noticed. I expect it needs oiling."

  "You can say that again. I'll bring you some round in a bit."

  "No need," said Lawrence. "I'm sure I can find a tin."

  Gil Cooper ignored him and continued painting the gate. Lawrence dismounted the cycle and pushed it the short distance to number fi
fty-five where he left it propped against the wall. Then he tried the door and finding it locked, located the key under the flowerpot Agnes Ward said she would use if she went out. Relishing the unusually empty house, Lawrence boiled a pan of water and made himself a cup of tea. He took it upstairs, then settled down to make notes on the conversation he'd had with Higgins that morning. "Read everything," Higgins had said before providing him with a list of names, three of which were unfamiliar. Lawrence sighed. He was a practical man and preferred questioning witnesses to poring through press reports. Lawrence didn't wholly trust reporters and had grave doubts about the accuracy of their stories. But he couldn't expect any help from the police, and there was little choice in the matter.

  The news about Bertha Russ had been upsetting, and Lawrence could feel the black dog nudging in the background. Having the life snuffed out of your child at only six years old, was too much for a parent to bear. If his daughter Lily had lived, she would be twelve years old by now – the same age as Eliza Carter when she had disappeared. What if Lily had vanished? Would it have been easier, or would he have suffered more? Yes, undoubtedly, it would have been worse. At least he knew what had happened to Lily. The torment of waiting daily, hourly even, for news of a missing child was a torture with no end. Thoughts of Lily snaked through his mind, worming into the deepest recesses and proving a feeding ground for the black dog. A wave of despair coursed through his body.

  Lawrence knew nothing about the case, was unfamiliar with the area and doubted his ability to bring a resolution. Why had Isabel asked for his help? What was the point? Lawrence put his head in his hands and blinked his eyes open as Violet's face swam into view. Violet. What would she say if he was with her now? He smiled as he remembered the way she used to sit with her hands in her lap, regarding him patiently. Violet never interrupted, never spoke until he had got everything off his chest. Then she would tilt her head to one side as she considered whatever problem was uppermost in his mind. Violet would gently offer kindly meant advice, never reacting if he ignored it. What would she say now? She would say, of course, he was the right person to catch the killer, that he should rely on his instincts and listen to his sixth sense.