The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  The smell hit me first, Michael. Death, of course. Death and decay. And the sight I saw you would know only too well. For you have been there, and you have seen it – two dead crows, with maggots crawling through their putrefying bodies. I screamed, ran, and locked myself in the bedroom where I am penning this letter now.

  I have stopped pretending to be brave. I am terrified, Michael. I have never been more scared in my entire life. And if I am sufficiently recovered to stamp and post this letter tomorrow, then you will know I have survived the night.

  If not, I remain your friend always.

  Violet

  CHAPTER 22

  Telegram

  Tuesday, March 7, 1899

  From: Rev Farrow, c/o The White Hart Inn, Swaffham

  To: Lawrence Harpham, c/o 55 Buxton Road, West Ham

  Lawrence. No time to explain, but Violet has been living in Swaffham until recently. We have corresponded, but now she has disappeared, and I think she is in danger. Come quickly – wire confirmation by return.

  Yours

  Michael

  CHAPTER 23

  Break In

  Wednesday, March 8, 1899

  "So, you see, short of tripping over the killer in the act, it's the only chance we've got."

  Lawrence Harpham was sipping coffee in Isabel Smith's office at the Municipal Buildings while trying to explain his lack of progress.

  "But you believe there is a murderer?"

  "Undoubtedly. A very cunning, ruthless degenerate man who won't stop until we catch him."

  "And you think this man was responsible for all the deaths?"

  "I believe so," said Lawrence.

  "And the disappearances?"

  "Logic would suggest so, but I am less certain. Geographically, it fits the bill."

  "How are you getting on with Samuel?" asked Isabel.

  "Very well. He's a little odd though. I wish you had warned me about his head."

  Isabel smiled and put her empty coffee cup on the desk. "I didn't want you jumping to any conclusions about his character before hearing what he had to say."

  "I'm not judgemental."

  "Yes, you are. I remember your reaction when I told you that the new inspector was a little portly. Too much food makes a man lazy, you said, if I remember rightly."

  "That's different."

  Isabel raised an eyebrow.

  "Anyway, how did it happen?"

  "What?"

  "Higgins ear and whatever is or isn't behind that blacked-out lens."

  "Someone attacked him with a brick," said Isabel. "Long before I knew him. Back in the early nineties, I think. A case of mistaken identity, as I understand it."

  "Poor chap."

  "Yes, he was, and unlucky enough to become the focus of a witch hunt. It had something to do with a crime – a serious matter. I don't know the details, but a group of men chased Higgins, beat him and left him for dead. He was in the hospital for over a month. The surgeons did their best but could not save his sight, and he lost an ear. All very unfortunate and avoidable."

  "Did they catch them?"

  "The attackers? Yes, they did. And unbelievably, Higgins forgave them. He pleaded in court for leniency, saying that if he'd done what they thought he had done, then their actions were justifiable. It must have carried some weight as the judge reduced their prison sentences."

  "I said he was strange. I'd have turned the key and left them to rot."

  "It's not his way," said Isabel. "So, you and Samuel agree about these deaths?"

  "Yes. Completely," said Lawrence. "But the investigation, such as it is, has all but stalled. Higgins has plotted the murders on a map. We know that West Road plays an important part in the mystery. It would help to know who was living there when the murders and disappearances took place. I've met one or two of the current inhabitants, both estate agents, as it happens, but they won't remember everyone who lived there. We need records."

  "What records?"

  "The eighty-one and ninety-one censuses would be helpful."

  "You know they're not open to the public, don't you?"

  "I guessed as much. But it would be beneficial to have them."

  Isabel sighed. "The records are in the repository in Chancery Lane, but I can't get you in there."

  "Under any circumstances?"

  "No. It's not possible. You're not entitled to that information. But..." Isabel said, chewing her lip as she considered the dilemma, "there may be another way."

  Isabel stood, turned to her right, and reached for a hanging cord which she pulled. Lawrence heard a shrill jangle in the distance. Moments later, a young girl appeared in the doorway clutching a clipboard and pen.

  "Yes, Miss Smith," she said.

  "Can you fetch Miss Ponsonby and Miss Cream?"

  "Right away, miss."

  "She's an improvement on the last one," said Lawrence. "You never told me what happened."

  "And I never will," said Isabel, shuddering. "I think it's enough to say that your judgement of Miss Worthington's character was correct. She could have drowned in her officiousness, as you so admirably put it."

  Lawrence tried and failed to conceal a grin, remembering the sanctimonious receptionist with whom he had locked horns during the Silvertown investigation.

  Isabel was about to reprimand him when a knock at the door interrupted her. Lawrence watched open-mouthed as a tall slim woman dressed in trousers and a waistcoat marched through the door. Her sultry, perfectly groomed companion wearing a slick of scarlet lipstick followed.

  "Ladies, this is Mr Harpham."

  Lawrence stood and immediately offered his chair to the dark-haired woman.

  "No need. They won't be here long," said Isabel before the girl could answer. "Now, ladies. Are you familiar with the public records office in Chancery Lane?"

  "Yes, ma'am," said Miss Ponsonby.

  "Miss Smith," said Isabel, with the air of a woman who has given the same reply on many previous occasions. "Now," she continued, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper which she signed with a flourish then folded and placed in an envelope. "Take this," she continued, tucking the flap inside, "and give it to Mr Grace. He may rail against the contents of this letter, but he will abide by them, and you will need his help. Ask for the census records for West Road, West Ham. You have until six o'clock tonight to take down as much information as you can. Then pay a runner to deliver it to Mr Harpham at – where are you staying, Lawrence?"

  "Fifty-five Buxton Road, West Ham."

  "Very good. Deliver it there, and each of you, please take half a day off next week for your trouble."

  "Consider it done," said Miss Ponsonby tweaking the knot in her tie.

  "Shall I write it down?" asked Lawrence.

  "No need," said Isabel. "Miss Ponsonby has an excellent memory. She forgets nothing."

  "Perhaps I'll deliver it myself," said Miss Cream, with a slow, deliberate wink at Lawrence who spluttered as he battled for an appropriate response.

  "That will do," said Isabel patiently. "Off you go and good luck."

  Lawrence waited for the door to close. "She was wearing trousers," he said to Isabel.

  "I noticed."

  "And did you see what the other one did to me?"

  "It isn't the first time, and it won't be the last," said Isabel. "Don't worry about trivial matters. Misses Ponsonby and Cream are excellent women. Quite the best. Their talents go to waste in the typing pool, which is where they work on a quiet day like this. But if I have any covert clerical work, I call on them first. Miss Ponsonby apprehended a thief last year, alone and in dangerous circumstances. As for Miss Cream, don't let her glamourous appearance fool you. She speaks four languages and wields an épée as skillfully as any man."

  "They sound overqualified for the task at hand," Lawrence admitted.

  "And they are, but if I need speed and ruthless efficiency, I can do no better. If it's possible to get this information in the time allotted, they will do it."


  "I can't thank you enough," said Lawrence. "It's too kind."

  "On the contrary, you are helping me," said Isabel. "I have slept more peacefully, knowing that someone is finally taking an interest in those poor girls."

  "I'm surprised you didn't put Miss Ponsonby and Miss Cream on the case," said Lawrence.

  "You know, it never occurred to me, but they have certain qualities," she mused, her words trailing away as she considered the implications.

  "I'll leave you to it," said Lawrence, scraping his chair back. He walked to the window and looked outside. "Drat. It's raining," he said.

  "Would you like to take my carriage?" asked Isabel.

  Lawrence raised an eyebrow.

  "It's a new driver," Isabel continued. "Obviously."

  "Have you got an umbrella?" asked Lawrence.

  Isabel nodded.

  "I'd rather take that."

  #

  The rain teemed down for ten minutes while Lawrence made his way towards Holborn intending to catch the first available train to West Ham. But the rain abruptly stopped as Lawrence neared the station and he reconsidered. As the weather brightened, his mood did too. Having nothing else to do with his day, he made the most of his time in London and re-familiarised himself with the sights. Lawrence dined at midday in a little restaurant off the Cornfields and continued promenading around London. When he ran out of things to do, he caught a late afternoon train back to Maryland station, whistling as he walked the short distance to Buxton Road. Lawrence was musing on his day when he turned into number fifty-five to find the door wide open and several police officers standing in the hallway.

  "Who are you," asked a red-haired constable when he saw Lawrence.

  "I'm lodging here," said Lawrence. "Where are Mr and Mrs Ward?"

  "Is that you, Mr Harpham?" Agnes Ward's voice drifted from upstairs accompanied by the wail of her youngest child.

  "Yes. What's going on and can I help?"

  "Wait a moment."

  Lawrence stared at the two officers while he waited for Agnes until she ran breathlessly downstairs without her infant. The crying continued from above.

  "I've put Mabel in the crib," said Agnes. "Otherwise, we will get no peace. She'll settle in a minute."

  "What's going on?" repeated Lawrence.

  "We don't know yet," said the rounder of the two police officers. "Something to do with this, I presume?" He nodded towards a series of deep gouges in the front door near the lock which Lawrence had somehow overlooked.

  "Yes," said Agnes. "I went out earlier to post a letter which reminds me; there's a telegram for you upstairs, Mr Harpham. Then I ran a few errands and noticed these marks when I returned."

  "It doesn't look like anyone got in," said the red-haired policeman, running his hand over the damaged door. "The lock is still intact."

  "This one is," said Agnes, "but come through to the kitchen and look at the back door."

  The two officers traipsed through the hallway and into the back of the house with Lawrence trailing behind.

  "Dear, oh dear. What do you think happened here, PC Ainsworth?"

  The constable knelt and examined the tiled floor, before opening the back door and peering outside.

  "The culprit broke the glass with a heavy object and gained entry through the back door. He committed the crime alone, and cut his hand while in the act, Sarge."

  "Good work," said the sergeant, approvingly.

  "How do you know?" asked Agnes.

  "Simple. There is only one set of footprints on the path and glass inside the door. Add to that the drops of blood on the floor and a dirty great hole in your window, and it's easy to deduce what happened. He tried to jemmy the front door open, which indicates the man was a stranger and didn't know to try the back entrance first."

  "Then how did he know that Mrs Ward was out?" Lawrence stepped forward and made a quick visual examination of the scene.

  "I don't suppose he did," said the sergeant. "I expect he took a chance and robbed the house. I doubt it's the first one he's tried. Anything missing?"

  "Well, that's the strange thing," said Agnes. "We own nothing of value, except for the silver tea service on the dining table and it's still there."

  "What have they taken?"

  "Nothing that I can see."

  "You're wrong about the footprints," said Lawrence.

  The sergeant drew himself to his full height and put his hands on his hips. "And what makes you think that?"

  "Because I made them last night. Look closely, and you'll see that they lead from the shed where I left my bicycle. And the specks of blood on the floor belong to Mr James Ward who cut his hand on a tin a few nights ago while feeding the cat. You shouldn't jump to conclusions."

  The sergeant glowered at Lawrence. "Mind your own business," he snapped. "Haven't you got somewhere to go while we speak to Mrs Ward? This matter doesn't concern you."

  Lawrence ignored him and returned to the hallway, where he inspected the damaged lock. He must have missed it earlier because the door had been open. But having examined it from the outside, the scratches on the paintwork were worse than the structural damage. Theatrically so. And why had there been such a visible break-in when nothing was missing? Or was it?

  Lawrence raced upstairs to his room and opened the door. The curtains were still closed, the bed untouched, but the neat stack of papers was slightly askew. Not enough for most people to notice but Lawrence was fastidious. Someone had disturbed them. Lawrence rifled through the newspapers, but there were so many that he couldn't tell if any were missing. He couldn't imagine a burglar sitting down and quietly reading so something else must have attracted his attention. The rest of the room appeared undisturbed. It was tidy, everything was in place, and nothing seemed untoward. And then he realised. The dressing table was empty, and it shouldn't have been. He had left nine pieces of paper representing the missing and murdered children in date order on the desk last night. On top, was a tenth page on which he had written all the commonalities between the crimes. It was a comprehensive list, and he had hoped to compare it with the results of the census records when they arrived.

  Lawrence sat down on the bed, contemplating why someone would take the papers. Then, with a sudden sinking feeling, he patted his jacket pockets, frantically trying to locate his notebook. To his relief, Lawrence felt the firm edges through his inside breast pocket. So long as he had the information from his notebook, he could replicate the missing pages.

  If Agnes was right and nothing else had gone from the house, there was only one inescapable conclusion. Someone had entered the property with the sole purpose of finding out what Lawrence knew. And given that he was purporting to be an undercover reporter working on a series of historical crimes, he must be getting close to the truth. Though God only knew how considering the lack of suspects. He ought to go downstairs and tell the police officers about the missing papers. But they would only impede his investigation. He decided instead, to re-read his notes and wait for the census transcription to arrive.

  CHAPTER 24

  Making Sense of the Census

  "I hope it wasn't serious," said Agnes Ward as Lawrence joined the family at the dinner table. It was six thirty, and James Ward had been back from the foundry for half an hour. Having washed and changed, he was looking forward to his evening meal, almost forgetting the lodger in their midst. He visibly started when Lawrence came through the door.

  "What do you mean?" asked Lawrence, answering Agnes while watching James.

  "The telegram. I trust it didn't bring bad news?"

  "Can't have been worse than a man arriving home to find he needs to buy two new doors," muttered James Ward. "It's a poor state of affairs."

  "What telegram?" asked Lawrence frowning.

  "I told you earlier. A telegram came for you this morning. I put it on your dressing table."

  "I didn't see it."

  "Has it fallen on the floor?"

  The intruder took it, more li
kely, thought Lawrence gloomily, spearing a forkful of beans. It was tempting to leave the meal table and check his room in case the telegram had against all the odds, fluttered under the bed, but he knew it wouldn't be there. It was in the same location as the pieces of paper by now and likely destroyed. Lawrence had no way of knowing who'd sent it or what it contained. He put thoughts of the communication from his mind and carried on eating the delicious cottage pie that Agnes had prepared.

  The meal continued with Lawrence and Agnes making polite conversation. The two eldest children quietly ate while James grumbled about the break-in. Lawrence hadn't mentioned the missing paperwork and had no intention of doing so. James Ward was not as keen on taking lodgers as his wife and Lawrence had already upset him earlier in the week. Ward still hadn't forgiven him for the press runner arriving early and waking the children. Not that Lawrence had had any control over it, but he couldn't afford any more trouble at the house. If Ward thought that Lawrence was responsible for the damage to his doors, Lawrence would be out on his ear and looking for alternative accommodation. Feeling guilty, but not enough to do anything about it, he kept his counsel.

  James Ward's mood improved as his stomach filled. By the time Agnes cleared the plates away and returned with a large bread and butter pudding and a jug of custard, he was starting to relax. He was regaling Lawrence with a tale about the foundry cat when a rapping at the door followed by a voice bellowing, 'delivery', startled him.

  James Ward was out of his chair and bounding up the hallway before Lawrence had the chance to say that it was probably for him. Ward returned to the dining room with a scowl on his face and tossed a brown envelope at Lawrence.

  "Whoever it was, left this on the doorstep," he muttered, digging into the remains of his dessert.

  Lawrence tucked the package under his chair and finished his pudding, waiting for Ward to resume his story. But in apparent disapproval of the interruption to his meal, Ward ate silently and Agnes, sensing his mood, did the same. As eager to examine the census as he was to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere, Lawrence excused himself as soon as he finished pudding.