The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  Back upstairs, he placed the package on the dressing table and took a futile look under the bed. There was no sign of the telegram there or anywhere else in the bedroom. Replacing his jacket with a robe, Lawrence plumped up the pillows and settled on the bed. He opened the envelope to find a brief note from Miss Ponsonby. 'Mission accomplished – all information successfully transcribed. Destroy after use.' Inside were pages of writing, in at least six different hands. God only knows how they had managed it. But the women must have harnessed several of the staff in the public records office to finish the transcription. Lawrence wondered how Isabel had gained the cooperation of the man in charge. Something untoward, he supposed, but speculation was pointless, and it might be better not to know. Still, it was very much to his gain.

  Lawrence split the records into two piles, one for the 1881 census and one for 1891, took out his pencil and ruled his notebook into several columns. He'd already given considerable thought on how to manage the volume of information and had a fully developed plan. West Road was central to the earlier murders and disappearances so Lawrence would focus on any occupants who were on both sets of census records. The nature of the outrages meant that he could rule out women and children, which narrowed things further. Finally, he would note down all occupations. Though it would be too risky to eliminate anyone at this stage, householders who had connections to property or building work would be at the top of his list. Lawrence hoped that by the time he had finished, the list would be manageable, and he could confidently investigate.

  The hours ticked by as he scribbled furiously, and the list grew line by line. He was still writing at midnight and turned to the last page of the 1891 census hoping the number of houses in West Road had reduced. They had not. There were still one hundred and five, and no amount of wishful thinking would change it. Gritting his teeth, Lawrence continued through the night. Finally, just before three o'clock, he finished and through bleary eyes, examined his list. It contained twelve names. Only twelve. He sighed and reclined in his bed, holding the page above him and angling it towards the bedside lamp. Lawrence had asterisked two of the names, William Donaldson and John Manisier, men with whom he was already acquainted. Both had lived in West Road for over a decade. Both had access to empty properties. Lawrence had instinctively liked Donaldson and had formed a lesser opinion of Manisier. Even so, they were at the top of his suspect list. Beneath were George Gill, a carpenter, Philip Harris and Frederick Tuff, bricklayers, and two labourers named Thomas Smith and Benjamin Snow. Below Snow and underlined, was Walter Veitch, decorator and paper hanger. The remaining men had non-building related occupations. They included Harry Edwards, a railway guard from Bury St Edmunds, who Lawrence vaguely knew but didn't realise had moved to West Ham. He gazed at his notes, wondering which of them to pursue first. But when the lines started blurring, tiredness overcame him, and he fell asleep still clutching his pencil.

  CHAPTER 25

  The List of Suspects Grows

  Thursday, March 9, 1899

  Lawrence woke at an embarrassingly late hour to a dilemma. Should he ask for breakfast or quietly slip from the house and start questioning the men on his list? Fortunately, Agnes decided for him, having heard his soft footfall on the stairs. She approached him by the front door with a cup of tea in her hand.

  "Have this," she said, thrusting it towards him. "And don't worry about the time. You can rise whenever you wish."

  Lawrence regarded her kind face. She was not yet forty, he surmised, yet deep frown lines and the beginnings of crow's feet were prematurely ageing her. Mabel squirmed in her arms, and she changed position and rocked the baby as she spoke.

  "Do you want something to eat?" she asked.

  "I don't want to trouble you, and I'm going out," said Lawrence.

  "I can make you a ham sandwich," said Agnes. "You can eat it while you walk."

  Lawrence salivated at the thought. Starting the day tired and hungry was not an ideal combination for successful detecting. "I'll hold the baby if you like," he said.

  Agnes nodded and passed the child over, and Lawrence continued to rock her, patting her back gently as he walked up and down the hallway. Her eyes fluttered and closed, and within seconds she was asleep. He smiled and watched the gentle rise of her chest as she breathed, remembering his daughter Lily at that age. But unusually the thought did not fill him with despair. Holding this child filled him with a feeling of contentment he had not experienced in years. Perhaps it was not too late to have a family of his own.

  Moments later, Agnes disturbed his reverie as she scooped her baby from his arms and handed him a brown paper bag.

  "Off you go," she smiled. Lawrence left the house intending to proceed straight to West Road, but a smart Gil Cooper dressed in a suit emerged from his front door and waylaid him. Lawrence sighed as he realised he would have to stop for a chat.

  "You're looking very smart," said Lawrence, as Gil approached him. "Not at work today?"

  "No," said Gil. "I wish I was."

  Lawrence regarded him thoughtfully. The man was unusually taciturn, and Lawrence struggled for something to say.

  "I'm on my way to a funeral," said Gilbert.

  "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Woodgrange Park cemetery," said Gil, as if Lawrence ought to be familiar with the location.

  "I see."

  "A work colleague died," Gil continued. "Sad affair. He was only young."

  "Well, don't let me hold you up," said Lawrence, "and please accept my condolences."

  Gil nodded and walked in the same direction as Lawrence who slowed to avoid any further awkwardness. He was just re-tying a perfectly well-tied shoelace when he heard a call in the distance.

  "Oi, mister." A familiar voice hailed him from further down the road. He turned to see the press office runner Stanley coming towards him at a rate of knots.

  "Are you looking for me?"

  "Of course, I am. Why would I be hollering at the top of my lungs? The governor wants to see you."

  "Governor?"

  "Mr Higgins."

  "He's not the governor."

  "He's my boss. Same difference. What does it matter? He wants to see you, and he says it's urgent."

  "I was going in the opposite direction."

  "Do as you please then. Mr Higgins paid me to deliver the message, and I've done my bit."

  Stanley turned to go.

  "Do you know what it's about?"

  "Yes. Mr Higgins tells me all his plans," he said sarcastically.

  Lawrence sighed. "Tell me exactly what Mr Higgins said."

  Stanley put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "He said, Stanley, find Mr Harpham and tell him I have some important news. Don't delay. He will want to hear this immediately."

  "Hmmm. I suppose I'd better come."

  "Then I'll tell him you're on your way."

  "I'll fetch the bicycle. I expect I'll get there before you."

  Lawrence was as good as his word and was already sitting at Higgins' desk nursing a cup of tea when Stanley ran breathlessly into the building.

  "A good boy, that one," said Higgins.

  "A touch impertinent though."

  "He does as he's told, and that's rare these days," said Higgins, scratching the side of his head beneath his spectacles and revealing the edges of a nasty scar. "We took on two boys before him, both bone idle and incapable of following instructions. Neither lasted long, and one had the brass neck to send his mother to ask for his job back. I told her a few home truths about her lazy little lad. Stanley could do with a lesson in manners, but I can't complain about his work, and he's very industrious."

  "It's not for me to comment," said Lawrence, restraining himself. He didn't like Stanley and unlike Higgins, could find no redeeming qualities in the boy. "Anyway, are you going to tell me what you want? I was on my way to West Road with a list of people I need to talk to."

  "Who?"

  "These twelve," said Lawrence removing his notebook
and pushing it towards Higgins.

  "Where have they come from?"

  "The census transcription," said Lawrence. "These men have lived in West Road for over a decade. They were there during the Carter/Seward disappearances and Millie Jeff's murder."

  "Interesting," said Higgins, stroking his chin. "Remind me to check my cards before you go, and we'll see if there's a match."

  "Your cards?"

  "Yes," said Higgins gesturing dismissively in the direction of the research cupboard. "You're a long way ahead of me, now that you know the occupants of West Road, but I've kept a box of cards containing details of names relevant to the murders. Friends, relatives and anyone with geographical connections to where the girls lived or where they found their bodies. It's quite extensive."

  "Show me."

  "Not now," said Higgins. "I have more pressing news. I've finally completed my trawl of the newspapers and found something noteworthy. There are a couple of minor articles on two barely reported crimes which happened before I became interested in the case. I'd like to know your thoughts." Higgins opened a brown folder on his desk and pushed two newspaper clippings towards Lawrence.

  Lawrence picked up the first and read.

  Daily Mail, 15th May 1882

  Another disappearance of a singular kind is also reported from West Ham. It concerns a little girl named Susan Luxton aged six, the daughter of a railway mechanic living in Victoria Terrace, West Ham Lane. On Monday afternoon last, the girl accompanied a playmate home to Station Street, Stratford. She was told to go straight home and said she would but never reached Victoria Terrace. She was afterwards located in a workhouse in the city. About half past six on a Monday evening, the child was found near Ludgate Circus by a policeman. She was alone and did not know her road home, and he took her to the police station and thence to the workhouse. The child remembers nothing of what took place from the time she left her playmate's house until the police officer gave her a cake at the station. It is believed that she was drugged in Stratford and while insensible removed to London. The child could not have possibly walked from Stratford to the city in two hours.

  "Well?" Higgins eyed Lawrence eagerly.

  "I'm not sure," said Lawrence. "Stratford station is a little out of the way."

  "It's about a mile, as the crow flies," said Higgins.

  "Oh. I didn't realise. In that case..." Lawrence re-read the article, this time more slowly. "This incident must have happened around the time of the disappearances?"

  "Less than a month after Mary Seward vanished," said Higgins.

  "But Susan was a lot younger than Mary."

  "Yes. That aspect bothers me too. But Susan's age fits in with the Walthamstow murders. Do you think her kidnapping is part of the sequence?"

  "I don't know," said Lawrence, shaking his head. "If anything, it makes me think that the murders and the vanishings were entirely separate."

  "But it suggests a method, doesn't it?"

  "Most definitely. Someone could have drugged Eliza Carter and Mary Seward and removed them to the city. But who and why? And how did a small defenceless child escape the clutches of a kidnapper?"

  "Precisely," mused Higgins. "I don't know. It's not clear, but I feel it matters. Read the next one."

  Lawrence picked up the second cutting. "February 1890," he said, "The month after Amelia Jeffs died."

  "Read on."

  Lawrence obliged and read aloud.

  The attempted outrage at Walthamstow where a girl named Kerridge was enticed into a house on February 1st was referred to Detective Inspector Wildey. He, together with Sergeant Forth, made inquiries. They do not in any way conceive this outrage to relate to that perpetrated on the girl Jeffs the previous night...

  Lawrence broke off. "The previous night?"

  "Quite," said Higgins. "It wasn't a month apart – only a day."

  "Then, there can't be a connection. Not with the distance involved. The man would have sated his urge when he violated Amelia."

  "Finish the account."

  ...the Walthamstow incident, as it is called, clearly indicates how easily a girl might be lured into an empty house by a plausible tale. In this case, a well-dressed middle-aged man inquired at a shop as to where he might get a servant girl. He told a story that he had recently taken a house in the neighbourhood and wanted to engage a servant before his furniture was brought into the house. He was referred to one girl's house, and as she was away from home, the man was introduced to Kerridge's house. He saw Kerridge, repeated the story, and she went with him to the empty house. He then got her upstairs by a pretext that he wanted some rooms cleaned. His attempts at outrage were happily frustrated for Kerridge fought him and succeeded in getting away from the house. The matter was reported to the police, and a search was made. To date, her attacker has not been located.

  "No," said Lawrence, returning the article to Higgins. "There's a slight chance that Susan Luxton is part of this, but nothing in the article suggests the Kerridge girl's involvement. And consider the timescale. It's impossible. You are making the crime fit the theory."

  "Nothing?" asked Higgins.

  "Well, obviously the crime happened in Walthamstow, but that's the only connection."

  "Is it?"

  "Apart from the attempted outrage."

  "And?"

  Lawrence sighed. "And it happened upstairs in an empty house."

  "So, three points of interest."

  "The Kerridge girl lived."

  "So did Elizabeth Skinner."

  "How old was Kerridge?"

  "I don't know. It doesn't say. Old enough to be a servant and strong enough to fight off her attacker."

  "The police stressed there wasn't a connection with Amelia Jeff's slaying."

  Higgins snorted. "After nine attacks, eleven if you count Luxton and Kerridge, the Metropolitan Police released the only men arrested within days. I hold little stock by what they think."

  "But was there enough time? Could one man commit such a crime and be in another location ready to commit the same foul act in less than twenty-four hours?"

  "How did you get to Walthamstow?"

  "By bicycle."

  "How long did it take?"

  "About twenty minutes."

  "There's your answer. Of course, one man could do it. Whether he did, is an entirely different matter. But I mean to find out."

  "Why?" asked Lawrence.

  "I don't follow?"

  "I don't either. Your interest in these girls seems excessive. The cuttings on the walls of that room, for instance." Lawrence nodded towards the research cupboard. "That must have taken hours of your time, not to mention wading through hundreds of newspapers. It's more like an obsession."

  Higgins coloured. "I want to see justice done," he growled.

  "Obviously, but you haven't said why."

  "Because I'm an excellent reporter and a decent human being," said Higgins. "There's an unresolved story here, and somewhere in the immediate locality, a wicked man is free to kill without restraint. The police are worse than useless, and somebody has to bring him to account."

  "Accepted and understood," said Lawrence. "Can I take the cuttings?" he asked, nodding to the folder.

  "No. I haven't made copies, but I've written the salient points here. Higgins passed a sheet of plain paper containing a brief list of names and dates to Lawrence.

  "I'll take it away and think about it," said Lawrence. "It's all I can do."

  "But first, come with me, and we'll check through my cards," said Higgins. "You might as well have all the facts to hand."

  #

  "Show me your list again," said Higgins sitting at the desk in the research room. He reached for a small six-drawer oak cabinet by his side and opened the first drawer which he'd filled with filing cards.

  Lawrence handed over the notebook and Higgins worked his way down the list, checking each name against the alphabetic records.

  "Not much there," he said when he had finished. "But
you can rule out Benjamin Snow. He died in 1896, and this one," he continued pointing to Thomas Smith," died a few years after."

  "It helps a little," said Lawrence.

  "But does it?" Higgins reclined on the wooden chair and gazed at the wall with his head cocked to one side.

  "I think so," said Lawrence uncertainly. "We're down to ten men."

  "Well, I don't agree," said Higgins. "Excuse my bluntness, but I think you're barking up the wrong tree."

  "You were the one that suggested the importance of West Road," said Lawrence. "Please don't tell me that all the work on the census has gone to waste. God only knows what strings Isabel pulled to make it happen."

  "No. It was a necessary and valuable acquisition of data," said Higgins. "It's your interpretation of it, that I'm not so sure about."

  Lawrence shook his head, angrily. "Why?"

  "Think about it," said Higgins. "Look at the wall chart and pay careful attention to where the girls lived."

  Sighing, Lawrence advanced towards the first of the three covered walls. "Where should I look?" he asked sullenly.

  Higgins nodded towards the longest wall where he'd indicated the residence of each girl using a pin and a piece of coloured string. Lawrence noticed that there were four new strings. Two showed the location of their houses and another two pointed to the area of Susan Luxton's abduction and the Kerridge girl's attack.

  Lawrence stared at the wall, wondering what Higgins wanted him to deduce from the mess of strings. Except for the Luxton and Kerridge locations, the information wasn't new. Beginning with the first disappearance in 1881, Lawrence followed the orange lines. He muttered under his breath as he thought out loud, counting off the girls on his fingers. By the time he reached Annie West's death in Walthamstow in 1892, Lawrence had understood. With or without the Luxton and Kerridge cases, the result was the same. The killings had started in West Ham but had moved towards Walthamstow. Yet the later murders happened between the two locations.