The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

"I'll come after work. About six-ish. It will only take five minutes."

  "Good. Thank you. I need to see a man about a garden wall."

  "You won't have to look far if you want a brickie," said Veitch. "The road's full of them."

  "I know. My next call is to Mr Harris."

  "Phil Harris?"

  "Yes. Do you know him?"

  "We all know each other," said Veitch impatiently, as if explaining the blindingly obvious. "Those of us that have lived here longer than five minutes, that is. You won't get him, though. He's at the Friendly Club tonight."

  "Friendly Club?"

  "Society," said Veitch. "Meets every third Tuesday. At least it used to." He glowered at Lawrence, who seized the initiative.

  "But not now?"

  "I wouldn't know." Veitch spoke slowly and with feeling, mauling the pencil as if he was trying his best not to snap it.

  "You're not a member?"

  "Not anymore. Manisier put paid to that years ago, insufferable little man."

  "Ah. Were you blackballed?" It was an audacious question, but Lawrence wouldn't see Veitch again with any luck, and it was worth the risk.

  "You could say that," growled Veitch. "His interfering wife said I'd been thieving from the club and by the time they worked out that it wasn't me, the damage had been done."

  "To your reputation? That's unfair. Surely they should have reinstated you."

  "They would have if I hadn't knocked out the chairman," said Veitch.

  Lawrence almost laughed. Walter Veitch was stick thin and looked in need of a good meal. The thought of him being on the business end of good punch was as unlikely as it was absurd. "Did you really," he asked, inserting a note of admiration.

  "Too right," said Veitch. "And Manisier nearly got the same. I would have done it if they hadn't dragged me off."

  "Quite understandable. And a very public argument, by the sound of it."

  Veitch rose and walked towards the door. "It's no secret that I dislike Manisier," he said. "But I'm done talking shop. The night is running away."

  "Thank you," said Lawrence. "I'll see you Tuesday week."

  #

  Having learned that Philip Harris was at the Friendly Club, Lawrence had no further business in West Road and strolled back. He took a circuitous route, subconsciously delaying his return to Buxton Road having no excuse to avoid finishing the second list once he arrived. James Ward had offered him use of the back door if he chose, but Lawrence generally refrained. It seemed only polite to acknowledge his hosts and let them know when he was in the house. Tonight was different. He needed to devote the rest of the evening to administrative tasks and must avoid human interaction at all costs. Any excuse, any reason for prevarication, and he would need to eat his frog tomorrow. He must complete the job now, and he had better get on with it. But as Lawrence approached his room, a piece of paper pinned to the front of his bedroom door drew his eye. He opened it to find a scribbled note from Agnes.

  Dear Mr Harpham

  Your friend came back again and was most unhappy to find you out. He will return at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Please make sure you stay here as he says he will wait until he sees you, no matter how long it takes. He has asked me to tell you that it's urgent. If you cannot help him, he will contact the police.

  Mrs A Ward

  Lawrence scratched his head, baffled at the tone of the note. For Michael to turn up out of the blue implied something important, and he only now began to appreciate the urgency. After all, Michael had surprised him when on church business in London on previous occasions, and those had been social matters. But this latest development was worrying. Lawrence couldn't think of any situation where contacting the police was the only alternative to his help. If the problem was desperate, the authorities should have been Michael's first port of call.

  Lawrence thrust the note into his pocket and flung his coat on the bed. Time was not his friend, and it was now or never. He grabbed the census records and spread them over the dressing table, having learned from bitter experience, not to write sprawled across the bed, or that is where he would wake up with the task unfinished. His room was chilly, but he opened the window anyway, his only nod to comfort removing his shoes and releasing the collar of his shirt.

  An hour later, he'd finished the list. In the end, it was surprisingly easy as he'd already extracted many relevant records. And as Lawrence examined the piece of paper in his hand, he realised that he hadn't needed a list after all. The answer was staring him in the face as it had done since he'd arrived. Lawrence didn't know how or why, but he was damn sure he knew who. But with Michael coming tomorrow and an urgent situation brewing, he had to act quickly. He must share his findings tonight.

  CHAPTER 27

  Quandary

  Lawrence stood in the garden staring at the remains of his bicycle in disbelief. "What in God's name...?" he exclaimed, dragging the broken cycle to the rear door and closer to the light. He leaned over and ran a hand over the bowed wheel before spotting the saddle dangling uselessly from the frame. To add insult to injury, one pedal hung at an unnatural angle while the other was missing altogether. Not only was the cycle damaged beyond repair, but the destruction was quite deliberate. "Damn it," said Lawrence, hurling the bike over in a fit of temper. It clattered against the yard and knocked into a metal urn which spun into the rear door. Lawrence grimaced at the ungodly sound, hoping that James Ward was somewhere else. But a moment later, the door opened to reveal the tall and angry form of his host.

  "What is going on?" yelled Ward.

  "Someone has broken my cycle," said Lawrence.

  "So, you thought you'd retaliate by destroying my already damaged back door, did you?"

  "It was an accident. I dropped the cycle in shock." Lawrence cringed as he told the outright lie, but now was no time for honesty.

  "Right. Well, you'd better tidy it up then. Where are you going at this time of night? It's nearly ten o'clock. I can't have you wandering around the house in the small hours waking the children up."

  "I won't," said Lawrence. "I must go out. Something has happened, and it won't wait until morning."

  "I don't like the idea of you coming in late. It's getting too noisy around here."

  Lawrence bit his lip to stop himself saying that most of the shouting was coming from James. If he hadn't already woken his children with all the bellowing, they'd sleep through anything. But he didn't say it. James Ward was angry enough, and Lawrence needed a bed for at least one more night.

  "I won't be long, and I promise you won't hear me. If there were any other way, I'd wait until morning. But from the tone of your wife's note, I fear I'll be leaving sooner than I thought."

  "Yes. I got that impression too. Your friend was very keen to see you. Alright. I'll leave the key under the mat. But please do not let me down."

  "Right you are." Lawrence straightened the urn and propped the cycle carcass against the shed. Then, closing the back gate as quietly as possible, he set off into the night.

  #

  Lawrence was in two minds which direction to take. One way led to inevitable confrontation and the other to a place he could leave a message. But at this late hour, nobody would be there to read it, and they wouldn't arrive for work until he had departed. The delay would be risky and could cost lives. Lawrence mulled it over as he walked along but had decided by the time he reached the end of Buxton Road. Alone and with hardly any proof, he plumped for the latter choice. It wasn't ideal, but it was the lesser of two poor options.

  He had only ventured half a mile when the unexpected sound of lightly running feet disturbed his concentration. He whipped his head around, but the streets were dark and empty, the footsteps disappearing into the distance. Then silence. A few more yards, and he crossed paths with a couple of men, weaving their way home after a night of revelry, their voices booming, brash and welcome. A cat mewed, then silence. A gust of wind, a rustle of leaves and the soft patter of rain petered into another spell o
f quiet. Lawrence raised his collar and wrapped his scarf over his mouth. The drizzle was light, but already liberally covering his raincoat as the temperature plummeted. He shivered and kicked a stone down the path – anything to create the illusion of noise, of crowds. Lawrence imagined the daily swarm of people. Why was it so quiet? Ten o'clock wasn't late. He usually enjoyed walking alone, but not tonight. Maybe it was the urgency of his mission or the responsibility of conveying what he instinctively knew with little in the way of facts. Perhaps it was something else, a certainty that his mission would not go according to plan. And why should it? He hardly had a plan, let alone time to construct a comprehensive course of action.

  And then he heard it – a shuffle, an echo. It could be close or not. In the dark, he couldn't tell. He spun around, walking backwards as he peered through the gloom into the dimly lit road beyond – nothing. Another rustle, a sudden shriek and he stopped still, hardly daring to move. He loitered, breathlessly watching, waiting. Then a shape darted across the road; rusty fur captured momentarily in a chink of light from a bay window as a fox slunk down an alleyway and out of sight.

  Lawrence steadied himself on a nearby railing, clutching the cold iron as he caught his breath, grateful for the metallic chill on his palm. It represented something real and not lurking in an irrational part of his subconscious. He faltered, tempted to return to Buxton Road, face James Ward's wrath and tell him what he knew. But would Ward pass it on? And would he pass it to the right person? If Lawrence made a poor choice, the suffering could be endless. No. He needed to get a grip of himself and get on with it.

  Hands in pockets, Lawrence strode against the increasing wind, choosing not the most direct route, but any road with a light source. Soon he found his way to the main thoroughfare, one thankfully with working gas lamps and he remained on it for another half a mile. But as Lawrence approached the end of the street, the lamps became less frequent, until he reached a spot where his only choice was to turn into another dark and unlit road. He considered lighting the small candle stub he habitually carried but disregarded the idea. It was a waste, and he might need it later. Besides, some windows were bare, but in other houses, the owners were less careful. An open curtain here and there provided a little light – not much but enough for comfort.

  Eventually, even that vanished. And as Lawrence turned into a road near to his final destination, he realised he hadn't been there before. He'd got himself lost, and although he knew the direction he was going, he didn't know which route to take to get there. And the rows of terraced houses had petered out into scrubland. As his eyes adjusted to the darker surroundings, he realised that if he continued, he would have to walk alone across an empty field. A left turn would take him back the way he'd come, but if he turned right, he would come close to where he needed to be. But even with the meagre light from the pale moon, Lawrence soon realised that if he took that route, he would pass a row of newly built houses ahead. Swallowing his fear, he turned right anyway and marched towards the houses, whistling confidently. At least he hoped he sounded confident. An outward show of bravado would see his demons off and stop him from being afraid. Yes, he was alone, and it was unnerving, and that was all. But as Lawrence reached the far side of the row of houses, sighing with relief, he heard footsteps coming from behind. Then a plank of wood in the small of his back knocked him off his feet, and he fell, face first, into a puddle.

  Seconds later, with a mouthful of dirty water, a chipped tooth and a spinning head, Lawrence reached out and tried to look up. A wave of nausea engulfed him, and he put his head down for a few moments ready for another try. This time he took his body weight on the palm of both hands and stared anxiously ahead. A faint light sparkled in the puddle below. Just as the reflection caught his eye, a shadow loomed behind him and whipped a rope around his neck. Lawrence clutched at his throat, clawing the harsh fibres as he fought for breath. His lungs screamed with pain as the rope tightened, and moments later, the light faded.

  CHAPTER 28

  Suffer the Innocent

  Lawrence hunched over his office desk, contemplating a solution to Loveday's proposal. She wanted them to live in London, and he would rather sweep the streets than agree. His hand rested near a bottle of cheap whisky standing near to a scratched glass with a chip on the rim. Lawrence needed a drink, and soon. He was hungry and tired, but a splash of the amber liquid would see him right. He reached out a hand, but it didn't connect with the bottle. Damn it. He was thirsty, and he couldn't even pour himself a drink. Then the door opened, and the bell chimed. He looked up, and Violet was standing there, smiling at him, telling him not to worry. Everything would work out. 'Violet,' he mouthed, but he couldn't form the words. Her face fell, and he tried again. 'Violet, I'm sorry. Forgive me,' but the sound never came.

  'Time to wake up, Mr Harpham,' she said. But her tone was oddly formal, and her voice sounded gruff and masculine. Then Lawrence understood. He had been dreaming, and the encounter with Violet was only a distant memory. He groaned and opened his eyes to find himself in the parlour of an unglazed empty property. The dimly lit room was as cold as the grave. His eyes focused on a lantern on top of an old packing crate. Beside it were two forms, one standing and the other recumbent on the floor, head bound, and hands tied. Lawrence stared transfixed at the standing man. 'What in God's name are you doing here?"

  "Sit down," said Samuel Higgins as he watched Lawrence vainly attempt to struggle to his feet.

  "What's happened to me? Why are my legs bound? And my throat is so tight I can hardly breathe."

  "That's because you were choked into unconsciousness," said Higgins, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice." By rights, you ought to be dead."

  Lawrence rubbed his fingers over the uneven welts on his throat as he assessed his position.

  "How did you find me?"

  "Young Stanley and I had an arrangement. He's been following your every move since you left the print works. He's earned himself a tidy sum of money for his trouble."

  "But why?"

  "Because you're an intelligent chap and it was only a matter of time until you did what the police could not."

  "We were working together. There was no need."

  "Oh, but there was every need."

  "I don't understand."

  "And there's no reason why you should. Let me enlighten you. I'll tell you a story."

  Lawrence glanced at the bound man who was now squirming on the floor. His voice sounded muffled, and Lawrence guessed he'd been gagged. Not that he could easily tell what was beneath the sack that covered the man's head. Anything could have happened while he was unconscious. The man's groans turned to whimpers as Higgins stood and kicked him in the stomach.

  "Stop it," commanded Lawrence, but Samuel Higgins responded by stamping on the man's hand. A muffled scream, from inside the hood, masked the sound of knuckles crunching beneath Higgins' boots.

  "You'll kill him."

  "Correct. But not yet. Now, are you comfortable?"

  "Hardly. It can't have escaped your notice that someone has tied my legs together."

  "Sorry about that. I can't have you interfering. It's freezing on the floor. Get up, there's a good chap and hop onto that other crate. You'll catch your death of cold lying on the floor."

  Lawrence eyed Higgins with suspicion as he pushed himself to a standing position and shuffled across the room."

  "I know it's undignified, but you'll thank me later. We'll be here for a while."

  "Not if I have anything to do with it," snapped Lawrence. "I trusted you. Just get on with this story if you must."

  "Very well." Higgins removed the lantern and perched on the crate opposite Lawrence.

  #

  "Once upon a time..." Higgins began to speak.

  Lawrence groaned. "Don't do that. It's facetious. You've knocked me out, tied me up and the least you owe me is a serious explanation."

  "My dear chap," said Higgins. "You are under a gross misapprehension. Yes, I bound your le
gs, but I did not harm you. Nor would I, as you will appreciate if you hear me out."

  "Go on then," croaked Lawrence, flexing his bound feet. "It's cold, and I'm in pain." He winced as he ran his hands across his throat."

  Lawrence blinked as Higgins raised the lantern and held it towards him.

  "I'm not surprised," he said. "You've got a nasty rope burn. You'll need some salve at the very least, if not medical attention. Here, take this." Higgins reached into his coat pocket and thrust a flask towards Lawrence.

  "What is it?" asked Lawrence, eying the battered metal.

  "Brandy," said Higgins. "Not the finest, but it will help."

  "How do I know it's not poison?"

  Higgins shook his head sadly. "I truly have lost your trust. I mean you no harm, Lawrence."

  "Then untie me."

  "No. But I promise I won't harm you."

  Higgins unscrewed the container and left it on the ground near Lawrence.

  "Go on," he said, nodding towards the brandy.

  Lawrence bit his lip, grabbed the flask and gulped greedily, sighing as the liquid trickled down his damaged throat.

  "Better?"

  "A little."

  "Then I'll begin again. I live alone," said Higgins, "but that was not always the case. I had a wife once and was a happily married man with a daughter of my own. We lived in Stratford Road. Do you know it?"

  "Yes," said Lawrence. "It's at the top of West Road. Odd that you didn't mention it before. That puts you right in the heart of the vanishings."

  "Yes, it does, and I was as concerned about the disappearances of Eliza Carter and Mary Ann Seward as anyone else. Everyone was talking about it – everybody feared for their children. It was different for me. My daughter, Rachel, was a little older and had left school. She's dead now; God rest her soul – died in childbirth many years ago. It would have been her first had the child lived, but there were complications. Anyway, all you need to know is that Rachel was my only child."