The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  "What does Carnaby look like?" asked Higgins, flexing the knife blade with his fingers.

  "Watch that," said Lawrence. "It's wobbling, and I don't want a blade in my face."

  Higgins tugged the knife from the packing crate and rested it on his lap. "Carnaby. What does he look like?"

  "I can't remember," muttered Cooper.

  "Try. Or you might lose another little piggy," said Higgins, testing the knife blade. "Still nice and sharp," he continued as a welt of blood oozed from his index finger. He sucked the blood off slowly and purposefully. "Answer me."

  "About my age, greying hair, thinnish. Seemed quite well-to-do."

  "Why?"

  "He wore a smart suit and polished boots."

  "Interesting," said Lawrence. "I met a man who looked exactly like that a few days ago."

  "Well, bully for you," said Cooper.

  "I told you to mind your manners," said Higgins.

  "You said nothing about minding them with him," said Cooper, teeth exposed as he spat the words out.

  "I seem to have upset you," said Lawrence calmly. "Could it be that you recognise my description?"

  "No, I don't."

  "I was referring to the day you turned up at my lodgings suited and booted for your friend's funeral."

  "Bertha Russ' funeral," said Cooper, "except I got the wrong day."

  "Oh my. You are an extremely sick man," said Higgins. "And what excuse can you possibly have for seeing young Bertha interred?"

  "I wanted to catch up with Carnaby."

  "Why?"

  "To stop him from killing. If he ends the game, I can too. Do you think I still enjoy killing those children? It was never the same after Amelia. But while Carnaby plays, I must. There is no choice."

  Higgins fished into his pocket and pulled out a silver cigar case, then buffed it on the bottom of his jacket. "Look," he said, holding it to Cooper's face. "What do you see?"

  "My reflection," said Cooper uncertainly as if awaiting a trick.

  "Quite. Your reflection and Carnaby's too," said Higgins.

  "No. It's not true – I couldn't. I wouldn't. I only did it because he did."

  "You attacked Amelia Jeffs before Carnaby attacked the Kerridge girl, assuming he did. And I'm starting to doubt that."

  "How did you feel in the days after Amelia died?" asked Lawrence.

  Cooper put his head in his hands. "Powerful," he said finally. "But wrong. It felt wrong. Her friends and family were all around me, talking about the murder every day. Everywhere I went, everyone I saw. There was no getting away from it. The guilt, I mean. If only they had let it lie. If only I could remember the good bits."

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Higgins.

  Lawrence nodded.

  "You read an article about the Kerridge girl a few days after Millie's murder, didn't you?" asked Higgins.

  Cooper nodded.

  "Did it make you feel better?"

  "Less like a monster," said Cooper. "Which I wasn't. Amelia Jeffs was an accident."

  "She was an accident and the others were part of the game," said Higgins.

  "Well, yes," said Cooper. "Exactly that. It wasn't cold-blooded murder. None of this would have happened but for Carnaby."

  "But take away the elusive Mr Carnaby and what remains? Seven cold and calculated killings by one man."

  "No," said Gilbert Cooper.

  Higgins sprang from the crate and advanced towards Cooper, looming in front of him with a face contorted in rage. "There was no Mr Carnaby," he snarled.

  Lawrence stared at Higgins, watching his face redden as his white fingers clasped the knife handle.

  "You are Carnaby. Carnaby is you. You read about the attempted outrage of Kerridge, and your sick mind created Carnaby, so you didn't have to confront the evil that lives inside you. The existence of Carnaby meant that you could carry on killing at will without blame or responsibility. You killed Bertha Russ, didn't you?"

  "No," said Cooper, recoiling from his accuser.

  "Yes, you did. Admit it, you pathetic individual. You lured her away and strangled her, just like Millie Jeffs. And you stuffed her poor little body into a cupboard."

  "No. It was Carnaby."

  "And you committed a carnal act on her body."

  "No. Not her. She was too young. I didn't do it to her."

  "Then what did you do?"

  "I wanted it to be like it was with Amelia. I saw the child leaving the house all alone, and I followed her. She stopped for a moment, and I seized the opportunity and took her under my arm, but she bit me and got away. I chased her, threw her to the ground, and covered her head with my jacket. I only wanted to stop her from screaming, but she carried on relentlessly, first squealing and then moaning, so I held it harder until she stopped moving. And when I took the jacket away, I realised that I had held it there too long. She'd stopped breathing, and that was that. She died close to where I'd been working. Disposal of her body required a bit more thought than usual, so I hid her for a day or two. Then I took her to another empty house and left her in the cupboard. But I did nothing to her body, I swear."

  "Finally," said Higgins, licking his lips and attempting to keep his temper. "Now nod your head, where appropriate. Did you kill Elizabeth Skinner?"

  Cooper stared mutely.

  "Once again, did you kill Elizabeth Skinner?"

  "Yes." The word was barely audible.

  "Louder."

  "Yes," hissed Cooper

  "William Barratt?"

  "It was an accident."

  "Did you kill him?"

  "Yes."

  "And Bertha Russ."

  "I already told you."

  "Say it again."

  "Yes."

  "So, you killed seven children and withheld vital information from the police about the three abducted girls?"

  Cooper opened his mouth.

  "And before you answer, I will not be responsible for my actions if you dare repeat that it wasn't your fault."

  "I killed them. Yes, I killed them. There is something wrong in my head."

  "Evidently," said Higgins. "You are incurably mad. Now, what would we do with you if you were a rabid dog?"

  "I'm not," said Cooper. "Take me to the police if you must. I will confess."

  "You might," said Higgins. "But despite our hard work, there isn't much in the way of proof; not irrefutable proof that will stick. And they'll probably put you in an asylum which, though far from comfortable, is more than you deserve. No, if you were a mad dog, they'd destroy you. And I consider it my civic duty to oblige."

  "You can't," said Lawrence.

  "I can and must," said Higgins. "I have devoted my life to finding the cause of my misery and tonight two lives will end."

  "Don't, Higgins. He's not worth it. For God's sake untie me, man."

  "No, Harpham. It's for your own good. Have you any further questions to ask of this animal before I dispatch him?"

  "I can't think, damn you, Higgins. You can't make this sacrifice."

  "It's the only way," said Higgins. "And I'm glad of it."

  "You're barking mad," snarled Cooper. "Let me out of here." His voice rose, and he began screaming, pleading for his life.

  Higgins walked behind him and held a knife to his throat. Cooper shut up.

  "Stay here," Higgins said to Lawrence, as he dragged Cooper backwards into the hallway.

  "No." Lawrence stood and tried to hop from the packing crate, but the bindings around his legs were so tight that he fell to his knees. He scrabbled at the rope trying to release the knots, but Higgins had taken no chances, and Lawrence could not dislodge his bonds.

  "Stop," shouted Lawrence, dragging himself to the doorway. But the hallway was empty, and the house silent. Lawrence waited for a moment, wondering whether Higgins had the nerve to go through with it. Moments later, he heard the soft tread of boots coming towards him.

  "Oh God," said Lawrence, as Higgins strode into view, blood dripping fr
om the knife. "Is he...?"

  Higgins nodded. "It was swift," he said. "He didn't suffer. Pity. But I'm not out for revenge. I only wanted to put right a wrong. Seven wrongs, actually."

  "It didn't have to be this way," said Lawrence.

  "Come now. You know better than that. Can you give your full assurance that justice will prevail?"

  Lawrence didn't speak.

  "Exactly. Too much risk. I'm leaving for my lodgings, now where I have stored a large quantity of laudanum. If you would be so kind as to give me an hour or two to get home and compose a note to my aunt, I will dispatch myself to my maker by the end of the day. This," he continued, passing an envelope to Lawrence, "is for young Stanley who may well find himself unemployed because of my actions. It will tide him over until he finds a new position. I trust that you will make sure it reaches him. It only remains for me to leave this." Higgins took the knife and placed it by the front door. "You can cut yourself free while I make my way home. It's been a pleasure," said Higgins, offering his hand.

  "Don't do this," said Lawrence.

  "Envelope to Stanley. Don't forget," said Higgins, touching his forelock as he left the room.

  CHAPTER 31

  Lost and Found

  It took a full ten minutes before Lawrence managed to cut through the thick rope binding his legs together and a further ten to marshal his thoughts. The house was freezing, and he was chilled to the marrow, legs cramped and aching from where Higgins had tied him. But his physical pain was the least of his problems. The bloody knife was evidence that harm had come to Gilbert Cooper, but to what extent? Should he check on the man to see if he was still alive, or would that make matters worse? If Cooper lived, then morally, he should try to save him. The best option would be to walk away and pretend the events of the last two hours had never happened. A more sensible and less curious man than Lawrence might have done just that. But he couldn't leave without knowing, without being sure. God forbid that Cooper had only suffered a minor injury. He might leave the house, seek medical help and start killing all over again.

  Lawrence heaved himself to a standing position and flexed his legs, pacing backwards and forwards to test his strength. And when he was sure that his legs would carry him to the back of the house, he cautiously proceeded in that direction.

  The rear door was ajar, and Lawrence carefully pushed it open before lighting a gas lamp which, to his relief, was in working order. The gloomy glow illuminated a prone figure lying face down on the floor. Lawrence flipped the body over with the toe of his boot, exposing a deep gash in Cooper's neck, almost severing his head from his body. Blood pooled around Cooper's head, and his clothes were crimson. Lawrence turned away, trying to ignore the metallic smell of fresh blood as his stomach churned. He returned to the kitchen and glanced at his shoes, noticing the tread of bloody footprints behind him. Sighing, Lawrence felt for his handkerchief before remembering that he had already given it away. Lawrence needed to leave and soon, but not smeared with evidence of a crime. God forbid someone saw him and assumed he was the culprit. Lawrence patted his coat pockets but found nothing of use. All he had was the clothes he stood up in, his wallet and his emergency tin. He opened it in desperation, gazing at a box of matches and his folded beard and moustache set. There was only one option. Higgins wasn't the only one who would be making sacrifices tonight. Seizing the beard and feeling sadder than was reasonable at the destruction of an inanimate object, Lawrence began. He wiped his footprints from the kitchen floor and cleaned both shoes removing all evidence of blood. Then he slunk from the property, picking his way through the alleys and passageways, avoiding all major roads and lit areas.

  Lawrence was in turmoil as he staggered towards West Ham. He desperately wanted to track Higgins down and stop him before it was too late. But he didn't know where Higgins lived and was sure he wouldn't thank him for any intervention. Samuel Higgins had known suffering that no man should ever bear. He had lost his child, his wife, his reputation and half his face to a man without conscience or feeling. Higgins' actions, though criminal, were wholly understandable. But as an investigator and a man paid to bring wrongdoers to justice, Lawrence ought to make sure he held Cooper's killer to account. At the very least, he should report Cooper's death and unmask him as a murderer. But it only took a few moments for Lawrence to decided not to do either and let justice take its natural course. And given the poor showing of the West Ham police force to date, Lawrence doubted they would get any further than finding and identifying the body. He felt a flicker of guilt when he realised that the West Ham vanishings would forever remain officially unsolved. But that situation was no different now than it had been since Eliza Carter first disappeared.

  Though it was late and there were few people around, Lawrence took the long route to Buxton Road taking extreme care to remain out of view. He arrived home well past the time agreed with James Ward. Fortunately, the key was still under the mat, and Lawrence removed it, turning it gently and padding up the stairs silently to avoid waking the household. Breathing a sigh of relief, he collapsed on the bed and fell asleep fully clothed.

  #

  Friday, March 10, 1899

  Lawrence slumbered through the night, not hearing James Ward's light tread on the stairs as he left for work. He did not rouse when daylight flooded through his open curtains or hear the cries of baby Mabel as she battled teething pain. Lawrence didn't wake until a quarter to nine and only then when his shoe fell off and thudded onto the floorboards. He pushed himself onto an elbow, rubbed his eyes and gazed around the room, momentarily wondering where he was. Then his eyes wandered to his uncharacteristically dirty nails. He picked at the substance beneath and grimaced at the sight of congealed blood as the memories of the previous night flooded back. Groaning, Lawrence undressed and poured a jug of water into the bowl. He soaped his hands and arms, paying particular attention to his nails then reached for his tin and removed the bloodied beard. Lawrence's spirits rallied as he examined the hairy, matted mess, noting that the spring and wire attachment remained intact. He decided to try and save it, scrubbing gently at the beard and teasing hairs from the coagulated blood. Then he tossed the scarlet water from the bedroom window. Lawrence left the false beard to dry on the edge of the bowl hoping that Agnes would not enter the room and re-fill the jug, only to mistake it for some half-dead creature. Satisfied with the fruits of his labours, Lawrence was contemplating a shave when he heard a furious hammering at the door. Someone opened it immediately, presumably Agnes. There was a brisk exchange of words and a firm and determined tread on the staircase. Then the door to Lawrence's bedroom swung open followed immediately by Michael.

  "There you are," he said. "Why didn't you reply to my telegram?"

  "Good to see you too," said Lawrence, offering his hand while feeling slightly uncomfortable at his shirtless torso.

  Michael returned the shake for the briefest moment.

  "Anyway, what, telegram?" asked Lawrence.

  "I wrote to you days ago."

  "That's right. Agnes said she had seen a telegram, but someone ransacked the house and it vanished. I didn't get to read it."

  "Then you don't know?"

  "Don't know what?"

  "It's Violet. She's missing."

  Lawrence stared incredulously. "She's been missing for the last three years," he said. "We've spoken about it often and at length. Have you come all this way to remind me?"

  Michael sat on the bed as Lawrence opened the wardrobe and took out a clean shirt.

  "Is that blood on your trousers?" he asked.

  Lawrence inspected his thigh. "God. I thought I'd got it all. Turn away there's a good chap." He disrobed and bundled the trousers into his case, before donning a fresh pair.

  "Are you decent?" asked Michael, staring into the corner of the room. "There's an urgent matter we need to discuss."

  "Yes. You can turn around. Shall I ask Agnes for some tea?"

  "No, you will not," said Michael brusquely. Violet i
s missing, and we must find her."

  "I've spent years looking for her," snapped Lawrence. "Her continued absence is not for want of trying."

  "I wish you had read the telegram," said Michael. "It would have made this so much easier. I found Violet. We've been corresponding."

  Lawrence stared open-mouthed. He shook his head and tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. "You can't – you would have told me."

  "I'm sorry," said Michael. "I did, but she made me promise not to tell anyone and especially not you."

  "Where is she?"

  "That's the problem. I don't know. Violet was in Swaffham."

  "But that's hardly any distance away. Why couldn't I find her?"

  "Because she didn't want you to. Look, I'll tell you another time. The point is that she's gone missing again."

  "How do you know?"

  "She had some trouble – bad things happened to her, and then she stopped writing after regularly corresponding at least several times a week. I left it for a while, but then I thought about the dead crows and her terror in the last letter. I knew it wasn't safe to leave things any longer, so I jumped on the train and went to her house. But she wasn't there and didn't seem to have been for a while. That's why I wrote to you from the hotel. The next day I located her place of work. I spoke to a waitress, but she was new and had never met Violet. She said that her employer hadn't seen Violet for several days and was worried about her. Naturally, I asked to speak to the woman, but she was buying supplies in Norwich. So, I boarded the first train to West Ham and came to look for you."

  "Crows? Dead crows like the ones we found in Fressingfield?"

  Michael nodded.

  "You should have contacted me as soon as you read about them."

  "I know. I know. But I didn't want to break Violet's trust. I'm a man of God. If I give my word, I must keep it."

  "I'm not blaming you," said Lawrence, advancing to the wardrobe and removing his remaining clothes. "Give me a hand packing," he said. "We must leave at once."

  CHAPTER 32

  A Puzzle

  The journey to Swaffham seemed endless. The two men spoke in fits and starts, their conversation punctuated by flurries of explanations, then periods of brooding silence. Exhaustion overwhelmed Lawrence. Though tired to the bone, his physical pain fell short of the anguish caused by Michael finding Violet and not telling him. Lawrence felt betrayed and abandoned. He had known Michael all his life, whereas Violet had only met Michael nine years ago in Fressingfield. Michael was a family friend, known to Lawrence's father and uncles. He doubted Michael had ever met any of Violet's relatives. Yet when the time had come for Michael to choose, he had kept faith with Violet, protecting her secret from the very person who had spent hours pondering over her whereabouts and days trying to track her down. It was all very well hiding behind the 'man of the cloth' persona, but why should that trump the loyalty of friendship?