The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  "I don't understand," Lawrence had said plaintively, staring from the carriage window, but not seeing the passing landscape.

  "I cannot betray a confidence," Michael had countered, trying unsuccessfully to defend himself for the third time. It cut no ice with Lawrence.

  "How long would you have left me to wonder?" he asked as they pulled into the station.

  "I've only known her location for a few months," said Michael, "and I haven't seen you at all during that time. It's not as if I have lied or misled you. It hasn't come up for discussion."

  "No. And I don't suppose it would have, but for Violet's second disappearance," Lawrence had muttered.

  "Which you should concentrate your efforts upon," snapped Michael. "You're too self-indulgent. Violet is in trouble and needs our help."

  Lawrence sighed. Michael was right, and he knew it. But other than a vague explanation bordering on the ludicrous about a dead dog and the bloodstain on his trousers, Michael was oblivious to Lawrence's recent ordeal and the effects it was having on his mood. And that was the way it must stay. Lawrence was well equipped to file the affair away in the deepest darkest recesses of his mind. But Michael was the owner of a busy and insistent conscience. One word and he would feel the need to report the killing, which would risk revealing Lawrence's part in it. Lawrence was confident that the Wards hadn't heard him come in. He hoped that by the time they found Cooper's body, there would be enough uncertainty over the time of the killing, not to suspect their former lodger. So, he didn't challenge Michael when he tersely reprieved him for a self-serving attitude and tried to rise above it. After all, it was satisfying to keep a secret from Michael, given the current circumstances.

  The train chugged into Swaffham station at four twenty-eight, two minutes later than scheduled. Lawrence raised a rare smile at the sight of the knapped flint station building with its brick quoins and stone window surrounds. The good old Norfolk architecture cheered his soul, and he felt relieved to be away from the rows of red brick terraced houses in West Ham. Suitcase in one hand, and clutching his coat, Lawrence negotiated his way down the platform and out of the building.

  "Hold on," said Michael, trying to keep up with Lawrence's rangy pace. Lawrence ignored him and strode towards a waiting carriage, agreeing on a price with the driver before anyone else could.

  "Where are we going?" he asked as Michael caught up with him.

  "Violet's house is on the Norwich Road," said Michael. "Though it's hardly worth bothering with transport. It's only a short walk."

  Lawrence boarded the carriage in no mood for further discussion on the matter. He had no intention of walking any further with his suitcase in tow. A bare five minutes later they arrived outside a tidy flint cottage set diagonally opposite the extensive churchyard. Underneath the two ground-floor windows were two wooden boxes in which green shoots were starting to flourish.

  "Very Violet," murmured Lawrence, eyeing the property as he paid the driver. "You'd better be right, Michael, or she's about to get the shock of her life when I turn up."

  "Don't you think I know that?" asked Michael. "And if she opens the door and roundly castigates me, I'll accept it, as long as she's safe. But I don't think she will answer.

  "Let's do it the right way first," said Lawrence, hammering on the door with the flat of his hand. They waited and listened, but silence reigned. Lawrence knocked again, this time rapping on the window too.

  "Hmmm," he said, resting his suitcase on the floor, and peering through the letterbox. The hallway was empty, but several envelopes littered the mat. "She's not been here for several days," he said.

  "I know," Michael replied. "I'm worried."

  Lawrence stroked his chin. "We'd better use the rear entrance," he said, taking his case and making his way towards the side gate. He clicked the latch, and the gate swung open, revealing a small, but pretty cottage garden beyond a gravelled yard.

  He peered into the only accessible window, but there was no sign of life. "Right," he muttered. "Now I need to find the means to get in."

  "Don't destroy anything," Michael pleaded. "I know in my heart that Violet is in trouble, but in the unlikely event that she has gone to stay with relatives, please treat her house with respect."

  "Oh ye of little faith," said Lawrence, as he started searching the yard.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "A gnome – it's an ugly little thing with an accordion," said Lawrence.

  "Why?" asked Michael.

  "Just look for it," said Lawrence. "Ah. Don't bother. There it is." He pointed to the end of the yard, by a flower border. Michael walked over and attempted to pick it up. "It's heavy," he said, lifting the ornament and dropping it down again. Do you want it?"

  "No," said Lawrence, impatiently. "Look underneath. Violet's had it for years. It's where she used to keep her spare house key, and I'm hoping she hasn't changed her habits."

  Michael tipped the cast iron gnome backwards and grinned as he retrieved a weighty door key.

  "Excellent," said Lawrence reaching his hand out. He took the key, unlocked the door, and heaved his suitcase into Violet's kitchen. "I'll leave it here," he said to Michael. "You might want to do likewise. If we can't track her down, we may end up staying here tonight."

  "I don't know if we should," said Michael. But Lawrence had glanced across the kitchen and moved on to examine two wooden doors in the hallway. He unlatched the first, revealing a steep staircase and proceeded upstairs, lowering his head in the cramped space which led to a tiny landing. The largest room was evidently Violet's. He smiled at the tidy white bedspread with its array of embroidered yellow flowers, wondering how it looked so neat when Violet was not. The bedside table was more in character, piled high with a tower of books, dog-eared and loved, a reading lamp, and a half-filled beaker of water. Lawrence tipped it towards him, wrinkling his nose at the tiny dust particles.

  "I can't decide whether that should worry me," he said, holding it towards Michael.

  "What do you mean?"

  "She can't have used it for the best part of a week," said Lawrence. "Violet is usually messier than this room suggests. I would automatically empty my glass if I were going away, but I can't be sure if Violet would. There's nothing else in this bedroom suggesting foul play. Let's see if there's anything in the second bedroom.

  Michael left first and opened the door to the smaller room where Lawrence joined him. What they saw left them temporarily lost for words. The room contained a single bed covered by a pink candlewick bedspread with a doll in the centre. A brightly painted toy box in the corner groaned under the weight of an assortment of wooden toys. Curtains covered in daisies framed the little window overlooking the garden and children's picture books covered the windowsill.

  "She must have a relative staying with her," said Lawrence after a moment's silence.

  "Yes," said Michael. "She has a cousin, doesn't she?"

  "Several, I believe," said Lawrence. "I am surprised, though. She has never spent much time with the younger members of her family. Too busy investigating, I suppose."

  "And she couldn't do it when she lived in," said Michael. "It's one of the downsides of being a companion."

  Lawrence grunted. "Let's see what there is downstairs," he said, lowering his head again. They entered the comfortably furnished living room. It was a homely place with cushions and antimacassars spread haphazardly over the furniture. Both pictures hung slightly askew from the rail and Lawrence felt an urgent need to straighten them. He made his adjustments, then stepped back and surveyed his work. They were now both perfectly aligned, and he breathed a sigh of relief until he caught sight of a vase of flowers on the side table. The vase was devoid of water and full of crispy flowers.

  "Not good," he muttered. "Violet might be untidy, but she loves her garden, whether indoors or out. She would have given those away before letting them die. Wherever Violet has gone, it's safe to say she didn't plan it. I wonder where she keeps her paperwork?"
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br />   "There's a bureau in the hallway," said Michael.

  "Ah, yes. So there is." Lawrence took a last glance around the room before closing the door. He proceeded to the small writing desk opposite the stairs where a brass key hung from the lid. Lawrence inserted it and opened the desk before pulling out the struts that held the writing area firm.

  "Oh dear," he said, surveying a mess of items pushed back into the rear of the desk. A cream lined page and an envelope lay beneath a fountain pen, which had rolled from its stand. Black ink had leaked from the nib of the pen onto the blotter, and the inkstand had fallen over.

  "It looks as if she was writing a list," Lawrence grunted, thrusting the page at Michael.

  "Hmmm. She's only written a few lines and didn't get any further."

  "It's not dated either," said Lawrence. "No use at all." He rummaged again, then turned to Michael.

  "What's that smell?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

  "What smell?" Michael sniffed the air. "Oh, yes. I see what you mean. Perhaps it's the flowers?"

  "They were as dry as a bone," said Lawrence. "This smells like rotting food."

  He walked into the kitchen and opened the door of the larder. "Urghh," he said, covering his mouth before retrieving a block of mouldy cheese and a loaf of stale bread which he tossed outside.

  "You can't leave them there," said Michael, in disgust.

  "I'm not going to. I don't know where Violet keeps her rubbish, but it can wait until we leave the house. Now, back to business."

  Lawrence returned to the desk and opened the inner drawer, but after a moment he began sniffing the air again. "It's a different smell," he said. "Far worse than cheese." He spun around and examined the second door by the entrance to the stairs. Then grasping the handle firmly, he wrenched it open. The odour hit them like a freight train, causing both men to reach for their handkerchiefs and hold them over their mouths. Squashed inside the cupboard was a small tin trunk covered in skulls and scrolls.

  "Don't open it," said Michael. "It's full of dead crows."

  Lawrence tried to pick it up, but his left hand failed him as it had so often before, and the trunk slammed down again.

  "I'll do it," said Michael.

  "No, damn it," Lawrence said through gritted teeth, as he tried again and this time successfully carried it into the yard.

  "I don't understand why it was in the cupboard," said Michael. "What was she thinking?"

  "I doubt she was," said Lawrence. "She'd have been terrified. Who wouldn't? And with the history behind those crows..." He shuddered, trying to block visions of Violet in mortal dread.

  "I suppose we have to open it?"

  Lawrence nodded. "We must in case there's anything else inside. I suppose it's pointless asking if you have a flask about your person?"

  Michael raised an eyebrow.

  "Just a thought. Right. Stand by." He raised the lid and looked down on a putrefying black mass peppered with plump maggots.

  "Stick?" he asked, looking away.

  Michael stepped towards the vegetable bed and removed a pea stick. "Will that do?"

  Lawrence nodded and used it to push the feathery mess into the corner of the trunk. "No, nothing," he said. "No clues at all. Who on earth could have done this?"

  "That's why I searched you out," said Michael. "I don't know where to start. Dozens of people knew about the Fressingfield crows. Think about it. There were those involved in the case, our acquaintances, most of the village and anyone else we've subsequently told."

  Lawrence closed the lid and moved the tin trunk towards a wooden outhouse with the toe of his boot. "You're right. It could be a number of people, but one thing's for sure. Whoever did this meant to frighten the life out of Violet. They knew her well enough to be sure it would scare her. And from what you've told me, Violet was already fearful."

  "I have never known her so terrified," said Michael. "When I first read her letters, I thought she might be having a nervous breakdown. But as time went on, it became clear that someone was targeting her. And what he did to her is unnecessarily melodramatic when you think about it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, first, there was the moving stone. It's moved before, and from what I hear, they have reinstated it several times. But someone had gone to great lengths to make it seem to have turned. He physically wrenched it or dug out the foundations, which is no mean feat. The thing is heavy and cumbersome. And if that wasn't enough, they piled earth around it so that anyone who regularly passed by would inevitably notice. And if that person approached the stone and examined the grave, they would find a key – a key that opens a tin trunk covered in skulls."

  "I see what you mean," said Lawrence. "The whole thing is stage-managed and none of it coincidental. He timed it so that Violet and only Violet would see the gravestone. But why?"

  "Why indeed? To frighten her, I suppose."

  "But nobody knows she is here," said Lawrence.

  "Perhaps she's been investigating in the village and has upset someone."

  "No. That can't be it. How would anyone else know about the crows?"

  "Or it could be a horrible coincidence."

  Lawrence shook his head. "Not a chance. As you say, the whole thing has been stage-managed. Every detail counts. The watcher is someone that Violet has upset in the past."

  "But why are they seeking revenge now?"

  "Because, like you, they've only just found her."

  "Of course," murmured Michael. "But who and why?"

  "Did you say you've spoken to her friends in the tea room?"

  Michael nodded. "Not the manageress, unfortunately. She'd have been a bit more use, but the waitress said she was on a business trip and may not be back yet."

  "Not much point in going back there then. We need to look for Violet, and I've no idea where to start."

  "She must still be in Swaffham," said Michael.

  "I hope so," said Lawrence, thinking about Eliza Carter and Mary Seward. "Not all missing people are found."

  "Don't think like that," said Michael. "Of course we will track her down. It's one thing taking someone from their home, but quite another transporting them across the county."

  "You'd be surprised," said Lawrence, darkly. "But as you say, let's be optimistic and assume she is still in town. Where would she be?"

  "I don't know."

  "You wouldn't have her letters with you?" asked Lawrence.

  "Of course," said Michael. "I knew you'd ask at some point, so I brought them to West Ham." He opened his bag and produced a sheaf of papers.

  "Perfect. Make me a cup of tea, will you while I read them?"

  Lawrence didn't wait for a reply, but proceeded to the living room, kicked off his shoes and reclined on the settee with his feet on the antimacassar. Ten minutes later, Michael appeared bearing a mug. "No milk," he said. "I hope you don't mind it without."

  "I'd prefer it with a splash of brandy, but if I can't have that I'll take it how it comes," said Lawrence, moving to a seated position. "Now, this is very helpful, Michael. These letters are quite revealing."

  "Good. Do you think we will find her?"

  "We will," said Lawrence. "Violet is in grave danger, and I will not let her down again. I owe her everything and my behaviour towards her was unforgivable."

  His voice quivered, and Michael sensed that he was close to tears. Lawrence had been belligerent earlier, his behaviour flippant. For a while, Michael had worried that his attitude towards Violet had hardened over the passing years. But it was clearly a business-as-usual act designed to hide his true feelings. Beneath it all, Lawrence was hopelessly worried and trying to put a brave face on it.

  "Have I missed anything?"

  "No. You have faithfully recounted everything Violet told you, but the letters reveal a pattern. It's funny, you know. When we started investigating together, I was impulsive, and Violet was analytic. I used my instinct to solve puzzles, and she relied on logic. But the years brought us closer to
gether somehow. We watched and learned from each other, and during our latter cases, I tended towards fact and Violet towards feelings. And so, I know that if she thought someone was following her, then there would have been a good reason for it. And given what turned up in the trunk, it's fair to conclude that Violet has been under scrutiny for weeks. Whoever watched her was doing it from a nearby vantage point. She never saw him, but she felt him. So, he was either skilled in tracking or more likely, he lived nearby."

  "Of course," said Michael, brightening. "You must be right. There is no other explanation, and it is so mundane. Nothing supernatural about it at all."

  "Quite," said Lawrence. "Now, we've got two choices. We can either leave it until morning, locate the local land agent and ask what properties he has rented out lately, or we can visit the churchyard tonight. Personally, I would prefer the latter."

  "It will be dark soon," said Michael, peering from the window.

  "I know," said Lawrence, "but we don't know who's got her and why. I'm reluctant to leave it any longer."

  "It won't be easy. There are many houses in which he could have hidden Violet."

  Lawrence shook his head. "I don't think so. The house must be in sight of the churchyard. There can't be that many. We need lanterns and this," he continued, removing a gnarled stick propped against a coat stand. "Quite why Violet has a shillelagh in her hallway, I don't know, but it could be jolly useful."