CHAPTER 33
In Hot Pursuit
"Have a care," snapped Lawrence as Michael tripped in a divot on the church path, falling into Lawrence and knocking him flying.
"It's the lamp," protested Michael. "It's not producing much light."
"I'm not surprised. It's filthy," said Lawrence, examining the glass. "And this one isn't much better. They'll have to do, though. We haven't got time to stop and clean them."
"But all the time in the world to go prowling around the churchyard after dark."
"With good reason," said Lawrence. "We need to find Ella Morse's resting place."
"Can't it wait until morning?"
"I think we decided it would be too late by then."
"Too late to look for Violet, not the grave."
"It's the same thing," said Lawrence. "Finding the grave will give us the best chance of locating Violet."
"Will it?"
"Of course. Whoever was following Violet knew she walked past the cross every day, and they used it to attract her attention. Well, he must have been watching, and I wouldn't mind betting he can see it from his house, especially with the aid of a pair of binoculars. Now, do you know where the gravestone is?"
"Sorry. I've no idea. I didn't know it existed until Violet first mentioned it."
"Then this could be a long night. It's best if we split up. It shouldn't be difficult to identify the cross when we track it down if it's still askew."
"Right you are," sighed Michael, resigned to the task despite his better judgement. The two men peeled off in different directions.
Lawrence trudged wearily towards the front stone standing tall and proud before him. All the other grave markers lay obediently in line and had not moved since the day they were first erected. He passed another row and another. Then Lawrence stifled a yawn, hardly able to believe that this time the previous night he was with two men, both of whom were now deceased. Lawrence had seen Gilbert Cooper. He was stone dead when Lawrence turned him over to check, not that anyone could have survived his injuries. Whether Higgins had followed through with his plans, was unknown. But Higgins was an honourable man with little left to live for, and in all probability, Lawrence was the only survivor of the night's encounter. He shuddered at the thought as he passed yet another row of crumbling lichen-covered tombstones. Fifteen minutes later and scowling with frustration, Lawrence saw a light coming towards him. He ducked behind a tree until he was sure it belonged to Michael. "Any luck?" he asked, raising his lamp in acknowledgement.
"No. Not a thing," said Michael. "But the stone must be here."
"Unless they've put it back in line," said Lawrence.
"The disturbance would be obvious; at least it would be if we were looking during daylight hours." Short of saying 'I told you so', Michael's tone could not have been more dismissive.
"Ah, but wait," said Lawrence, raising his lantern again and directing the beam to the nearby row of gravestones. "And there it is," he added smugly, as the light glanced off a stone cross standing at right angles to the other graves, nestling by the corner of the church. "We were near it all along."
"So it is, and exactly as Violet described."
"It's odd though," said Lawrence. "There seems to have been a great deal of digging, yet this stone looks as if it was on the move long before the most recent disturbance."
"Exactly as the legend suggests," said Michael. "Even in this poor light, you can see that the stone has changed position many times."
"Best not think about it while we're standing in the lee of an unlit church," said Lawrence, turning up his coat collar. "Things are unsettling enough as it is."
"Where do we go from here?"
Lawrence turned away from the cross. "The church is blocking the view from the rear which makes the problem easier," he said. "If my theory is correct, we are looking for a property that's visible from here."
"Or would be visible, if it wasn't so dark," said Michael, peering into the blackness in frustration.
"It doesn't matter," said Lawrence. The house must be parallel with this side of the church. We need to find it. Follow me."
He strode into the darkness, leaving Michael behind. "Wait for me," he called.
"Shhh," said Lawrence. "No more noise. We'll creep past these houses and see if anything looks awry."
They walked down one side of the road and back up the other, then Lawrence stopped and leaned against a red brick house, wearing a puzzled frown on his face.
"What?" asked Michael.
"That's not right," said Lawrence, pointing to a flint covered terraced cottage.
"It looks perfectly normal to me."
"No. Not right at all."
Michael looked again. "I don't see it."
"Someone's boarded the front window up."
"So?"
"Look at the chimney."
A wisp of smoke drifted into the night sky.
"Perhaps they can't afford to get it repaired," said Michael. "It's only a little cottage and may need maintenance."
"It doesn't feel right. I'm going to take a look."
"Don't rouse them," said Michael.
"I don't intend to. Are you coming?"
Michael sighed. His conscience was already troubling him, and he had done nothing wrong – yet. But he was with Lawrence – impulsive, foolhardy Lawrence. Trouble was only ever one ill-considered action away. But Violet was in danger, and that was more important. "Please be careful," he said. "I have more to risk than you."
"I know," said Lawrence. "And I understand if you would rather stay here. I can manage things alone."
"No," said Michael. "I asked for your help, and the least I can do is stick with you."
Lawrence nodded. "Lights out for a moment," he said. Both men turned the screws on their oil lamps which spluttered and died. Then the men tiptoed through the ungated side entrance and into a small rear garden.
A dim glow illuminated the back room of the house as Lawrence advanced to the window. He peered through the glass, struggling to identify the contents of the room beyond. But as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they settled on a domestic tableau inside. A man, just out of view, reclined with his legs crossed under the table. He was tucking into a plate of food in front of him with gusto. Lawrence craned his neck, trying to glimpse the man's face, but no matter how hard he tried, that part of the room remained frustratingly out of view. Directly in front of the man and at the other end of the table, a pale-faced woman sat silently. She nibbled tiny amounts of food from a fork as if repelled at the repast before her. Her face, drawn and haggard, was as familiar to him as his own. She hadn't changed in all these years, and Lawrence felt a rush of short-lived joy as he regarded her. It was Violet, not the happiest looking Violet he'd seen, but she was well and unharmed and eating an evening meal by the look of things. He turned to Michael. "Look. She's perfectly safe," he murmured.
Michael frowned as he took his turn at the window. "She looks uncomfortable," he whispered. "And who is with her? I can't see him from here."
"A gentleman friend," said Lawrence, smile falling away. "That's why she hasn't been home and with no consideration for the consequences. She's throwing her reputation away."
"No," said Michael. "That's not Violet's way. She's not enjoying herself. Look at her face."
"Move then." Lawrence nudged him impatiently as he fought for the window space.
"I see what you mean. She's picking at that food in a very un-Violet-like way. She usually eats like a horse."
"Don't be flippant," Michael hissed. "She looks terrified."
Lawrence sighed and stared inside again, eyes darting across the room. A lace cloth covered the table, and an elaborate candelabra stood centrepiece. It illuminated two platters of food, one a joint of meat and the other laden with vegetables. Violet, resplendent in an elegant navy dress, wore a pearl rope necklace and a matching brooch. Yet for all the finery around the table, the house was in poor repair. Stains coated the b
roken mirror above the fireplace, and plaster crumbled from the walls. The olive wallpaper curled below the picture rail, and the room looked dirty. Michael's instinct was correct, and something inside was badly wrong. "She's wearing a lot of jewellery," said Lawrence, thinking aloud.
"She doesn't usually care for it," said Michael.
"I know. I bought Violet a bracelet once, and she never wore it. I thought she was superstitious. She's wearing pearls and I'm sure she doesn't like them."
"Do you think we should make ourselves known?" asked Michael.
"No. Violet is safe, and we know where she is. Besides, she won't be happy with you for telling me where to find her. Perhaps we should leave both of them alone and keep an eye on things for the next few days, just in case."
"Yes. Violet is there of her own free will and can easily leave if she wants to. I'm sorry, Lawrence. I've dragged you away from London for nothing."
"Oh no," Lawrence gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth.
"What's wrong."
"I've changed my mind. We're going in. But we need to wait for a moment."
"Why? What's happened."
"It's better if you see for yourself. Look at the chair Violet is sitting on."
They swapped places, and Michael exhaled, shaking his head. "Oh, Lawrence. Are those ropes?"
"Yes. That scoundrel has tied her legs to the chair."
"It's worse than that."
"Why? What have you seen?"
Michael pointed, and Lawrence craned over his shoulder. Propped against the far corner of the fireplace was the unmistakable form of a shotgun.
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"There are two of us and only one of him," whispered Lawrence. "We can overpower him."
"No. The gun is only a step away. If he lunges towards the fireplace, he will reach it long before we can get there. If only Violet were free to move. Do you think we should fetch help?"
"What if he takes a potshot at her before we get back?"
"That's not very likely. They've been together for days, but I suppose we should err on the side of caution. Yes. A rush of people might cause him to act irrationally and who knows where that might end?"
"Act irrationally?" hissed Lawrence. "There's more food on that table than six people could eat in a week. He's made Violet dress to the nines, and she is wearing jewellery for dinner in a workman's cottage. Not only that, but she's tied to a chair and dining with a man sitting two feet away from a shotgun. Whoever he is, the man's a lunatic. He's not going to behave rationally, and we will need to take some risks."
"Considered risks," said Michael.
"Of course," snapped Lawrence. "Now, let me think. He's going to leave the room at some stage..." His words trailed away as the man leaned forward and reached for a wine decanter. Lawrence craned his head, waiting with bated breath for the man's face to appear. But just as Lawrence glimpsed his jacket collar, the man reclined again. Then he slid the decanter back down the table, its contents vastly reduced.
"Damn it. Why can't we see him? He's a cool fellow, and that's a fact," said Lawrence, gritting his teeth in frustration. "Well, he'll need a visit to the gentleman's room very shortly if he continues quaffing wine at that rate."
"Yes, he will," agreed Michael. "But will he let Violet stay where she is?"
"I expect so," said Lawrence. "What's the point of moving her? She can't go anywhere. He doesn't know we're watching him and has every reason to feel safe. We need to find a way inside. I'll see if there's any give in the window frame."
Lawrence quietly tugged the frame, but it didn't budge. "That's not going to work," he said. "Try the other side, Michael."
"No. Same here. It's latched from inside."
"Right," said Lawrence. "I'll just..." But whatever he was going to say next was lost in a crash of noise as the lantern slipped from his hand and bounced off a stone trough. "Hide," he hissed, grabbing the light.
Seconds later, the rear door of the cottage slammed open, and the silhouette of a man brandishing a shotgun loomed ahead. Lawrence crouched by the side of the ramshackle shed, hoping that Michael had found somewhere to conceal himself. The man walked forward, shrouded in darkness and Lawrence breathlessly watched as footsteps crunched through gravel. The man negotiated the short distance to the end of the yard, turned and surveyed the property.
Clouds hung moodily in the night sky, obscuring all but the brightest stars and a sliver of moon. Lawrence used what little light was available as he scanned the area, searching for signs of Michael. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the unmistakable glint of metal only feet from Violet's captor. The man would see Michael, if not tread on him at any moment. Lawrence reached blindly for an object and grasped a handful of gravel which he threw over his head and into the next-door neighbour's garden. The stones ricocheted off the low metal roof of an outhouse, exploding in a torrent of unexpected noise. The man wheeled round, raising the shotgun to his shoulder, its outline just visible in the low light. Lawrence resisted the urge to peer at the man's face as he paced towards the door. Then he shrank back into the side of the shed with his head down and his collar up to keep his pale extremities hidden. The sound of falling gravel had roused the neighbours, and a door opened in the next-door cottage.
"I can't see anything, Joan," said a voice.
"Well, I heard something, Harold. Call Smokey."
"Smokey. Come here, puss-puss. Where are you?"
A faint mewling preceded the scratch of claws as the sounds of a cat clambering over walls and roofs reached their ears.
"There he is. Nothing to worry about," said Harold, ushering the cat inside. The door shut with a faint click followed by the clunk of a solid bolt.
Lawrence waited silently to see what Violet's captor did next, but he seemed satisfied at the sight of the cat, lowered his gun, and opened the door. As soon as he went inside, Lawrence darted over to the window and lightly drummed his fingers against the pane before the man had time to reach the table. Violet turned her head at the sound, and her eyes narrowed as she peered outside, trying to see what was going on. As Violet stared confusedly towards the window, Lawrence regretted his impetuous decision. Violet could no more see him than he could see her captor, but now she knew that somebody was outside and was trying to stay invisible. Friend or foe – she would have no way of knowing. Lawrence hoped that she would employ her sharp intellect to piece together Michael's involvement, if not his own.
"Is she alright?" Michael had reappeared and was crouching by Lawrence again.
"Yes," said Lawrence. "I think so. That was a close shave."
"I'm a bag of nerves," said Michael. "He was almost on top of me. I couldn't see a thing, yet there was a familiarity about the man I can't account for."
"What was it? A smell? A sound?"
"I don't know. A feeling, I suppose."
"Well, that's no help," said Lawrence bluntly. "Oh, what now?" He looked up and held his hand out as a fat raindrop fell on the bridge of his nose. "It's raining. That's all we need."
"What are we going to do?"
"Wait," said Lawrence. "It's all we can do."
Half an hour later, they were still loitering by the window, watching the static scene inside. Violet had long since pushed her plate away and was sitting in silence. There was no sign of movement at all from the other end of the table. Lawrence placed his ear as close to the window as possible and listened. Moments later, he touched Michael's arm. "He's asleep," he whispered.
"Shall we go in?"
"It's still too risky. But Violet's awake. We need to attract her attention."
"Don't make any noise."
"I won't." Lawrence retreated to the side of the shed where he had left the lamp, removed his tin, and lit the wick. Then he tiptoed back to the window and lifted the lantern towards Violet. She saw it immediately and turned to face them. Then, hoping she would not cry out in shock, he moved towards the light so she could see his face. Her eyes widened, but she kept tight control ov
er her features, giving nothing away. Her eyes darted towards the window and back with a sense of urgency that Lawrence instinctively understood. The lantern was too bright. He lowered it a little, and her eyes stilled.
"Is he asleep?" he mouthed.
Violet didn't move.
"Take this." Lawrence thrust the light towards Michael, and once unencumbered, he put his hands together by the side of his head and mimed sleep.
Violet gave an imperceptible nod.
"Where is the gun?" he mimed.
Her eyes darted towards the end of the table.
"Who is he?"
Nothing. She didn't move.
Lawrence pointed towards the man and held both hands palms up.
Violet's facial features didn't change, but she moved her hands slowly, pointing first to the brooch and then to the pearls. Finally, she adjusted an earring.
"What does she mean?" whispered Lawrence.
"That the jewellery is important," said Michael.
Lawrence looked again. He'd already known that the jewellery didn't belong to Violet, but there was something disconcertingly familiar about it.
He turned to Violet and shrugged his shoulders. She stared at him with soft, sad eyes – eyes brimming with empathy, tearful and intense.
"She's upset, not angry," he said. "I doubt she's pleased to see me, yet there's no sign of resentment."
"I expect she's relieved," said Michael. "She must have been terrified."
When Lawrence looked back into the room, Violet was staring straight down the table, but her hand was still clutching the brooch. She turned it towards the window as she sat impassively, revealing for the first time a dark stone in the centre of the pearls. And suddenly, with heart lurching realisation, Lawrence understood.
He gasped and spun towards Michael ashen-faced. "Oh my God," he said.
"What? What's happened?"
"They're Catherine's. How did I miss it? The necklace, the earrings. They all belong to my dead wife. I haven't seen them since she died. I didn't even know they were missing. What are they doing in there and why the devil is Violet wearing them?"
The Moving Stone Page 20