Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  There was nothing about the time of the attack, so he combed through it again. There must be something there to tell him when he’d arrived, if only that.

  Then he found it.

  In tiny writing, amid a section where most of the entries had been left blank.

  Reason for admittance: Violent fits. Murdered daughter. 11.44 am.

  And later. Time of admittance: 3.10 pm.

  11.44.

  He had it now. The exact time of the attack on Amy. He thought wildly, trying to calculate back from that point. Was that the time of her death, or the time of his arrest? Might he have killed her earlier than that and only been arrested at 11.44?

  He checked his phone. Now displaying Amy Parker’s face as his screensaver. It was nearly 8pm. She would be dead in exactly fifteen hours and forty-four minutes’ time.

  If he got there early in the morning, he would stop it. Ten o’clock would be enough. But this wasn’t some lecture he could turn up late for. He had to get this right,

  11.44.

  He was the only person in the world who knew this was going to happen, at that exact time. And that meant he was the only person in the world who could stop it.

  He could make sure it never happened.

  He packed the papers back in the box and took them to reception.

  “I was just about to chuck you out,” the librarian said. “We’re closing now.”

  He hadn’t heard the reminders over the tannoy. It was eight. He had to go home and sleep and be up early in the morning.

  He had an important date with history.

  — 42 —

  INSPECTOR BEADLE WOKE with a terrible hangover and remembered with annoyance that he hadn’t drunk anything last night. A strange dissociated feeling, like he wasn’t in his own body, a throbbing, nagging pain at the back of his head, and a keen thirst.

  The full moon. It always made him feel like this. A dread of the impending criminal upheaval.

  He had proposed.

  Arabella Palmer had accepted his offer of marriage. He grinned as he washed and dressed, looking around his Spartan bachelor house. Would she come to live here or would he go to hers? He touched the lips of his wife in the photograph above the mantelpiece, as he did every morning, but this time lingered longer.

  “I’m to marry again, Hermione,” he said. “I know you said I should, but I didn’t think I ever would. She’s a good lady. I’m not sure you would approve of her political beliefs, but I know you’d like her as a woman. As do I.”

  He remembered their son, James, and looked at his feet. And I must re-connect with him too, he thought. Tell him this news. I do hope he will cease blaming me for your death, Hermione. Perhaps the angry young man had mellowed and wouldn’t resent his father re-marrying.

  He straightened his tie, as Hermione used to, and as Arabella soon would, and stepped out into the fog and frost of the morning, pulling his muffler tighter around his neck.

  He had thought it appropriate to leave Arabella, not stay the night as he already had. The promise of marriage had invoked a sense of chasteness, but he wondered if they might last a year without giving in to that urgent, primal need for each other.

  He caught the tram to the police station and put in a morning shift, to avoid the sense of guilt that he would slope off for his eleven o’clock appointment with Arabella at St Mary’s. A private investigation. Even so, he watched the clock until it turned to 11.00.

  — 43 —

  RACHEL WOKE AND HER eyes fell on her bedside clock. The first few moments of uncertainty as she slipped between two worlds.

  She had dreamt that her house was locked and she couldn’t find a way inside. She was banging on the windows, Dad and Nan inside watching the telly, not hearing her, even though she screamed.

  It was Saturday morning. 10.30.

  She knew what she had to do. She got up and showered and ignored the Edwardian dress splayed across her bedroom floor. She put on her maxi skirt, DMs and the velvet Goth jacket she’d bought from Oasis. Since visiting the past, she had felt awkward dressing in anything too revealing.

  Martyn and Olive were pottering about in the kitchen and the sweet smell of bacon suffused the house.

  She stopped, her hand on the front door, wondering if she should tell them she was going out for a walk before breakfast. They would think it weird, ask all sorts of questions. She had to sneak out.

  You should never leave the house without saying goodbye, without saying, I love you. It might be the last time you saw them. Olive had always said that, making every goodbye heavy with the threat of Fate.

  Rachel opened the door and eased it shut behind her, creeping up the driveway alongside Dad’s old car, and once out of sight, quickened her pace.

  She’d answer their questions later.

  — 44 —

  A LOW WINTER SUN HAD driven away the frost and fog, like a promise of new life. Arabella was standing before the church. Her bright smile warmed him right through and he forgot his headache.

  “You look seedy,” she said, stroking a finger along his rough cheek.

  They could walk out together now. She could take his arm. She was his betrothed. He should buy an engagement ring as a matter of urgency. Did one make an announcement in the newspaper?

  “I only just remembered,” she said, “that Reverend Colmore passed away five years ago. There’s a new vicar here. Reverend Hopton.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  It was better like this. Colmore was to have performed her marriage ceremony, back then. She would not feel right looking him in the eye again. It was a failure visited on her. The sin that had been passed down to her by the man who had failed her.

  They stepped into the church and he was grateful for the coolness and dimness of the interior.

  The Reverend Charles E. Hopton seemed a rather austere young gentleman, not as warm and genial as he remembered Reverend Colmore being.

  They sat in the second row and the reverend perched on the end of the front row pew, turning back to them awkwardly, which seemed out of place for someone with his strict bearing.

  Beadle raised the matter of their engagement and they discussed it tentatively, without committing to be wed there. The reverend made it clear that he would expect to see both of them a little more often on Sundays, even though they had made it clear they both attended other churches closer to their respective homes.

  As they finished, Beadle turned and, as if an afterthought, said, “Oh, perhaps you might help me with your opinion on a work related matter?”

  The reverend looked at Arabella, as if she shouldn’t be present.

  “I have already discussed the matter with my wife to be,” Beadle smiled. “She suggested I seek your opinion.”

  “Of course, Inspector. How might I be of service?”

  They strolled to the rear door of the church.

  “A poison pen letter case which makes continued reference to Numbers 14:18.”

  “Ah. The sins of the fathers.”

  “Yes,” Arabella chimed in. “When the Bible says the sins of the father will be visited upon the children, what does it mean? It seems rather unfair.”

  “Numbers 14:18 is not the only mention of this,” the reverend smiled. “It is also in Exodus 20:5. You shall not bow down to them or serve them, for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, visiting the sins of the fathers on the children to the third and the fourth generation of those who hate me.”

  “Is God saying that the children and the grandchildren of the father would have to pay for the sins of their father?” Beadle asked.

  “It’s difficult for us to understand, but perhaps God doesn’t mean that at all, especially since Deuteronomy 24:16 says Fathers shall not be put to death for their sons, nor shall sons be put to death for their fathers; everyone shall be put to death for his own sin.”

  “So what is God saying?” Arabella asked.

  “My interpretation is that God is saying, if a father misleads his famil
y, the family will pay for it. A sin, a mistake, can ripple through generations. Our base, selfish need for instantaneous gratification can have unforeseen consequences. In many ways, we all pay for the lack of foresight of previous generations. The strife we see all about us in these troubling times was forged by our fathers and grandfathers, and we have to wear the chains they forged.”

  They came to the open door and the cool, green expanse of the graveyard.

  “People think it rather callous of God to promise such retribution on people who are, in effect, quite innocent, but of course this rule is later overturned in the Book of Jeremiah.”

  “There are contradictory laws in the Bible?” said Beadle, trying to smile.

  “Just as in your line of work. It is up to the experts in law to argue the difference.”

  “I hadn’t thought of vicars as lawyers.”

  “The original law was no longer having the intended effect.” Reverend Hopton allowed himself a smile. “People thought only their descendants would be punished for their sins and they would get off scot free, you see?”

  “I see,” said Beadle. “If only our poison pen suspect was as aware of Jeremiah as he is of Numbers.”

  “I shall make it the subject of tomorrow’s sermon. Then perhaps he might see the error of his ways.”

  They shook the vicar’s hand and stepped out to the churchyard, just by Mr Rieper’s fresh grave, the flowers already fading.

  Beadle took out his pocket watch. 11.20.

  He felt he had an appointment he’d forgotten, but he couldn’t think of what it might be. Only that it filled him with dread.

  — 45 —

  RACHEL WALKED ACROSS Moseley, through the village, already busy with its monthly farmers’ market, and turned left down Chantry Road to Danny’s student flat where she rang the bell. The front door opened and her heart sank to find Jessica standing there, a look of surprise on her face flitting from uncertainty to annoyance to haughtiness within a fluttering of her false eyelashes.

  “Hi. Is Danny in?”

  Jessica’s look settled on her favourite expression when dealing with Rachel: examining something she’d just trodden in.

  “He’s in his room,” she said.

  “I’ve got some research for him.” She indicated the file under her arm. The photograph of Amy and her father that she’d forgotten to give to Danny last night.

  Jessica held out her hand. “I’ll see he gets it.”

  Rachel gripped it more tightly under her arm. “I need to talk to him about it.”

  Jessica folded her arms and tried to look even more haughty, which was difficult, because she’d begun at such a high level of haughtiness there was almost nowhere else to go.

  “Was he at yours the other night?” Jessica asked.

  “What? No!”

  Jessica looked her up and down, mentally totting up the price of her wardrobe. Rachel sighed at the tedium of it: this stupid, boring, rich girl who knew nothing and was of no importance to anyone and not a single person in the world would miss if she were to disappear this instant. And at the same time, she couldn’t stop curling in on herself in shame.

  Jessica stepped to one side and let her walk in, giving her a supercilious smile, as if she’d somehow taught her a lesson.

  “It’s upstairs. Second left.”

  Rachel trudged up the stairs and knocked on his door. There was no answer. She knocked again. Nothing. She heard movement inside.

  “Danny? It’s Rachel. Danny? I’m coming in.”

  She turned the handle and peered inside, hoping to God he wouldn’t be naked or with a girl. And then the horrible thought that Amy Parker would be there with him. That he’d already gone and rescued her, removed her from 1912 and brought her here, where her mad father couldn’t kill her.

  He was lying in bed, asleep, and Amy Parker wasn’t with him.

  Rachel’s eyes swept the wall above his desk. He had pinned up all of the documents they had researched like a police crime board: printouts of their library research; the death certificates; an enlargement of the photo he’d taken on his phone, her face ghostly and pixellated; a photo of the house as it was now, and as it was then, which he must have taken yesterday before coming back through.

  She went to the bed and shook his shoulder. He jumped up, startled, blinking sleep from his eyes.

  “Bloody hell! Oh, it’s you.” His voice heavy with the weight of slumber.

  “Snotty Cow let me in,” she said.

  “Jessica?” he groaned, rubbing his face. “She’s all right.”

  “If you like snotty cows. I’ve got another one for your shrine.”

  “It’s not a shrine,” he grumbled.

  “I forgot to give it to you yesterday. The librarian found it for you.”

  He took her file and opened it to see the portrait of Amy and her father. He gasped and then tried to cover it with a cough.

  “It’s a shrine,” she said. “All it needs is a candle.”

  “I’ll ask Jess if she’s got one,” he said. He reached for his iPhone, turning it over and swiping it. “What the hell?”

  His iPhone was dead.

  “I forgot to charge it. Oh, God!” He sprang up like he’d been shot with an arrow, eyes bulging with shock.

  “What?” she asked.

  “The time!” he cried.

  She fished her Nokia out of her pocket. “It’s 11.25.”

  “No!” He leapt out of bed and tore off his vest.

  Rachel turned away with alarm, staring out of the window. “What are you doing?”

  “Amy’s going to die at 11.44! I can’t believe this. Oversleeping. Phone dying.”

  “Maybe fate is trying to stop you, Danny. Maybe it won’t let you save her.”

  “If she runs away with me, it can’t happen. She can’t die.”

  Rachel turned. No, it was still not safe to look. He was half way through throwing on his Edwardian suit.

  “Where are you going to take her?”

  “I’ll bring her back here if I have to.”

  She turned and watched while he pulled his shirt over his torso. “You’ll probably kill her with the shock. Or she’ll be the one going to Winson Green asylum.”

  “Then I’ll take her somewhere in her own time. We’ll run away to London. Her father won’t find us.”

  He was almost completely Edwardian now.

  Fury burned behind her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous! You know you can’t stop it!”

  “I can do anything I like,” he said. “Damn my stupid phone!”

  She grabbed his lapels and he tried to shake her off, glaring like she was the crazy one. “You’ve got to forget her!”

  “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t let him kill her.”

  “I won’t let you do this!”

  “Try and stop me.”

  He pushed her aside and headed out down the stairs, storming out of the front door, Rachel in his wake, trying to pull him back.

  “Danny! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

  “Just stay out of it, Rachel! It’s none of your business!”

  He ran off up the street and turned right, heading for the church. She watched him go, panicking, wondering what to do – frozen.

  — 46 —

  BEADLE FLAPPED HIS hat at his face, taking a draught of cool air. It had been so musty in there.

  “Are you all right? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine. The air in there was so stale.”

  Arabella glanced over her shoulder, making sure they were out of earshot. “And the sustenance also.”

  “It all seems so irrelevant.”

  “To think there are people filling their heads with such nonsense, and walking out to murder others, with God’s words in their mouths.”

  “You would not believe how often this is the case,” he said.

  “Are you quite certain you are all right?” she asked, stroking his arm. “You look so ashen.”

  “I woke with a
terrible head, but the fresh air will do me good.” He looked up at the church tower. The clock said 11.30. “You said he used to come here. Was fascinated by a certain gravestone?”

  “This way,” she said, leading him down the path.

  A terrible sense of foreboding. There was something awful about today. He wished he could go to bed and start it all over again.

  “Down there,” she said, pointing.

  Dread seared his flesh.

  “Is this a joke?” he groaned.

  Arabella stepped away from him, alarm on her face. “What is it?”

  “That is my wife’s grave.”

  There, clear in the stone, a little green with moss. Hermione Beadle (nee Calthorpe).

  “I’m to be buried there. Or I was.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “I’ve never read the inscription. He would wander here and stare at it. I always watched him from there.” She pointed back to the rear door of the church.

  Would he be buried here? It was written in his will. But the future he had set himself was all changed. Arabella was changing that future.

  “What does this mean?” he said, faltering.

  She rushed to his side, took his arm, holding him up. “Come, let’s go. I hate this place.”

  He found his feet marching back up the path. Be careful not to fall flat on your face. They retreated, past Mr Rieper’s grave, the church door, to walk around the church.

  Arabella halted, pulled him back. “Can we go the other way?”

  “Why is that?”

  “That corner,” she said. “That spot right there. I’ve always been afraid to step there. It’s always been as if someone has stepped on my grave. You think I’m silly.”

  “Not at all,” he said, trying to laugh it off. “We need never come here again. The place obviously holds too many bad memories for you.”

  “But aren’t we to be married here?”

  “There are plenty of other places we can marry.”

  They turned back down the path. He didn’t want to walk past his wife’s grave again, his own grave, but he would do it for Arabella. How strange, he’d talked to Hermione about her only this morning and now here he was right next to her body, with Arabella on his arm.