Ruined Stones

by Eric Reed

  “A good man to have for a friend, but,” Grace riposted.

  They had toast and tea. Mavis pressed Grace for details about the dance but she had little to say, which, Mavis deduced, meant she had quite a bit to say that she didn’t want to say. Well, that was all right then.

  “What was that commotion in the shelter about? I stayed where I was. Didn’t want to get in the way.”

  And hadn’t wanted to leave Stan’s comradely embrace.

  Grace told her about Stu. “I’m sure he’s the one who defaced your door.”

  Suddenly the bite of toast Mavis was swallowing turned into a lump in her throat. She took a gulp of tea. “Vicious little bugger. He’s boasted more than once he’d get Hans one day. Like to see him try.”

  “I gather he hates Germans because his brother was killed in the war, and he thinks Hans is a German.”

  “He’s wrong. No German would set foot in my house. Which reminds me, that missing crisp bar. I found it on the floor behind the chest of drawers.”

  Grace looked almost disappointed. “After what I heard this morning I was sure Stu was the one involved. So there wasn’t a burglary?”

  “Oh, someone broke in all right. I never leave the window cracked open. I did air the room out the day before you came.” Mavis tried to remember if she had shut the window all the way. It was the kind of habitual action you never remembered. Why would she have failed to do so? “Whoever it was would have no trouble. The sneck doesn’t work properly. Ronny never did get around to fixing it, the lazy bugger. Hans offered to see to it, but what if the neighbors saw him at my bedroom window? That would really get the tongues wagging.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Fancy another serving, Hans?” Mavis poised a spoon over a serving dish displaying the remains of their evening meal of rabbit stew with dumplings and carrots.

  “No, thank you. It was delicious. Shall we not keep the rest for Miss Grace?”

  It was Monday. Both Mavis and Grace had returned to work. Mavis put the lid back on the dish. “I’ve got a helping set aside for her. I don’t know why she’s so late and it’s getting parky out. Now for a bit of pudding!”

  “There is a pudding?”

  “Aye. Hold on.”

  Mavis collected plates and serving dish and whisked into the scullery. “It’s a favourite of mine. Apple crumble, still warm from the oven. Sorry, hinney, custard’s off but the empire won’t crumble for lack of it!”

  She spooned out crumble. Rain rattled harder against the roof. “It’s stotting down like stair rods,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll have to lend you me umbrella.”

  “I hope Miss Grace is not working in the rain.”

  Mavis put Hans’ crumble down on the table harder than necessary. His interest in Grace had begun to annoy Mavis, but why should it? She was very fond of him, but merely in a friendly way.

  The kitchen door opened. Turning to greet Grace, Mavis saw instead a tall sandy-haired man in soaked clothing. Her heart froze.

  The visitor stamped in. His grin vanished when he spotted Hans. “Who the bloody hell are you?” he demanded in a loud voice.

  “Welcome home, Ronny,” Mavis’ words came out in a strangled whisper.

  Hans stood and bowed. “Goedenavond, sir. I am Hans van—”

  Mavis’ husband reddened with rage. “What the hell are you playing at, Mavis? I come home and find a bloody Hun talking German to me in me own kitchen!”

  Mavis stepped between the two men. “Nothing, Ronny, honest. He’s a refugee. And he’s not German.” She moved and spoke automatically. She felt as if she were watching herself in a nightmare.

  Ronny sneered. “That’s what you say. Look at the bugger! Blue-eyed, tall, blond. I suppose he left his jackboots at home.” He leaned forward and prodded Hans’ chest with a nicotine-stained finger. “And don’t tell me you’re a refugee, either.”

  “I am, for I have come from the Netherlands, sir,” Hans replied in a dignified tone.

  “And it’s crawling with bloody Germans right now! So this is what you get up to behind me back, is it, Mavis? When you wrote you were waiting for a lodger to arrive I expected it would be a woman.”

  “That’s right!” Mavis snapped back. “She’s over at the police station right now.”

  Ronny’s face got redder. “Arrested for streetwalking or was it shoplifting? Or flogging stuff on the black market? Perfect company for a slut like you!”

  “I think it best I leave,” Hans said, addressing Mavis. “Thank you for the meal.” Taking his jacket he shrugged it on, bowed silently to Ronny, and departed through the scullery.

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish! And don’t come back!” Ronny shouted after him. “And now, my lady, a word with you. So you have men to dinner behind me back, do you? The kind of swine who’ve been trying to sink me ship. The swine I’ve been on the lookout for, freezing me backside off halfway to the North Pole. Meanwhile one’s in me kitchen at home. And me bedroom as well, no doubt. Isn’t that right, Mavis?”

  He kicked her chair aside. It hit the fireplace fender with a metallic crash as he caught her arm and pulled her toward him, snatching away the fork she hastily picked up from the table. “No, you don’t!”

  His familiar smell—alcohol and sweat—enveloped her. Since he’d been gone she’d awakened from this nightmare many times.

  He tightened his grasp on her wrist, digging his fingers in the way he always did. “You’ve forgotten your lessons, dearest. I’ll have to teach you all over again.”

  ***

  Returning from the station Grace’s mood was darker than the street. Sergeant Baines had assigned her to take over Robinson’s desk duties for the day. There were also files to be arranged. The orders had been passed on to Grace by an apologetic Wallace, Baines remaining absent. Robinson’s typing jobs piled up, thanks to Grace’s lack of typing skills and the filing went very slowly, indeed. She hoped her incompetence at desk work would be noted.

  It was raining hard. She splashed through deep puddles she couldn’t see to avoid.

  The day was not a total loss. During the afternoon Wallace took her aside. “I’ve made inquiries and come up with some interesting information on our elusive Mr. Rutherford. You may want to pursue it.”

  When he told her what it was she’d kicked herself for not thinking of it herself. “But will Sergeant Baines approve?”

  Wallace smiled. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with him so I guess we’ll have to assume he’d want you to continue your interviews.”

  Though it had been a long day, the prospect of further work not involving a desk energized Grace. She’d grab a bite to eat and then—

  Footsteps sounded behind her. Turning, she made out a gleam of light from a shaded torch. She had the impression the torch-bearer was tall.

  “Hans!” She took a few steps toward him.

  “Sorry, you’re not my type!” came the reply from a stranger.

  She blushed furiously. “I’m not…I mean, I mistook you for a friend and—”

  As he passed, his eyes widened. “Sorry, Constable, I didn’t see the uniform.”

  Who was more embarrassed? She covered the rest of the distance to the maisonette faster than was prudent in the dark. To her surprise the front door was unlocked. Alarmed, she pushed it open.

  A tall, sandy-haired man was raising a fist to hit Mavis in the face.

  “Stop!” Grace yelled.

  The stranger saw the uniform, lowered his fist, and let Mavis go. “You got here fast. I suppose the neighbours complained about the noise? Or did her German friend go running for help? What am I supposed to do, coming home on leave and finding me wife all cozy with her fancy man—?”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t see any violence,” Grace interrupted calmly. “I did see a distinct physical threat.”

&
nbsp; “You women always stick together,” Ronny sneered.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Mavis burst out. “This is my lodger. She happens to be with the police.”

  “Is this place a bloody railway station? At the rate people are coming and going, it may as well be. To think of a copper living in me house! As for you, Mavis—” he pointed at her. “When I get back from the pub, there better be a proper welcome for the homecoming warrior.”

  “Warrior? Fancy yourself, don’t you!”

  Ronny took a step toward her, thought better of it, and left, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Grace removed her jacket, righted the fallen chair, and sat down. “Your nose is bleeding.”

  Mavis rubbed under her nose and examined her knuckles. “It wasn’t Ronny,” she replied hastily. “I’ve had these sudden nosebleeds ever since I was a bairn. Mam was the same. It’s easy enough to deal with them.”

  She took a large key from the kitchen mantelpiece and after a certain amount of contortion dropped it down the back of her blouse. “It’ll stop quick now. A good old-fashioned remedy, that is,” she said in response to Grace’s puzzled look.

  “My grandma would be proud of you.” Grace couldn’t believe that the blood wasn’t the result of the proximity of Ronny’s fist to Mavis’ nose but she didn’t say so. “What do you intend to do to remedy this old-fashioned situation when your husband comes back?”

  Mavis stared at her. “And they say Northerners are blunt.” She dabbed at her nose. “Not but what it’s a good question. We could retire early and push the beds against the door. He can sleep on the kitchen floor tonight and lump it.”

  Grace observed she would be happy to move out while Ronny was on leave.

  “Don’t bother being tactful,” Mavis replied. “I’d best lock him out. Wouldn’t be the first time. He can go and stay with one of his low-life friends.”

  “As your husband, surely he has the right to be here? So I don’t see how—”

  Mavis laughed and pulled the bottom of her blouse from the waistband of her skirt. She caught the falling key and returned it to the mantelpiece. “See, the blood’s clotted already. What really upset him was Hans was here and here I am all done up like a dog’s dinner when I didn’t expect him—Ronny, I mean. Surprised he didn’t shout I was keeping Hans’ pajamas warm in the oven. That’s one of his favourite accusations.” She paused while tucking her blouse back in place. “What if I got the landlord to change the rent book so it only has my name on it?”

  “That would be worth looking into as a last resort if things don’t improve, I suppose. But if you still want to be married—”

  “I don’t. I’ve thought about moving away and not letting on where I went. Then when I got wherever it was I’d give out I was widowed. I wish I was! It’s a terrible thing to say, but the Germans could do me a real favor.” She sighed. “I suppose in your work you have to get used to dealing with family rows. I don’t know how you could stand it, Grace. Special training, I suppose?”

  The abrupt change of subject made it obvious Mavis preferred not to say more about relations between Ronny and herself, and indeed, looked sorry she had blurted out as much as she had. Grace gave a rueful smile. “You might say I started my training early. Dad, he was a bit free with his fists after a couple of pints himself. It was no wonder my mother up and went.”

  It wasn’t a thing she normally spoke about but under the circumstances…

  “And she left you behind? What kind of mother does that? Did you ever hear anything from her?”

  “Not a word since the day she walked out.”

  “Well, good for your mam. For walking out, that is.”

  ***

  Having given Mavis strict orders not to let anyone in until she returned, Grace went out into the rain and searched the local pubs for Ronny.

  She had intended to follow up on what Wallace had discovered about Rutherford, but now Rutherford would have to wait.

  There were a great many pubs and the closest she came to locating Ronny was at the Dying Swan whose sign featured a crudely painted fowl of indeterminate species, beak upthrust in what appeared to be its dying gasp.

  Emerging into the bar from the temporary lobby erected around the pub door to prevent light spilling into the street, she was greeted by the smell of spilt beer, the click of dominoes, the shouts of darts players arguing over scores mingling with loud conversations at scattered tables. Pale faces turned toward her and the noise level dropped a little.

  “Come to arrest us for being too noisy, bonny lass?” a man called out. “I’ll be happy to step outside with you!”

  “Not your turn to be arrested yet!” Grace riposted with a smile as she approached the bar.

  “Going to buy us all a pint, then?” the same voice responded.

  “For that, it is your turn!” she replied over her shoulder.

  A roar of laughter greeted the sally.

  In reply to her inquiry the barmaid told her she’d seen Ronny there earlier but he’d been ejected by the landlord.

  “It was because Ronny started kicking up a terrible racket,” she went on, polishing a glass with a tea towel. “Loud and obnoxious, you know how people can get when they have too much. And the language! I used to live in Liverpool and the lads there got nothing on Ronny when he gets going, I can tell you. No one was pleased to see him walk in here. The sooner he goes back to sea, the better. Sefton over in the corner playing dominoes was talking to him, maybe he knows where he’s gone. In trouble again, is he?”

  “Not yet,” Grace replied grimly and beckoned over the man pointed out to her, an older man wearing a flat cap, his heavy coat open to show a neat black waistcoat bisected by a gold watch chain. He brought his pint with him, setting it down on the bar.

  “That’s right, lass,” he said in reply to her question. “We was cracking on a bit. Ronny’s an old marrer of mine.” He took a swallow of beer. “I met him the other day by accident and we caught up on all the news.”

  “What day was this?” Grace asked, wondering how long Ronny had been back.

  “Two days past, maybe.”

  “And what about tonight?”

  Sefton admired himself in the gilt-edged mirror behind the bar as he continued. “He come in tonight in a rare bate. Asked if I’d heard owt about his wife carrying on. So, being an old marrer, like I said, I thought I should tip him the wink. See, me wife told me a while ago there’s been gossip about Ronny’s wife and this fellow who’s always hanging round their place.”

  “He’s a Dutch refugee.”

  “That’s what me wife says he claims to be. Aye, she’s a rare one for gossip, is the wife. Told me she heard about it standing in the queue at the butchers. Not surprising, is it? There’s nowt to do when you’re waiting to be served except talk about other people. And of course she knew I’ve known him donkey’s years. Should have kept me mouth shut when he asked me. Then he started yelling he’d swing yet for his wife and her fancy man. Wouldn’t shut up so the landlord threw him out. You canna blame the man, really. Got his licence to think about.”

  The rain was threatening to turn to sleet when Grace emerged from the pub. She decided she’d best return to the maisonette. She was afraid Mavis would let Ronny back in despite her instructions.

  ***

  Cyril Rutherford could hear the sleet ticking against the temple’s twin altars as he studied the vague black silhouettes of houses across the street. No sliver of light betrayed a curtain pulled ever so slightly to one side. What could anyone see, anyway? His torch was switched off.

  From where he stood, the altars were faintly visible in the otherwise featureless dark despite any apparent source of light. It pleased him to imagine they were radiating ghostly power.

  The exposed skin of his face was numb, his cold hands clumsy blocks. He
felt as ancient as the temple, felt as if he were turning to stone.

  Stone lasted so much longer than flesh and blood. But stones could feel nothing. Stones had no hearts.

  It would be a relief in these times to have no heart.

  His gaze left the featureless houses and moved down to the ground at the base of the altars, to the lumpy shadow there that he knew to be a corpse.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sergeant Joe Baines sat and stared at the telephone on the kitchen table as if it were an unexplored bomb. A monstrous headache pounded on the inside of his skull. He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the telephone again. It was blurrier but no less frightening.

  Hell! Now he’d have to call Chief Inspector Harris at headquarters. This corpse couldn’t be passed off as an accident. Inspectors became involved when it came to murder. The last thing he wanted, them sticking their noses in. Necessary, however.

  At least he didn’t have to take a bus to bloody headquarters, or so he hoped. The last time he’d been there was when he was put in command of this sub-station. The Central Police Station was housed in a great grey monolith at the corner of Pilgrim and Market streets. With its upper story windows set back between rows of columns, it struck Baines as a cross between a fortress and a Greek temple. Although what attackers was the station built to repel? The populace of Newcastle? Its foyer was decorated with columns that would not have looked out of place in Egypt.

  To Baines the architecture reflected the attitudes of the higher-ups ensconced within, confused and out of touch with the realities of crime and the city they served. In his experience communications from headquarters always meant interference and trouble.

  He got up and found the whiskey bottle concealed amid cleaning supplies beneath the erstwhile kitchen’s sink. He took a slug, returned to the phone, and made the call.

  Harris did not interrupt as Baines outlined the situation. A long silence issued from within the Central Police Station.

  Finally Harris’ querulous voice came down the line. “Yes, yes, I can see you need an inspector. You’ve got no one but constables there. But who doesn’t need an inspector? I’m being squeezed here. From above. And all sides for that matter. All these regulations. The more laws Parliament give people to break, the more crime we have. And two more inspectors left us for the forces a week ago.”