Ruined Stones

by Eric Reed

  Grace craned her head around for a last view of the river as the tram left the bridge behind. “I’ll have to come back some day and take it all in.” She changed the subject back to the business at hand. “I expect you’ll be doing the talking when we get to Phyllis’ flat?”

  “No, that’ll be your job. The woman’s touch and all that.” Wallace lapsed into silence for the rest of the journey.

  ***

  Phyllis Gibson may have served as a role model to Lily but she didn’t resemble one to Grace. Slight and nondescript, she wore a short-sleeved dress patterned with splotchy red flowers. Her dull brown hair was in curlers and there was a scrubbing brush in her hand. She didn’t appear to be surprised by their visit.

  “Well, well, well, it’s Constable Wallace and his girlfriend,” she observed. “Can’t arrest me, got no authority in Gateshead, do you? How’s the street doing? Come in out the wet and give me a hand scrubbing me scanties. And wipe yer boots!”

  The nails on the fingers grasping the brush were long, their polish chipped. Makeup carelessly applied to the tired face only partially hid the bruise around one eye.

  “I suppose you got the address off me parents.”

  “We’re not here to discuss your parents,” Wallace said.

  “So what is you want, seeing as you can’t arrest me for anything? Pardon me if I don’t ask you to sit down. I have to get ready to go out soon. The woman I share the place with scarpered, and to pay the rent on me own means longer working hours.”

  “We’ve come for a friendly chat, Phyllis,” Wallace told her. “I’m only here to escort my colleague safely through the wilds of Coatsworth Road.”

  “And have an easy afternoon off work while you’re at it,” Phyllis riposted. “Well, start chatting.”

  “Go ahead, Grace.”

  Grace hesitated, then squared her shoulders and began. “About the recent deaths in Benwell. No doubt you’ve read about them. I’m sorry to have to ask about the latest incident, but we understand—”

  “You mean that swine Ronny? I don’t call that an incident. I call it good riddance. I don’t have much to say about him and none of it is good. He got what he deserved. You’ll hear the same story from anyone what knew him. That fond fool Mavis needed her head examined, marrying him.”

  It was sad, Grace thought, that Phyllis would speak of the father of her child in such words. But in certain circumstances love could turn bitter, as it manifestly had in Mavis’ marriage. No wonder Mavis had expressed relief she had had no children.

  “We’ll take Ronny’s swinishness for granted,” Wallace intervened. “What we want to know is when did you last see him?”

  Phyllis glared at him. “Not for years. Never gave a penny to help raise the bairn.”

  “You haven’t seen him recently?”

  “Of course not. Why do you think I moved to Gateshead without leaving me address? To make sure he could never find me. Told me parents not to give it out. You want me opinion? I think it was Ronny did in that woman nobody knows. Maybe she refused him. He was that kind of man. Thwart him, give him lip, he’d bash your face in as soon as look at you.”

  “Your black eye…that’s not Ronny’s doing?” Grace asked.

  Phyllis’ laugh was sharp, short, and bitter. “You think Ronny would’ve stopped at one eye, miss? I’m in a dangerous line of work, you know.” She glanced at Wallace. “More dangerous than police work.”

  Grace wasn’t sure why Wallace imagined she should be successful talking to Phyllis simply because she was the same sex. What did she know about how city people lived? In Noddweir women didn’t resort to prostitution. If they were desperate and unscrupulous they got pregnant and earned wedding rings. “When did you find out Ronny was back?” Grace asked.

  “When I read in the paper that he was dead. If you find who did it give him a medal.”

  ***

  After her visitors left Phyllis sat in an armchair and stared out the front window. She could feel her face hot with anger. She lit a cigarette, stubbed it out violently, jumped up, threw on an overcoat, and went out into the cold.

  There was a phone in the back of the pub at the end of the street. The barman gave her an inquiring look, seeing her in the place at this time in the afternoon. She ignored him and made her call. The phone rang only once before it was picked up.

  “They’ve been,” she said. There were only a few patrons, talking quietly, so she had to keep her voice down. “No, I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know, I don’t think. That Wallace’s a sly one. Why did you let them talk to me in the first place?”

  The voice on the other end of the line made excuses. Regular police procedure had to be followed. It would seem suspicious, otherwise.

  “Why? Who are they to question your orders?”

  Her face felt hotter than ever. She was going to need a drink when she got off the phone. “Look, Joe. With Mona gone, I need a few quid to make next week’s rent. Of course you could always make an honest woman out of me.”

  She closed her eyes and let the tinny voice drone in her ear, the monotonous buzz of a fly. A buzz she’d heard before.

  “I know you don’t have a permanent place to stay right now. But why haven’t you found anything yet? Don’t you want to, Joe?”

  Things were better when his wife was alive. He’d arrive at Phyllis’ door crushed by his job and a wife who never stopped criticizing. The wife—her name was forbidden between them—considered him a bumbler. She told him he could never do anything right. Phyllis had sympathized and taken him to bed.

  Now she was beginning to wonder if the wife had been right.

  “How long have we been together? I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I stopped seeing clients in Benwell. I let Mona take over for me on your side of the river. And did I ever ask you to leave your wife, Joe? You know I never did. But now she’s gone….”

  Then someone was coming into the office and Sergeant Baines had to go, or so he said. The phone clicked down.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Dark clouds gathered as Grace paced around the temple foundation. A bitter swirling wind found its way into the neck of her jacket. She pulled her collar up and put her chin down. Her interview with Phyllis had been a failure. She had learned nothing useful. Wallace remained silent on the way back to Benwell. Had he pointed out all the landmarks worth noting on the way to Gateshead or had Grace disappointed him, her only ally?

  On returning she was drawn to visit the ruins by the sudden conviction that she had overlooked a vital clue. Was it intuition that drew her or something stronger, the mysterious knowledge her grandmother claimed she carried in her blood? Was the temple’s lingering influence calling to Grace’s wise woman’s blood?

  She hadn’t mentioned her intention to Wallace. She knew what he’d say. Why shouldn’t she feel drawn to the temple? It was the site of the murders she was investigating.

  Whatever the reason for her coming here, it was a quieter place to think than her lodgings, with Mavis singing along with the gramophone and talking twenty to the dozen about her plans for the future. The city sounds, while not so familiar as the sounds of the countryside, had become familiar enough to recede into the background.

  What would a Roman soldier, arriving at the temple with an offering, have made of the noise from factory and river, the blare of sirens, the whistles of shunting trains? Probably he would have drawn his sword, convinced the place was under attack by demons.

  She stepped into what had been the temple’s interior. As she did so the wind died down. Or was it blocked by invisible walls? It had to be her imagination but it felt warmer. Gazing at the nearest altar, her thoughts turned to the two bodies found there.

  She turned her head to stare across the street to Rutherford’s window. Was he peering back at her through a crack between the frame and the blackout c
urtains?

  Rutherford was interested in strange topics and, more importantly, had apparently adopted the ruins as his own. This suggested when he was at home he kept a close eye on them. Admittedly when on duty during the night this was not possible, but before and after could he, without realising it, have seen something that seemed unimportant but might provide a signpost to point her and Wallace in the right direction?

  The irony of hoping this might be so, given the war had brought about the removal or painting over of signposts in case of invasion, did not escape her.

  Surely Grace had not been summoned to the temple to gain such an obvious insight, one that could easily have occurred to her while listening to a duet between Mavis and Al Bowlly. No, she was certain there was something here to aid her.

  She scanned brown weeds, then prowled back and forth, pushed aside a drift of rubbish with her toe. Sweet wrappers, scraps of newspaper, a piece of broken glass. Finally, feeling foolish, she gave up the search.

  The moment she stepped back outside the remains of the wall the icy wind resumed fingering her neck. Shuddering, she pulled at her collar and her fingers brushed the two chains she wore. One held a cross, the other her grandmother Martha’s charm. She had decided to wear the latter after finding the colloquies between Martha and Grace’s mother, Mae, in the Bible she’d brought from Noddweir.

  She smiled. So there was something here at the temple that might help her after all. She was wearing it.

  ***

  “I must be off on my fire watching duty shortly.” Rutherford ushered Grace into his front room. He had in fact already donned his jacket. Cats perched here and there, purring in asthmatic bursts. Several pairs of eyes gleamed from dark corners. “If you suppose you’re going to take me off guard again, you are mistaken. I have nothing to say to you.”

  Grace scooped a striped cat from an armchair, saw the upholstery was covered with cat fur, but sat down anyway.

  “I was curious. It occurred to me you could probably tell me a lot about the temple.”

  Here to earn Rutherford’s confidence, Grace had guessed rightly he wouldn’t be able to resist showing off his knowledge.

  “I don’t have much time. Briefly, it was built near a fort on the Roman wall. It wasn’t meant for mass worship. Individuals came to it to make personal offerings. That’s why it is so small. The inscription on one of the altars shows it was dedicated by Tineius Longus as a thank offering for a promotion.”

  “You read Latin, then?”

  “No one can seek wisdom without knowing Latin. I have learned however that universities are not where true wisdom is to be found. What you must understand is that the temple was dedicated to Antenociticus, a local god. The old gods may not care much about Benwell with the Romans so long gone, but Antenociticus will protect his own territory.”

  “Yes, I know about that sort of thing.” Grace took off the chain holding her grandmother’s charm and handed it to Rutherford. “I expect you’ll be interested in this.”

  She thought his eyes widened noticeably when he saw the trinket. Although he quickly controlled his expression, his hand trembled.

  “Where did you obtain this?”

  “It’s a family heirloom. My grandmother was a village wise woman, and her mother before her, and so on back for many generations.”

  That her own mother had broken that tradition she did not reveal.

  “A wise woman?”

  “Yes. She made herbal cures and worked what she called persuasions. That’s how I knew horehound tea would be good for your cough. You see, I really have an interest in these old remedies and beliefs. They’re in my blood.”

  Rutherford pulled out his desk chair and sat down abruptly. “Persuasions, too, you say?” He sounded thoughtful. “Do you know anything about how to work them?”

  Grace did not reply for a moment, trying to compose a suitable reply without lying about her lack of knowledge. Fortunately Rutherford rescued her from the dilemma.

  “Of course you are quite right to say nothing,” he said with a smile. “Such efforts are frowned upon these days, as I am all too aware. On the other hand you must have inherited at least some of your grandmother’s skills. As you say, it’s in your blood. Can’t escape it. Why else would you, an officer of the law, have brought that charm to show me? Did you feel anything tugging at you when you were over at the temple?”

  “Yes. Whatever it was that called me there did so in order to tell me to show it to you.”

  “The old gods speak in subtle ways. If we are not alert we can miss their message.” Rutherford handed the trinket back. “A particularly potent charm in these dark days, miss. Since the Nazi have stolen this ancient symbol and perverted it, a swastika facing in the opposite direction from theirs should be particularly efficacious against them, especially if used correctly, coupled to the higher powers. But it’s a dangerous thing to carry around in war time. People will inevitably misunderstand.”

  Rutherford strode around the cluttered room in obvious agitation. His sudden movements frightened one or two smaller cats, who hid behind the sphinx.

  “There’s a great deal of interest in such esoteric matters at present. In spiritualism, for instance,” he continued. “It’s not surprising when you consider the toll the war is taking and people wanting to know if their loved ones are happy now they have passed through the veil, or whether their missing relatives are alive or not.”

  Why had he suddenly veered off into spiritualism? “It’s frowned on by the authorities, of course.”

  “There’s always the chance of being charged with creating a public mischief or more likely obtaining money by false pretenses. You do not frown on spiritualism yourself?”

  “Certainly not. I was brought up to respect such knowledge.”

  “Would you like an introduction to the Tyneside Scientific and Literary Circle? They have shown me the door but Mrs. Llewellyn, the woman now running the group, is a good friend. She was the only member who voted to keep me in after the recent unpleasantness. I can give you a note to her. As it happens, they’re holding a séance tomorrow night. A strictly private meeting, you understand. I have a strong sense that with your background you’d be most welcome.”

  So that was why Rutherford had introduced the subject of spiritualism. The vicar had mentioned it had become one of his former group’s interests.

  “I’d be grateful for an introduction. Where will this séance be held?”

  “At Mrs. Llewellyn’s house in Jesmond. I’ll give you the address.”

  ***

  Hurrying along Chandler Street, Grace turned down the narrow back lane of Carter Street. It had been almost too easy gaining Rutherford’s confidence. Then again how many in Newcastle could display a left-handed swastika charm and hold forth on herbal remedies? Perhaps her grandmother’s trinket wasn’t magical, yet it might as well have been. Or was her grandmother assisting Grace’s law enforcement efforts?

  For a moment, drawn in by her own charade, Grace wondered whether she might learn anything about the deaths at the temple during a séance. The spirits of murder victims would have good reason to want to communicate with the mortal plain.

  “Don’t be silly, Grace,” she muttered to herself. “Don’t forget, you’re only pretending to believe in this nonsense.”

  “Are you sure?” came her grandmother’s whispered reply.

  Although nothing more than a memory of her grandmother’s voice, the whisper’s effect was so startling that Grace almost ran into the figure at the backyard door of her lodgings.

  A woman with an elaborate hairstyle and thick tweed coat.

  It took Grace a moment to recognise Mavis.

  “Grace! I didn’t expect to meet you lurking in the back lane.”

  “Life is full of surprises. I wouldn’t have known you at a distance with that hair.”

&nbs
p; Mavis looked uncomfortable. “It’s a wig. Bought it second-hand. Wait till we get inside and I’ll tell you about tonight.”

  “Oh, no, Mavis. I can guess. You’ve been out dancing again and Ronny hardly buried.”

  ***

  Rutherford danced around the room with an armful of cats, singing away to the effect he had caught a witch loud enough to drown out their outraged meows.

  “Yes, my pretties,” he told them as he deposited them on the floor, “I’ll be welcomed back into the group once they realise the young woman I sent them has great powers! Then it’ll be easy to take charge again and move forward with arranging me ceremony. And best of all her presence will make it more effective than owt any of us can do ourselves. But now let us see if I have caught some treats with which you may celebrate.”

  Putting on his jacket he went outside to check the rat traps at the temple.

  The first trap had, indeed, attracted a victim.

  Tentatively he placed a finger on the fur. “Still warm,” he muttered. “My cats will like that.”

  Kneeling on the frozen ground he gingerly pulled the trap from the hole in the foundation. It was the largest and most powerful trap you could purchase. Newcastle rats were big. The trap would break your fingers as easily as a rat’s spine. He found a stone and smashed the rat’s skull. The rodent had seemed comatose but there was no use risking its bite.

  Humming happily, he slipped the rat into his jacket pocket, reset and replaced the trap, and got back to his feet.

  And realised two teenaged boys had appeared behind him.

  “Mr. Rutherford.”

  Such boys rarely spoke to him and they never addressed him as “Mr. Rutherford.” And these two stood directly between him and his home.

  “What do you want with me?”

  One of the boys stepped forward. He had a narrow, mean face. Rutherford had seen him occasionally. What was his name again? Stu something.

  “I…I don’t have any money.”

  “We don’t want money.”