by Charles Todd
Tommy Braddock stood just outside, a large black umbrella over his head. The rain had subsided, but a cold wind blew, whipping the skirts of the coat he’d thrown on over his nightclothes.
“What the hell—” he exclaimed as Drummond stepped out into the drizzle, a man’s body gripped in his arms.
“Keep the rain off him!” Drummond ordered. “My house. Then the doctor. Bring him back as soon’s you can!”
Braddock slammed the inn door shut behind them and tilted the umbrella over the burden Drummond carried, recognizing the man from London and swearing in surprise under his breath. But one look at Drummond’s face and he said nothing, keeping pace as best he could.
Drummond paid no heed, concentrating on walking back the way he’d come barely ten minutes before. “You’ll live. Do you hear me?” he said once to Rutledge.
Ahead they could see the house door wide open and Drummond’s sister leaning out into the wet night, a lamp in her hand. The flame danced and shifted, then burned stark and straight.
He saw it, a beacon, his grief so heavy that the flame seemed to flicker through his tears.
If Holden had killed Madelyn, Drummond promised himself that he would come back to The Reivers this same night and cut out the bastard’s heart.
“You shall not die!” Drummond silently repeated the words in cadence with each step, a malediction—and a benison.
He moved strongly, steadily, toward the light.
If you enjoyed this Inspector
Ian Rutledge mystery from Charles Todd,
Legacy of the Dead, you won’t want to miss
any of the tantalizing, atmospheric mysteries
in this bestselling series. Look for them at
your favorite bookseller.
And an exciting preview
of Charles Todd’s first stand-alone
suspense novel . . .
THE MURDER STONE
Available now in hardcover
from Bantam books.
1
Devon, 1916
IT ALWAYS STOOD IN THE BACK GARDEN—WHAT my cousins called The Murder Stone.
They teased me about it often enough.
“Put you head here, and you brains will be bashed out.”
“Lie down here, and the headsman will come and chop your neck!”
Nasty little beasts, I thought them then. But they’re all dead now. Lost at Mons and Ypres, Paschendael and the Somme. Their laughter stilled, their teasing no more than a childhood memory. Their voices a distant recollection that comes sometimes in my dreams.
“Do be quiet, Cesca! We’re hiding from the Boers— you’ll give us away!
But The Murder Stone is still there, at the bottom of my Grandfather’s garden, where it has always been.
And the house above the garden is mine. I’ve inherited it by default, because all the fair haired boys are dead, gone to be real soldiers at last and mown down with their dreams of glory.
2
IT SEEMED QUITE STRANGE TO BE SITTING HERE— alone—in the solicitor’s office, without her grandfather beside her.
Francis Hatton had always had a powerful presence. An impressive man physicially as well: tall, strongly built, with broad shoulders and an air of good breeding. Someone to be reckoned with. Women had found him attractive. Even in age.
He had carried his years well, in fact, his face lean and handsome, his voice deep and resonant, his hair a distinguished silver gray.
Until 1915.
1915 was when the first of the cousins begain to die in France. It was then that he slowly became someone else. Someone Francesca wasn’t quite sure she knew— or wanted to know.
She stirred in her chair. Mr Branscombe, pressing fifty, had always toadied to Francis Hatton. He was fussing with the papers before him now, as if hoping to delay matters until his client arrived. Reluctant somehow to begin this last duty.
And had she failed in her own duty to her grandfather? She had hated the change in him, that slow withdrawal into himself, leaving her behind. For the first time in her life she had felt shut out of his love. Instead of mourning together, they had grown apart. By the time Harry died, in the late summer of 1916, a bare month ago, she had watched the fall of a Colossus.
There had been days she had prayed silently for his death, and at night, walking the passages in restless repudiation of death coming nearer, she had wished she could hasten it, and be done with it at last.
A surge of guilt pressed in on her.
Mr. Branscombe cleared his throat, an announcement that he was ready to begin the Reading of the Will. Ceremony duly noted . . .
The servants—the older ones, the younger ones having gone off one by one either to fight or to work in the factories—were in an anteroom, waiting to be invited into the inner sanctum at the proper moment.
“I, Charles Francis Stewart Hatton, being of Sound Mind and Body, do hereby set my Hand to this my Last Will and Testament . . .”
The Devon voice was sonorously launched on its charge.
Francesca found it difficult to concentrate.
My grandfather is only just dead, she wanted to cry. This smacks of sacrilege, to be dividing up his goods and chattels before he’s quite cold . . . I haven’t earned the right to sit here. Oh God.
But who else was there to sit in this room and mark a great man’s passing? She was the last of the Hattons. A long line come down to one girl.
Mr. Brascombe paused, glancing over the rims of his spectacles at her, as if sensing her dsitraction.
“Are you with me thus far, Miss Hatton—?”
“Yes,” she answered untruthfully.
He seemed far from satisfied, regarding her intently before returning to the document.
Francesca sat on the hard, uncomfortable chair provided for the solicitor’s clients—she was certain he’d chosen it to prevent them from overstaying their welcome—and wished she had the courage to stop him altogether. But listening was her duty, even if she didn’t care about provisions for her future, and she had absolutely no idea what she ought to do about the house at River’s End. Close it? Live there? Sell it?
Ask me next month—next year! I’m too tired—
It was haunted, River’s End. Not by ghosts who clanked and howled, but by the lsot souls who were never coming back to it. She could almost feel them, standing at the bottom of the stairs each night as she climbed to her room. Shadows that grieved for flesh and blood, so that they too could home again.
It was a stupid obsession on her part, and she hadn’t told anyone. But the old dog seemed to sense their presence, and ran up the stairs ahead of her, as if afraid to be left behind.
Just that morning the rector had said, worried about her, “This is such a large, lonely house for a woman alone. Won’t you come to us at the Vicarage and stay a few days? It will do you good, and my housekeeper will take pleasure in your company . . .”
But Francesca had not cared to leave and told him as politely as she could that the house was all that was left of home and family. An anchor in grief, where she could still feel loved. She knew the long dark passages so well, and the rooms with their drapes pulled in mourning, the black wreath over the door knocker. It was peaceful, after the tumult of her grandfather’s dying. And the ghosts were, after all, of her blood.
Mrs. Lane came in to cook and to clean. It was enough. There was the old dog Tyler for company, and the library when she was tired of her own thoughts. Her grandfather’s taste had run to war and politics, history and philosophy. Hardly the reading for a woman suffering from insomnia. Although twice Plato had put her soundly to sleep—
She became aware of the silence in the room. Mr. Brancombe had finished and was waiting for her to acknowledge that fact.
“Quite straightforward, is it not?” she said, dragging her attention back to the present.
“In essence,” he agreed, “it is indeed. Everything comes to you. Save for the usual bequests to the remaining servants and to the church
, and of course to several charitable societies which have benefited from your grandfather’s generosity in the past.
“Indeed,” she responded, trying to infuse appreciation into her voice.
“It’s an enormous responsibility,” Mr. Branscombe reminded her.
“I understand that.” What might once have been shared equally with the cousins would be hers. She would rather have had the cousins—
It was clear that Mr. Branscombe was uncomfortable with a woman dealing with such a heavy obligation. He fiddled with the edges of the blotter, and when no questions were forthcoming, he said, “Do you wish to keep the properties in Somerset and Essex? I must warn you that this is not a propitious time to sell—in the middle of a war—”
He had her full attention now, as she stifled her surprise.
“Properties—?” What was he referring to?
His thin lips drew together in a tight line, as if he’d finally caught her out.
Trying to recoup his good opinion of her and conceal her ignorance, she asked, thinking it through, “Were these estates destined for my cousins? You see, my grandfather told me very little about them.”
He had told me nothing—
“They’ve been in his possession for many years. Quite sizable estates, in fact. Whether he intended to settle either of them on your cousins in due course, I don’t know. He didn’t confide in me,” It was grudgingly admitted. “I can tell you that the property that belonged to your uncle, Tristan Hatton, was sold at the time of his death. It would have been prudent for your grandfather to provide in some other fashion for his eldest grandson. Sadly, Mr. Simon Hatton is also deceased.
The first of the cousins to go to war . . . the first to die.
Francesca was still trying to absorb the fact that her grandfather had owned other estates. But if it was true, why had he always chosen to live in the isolated Exe Valley? It was the only home she had ever known. And as far as she was aware, that was true of her cousins as well. Even Simon had had only the haziest memory of his parents.
Why had he never taken us to visit houses in Somerset or Essex, if they were his? There hadn’t been so much as a casual, “Shall we spend Christmas in Somerset this year?” or “Since the weather is so fine, we might travel to Essex for a week. I ought to have a look at the tenant roofs . . .” If he had gone there at all, it had been a secret.
Secret . . .
The thought was disturbing. Why should secrecy have been necessary? Hadn’t he trusted her? Or had he never got around to telling her, when Simon was killed? Or after Harry’s death? He had lost interest in everything then, including the will to live . . .
“Before I summon the servants to hear their bequests, there is one other matter that your grandfather wished you to deal with. A recent Codicil, in fact.”
“Indeed?” she said again, still wrestling with the puzzle of the properties.
“It involves the Murder Stone, whatever that may be.”
Caught completely unawares, Francesca stared at him. “But—that’s nothing more than a jest—a largish white stone in the back garden that my cousins were always making a part of their games!”
“Nevertheless, your grandfather has included in his Will a provision for its removal from Devon to Scotland.”
“Scotland? My grandfather has never been to Scotland in his life!”
“That may well be true. But I shall read you the provision: ‘I place upon my heir the grave duty of taking the object known to her as the Murder Stone from its present loction and carrying it by whatever means necessary to Scotland, to be buried in the furthermost corner of that country as far away from Devon as can be reached safely.’ This was drawn up only last month.”
Mystified, Francesca said, “The death of my cousins must have turned his mind—”
“Perhaps this stone reminded him too forcibly of their lost youth,” Branscombe said gravely. “When men are old and ill, small things tend to loom large.”
Francesca shook her head. “It’s such an insignificant matter.”
“Perhaps to you, my dear, But I assure you that to your grandfather it was very important. I was under the impression that Mr. Hatton was rather—superstitious—about this matter.”
“He was never superstitious!And he allowed my cousins to use the stone as they pleased. It was always a part of their games—we were never warned away.”
“I can’t answer that question. But I can assure you that the responsibility is yours and must be regarded as a solemn charge.”
“But surely not right away—not while the war is going on and getting anywhere is so difficult?” She couldn’t imagine how she would manage to dig up the stone, much less arrange for it to travel to Scotland. Not when petrol and tires were so dear. The elderly gardener and the coachman between them couldn’t budge it—it must weight more than both men. Meant to remain forever where it lay—
“At your earliest convenience, of course.” Branscombe’s tone of voice indicated disapproval of excuses.
Francesca was still rattled, but the solicitor sat there waiting for a more appropriate response than argument. She nodded and was relieved when he seemed to be satisfied.
He set aside the thick sheets of the will. “I have already taken it upon myself to send a Death Notice to the Times. And I’ve ordered the grave to be opened, and instructed the rector that the services are to be held on Friday of this week. If that’s agreeable . . .”
Whether it was or not, she couldn’t do much about it. Men arranged such matters, as a rule. And all the cousins were dead . . .
There were other papers in the box marked HATTON in a fine, antique copperplate. Most likely Branscombe the elder’s hand. Curious now, she asked, “What else is there? Besides the will? More suprises? Other secrets?
“Our family has always handled the legal affairs of your family,” Branscombe reminded her with satisfaction, glancing at the contents. He plucked out several folded documents. “Here we have your great-grandfather Thomas’s Will, and this is Francis Hatton’s grandfather George. He fought at Waterloo with the great Duke of Wellington. His grandfather Frederick was with Cumberland at Culloden. Amazing history, is it not?” A reminder that she would be expected to leave her own affairs with the same firm.
She could see the faded handwriting on the papers. A family’s continuity preserved in old ink . . . It was a heritage she had been taught to revere. The Hattons had always served their country well. She, the only girl in the family of five cousins, had been expected to do the same.
“All very regular and in order.” He returned the documents to the box almost with affection, as if he counted them as old friends. “Ah. There’s also a letter here that your grandfather deposited with the firm—”
“May I see it?”
“I know of no reason why you mayn’t. As heir . . .” He lifted it out of the box and passed it across the desk to her.
Curious, she examined it. It was wrapped in a piece of parchment on which was inscribed over the seal in a very beautiful hand, “To be held and not acted upon.”
Before Branscombe could stop her, she broke the brittle wax under the writing and drew out a letter. There was no envelope, only the single page.
As she opened the fragile sheet she stared in dismay.
It read, “May you and yours rot in hell then. It is no more than you deserve!”
There was no signature.
What, she thought, had my grandfather done to be cursed like this?
And—if the letter wasn’t important, why had he sent it to his solicitor for safe-keeping?
3
AFTER THE LETTER HAD BEEN RETURNED TO THE BOX, Branscombe rose and went to summon the servants to hear their bequests. Francesca watched their tired, drawn faces as they filed into the room.
They had loved and admired her grandfather. His death had been difficult for them, and before he had breathed his last, each of them had come to the darkened room to file past his bed, their eyes wet with tears.
Francis Hatton, she knew, would have preferred to meet Death standing, head high, those dark green eyes undaunted by Fate. She had done her best to restore a little of his self-respect. She had bathed his hands and face with lavender-scented toilet water and sprinkled a little over the bed to disguise the sour smell of age and sickness, the last indignity for a man whose pride had been as fierce as his will.
She had longed to believe, as she spoke each name aloud, that he’d known his servants were there and how they were grieving. She knew too well they had believed that he would go on forever, a stalwart man who had always been their bulwark as well as hers. . . .
That night, as the nurse slept soundly, he had drifted into the final darkness, his hand clasped in his granddaughter’s. She had held back her tears, talking softly to him until his breathing ceased, and then for another half an hour, until the hand in hers grew cold.
Leaving Exeter, they drove home up the Valley, Francesca Hatton at the wheel of the family car with Mrs. Lane, the housekeeper, while the rest of the staff— the coachman, the man who kept up the outbuildings and the park, the woman who helped Mrs. Lane with heavier chores such as ironing and turning the beds— traveled in the family carriage behind.
The Valley narrowed as it drew toward its source, a river winding its way between the rolling hills and the road following as best it could. Sometimes a ford carried them to the other bank of the Exe, and sometimes a bridge carried them back.
You would think, traveling along this road, Francesca told herself, that no one lived here. The rounded, ridgelike hills rose from the water, sometimes blotting out the autumn sun, and the only creatures for miles were sheep or cattle where the grass was greenest, and a fox sunning itself on an outcrop of rock. The horses had gone to war, like the men who had once worked this land and cared for the animals and the houses that sometimes stood over the crests out of sight from the road. Women and elderly men did the heavy work on farms now, or it wasn’t done at all.