Blood From a Stone

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  She looked at him earnestly and something in his expression made her catch her breath. ‘Dear Len,’ she said softly. ‘There’s always a way.’

  In her room, Isabelle had dressed early for dinner. The dinner gong wouldn’t sound till eight and she had acres of time on her hands. She walked idly to the window. The sun was on the terrace, but so was Leonard Duggleby, perched on the stone balustrade, chatting to Celia. That ruled out the terrace. She’d had quite enough of the god Euthius for one day.

  The portrait gallery? That was a thought. She’d been whizzed through the gallery at great speed by Celia, who obviously thought her ancestors were the frozen limit of dullness, but Isabelle wouldn’t mind filling in half an hour or so with a closer look at the pictures. Picking up her beaded bag, she walked along the corridor to the gallery.

  The gallery itself was worth seeing, a long L-shaped, high-ceilinged room of beautiful classical proportions with arched windows looking onto the grounds. The low evening sun brought out the rich honey colours of the old oak of the floorboards and panelling. A door, midway along the room, had stairs leading, she knew, to the lower corridor and down to the main hall.

  The faces in the portraits were fascinating. A seventeenth-century maiden, looking dopily at a dove, was a tubbier and dimmer version of Celia. A Cavalier, with a startling resemblance to Frank Leigh, regarded her with his painted eyes, doffing his feathered hat. An eighteenth-century divine, in high collar, full wig and sober clothing, Bible in hand, made her pause. He had a fleeting resemblance to ... who?

  She couldn’t place it, but she’d seen that face before. His name was Ebenezer Leigh. There was a catalogue at the far end of the room that might tell her more about Ebenezer. She walked round the corner of the L to the catalogue when she heard the floorboards creak. Someone had come into the gallery.

  Isabelle looked round the corner. Frank Leigh was standing, pocket watch in hand, in the middle of the room. She was about to say hello, when she suddenly noticed the tension in his stance. Feeling like an intruder, she drew back.

  The door midway along the gallery opened and Mary Hawker came in. Her shoulders sagged in relief as she saw Frank. She crossed to him quickly and put her hands on his arms.

  ‘Oh, my dear, thank heavens you’re here. Frank, I’m worried.’

  My dear? thought Isabelle. That was very friendly.

  She darted a look up and down the gallery. ‘We’re alone, aren’t we? I’m sure Evie’s door opened as I went past.’

  ‘Relax,’ Frank said soothingly. ‘Evie’s picking out what to wear for dinner. She won’t be ready for ages. No one comes up here at this time of day.’ He held her hands between his. ‘Calm down, Mary. What on earth is it?’

  At this point Isabelle’s conscience won over her curiosity. She was about to tactfully cough and make enough noise for Frank Leigh and Mary Hawker to stand a decent distance apart before she came round the corner, when Mrs Hawker’s next remark drew her up sharp.

  ‘You must get rid of Major Haldean, Frank. He’s dangerous. I overheard him talking to Wood. He’s going to get to the truth. He’s a clever man. Dangerously clever.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ Frank Leigh’s voice was sharp with apprehension and then he gave a very unconvincing laugh. ‘Nonsense. Why should the truth be dangerous?’

  Mary Hawker gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Frank! Don’t pretend you don’t understand. This is murder we’re talking about. I don’t blame you but this is murder.’

  Isabelle held her breath.

  Frank Leigh choked. ‘I ... I didn’t know you knew.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, Frank. How on earth could I not know? Why on earth did you ask Major Haldean here?’

  ‘Celia was all for it,’ muttered Frank. ‘What could I say? I couldn’t refuse. That’d look far too fishy. It’ll be all right, Mary. Haldean’s not as clever as you think. After all, he thinks it was Sandy Paxton who was murdered on the train. I just can’t believe it.’

  Mary Hawker gave a snort of impatience. ‘I don’t care about the man on the train. He’s not important. I’m telling you, Frank, Major Haldean is dangerous. You have to get rid of him.’ She paused and added, with an odd inflection in her voice, ‘You have to get rid of Wood, too.’

  It was a few moments before Frank Leigh replied and then he said very quietly, ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You must!’ Mrs Hawker spoke rapidly and Isabelle could tell she was close to tears. ‘If Major Haldean finds out about him ... I care about you. You’re running your head into a noose. You have to act, Frank.’ She gave a little, breathless gulp. ‘I ... I care. You don’t know how much I care.’ Her voice wavered and she broke into sobs.

  Isabelle risked another swift glance round the corner. Frank Leigh, his arms round Mary Hawker, was holding her close. Isabelle drew back again, but as she did, a tiny movement from the door to the stairs caught her eye. She could see a flash of brilliant scarlet in the thin crack of the open door, then it swung closed very quietly and the catch clicked into place. Neither Frank Leigh or Mary Hawker heard the snick of the door.

  ‘Chin up,’ said Frank Leigh softly. ‘Courage, my dear. We have to act naturally at dinner. Don’t let anyone guess there’s anything wrong.’

  ‘I won’t.’ When she spoke again, her voice was steadier. ‘Promise me you’ll act, Frank.’

  Frank Leigh took a deep breath. ‘I’ll do what I think is best. Trust me, Mary. Now, off you go.’

  Isabelle heard her footsteps on the oak boards then, after a short time, Frank Leigh sighed heavily and left in his turn.

  Isabelle waited for quite a while before she walked out into the gallery. She opened the door to the staircase where she’d seen that tell-tale flash of scarlet. Lingering in the doorway was the whiff of a distinctive, expensive scent.

  Both the scent and the colour belonged to Evie Leigh. What had she made of the scene in the gallery?

  ‘Mrs Hawker wants to get rid of you,’ said Isabelle. She was in Jack’s room. ‘She was frightened, Jack. She’s obviously head over heels about Mr Leigh. I think she’d do anything to protect him.’

  Jack, his hands moving without any conscious thought, carried on dressing for dinner. ‘And Evie Leigh was listening, you say? I wonder what she made of it?’

  ‘It’s not Evie Leigh I’m worried about, Jack, it’s you. Mary Hawker wants Mr Leigh to get rid of you. She’s dangerous.’

  Jack automatically adjusted his braces and picked up his white tie. ‘Are you sure, Belle?’

  ‘After what I heard her say to Mr Leigh? He’s a murderer, Jack. He admitted as much.’

  ‘But dammit, Belle, who’s he murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know! Mrs Paxton, maybe? After all, he thought he was going to inherit the sapphires.’

  ‘He can’t have murdered Mrs Paxton. Everyone, apart from Frank Leigh, believes that Napier bumped her off. If Frank Leigh had murdered Mrs Paxton, he’d hardly go round telling the world that Napier’s innocent.’

  ‘Couldn’t it be a ploy to make us believe he’s innocent?’

  ‘But no one ever dreamt he was guilty!’

  ‘What about Sandy Paxton, then? The man on the train, I mean? No, hang on, that won’t work. Mr Leigh doesn’t think it was Sandy Paxton,’ she added in a disappointed voice. ‘Actually,’ she said, brightening, ‘that doesn’t matter, does it? He can still have killed him, no matter who he thought he was.’

  ‘We’d worked out that the Vicar was the murderer, Belle. You can’t honestly tell me you believe Frank Leigh’s the Vicar. That’s too goofy for words.’

  ‘I don’t really believe it, I suppose,’ said Isabelle, wrinkling her nose. ‘I was just trying to think of who it could be.’

  Jack turned to the mirror and knotted his tie with an irritated frown, then his hands slowed. ‘Wood thinks Mrs Paxton’s servants have been murdered.’

  ‘The servants? Why on earth should anyone kill them?’

  ‘God knows. Because they knew too much, I suppose. If th
ey do know anything, it has to be about Napier, but what is anyone’s guess. And why pick them off one by one? It just doesn’t stack up.’

  ‘Who then?’ said Isabelle in frustration. ‘Mr Leigh admitted to murder, Jack. Mrs Hawker said he was running his head into a noose. He didn’t contradict her. What is it about Wood that she’s so afraid of you finding out? Could Wood have murdered someone, perhaps?’

  ‘Blimey, Belle, they can’t all be murderers.’

  ‘Well, what then? Mr Leigh employed Wood to prove Terence Napier was innocent, so Wood’s done a fair old bit of digging around. Could it be something Wood’s found out or is going to find out?’

  ‘From what you said, it sounded more as if I was going to find out something about Wood.’

  ‘Yes ...’ Isabelle sat up straight in her chair. ‘Jack! I’ve got it! Wood isn’t Wood at all!’ Her eyes shone with the light of discovery. ‘He’s Terence Napier. Who would Napier turn to if he’s been hunted by the police? Mr Leigh, of course ...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘What are you grinning at me like that for?’

  ‘I thought of that,’ said Jack with a laugh. ‘It’s obvious. Wood can’t be Napier. He went to Topfordham and had a long talk to the Mountfords. They’d have recognised him.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they would,’ said Isabelle with a frustrated sigh. ‘But if that’s not it, Jack, what is it?’

  ‘I’m dammed if I know,’ said Jack, shrugging on his coat. ‘Mrs Hawker seems very certain I’m on the edge of the truth. I only wish I was.’

  Isabelle shuddered. ‘Mrs Hawker’s not to be trusted, Jack.’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘She’s a very determined woman and I’d say she’s really stuck on Mr Leigh.’

  ‘That sounds as if Evie Leigh had better watch out.’

  ‘So she should. Don’t underestimate Mrs Hawker, Jack. You’re in danger.’

  Jack straightened his waistcoat and drew his breath in. ‘All right. I’ll be on my guard.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Let’s go down to dinner.’

  It was something of a relief when dinner, a wearily drawn out meal of soup, fish, an entrée of beef, roast duck, strawberry jelly and a savoury of dressed prawns and fruit, was over. Mary Hawker was clearly on edge and Evie Leigh seemed ill at ease. She was, Isabelle noted, wearing a brilliant scarlet beaded shawl. She hadn’t been mistaken about the scent, either.

  Frank Leigh was clearly under a strain and Celia had evidently picked up the tension round the table. The only ones who seemed completely unaffected were Leonard Duggleby, who chatted about the cave throughout the meal, and Aloysius Wood, who, possessed of a very keen appetite, was heartily appreciative of the food.

  When the ladies left, even Wood’s breezy cheerfulness suffered a dent in the face of Frank Leigh’s brooding silence. Jack drank his port as if it were a patent medicine instead of a pleasure and greeted the suggestion that they should join the ladies with rather more enthusiasm than was polite.

  In the drawing room, Celia had turned on the wireless, Evie Leigh was flicking though a magazine and Isabelle was making very stiff conversation with Mary Hawker.

  ‘I haven’t got anything out of Mrs Hawker,’ said Isabelle in a whisper as Jack, coffee in hand, sat down beside her. ‘She’s being very County. Dogs, gardens and Sales of Work. Celia’s on edge and Mrs Leigh’s bored witless. I don’t blame her.’

  The programme of dance music from the Savoy came to an end and Celia switched off the wireless. ‘Let’s do something,’ she said to the company in general.

  ‘All right,’ said Frank Leigh after a pause. He looked round the room and made an obvious effort. ‘We’ve got two bridge fours. What about bridge?’

  ‘Good idea,’ began Mary Hawker, but she was interrupted by a yawn from Evie.

  ‘Not bridge, darling. I always get into trouble for overcalling and I find it fearfully hard to remember who’s bid what.’

  ‘The art is to distinguish between a hand with winning cards and a hand without losing cards,’ said Mary Hawker, tartly. She was an excellent bridge player.

  ‘But it takes so much thought,’ complained Evie, ‘and everyone always ticks me off for not paying enough attention. Shall we play a round game? Or Halma, perhaps? Frank?’

  ‘Not for me, my dear,’ said Frank with a dismissive laugh. ‘Beastly game. I think I’ll take a turn on the terrace.’

  ‘Don’t, Dad,’ said Celia quickly. ‘I’ve got an idea.’ She cast a covert look at Duggleby and swallowed. ‘I wondered about table-turning.’

  Mary Hawker looked up alertly. ‘Table-turning, Celia? Are you serious, dear?’

  ‘Table turning?’ repeated Frank Leigh blankly. ‘What, you mean all holding hands and asking “Is anybody there?” Lot of damn nonsense. There’s other ways of passing the time.’

  Jack caught Isabelle’s eye and had to look away quickly. It was a way of passing the time that involved Celia sitting in the dark and holding hands with Leonard Duggleby, something that Isabelle had obviously figured out right away.

  Celia glanced at Leonard Duggleby and flushed. ‘It isn’t nonsense, Dad,’ she protested, turning to Mary Hawker for support. ‘You don’t think it’s nonsense, do you?’

  ‘Certainly not, Celia, but it mustn’t be approached in a frivolous manner.’

  ‘I’m not being frivolous,’ said Celia, clasping her hands together earnestly. ‘We all felt something, a feeling, a presence, call it what you like, in the cave this morning. Is there anything there?’

  ‘Dash it, Celia, of course there isn’t,’ snorted her father.

  ‘But if there is – well, shouldn’t we find out?’ She paused, tracing an arabesque with her finger around the embroidery on her dress, then looked appealingly at Duggleby. ‘You must want to know more about the cave. You said as much earlier on.’

  ‘Well, I ...’ prevaricated Duggleby, then swallowed. ‘Of course I do.’

  Celia smiled encouragingly. ‘Come on, everyone. You’ll join in, won’t you, Aunt Mary? You’ve been to lots of séances,

  I know.’

  Frank Leigh stared at her and Mary Hawker coloured. ‘I sometimes have sittings with Deirdre and Lucia Trelawney in the village. You know the Trelawneys, Frank. Very sincere, the pair of them. I’ve seen some funny things,’ she said gruffly. ‘Odd things, I mean, that I can’t explain. Everyone must have done table-turning at some time,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Yes, on a winter’s afternoon when there’s nothing much else to do,’ agreed Frank. ‘I usually take myself off with a newspaper and leave the ladies to it. Evie, what about you?’

  ‘I suppose Evie thinks it’s too stupid for words,’ broke in Mary Hawker.

  Evie’s eyes widened. ‘I’d rather you didn’t decide my opinions for me, Mary, darling.’ She looked at Celia as if she’d just performed some difficult party trick, then gave an unexpected laugh. ‘Why not?’ She looked around the room. ‘Mr Wood? Are you a believer in ghosts and spirits and things that go bump in the night?’

  ‘Me?’ said Wood with a smile. ‘Not really. I’ve done table-turning but I’ve never seen anything that can’t be put down to shoving.’

  ‘That would be quite wrong,’ said Celia severely. ‘I hope no one is going to shove. I want to see what we can find out about the cave.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘I feel as if I’ve been blind. All these years I’ve taken it for granted and yet here, here on our very doorstep, are wonderful things waiting to be discovered.’ She shot Duggleby a succulent look. ‘All I needed was someone to show me the way.’

  ‘I ... er ... yes,’ agreed Duggleby, then added, in a worried way, ‘I must confess I’ve never actually sat in at a séance before. What do we actually do?’

  ‘We sit round a table and everyone holds hands. It’s got to be in the dark, of course.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Mary Hawker. ‘The spirits cannot tolerate the harsh rays of artificial light. Then, when everyone’s settled, we invite a spirit guide to join us.’ She cleared her throat awkwardly. ‘When I sit
with the Trelawneys, my guide is Anatenzel, an Aztec princess. She was betrothed against her will to an Aztec prince but she was cast out by her people when she fell in love with a Spanish Conquistador. He only pretended to love her because he thought she had vast amounts of Aztec treasure. When he found she was penniless, he cast her off and she was murdered by the prince, who was maddened by love for her. Ever since she has tried to help poor souls who might find themselves on the wrong path.’

  ‘Gosh,’ muttered Jack. He looked at Mrs Hawker with new respect. With a lurid imagination like that, she could make a packet writing for the popular magazines. He didn’t know if she was a dangerous woman, as Belle had maintained, but he marvelled at the yearning for romance concealed by that gruff exterior.

  ‘We need a table, dear,’ continued Mrs Hawker, looking at Celia. ‘What about the card-table?’ she asked, indicating the lightweight green-baize card table.

  ‘Can’t we sit by the window?’ asked Duggleby, pointing to the very solid circular oak table positioned by the bay of the window looking out onto the terrace. ‘That’ll do, won’t it? There’s more room.’

  ‘No one will be able to shove that table around,’ muttered Isabelle to Jack. ‘He is new to this, isn’t he?

  A discussion about the relative merits of the two tables ensued.

  Frank Leigh gave the casting vote to the oak table on the grounds that if he was going to engage in complete tomfoolery, he was jolly well going to sit in comfort while he did it.

  ‘Are you joining in?’ Isabelle asked Jack.

  Jack clicked his tongue. ‘I’m not sure. As a good Catholic I’m not meant to dabble in Spiritualism.’

  Isabelle’s eyes sparkled. ‘You don’t think there’s going to be any, do you?’

  ‘I can’t say I do. What if I take notes? Although that’s going to be difficult in the dark.’

  Celia was appealed to. Although disappointed Jack wasn’t going to join in, she suggested he sat under the small reading lamp the other side of the room from the table, where the light wouldn’t disturb them.