Blood From a Stone

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘The setting’s made a huge difference,’ said Duggleby. ‘I’d have never recognised them as the same stones I found on the train.’ He held out his hand and, with a nod from Evie Leigh, Jack passed them to him.

  ‘Absolutely wonderful,’ said Duggleby, but his voice was puzzled. He weighed the necklace in his hands and, as he did so, his forehead creased in a frown. ‘They even feel different to the stones I saw.’

  Duggleby turned to the standard lamp to look at the necklace better, his back to the room. He held the sapphires up to the light and then, very quickly, held the necklace up to his mouth. Jack saw his shoulders grow rigid. ‘Mrs Leigh,’ he said in a strained voice, ‘these stones are fake.’

  Evie gaped at him.

  ‘Fake?’ repeated Frank Leigh brusquely. ‘What the devil d’you mean?’

  Duggleby swallowed hard. ‘They’re fake.’ There was no doubting his sincerity or his shock.

  ‘Absolute poppycock!’ snarled Frank Leigh.

  Evie Leigh reached out to Duggleby, staring into his eyes. ‘Are you sure?’ He nodded dumbly. She gave a little hissing cry, then clasped her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide.

  ‘Why do you think they’re fake?’ demanded Jack, raising his voice over Frank Leigh’s protests.

  ‘They feel wrong,’ said Duggleby. ‘They look all right but they’re all wrong. They’re warm when you put them to your lips. Real stones are cold. These are nothing but paste.’

  ‘I think you’re taking a dickens of a lot upon yourself, young man,’ said Frank Leigh. ‘Those stones aren’t fake.’

  Evie reached out for the necklace like someone in a trance. ‘Fake?’ Duggleby nodded once more. Evie was suddenly galvanised into life. ‘Fake!’ she screeched. ‘My necklace has been stolen! Stolen, I tell you! Stolen by somebody in this house.’ She rounded on Celia. ‘Was it you?’

  ‘Evie!’ protested Frank, shocked.

  ‘I ... I never ...’ stammered Celia.

  ‘You wanted them. You thought they should be yours.’

  ‘So what?’ bit back Celia. ‘It’s the truth. That will of Aunt Constance’s was wicked. The sapphires should be mine, but I didn’t steal them.’ She drew back her shoulders and met her stepmother’s eyes with cold dignity. Jack had rarely admired her more than he did at that moment. ‘I’m no thief. Besides that,’ she added, rather spoiling the effect, ‘I wouldn’t know how to steal them, even if I wanted to.’

  Evie looked at her icily. ‘You could have arranged things with the jewellers.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Evie, stop this nonsense now!’ roared Frank Leigh. ‘Those jewels are real.’ He glared at Duggleby. ‘Duggleby’s made a mistake, that’s all. An honest mistake, I don’t doubt, but a mistake all the same.’

  Mary Hawker cleared her throat. ‘Could Mrs Paxton have sold the originals and had paste copies made? That’s easier to believe than any of us could’ve stolen them.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Hawker,’ said Jack. ‘It’s not a bad idea but it’s a wash-out, I’m afraid. Inspector Rackham had the necklace valued after it was found on the train. Those stones were the real McCoy.’

  ‘Of course they were,’ snapped Evie, gripping the back of the chair. ‘My sapphires have been stolen! Someone’s guilty.’

  Celia put her hand to her mouth with a cry. ‘Guilty!’ She stared at Mrs Hawker. ‘You said blood meant guilt, didn’t you? That’s what the blood meant, the blood on Mr Wood’s hands. That’s what the spirit was telling us. Mr Wood’s guilty. He’s guilty of stealing the sapphires.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ thundered Frank Leigh. ‘No one’s guilty of stealing anything. I’m damned if I going to let a man be accused because of some tom-fool jiggery-pokery. Celia, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!’

  Celia faced her father, her chin very determined. ‘Dad, please! Who is Mr Wood? We know nothing about him.’

  ‘He’s my guest,’ said Frank Leigh, speaking very stiffly. ‘He might be an employee, but he’s my guest and I will not have him accused in this disgraceful fashion, especially when he’s not here to defend himself.’

  ‘Then I’ll go and fetch him,’ said Celia.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jack quickly.

  ‘So will I,’ offered Isabelle.

  ‘No,’ said Evie quickly. ‘We need the police. Leave Wood exactly where he is until they arrive. Celia, stay where you are.’

  ‘I’ll go exactly where I please,’ said Celia in a dangerous voice.

  Evie Leigh turned to her husband. ‘Frank! We need the police.’

  Frank Leigh bristled with fury. ‘Of course we don’t. Those stones are real and that’s the end of it. You go and fetch Wood if you like, Celia. I’ll have no more of this damned nonsense.’

  ‘I’m going,’ said Celia abruptly. ‘You say Wood locked himself in, Dad? I’ll take the spare key.’

  Ignoring the row that was breaking out between Evie and her father, she turned and marched out of the room, Isabelle and Jack following.

  ‘Can you believe that woman?’ said Celia through gritted teeth, as she seized the key from the study drawer and led the way out of the house. ‘Imagine Evie telling me – me! – I took her sapphires. How dare she! It’s obvious Wood’s guilty.’

  ‘Why are you so certain?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Who else can it be?’ demanded Celia rhetorically, storming off across the lawn.

  ‘She’s right, you know,’ said Isabelle to Jack as they hurried after her. ‘There simply isn’t anyone else. I don’t know what Mrs Hawker’s up to, but I can’t see her stealing jewels. The only other stranger is Mr Duggleby and it can’t be him, surely?’

  ‘No, it can’t,’ agreed Jack. ‘He was knocked sideways when he realised the stones were false. He wasn’t pretending, I’d swear to it.’

  ‘Jack, could Wood have arranged the séance, d’you think? He might want the time to escape.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jack doubtfully. ‘I can’t see why, though. He could’ve pushed off just as easily after we’d all gone to bed. Buck up, Belle. I don’t want Celia facing Wood alone.’

  They caught up with Celia as she reached the slope up to the temple. Celia had retreated into soundless fury. Jack and Isabelle swapped glances and decided against saying anything.

  Her heels clicking on the white stone floor of the temple, Celia strode across to the cedarwood door, when Jack caught her arm.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ He sniffed the air. ‘Can’t you smell something?’

  ‘It’s smoke,’ said Isabelle. She stepped back from the cedarwood door in alarm. ‘It’s coming under the door.’

  ‘Fire!’ said Celia, her voice a gasp. ‘I knew it! We were warned in the séance! It’s a fire!’

  Jack took the key and, unlocking the door, pushed it open.

  A haze of acrid wood smoke billowed out at them and, from deep within the smoky darkness, came the crackle and hiss of fire.

  Jack stepped back involuntarily, coughing. Already the columns of the temple, bright in the moonlight, looked as if they were clutched by fingers of drifting mist.

  He seized a torch from the tin box under the bench and shone it down the passage. The passage was full of billowing, shifting smoke, reflecting the torchlight back in grey clouds.

  For a few fractions of a second, Jack hesitated. Was Wood in the cave? Could he really have stolen the sapphires and started the fire to cover his getaway? He shook his head impatiently.

  ‘Stay there, girls,’ he called and, eyes throbbing from the smoke, plunged in. If Wood isn’t in here, I’ll kill him, he thought grimly.

  He couldn’t see a thing. His torchlight showed only shifting grey masses of smoke. He reached out and found the rocky wall by touch, then groped his way forward until he reached the spring. He cupped some water in his hands and splashed his face, feeling the instant relief to his eyes. He soaked his handkerchief in the water and, tying it round his mouth and nose, stumbled forward.

  A dull flicker of flame reflected on t
he rocky walls beyond. A few steps more, then the smoke eddied and he had a brief glimpse of the entrance to the cave. As he saw it, he felt and heard it, a wall of black and red heat, deafening him with the crackle and tear of fire.

  The wooden beams at the entrance were on fire. In the smoke-filled light of the leaping flames, he saw some of the beams had collapsed. He fell back as another beam fell, sending up shrapnel of burning embers.

  There was nothing he could do. The entrance was completely blocked.

  He stumbled his way back along the passage, lungs bursting for air. He staggered rather than walked back out into the temple. He saw Isabelle and Celia, their faces white and frightened in the moonlight, then sank onto the marble floor, chest heaving. The open air, smoke-laden as it was, felt wonderful.

  Isabelle put an arm round his shoulders. ‘Jack?’

  Jack shook his head wearily and slowly got to his knees. ‘The entrance is gone,’ he managed to say between fits of coughing. ‘Can’t get through.’ He sat back then, with Isabelle’s help, hauled himself onto one of the marble benches. ‘Whew!’

  He buried his face in his hands, thinking furiously. ‘Celia, is there another way into the cave?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, there isn’t.’

  There had to be a way. There was something Frank Leigh had said ... That was it!

  ‘What about the spring? Your father said there was a well. If I climb down the well, can I get into the cave along the stream?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘I suppose so, but ...’

  ‘Jack, you can’t!’ protested Isabelle.

  ‘I’ve got to try. Belle, get back to the house as quick as you can. We need help. Please, Belle, hurry!’

  Isabelle looked at his determined face, then turned on her heel and ran.

  Jack looked at Celia. ‘Show me the way. Come on!’

  With Celia leading, they plunged into the woods behind the temple, scrambling their way down the rough path, so the mound of Breagan Stump lay between them and the house, coming out onto a darkened, tree-shadowed lawn. The well was in the shadows of the trees, a low, circular, brick-built wall over which stood the roof, pulley and winding gear.

  Holding onto the roof of the well, Jack climbed on the wall, shining the torch into the uninviting blackness. He could hear the hollow gurgle of water from far below.

  ‘You can’t do it, Jack,’ said Celia. ‘It’s crazy.’

  Jack shushed her impatiently. ‘Let me think.’

  He made a mental note of the direction of the cave from the well. As the stream flowed it would be what? Two hundred yards? Three? About that.

  The bucket, a stout wooden construction, was attached to a hook. He glanced at the pulley. There was a ratchet – you’d need that to draw the heavy bucket full of water up from the depths – but he didn’t fancy trusting himself to it. If the ratchet broke while he was descending, clinging onto the rope, he’d be hurled to his death.

  No. He climbed down and released the ratchet. The spindle whirled, the rope paid out and the bucket creaked down and then splashed into the dark circle of water far below.

  ‘You can’t go down there,’ said Celia, her voice wavering with fright.

  He seized the rope in both hands, pulled it out to its furthest extent and grinned encouragingly at her. ‘I’ll be fine!’

  He swung himself over the well and started to climb down.

  ‘I’m still fine!’ he called with a cheerfulness he certainly didn’t feel to the anxious face peering down at him.

  He wasn’t fine, exactly, but the rope was thick and gave a good handhold. He only wished he was wearing rubber soled-shoes with a proper grip, not his dress shoes with their smooth leather soles.

  The well must have been forty feet deep. He came to the surface of the water and looked up once more at the dim circle of starlight above his head.

  ‘Here goes!’ he shouted. Keeping firm hold of the rope, he let himself down into the water. It came over his knees and was bitterly cold, but the bed of the stream, although uneven, was firm, scoured by the swiftly flowing water.

  On either side of him were the rough semicircles of the tunnel, glistening with damp in the torchlight. The passage was about four feet high and he had to go against the flow of the stream.

  The water flowing past him was unbelievably cold but his main fear, that the tunnel would become too low for him to get through, was unjustified. It had been cut from the chalk, earth and clay before the Georgians had changed its course and could have taken a far greater volume of water. He had to squeeze round tree roots, over stones and cover a lot of ground crawling forward on his stomach, his torch rammed into his coat collar, but it was never impassable.

  A haze of eye-stinging smoke on the rippling water told him he was nearly there. He took precious seconds to tie his handkerchief round his face before crawling forward once more, then he crawled into a bank of thick, choking smoke.

  His torch, which had showed gleaming stone, dull clay and hanging roots, showed nothing but moving greyness. He shut his eyes and managed to breathe by keeping his face close to the numbing coldness of the water.

  The smoke thinned and, with a surging sense of relief, he reached out to touch the roof above his head. His hand met empty air. He was out of the tunnel! In a few moments he heaved himself out into the cave and stood upright.

  The heat was ferocious. At the entrance of the cave, looming through the grey shifting smoke, the fallen beams of the entrance glowed red beneath the black of the mass of charred timbers. He tried to call Wood’s name but was racked by a fit of coughing.

  The smoke was thinner near the ground and he dropped to his knees. With the altar behind him, he kept close to the ground, half-crouching, half-crawling into the cave. There was a creak and a crash and another roof timber split and fell, sending up showers of brilliant embers.

  The smoke eddied and for a few precious seconds the torchlight picked out the huddled body of a man lying face-down, one arm outstretched.

  There he was! Wood was lying at the side of the cave, near the wooden grave-markers.

  Jack felt a surge of relief. He hadn’t realised, until that moment, how the thought that Wood might not be in the cave had wormed away at his courage.

  He flung himself across the floor of the cave, but before he could reach Wood, the smoke billowed in again and he was blinded once more. On his hands and knees and working by touch alone, he managed to find Wood’s body. He reached out and, finding Wood’s neck more by luck than judgement, felt the faint flutter of life in his throat. Retching for breath, he put his hands under the man’s shoulders and heaved him across the floor. Above him, there was a hideous creaking and a dull haze of flame. An ominous rain of burning splinters scattered the ground. Another timber was going!

  Grunting slightly, with Wood a dead weight in his arms, he came away from the wall, keeping his elbow against the rock for guidance. His knee went from under him and he fell awkwardly to one side. He’d knelt on the charred wooden covers of the old graves and they had crumbled under his weight. He jerked himself back onto the solid floor of the cave, then stopped, an ice-cold finger of fear on his spine.

  There was a body in the grave.

  THIRTEEN

  With a yell, Jack staggered backwards. He couldn’t help it but it was the worst thing he could have done. He missed his footing completely, rolling against the upright timber supporting the roof beam. The shower of brilliant embers became a rain.

  With strength born of complete desperation, Jack grabbed hold of Wood. He hauled him against the rocky wall and, sheltering him with his body, flattened himself against the stones as, with a sound as if a giant had ripped a canvas sail, the beam collapsed.

  The sound seemed to go on forever. With what seemed like complete detachment, Jack heard the hiss and smelt the singeing of cloth as the shards of burning timber caught at his sodden clothes.

  Then, at long last, came silence. In the black, fire-speckled darkness of the cave, he wa
sn’t sure if it was deafness or absence of noise. There was an incredible pressure on the small of his back. He moved slightly and the scrape of his shoe against rock reassured him. Other noises started to filter in. More creaking and snapping, more hissing and crackling as the fire licked lazily around what was left of the wood in the cave.

  With the side of his face pressed hard against the gritty roughness of the rock, Jack really only knew he was alive. That seemed to take up all his thoughts, but he knew he must think. It seemed very hard to join ideas together. He had to get out, to get away from falling timbers. There were no timbers over the spring. He had to take Wood to the spring.

  Wearily he dug his elbows into the ground, to drag himself out from under the fallen earth and timber. He couldn’t move! Keeping his rising fear screwed down, he tried again. The pressure in his back jagged into white splinters of pain. Again he tried, and again the pain flared. A paroxysm of coughing shook him. Exhausted, he lay still, gulping the smoke-filled air.

  There was silence, broken by the occasional sharp crack and flump of falling burnt wood, the high, cold sound of the spring and the rasp of his breathing.

  With gritted teeth he tried a third time and fell back, chest heaving with the effort. He stretched his arms wide in front of him and tried to pull himself free, but even though the muscles in his arms and shoulders were rigid with effort, he couldn’t move.

  He craned his neck – it was horribly awkward – trying to see over his shoulder. The fire had died down, with just the odd spurt of flame flaring from the fallen timbers. The blinding whiteness of the fire faded to a steady glow of red under the blackness. The roof timber had fallen across the mound of earth and rubble, pinning him down. He could see the long streak of red, segmented into squares of blackened ash. His stomach turned over. The

  fire was advancing up the timber, inch by lazy, lethal, inch and there was absolutely nothing he could do. When that red streak reached him and Wood, they would be slowly burned to death. It was as simple and brutal as that.

  Maybe it was the pain from his back or the despair that gripped him, but Jack felt himself drifting away. He knew Wood lay beside him, completely unconscious, and could feel the rock and grit of the earthen floor against his face, but for what must have been minutes, he was incapable of action. He shook his head, trying to bring himself round and snatched another glance over his shoulder. The fire had advanced visibly along the beam.