The Murder Stone Page 4

  Dearest Grandpapa,

  I am sorry that I hit Simon so hard. I hope he is feeling better. But he was very mean to Arabella, and I wanted him to stop teasing me. I shall beg his pardon at dinner, for I truly didn’t intend to hurt him. But I will not forgive him until he begs mine as well . . .

  Simon had buried her favorite doll, telling her that it had died on the Murder Stone, a victim of whatever war he was currently waging in the gardens.

  Peter was right. It had been a glorious childhood in many respects. Francesca and the cousins had been orphaned too young to mourn long for what they had lost. Instead, under Francis Hatton’s watchful, caring eye, the six children had made their own family, and basked in laughter and affection.

  Francesca turned to the handful of letters from her cousins, each boy’s personality shining through the words.

  Simon, the warrior. Robin, the pragmatist. Peter, the engineer. Freddy, the musician. Harry, the charmer.

  Harry had written—when all five were in trouble for painting the dog red to stand in for a Highland deer—

  Dear Grandpapa,

  We did not mean to make Napoleum so unhappy. But we were in desperate need of a deer to hunt, and Robin refused to play the part. Cesca was already angry at us for dunking her for a witch into the pond. Simon had made the best bows I have ever seen, and Peter found raven feathers to fletch the arrows, and it would have been such a waste not to have a deer. We would never have hurt him! Freddy was Walter Scott and could say his lines by heart, and you would have been very proud of him. I beg your pardon on behalf of all of us, and hope we shall be allowed to come to tea after all. We shall each save a treat for Napoleum, so that he will know that we are very very sorry . . .

  She had loved them so dearly—

  Putting aside the letters, she searched through the remaining drawers with some care, hoping to find—what?

  Certainly not proof of murder, but something that would explain to her why the man Leighton had accused her grandfather of such a thing. But she couldn’t think what there might be. Hardly a confession! Correspondence, perhaps—

  But there was nothing to enlighten her. Not even a passing reference to the Leightons. No letters marked “To be opened after my death.” No cuttings from a London newspaper about a long-ago disappearance. Not even a scrap of paper about the property in Somerset—or Essex. Nothing . . .

  Had Francis Hatton had some vague warning of his death—and culled the contents of his desk before he was felled by the stroke? It looked that way.

  Had he simply overlooked the bitter letter in Branscombe’s document box? Or trusted that she would open it and take its warning to heart? But how could she, not knowing what or who it referred to?

  She closed the desk, lifted the volume of Latin poetry, and sat in the chair where her grandfather had often sat. “Why did you tell me nothing of this business?” she asked into the silence. “Who is this man Leighton? Who wrote that letter cursing you? And why am I to travel all the way to Scotland to bury that silly stone from the garden? Why did you own other houses and never say a word to me about either of them? I don’t understand—”

  But it was too late for her grandfather to answer. . . .

  CHAPTER 5

  Precisely as the tall clock in the hall struck eleven the next morning, the door knocker sounded through the house like a death knell.

  Mrs. Lane hurried from the kitchen, where she had been preparing Francesca’s luncheon, and opened it to Richard Leighton, who stepped into the hall in a swirl of rain.

  His hat and his coat were drenched, and his leather gloves, wet from handling the reins, must have felt like eelskin under her fingers. Francesca saw Mrs. Lane hold them with distaste, like a bit of meat gone off.

  “Miss Hatton will receive you in the sitting room, sir. If you’ll follow me.”

  She led the way, her head held stiffly as if she was anxious that he should say nothing to upset Miss Francesca. That morning she had already given Francesca her opinion that murder was not something decent people had anything to do with. Indeed, she knew better than most that Mr. Hatton had been a good and God-fearing man all his life.

  Watching from the first landing, where it turned and no one would think to look up and find her, Francesca could read indignation in the set of Mrs. Lane’s shoulders.

  The housekeeper settled the visitor in the small sitting room, and then came to the foot of the stairs, where Francesca could see her.

  Francesca walked down the steps and went into the sitting room herself. Leighton was standing there as if he owned it and she were the visitor with unpleasant business to discuss.

  His glance swept the paintings and the marble of the hearth, and then met the eyes of his hostess as she crossed to one of the rose chintz-covered chairs. There was hostility in his face.

  And a tiredness. She thought, considering him, that he had slept no better than she had. Possibly for a very long time.

  Francesca asked him to be seated, but offered no other hospitality.

  “Before we begin,” she said, with coolness, “I want to make it clear that I have allowed this visit solely out of courtesy, and not because I have any reason to believe I can help you in your search. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand.” He listened to the fire for a moment and then went on in measured tones, as if detaching himself from what he had to say. But Francesca, watching his eyes, could glimpse a little of what seethed just below the surface. “My mother has been missing since I was a child. My grandfather managed somehow to live with that grief without the satisfaction of knowing how she died—or why—or where she may lie buried. My father eventually moved on, married again, and has been reasonably happy. But the anxiety is always there. For all of us. My family has a right, I think, to want these questions finally answered. When I saw the obituary in the Times, I believed that there was no reason now why the past can’t be set straight. Privately, to my family’s satisfaction. I’ve come to ask you to tell me what you know.”

  “First of all, I’ve never heard the name Leighton spoken in this house,” she answered truthfully. “And I can’t think why you believe my grandfather had a hand in your mother’s disappearance, much less her death! That was—by your own admission—years ago. I’m not sure I had even been born! How would I know what may have happened? How could you know?”

  “My grandfather is Alasdair Murchadch MacPherson. Her name was Victoria Alice Woodward MacPherson. Do you recognize either of those?”

  “I’ve never heard the name MacPherson in any connection,” Francesca responded firmly. “Is your grandfather Scottish?”

  “His forebears came from Scotland. What has that to say to anything?”

  She couldn’t tell him that she had become acutely aware of certain places in the last twenty-four hours: Somerset, Essex—even Scotland. Instead she asked, “It might help if you told me exactly what became of your mother. Why should you believe she was murdered? It’s hardly a common thing, is it, to have a murder in the family!”

  “She walked out of the house one spring day, intending to call on a friend on another street. And she was never seen again.”

  “Where was this house? Here in Devon?”

  “My parents lived in Sussex at the time, along the South Downs near the Dykes. When she failed to come back, my father couldn’t live there any longer. He sold the property and moved away. Away from the memories. I never forgot that house. I can describe it still—in every detail. I spent the next ten years waiting for her to return—I was more faithful than my father, you see. I didn’t believe she would willingly leave me.”

  The image of a small boy waiting by the window for the mother who had never come back slipped into Francesca’s mind. She, too, had waited for her own parents to come back . . . but they were dead. Far away in Canada.

  “What brought my grandfather to Sussex? And why should he abduct a woman he didn’t even know!”

  “But he did know her. He was a close friend
of my father’s. He was the best man when my parents were married. The two men had met abroad, in Italy, I think. My father was some years older than my mother—”

  Her grandfather had always been interested in Greece and Rome—his collection of books on the ancient world was exceptional. But why hadn’t he said anything about his travels there? Her thoughts leapt to the next question: Had her grandfather been intent on hiding any association with the Leightons? Certainly she would have sworn he’d never been abroad.

  Another secret—? Or was this man lying?

  Leighton reached into his breast pocket and took out a wallet. “I have their marriage lines, with your grandfather’s signature as a witness.” He passed a folded paper to Francesca.

  She unfolded it with a sense of unease and scanned the sheet. And, in truth, her grandfather’s fist was there—she recognized it at once. Next to it was the name Thomas Gerald Estes Leighton.

  The date indicated that Leighton’s parents had been married three years before Tristan and Margaret Hatton, her uncle and aunt. Therefore Leighton himself must be of an age with Simon, her eldest cousin. Perhaps a year or two older.

  Barely glancing at the rest of the document, she handed it back to Leighton, her mind still on her grandfather. “When was your father in Italy?”

  “He went abroad a number of times before he met my mother.”

  Which meant that Francis Hatton must have traveled after her grandmother’s death, during the years her own father was at Oxford.

  “I’m not here to talk about my father’s travels,” Leighton reminded her impatiently.

  “You were saying—my grandfather was a witness at your parents’ wedding. Surely there were dozens of other guests! You’re asking me to believe that alone of all those people, Francis Hatton came back some eight—nine—years later and carried off the bride? Why? Even if he’d wanted to marry Victoria, your father stood in the way! And to be frank, I don’t think he ever looked at another woman, after my grandmother’s death.”

  Yet how could she be so positive—given the other secrets she’d uncovered? It was like a quagmire, where the most dangerous places appeared to be the most solid.

  “I’ve never suggested he wished to marry her! We’re speaking of abduction and murder, not a grand passion—”

  He stopped abruptly, his face suddenly white, one hand gripping the arm of the chair with such force the knuckles were rigid. With her experience in the care of the wounded, Francesca could tell that he was in great pain, nearly gritting his teeth as he waited for it to subside.

  “What is it?” she asked quickly.

  Leighton cleared his throat. “Nothing. I was wounded not long ago. I’m sorry—where was I?” But his voice was tight with the agony.

  “Is there anything you need? Would standing help?”

  With an effort of will, he brought himself back to the matter at hand, ignoring her unwilling sympathy. “What sort of monster breaks up a family for his own amusement?”

  Francesca countered hotly, “Precisely my point! It’s a monster you ought to be searching for. Did no one consider a vagrant wandering on the Downs that day? And what about someone in the village with a history of instability? Or it could have been sheer jealousy, someone who secretly disliked your mother! Look there before you accuse my grandfather!”

  “The police were quite thorough. They even questioned my father—asking him what might have caused his friendship with Francis Hatton to turn malevolent. Who knows what lay between them? Francis Hatton had seen my mother no more than a handful of times. He’d put up no objection to the marriage. It’s true he seldom came to our house, but he continued to meet my father in London from time to time. What happened? Why, years later, did he come back into our lives and destroy them! It was as if he couldn’t get her out of his mind, and in the end, was willing to do anything—hurt anyone—to have her.”

  “But when did suspicion turn my grandfather’s way?”

  “Not until the next morning. At midnight—when Victoria still hadn’t come home—my grandfather telegraphed everyone he could think of to come and help in the search. Alasdair was desperate. Victoria was his only child. The village police were getting nowhere. In fact, they were waiting for someone to come down from London. Time was slipping away. My father was afraid for her—afraid she was hurt—lying helpless out there waiting for someone to find her.”

  “Where was your father that day? At home?”

  “He was at the British Museum giving a lecture on the Elgin Marbles—there was an American society of antiquities in London that week. He blamed himself for not being home to initiate an immediate search. She’d been gone nearly five hours when he learned what had happened. And nothing had been done. Of all the people Alasdair contacted, Francis Hatton alone refused to come.”

  “Where was the search centered? Why did it require so many people?”

  “The village at first. But it was my father’s opinion that when the friend didn’t answer her knock, Victoria had walked on toward the Downs. She often did that—she enjoyed being alone and sometimes she poked about among the Stone Age rings and barrows that clutter that part of Sussex. She’d come home in time for tea, content and somehow restored. And so there was no way of knowing how far she’d gone or in which direction—and it would take more than a handful of men to scour the countryside.”

  “Did my grandfather give any reason for not coming to help?”

  “When my grandfather pressed him, Hatton told Alasdair in no uncertain terms that he was a fool to think that Victoria was lost or had been spirited away. He was completely unsympathetic. My grandfather was shocked—angry.”

  “Hardly proof of guilt, if my grandfather knew anything about your mother! He must have believed she was able to take care of herself. You just told me she’d walked in the Downs any number of times.”

  “Or was he covering his own tracks? It appeared that he must have been watching her that day. Your grandfather’s carriage had been seen in Chichester that very morning, heading toward the Downs. He must have known she would go walking.”

  “Why should anyone in Chichester notice my grandfather’s carriage? Much less remember which day it was?” she retorted scornfully.

  “And,” he went on, this time ignoring the interruption, “late that afternoon a smith on the road near Upper Beeding had examined a mare’s hoof for a stone, and found none. The carriage’s driver refused to pay the man for his trouble, and the smith remembered that. There was a woman in the carriage, but she was heavily veiled. Still the smith’s description of the driver was quite good. Tall, dark-haired. Light eyes, blue or even green.”

  “It would be very unlike my grandfather not to pay the man for his time—he was always generous.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “All you’ve done is vent your wretchedness on my family! My grandfather is dead, he can’t defend himself! And you haven’t bothered to see his point of view! For instance, how do you know your father hadn’t offered rewards for any information? And this blacksmith—and the witness who saw the carriage—simply lied to claim the money.”

  Something in his face changed.

  “He did, in fact, didn’t he? Offer rewards?” she pressed. “Then your proof is no proof at all!”

  “There was the blood—”

  Blood. Her heart flipped and then settled back into a more or less normal rhythm.

  “What do you mean? Where?”

  “On the Downs. The searchers found Victoria’s shawl in a dip in the land, where she must have taken shelter—or attempted to hide. The fringe was black with blood. She was never seen again. No word, no body. Just silence and that stiff patch of blood on silk. My grandfather begged yours to come stay with my father, to offer what comfort he could—they’d been friends once. And he wouldn’t. It was as if Francis Hatton couldn’t face us. He never spoke or wrote to my father again. That hurt my father, I can tell you. If it wasn’t guilt that kept the man away, what was it, for God’s
sake? What made him behave with such callous disregard for an old friendship?”

  “For all I know,” she countered, “something your father had done could have driven your mother away. Or perhaps she went of her own free will, and my grandfather wanted no part in dragging her back again. Why should your family stand blameless? Grandfather was no fool—”

  “She left behind a small child. If my father had mistreated her, do you think she’d have willingly left her own son to face the frustrated brunt of his fury?”

  It was a telling argument, and Francesca had no answer for it.

  But he seemed to take her silence as disbelief, and his anger, never far from the surface, flared. He stood up, towering over her. There was menace in his face.

  “I was old enough to remember. My father did nothing to Victoria—nor to me. And I’ve questioned my grandfather again and again about your family. He swears it was something in Francis Hatton’s nature that was perverted, vicious. It’s your family that has a history of instability, not ours!”

  All at once she could see a different side of Richard Leighton. One she’d glimpsed on the drive—one he had striven to put aside this morning. This man was filled with a fierce and abiding anger that welled from the deep recesses of his soul. Francesca couldn’t be sure whether it was his own—or whether it was a reflection of childhood in a family torn apart by tragedy. But it was there—and very real.

  “You don’t have to look any further than Francis Hatton’s sons to see that there was something wrong in this house,” he went on before she could even frame an answer. “Both of them died young, in disgrace! Don’t ask me to search for evil in my background. My mother was brought up with joy and happiness. Search for the darkness where it began, in your own family. If you’re honest, you’ll find it!”

  Leighton crossed the room, and at the door said, with his back to her, as if struggling to regain his composure, “I shan’t let this matter rest. If you learn anything, you can reach me through the card I presented to your housekeeper yesterday.”