The Murder Stone Read online

  Mrs. Passmore replied, embarrassed, “Yes, it must have been Harry—of course! I could hardly tell the boys apart!”

  Calculating dates in her head, Francesca handed the photograph back to Mrs. Passmore and said, “He was not quite three when I came to River’s End.”

  “And a lively young lad. I asked Mr. Hatton how he would ever manage, with five grandsons and now a little granddaughter. I remember he was amused, and he said, ‘Do you know anything about ostriches?’ ‘Ostriches?’ I asked. ‘Why, they’re a large bird on the plains of East Africa. Their feathers are very fashionable.’ And he answered, ‘Yes, yes, but there’s more to the bird than feathers. The male goes around his territory collecting all the hatched young he can find. Never mind who fathered them, he takes them as his own and rears them. Guards them to the death, and few predators want to risk themselves within reach of his beak or his foot.’ I was astonished.”

  “He most certainly brought us up well. We were happy children.”

  “Yes. And now those lovely boys are gone! I wept at the news, you know. My deepest sympathies, my dear! It can’t have been an easy time for you or Mr. Hatton!” Mrs. Passmore paused, a moment of reverie. “I wonder—do you have any photographs—of your family, perhaps? Or of the boys growing up. I should really enjoy seeing how much they had changed!”

  “The only family photograph I know of is one of my parents on their wedding day. My grandfather always kept it by his bed—”

  Francesca stopped abruptly. She remembered it by the bed during her grandfather’s last illness, and it had surely been there the day after he died. But she had wandered into his room last night, lonely and at a loss for company again, and it hadn’t been there. Had it?

  Mrs. Passmore was saying, “He loved both of them, his sons. Poor Tristan and Edward! It was tragic that they died within such a short time of each other. But he had living reminders, didn’t he?” She glanced once more at the photograph in her hand before putting it away. “Children are such treasures. Mr. Passmore and I were never blessed in that way. But I hope in the course of time that you will be. It will carry your thoughts forward, into the future.”

  Francesca smiled. “I shall have to choose a husband first.”

  Mrs. Passmore rose, punctually on the quarter hour, as if she had measured the proper time for a morning call. Or concluded her business there.

  “Thank you for seeing me, my dear Miss Hatton. I’m quite devastated for you. I know your grandfather’s death has been a great hardship, coming as it did on the heels of losing your cousins.”

  As soon as Mrs. Passmore had stepped into the drive to walk back to the village, Francesca went upstairs to her grandfather’s bedroom.

  The photograph wasn’t there.

  She went to find Mrs. Lane.

  Every sign of yesterday’s funeral feast had vanished. The extra tables, the silver, the china. The last of the serviettes and tablecloths had been laundered, pressed, and folded. The extra food distributed to the poorer families, the house thoroughly aired. Francesca herself had polished the tea service and the silver platters in the early hours of the morning, much to Mrs. Lane’s disapproval. She had also weeded the vegetables, anything to keep her hands and mind occupied.

  She said now, “Do you know what’s become of the photograph of my parents that my grandfather kept on the stand by his bed?”

  “I thought you must have taken it,” Mrs. Lane answered. “It was there yesterday morning when I went up as usual to do a little dusting, but when I walked into Mr. Hatton’s room last evening, to say a private good-bye, like, I didn’t see it.” She shrugged deprecatingly. “I know he’s gone, but old habits die hard. He always liked his room fresh and tidy every morning, the bed turned down every evening. And he was that fond of flowers.”

  “Yesterday, after the funeral—those people wandering about the house—you don’t suppose one of them could have taken it? But that doesn’t make sense.”

  “There was the Scotsman Mr. Stevens saw off the property. Though I wouldn’t put it past him, that Mr. Leighton.” Mrs. Lane said it tartly. “He’s up to no good, accusing people of murder and the like!”

  “Yes, well, why would Mr. Leighton take a photograph of my parents? It won’t help him in the search for his mother!”

  “If I was you, I’d walk around the house to see what else may’ve gone missing!” Mrs. Lane folded the last of the ironed tablecloths and tucked them carefully in the linen closet. The scent of lavender came wafting out as the door closed.

  “I was that surprised by Mrs. Passmore,” she went on, locking the closet from old habit. “I quite remembered her as taller, and plump into the bargain!”

  “Mrs. Passmore?” Francesca asked, dragging her thoughts back to her visitor.

  “Of course I was but a girl myself, and look at me now! Wider than I was, by half!” Mrs. Lane chuckled. “Marriage must have agreed with our Miss Weaver!”

  Francesca went to her grandfather’s room and searched thoroughly through the chests and the closet shelves. But she hadn’t been mistaken. The photograph of her parents had disappeared.

  Why had Mrs. Passmore mentioned it? And who would have wanted to take it?

  The Tallon family lived over the hill, nearer the moors. Their house had been constructed by the same builders who had created Francis Drake’s house at Tavistock, although High Knole hadn’t had the good fortune to have been a Cistercian monastery to begin with. Early Victorian owners, recognizing that, had added a mock church tower, to disasterous effect. The present owners had removed the tower and put a walled garden in its place, protected from the winds that swept down from Exmoor.

  Mrs. Tallon was delighted to see Francesca so soon. A woman of early middle age already comfortably settled as grandmother to a numerous brood, in private she still called Francesca by the family’s pet name for her, Cesca.

  Hearing it reminded Francesca of her cousins. They had often played with the Tallon children, drawing them into all manner of harebrained schemes.

  “I must say, you carried off the funeral well, my dear! Francis would have been quite proud of you. He was always rather foolish over his darling girl, as he called you. But are you managing? You look so tired!”

  “I am a little. Mrs. Tallon—at the service there were a number of people I didn’t know. I thought perhaps they’d been friends of my grandfather’s, but they didn’t introduce themselves. I was wondering if I should have known who they were and spoken more warmly to each of them about their connection with my grandfather—”

  “I did notice there were outsiders among the guests, yes. Well, it was to be expected, wasn’t it? Francis went to London from time to time. I did try to speak to one of them, but he wasn’t friendly. Walsham, I think his name was. But that Mr. Leighton was quite nice. He asked if I’d known his mother, but of course I hadn’t.”

  Damn the man!

  “One of the women came to call yesterday morning,” Francesca continued. “She was a Miss Weaver when she came to River’s End to be my nanny. Do you remember her?”

  “Miss Weaver? Well, I haven’t thought about her in years! Where on earth did she pop up from? She went to New Zealand as I recall, with a family taking up a sheep station there. I remember thinking at the time how odd it was that she should leave so suddenly, but Francis said she was quite happy and eager to go. He refused to stand in her way.”

  Francesca described the woman who had called herself Mrs. Passmore, then asked, “Does that sound at all like Miss Weaver?”

  “No,” Mrs. Tallon replied at once. “But, of course, twenty years can change a person out of all recognition. I’m surprised she didn’t speak to me. No one else in the Valley seemed to care much for her, you know, an outsider, and I always did my best to make her feel at home here. Well, I did that for Francis’s sake, more than hers. Finding good help has always been a problem with only a tiny village to provide any entertainment on days off!”

  “Mrs. Lane didn’t recognize her, ei
ther. Why would someone come here under false pretenses? If it wasn’t Miss Weaver— She had a photograph of Harry’s mother, holding him as a baby—a christening photograph, I should think. Do you remember my cousins’ parents?”

  “Well, I most certainly remember your uncle Tristan. He could talk the birds from the trees. A scamp if ever there was one, and always in trouble! I was half in love with your father—he was older, such a dashing young man, Edward. So handsome, like dear Francis. Infatuation is a good thing, you know—it keeps a young girl out of mischief, mooning about over someone who doesn’t know she’s alive. And I was most definitely infatuated with Edward! I would treasure the silliest things—a leaf he’d toyed with, sitting at the tea table and no doubt bored to tears by the conversation. He found some excuse to go down to the stables and dropped the leaf as he got up from his chair. I rescued it and preserved it in my keepsake book. And another time, I took the spoon from his teacup and pressed my lips to it. George would call me mad, if he knew, and perhaps I was. But at the time it was the most exciting thing!”

  Francesca tried to picture placid Mrs. Tallon in transports of delight over a teaspoon. “Did you meet the girl my uncle married?”

  “The wedding was in Hampshire, as I remember. They didn’t visit Devon that I know of. If you want my opinion, the Valley had grown far too dull for Tristan’s tastes. But then Francis did tell me that your aunt Margaret wasn’t the best of travelers. The train made her quite ill.”

  “Yes, I was told she was consumptive.”

  “Consumptive? Not at all! Wherever did you get such a foolish idea? Apart from a pregnancy every year, it was my understanding that your aunt Margaret enjoyed excellent health.” Mrs. Tallon’s face changed. “Did Francis never tell you, my dear?” She clicked her tongue. “I can’t believe he didn’t think—! But I suppose when he sold Tristan’s house in Hampshire, he felt he had put the whole tragic business behind him. Out of sight, out of mind. How like a man. Still, you were bound to find out from strangers, sooner or later. Tristan and his wife were killed, you see. Murdered in their beds. I don’t think they ever found the madman who did it.”

  Francesca drove home with her thoughts roiling. Leaving the motorcar in the yard next to the stables, she strode across the lawns to the back garden and sat down on the Murder Stone, heedless of the hem of her gown.

  Was this how the stone had got its name?

  From her murdered aunt and uncle?

  It was a painful possibility—the cousins might have heard the word when they were too young to understand what it meant and simply liked the sound of it. For they couldn’t have known the truth. Not one of them had ever told her that their parents had died so horribly. Children seldom kept such secrets for long.

  Another mystery from her family’s past. A shameful one, at that.

  She shivered. Only a few days before she’d said to Richard Leighton, “It’s hardly a common thing, is it, to have a murder in the family!”

  Simon, the eldest of the five brothers, had been very young when he came to live at River’s End, perhaps no more than six. It might have been possible to keep the gruesome truth from him. But at some stage her grandfather would have been obliged to confess what had happened, if only to give all his grandsons a bulwark against learning the story in a crueler fashion. Children could be heartless. They teased and taunted without any thought of the pain it caused.

  Or had Francis Hatton been unable to face the truth himself? Years later, he hadn’t wanted to accept the deaths of his grandsons.

  Died in disgrace . . . Those were the words Richard Leighton had used. As if he had been told rumors and half-truths, but didn’t know much more than that. Just as well. He’d have used her family history for his own ends.

  Was this why the boys had been tutored at home until it was time to go up to Oxford? To keep them sheltered from gossip and taunts? She had never considered that there might be a reason behind the family’s isolation!

  An angry voice startled her. “So this is where you are. Mrs. Lane informed me that you’d gone out.”

  It was Richard Leighton. Francesca sprang to her feet, away from the Murder Stone. “But I had gone out—to call on a neighbor!” Defensive before she could stop herself.

  “So you say.”

  Angry in her turn, she retorted, “What are you doing in my gardens? Were you asked to wait here?”

  “No. I was told you weren’t at home. I was restless, I walked back up the hill later, and there was no answer to my knock. I came round to the gardens to see if there was anyone in the kitchen. I don’t think Mrs. Lane much cares for my visits. I wouldn’t put it past the woman to ignore a summons to the door if she’d seen me on the step.”

  “Did you take that photograph of my parents from my grandfather’s bedroom? How dare you walk about my home as if you had a right—”

  “I’ve taken nothing from your house. I want nothing from your house!”

  Over the hill, out of sight, someone fired a shot. Leighton’s head came up, eyes instantly alert.

  “Someone hunting stoats or foxes. The farmers up the Valley don’t know any better,” Francesca told him. “Anything wild is an enemy.”

  Leighton went on, as if the interruption had given him time to digest her accusation, “What photograph? What are you talking about? There was the man who had invaded the upper floors—the rector went to find him.”

  “Yes, I remember. But perhaps you were there as well—”

  “Why on earth should I steal a family photograph! It’s not your family I want to find!”

  “This is getting us nowhere!” Francesca took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier. To tell truth, I’d forgotten you would call! But you’ve found me now. What was it you wanted?”

  “I discovered something of interest on Friday. Would you care to see it? I’d like to hear what you make of it.”

  Reluctantly she let him lead her back to the drive. But he strode on, down the hill toward the bridge. “Where are we going?” she demanded. “I thought you’d brought it with you—”

  “I couldn’t. You’ll see. Behind the churchyard.”

  Francesca opened her mouth to argue, and then changed her mind. The first precept of battle, Simon, the warrior, had always drummed into his ragtag army’s head, was to lull the enemy into thinking he was attacking.

  It confirmed his defenses and his weaknesses . . .

  CHAPTER 9

  “Hatton,” Leighton was saying as they walked, “may have been all that you remember of him as a grandfather. That’s not my argument. But a child sees what fits into a child’s world. Kindness, love, the small gifts for a birthday, the sense of safely belonging. You grew up expecting nothing more, nothing less. Am I right?”

  “He was a good surrogate father, and even a good mother to us—we had no one else to care, my cousins and I.”

  “But there may have been a darker side to him. Is that impossible?”

  Francesca said nothing. He was hardly one to speak of dark sides!

  Leighton glanced at her, as if certain he’d struck a chord.

  But then she asked, “What do you remember of your mother? I didn’t know my own; she was dead before I was two years old. You were eight.”

  He was quick to pick up the thought behind her words. “And she may have had her own dark secrets? A lover somewhere, a tryst that went awry? I can’t tell you that she didn’t. But if she was prepared to run away with another man, willingly and with no regard for her child, I never saw it in her manner even on that last day. No excitement, no haste, no sudden, unusual burst of affection because she was leaving me behind. She was herself. I’ve thought this through, searching my memory each night—searching for any small sign we might have overlooked. For one thing, she wasn’t dressed to go away. She wore a walking gown that I’d seen many times, and took nothing with her except for the small purse she generally carried. Hardly the behavior of a woman rushing out to meet a clandestine lover.”

>   “She may have been more clever than you gave her credit for!”

  “All right. Touché. But let me ask you. Have you ever been in love, passionately in love?”

  “No,” she responded instantly, stung and surprised. “What does that have to say to anything?”

  “Have you ever known anyone who was?”

  She hesitated, answering slowly, “A friend. She was madly in love with an officer in a Welsh brigade.”

  They had reached the main road, about to cross the bridge. The river ran sweetly beneath the stones, and their feet echoed on the boards.

  “All right, ‘madly’ is the key,” Francesca finally admitted. “But it only proves that Victoria was older and better able to hide her emotions than my friend ever could. And your mother was a married woman. She must have learned to conceal her feelings. Not only from you, but to keep your father from finding out.”

  They went up the hill past the church and to the broken, ancient Celtic cross that had marked the long-ago sailor’s tomb.

  Leighton gestured toward it, then stood there for a moment staring down at it before squatting to point out something scratched into the lichen-encrusted stone.

  Francesca knelt to examine it more closely.

  “V-i-c-t-o-r-i-a . . .” Leighton spelled for her, his finger marking each letter.

  “So it is. Half the girls in England were christened Victoria, during the Old Queen’s reign. I shouldn’t be surprised to find it here or anywhere else. The children use this shaft for games, sometimes, when the church has an outing. From here to that black gravestone just there is where they run bag races or carry an egg in a spoon. Young girls come here to spy the new moon over their left shoulder and see the face of their love. I did it myself at twelve. My cousins teased me unmercifully.”

  “And did you see him? Your love?”

  She laughed in genuine amusement. “Our gatekeeper, Wiggins, came to find me on my grandfather’s orders. As children we were never allowed outside the bounds of River’s End, you see—not alone. Poor Wiggins must have been sixty, his hands gnarled and his joints stiff, and he was the first man I saw. It cured me of susperstitious nonsense.” As the laughter faded, she said, “You’ve been at great pains, if you found this faint scratching.”