The Guardian Stones (10 page)

Chapter Nineteen

From his lumpy bed in the attic, Bert Holloway could hear the Wainmans arguing downstairs. They had not stopped shouting at each other since coming back from church the day before. During the night he woke to hear unintelligible but unmistakably angry words, vibrating up through the bare floorboards. Planes droned overhead while the Wainmans fought below. Planes didn't frighten Bert as much as angry words. He had heard planes too often in Birmingham—and anti-aircraft guns and bombs as well.

Afraid to go downstairs to breakfast when no one called him, he ate some stolen sweets he had hidden from the Finch boys. He felt queasy. The attic was already stifling as the sun rose higher. The sunny, peaceful fields visible through the tiny window in the end wall called to him. A wasp buzzed in the dim, hot space. He would be better off billeted in the barn. The smell of dry hay was better than the dusty smell of the attic.

He heard crockery shattering below. Mrs. Wainman liked to throw cups.

Mr. Wainman's booming voice rattled.

Bert decided he better know what the argument was about. He pulled up the trapdoor and eased down the ladder into the upstairs hallway.

Suddenly their voices were much louder. He could smell bacon frying.

“How many times do I have to tell you…?”

“You're not telling me everything, Harry!”

Bert tiptoed to the stairs and crept down, although with the racket the Wainmans were making he could probably have run downstairs ringing a rusty cow bell from the barn and they wouldn't have noticed.

They were in the kitchen.

Which meant he could escape out the front door.

“…killed her….” he heard.

Killed her?
What could they be talking about?

Instead of bolting for the outside he took a deep breath and inched along the corridor until he stood beside the kitchen doorway. From here he couldn't see the Wainmans any more than they could see him, but he knew the hulking farmer would be pacing around threatening while his wife stood her ground.

“So that's it. You finally come out with it. How can you think I killed her?” Harry shouted. “Why would I kill her?”

“You've got a violent streak in you, Harry.”

“I have a violent streak? You should talk.”

With a clatter, fragments of a cup skittered out into the hall, as if Wainman had kicked them. A small piece, decorated with a blue flower, spun around and came to rest against Bert's shoe.

“If she was murdered can't you find a better suspect than your own husband?” yelled Harry. “A tramp, a deserter, some pervert. But no, you point to me. What about that so-called professor? Who knows anything about him? Claims to be from America, studying those stones, in the middle of a war. Studying stones.”

“Don't change the subject, Harry.”

“You're looking for a murderer. Look at this stranger poking around stones with a war on. I caught him sneaking by with a map. A map! Think about that. Who is he? Might be a German spy, a trained killer. He found Issy's blood-stained dress. By chance, he claims. Why not suspect him? You know me, Louisa.”

“Only too well. How about that pregnant girl who came knocking at the door last year? Looking for some man who gave her a false name.”

“She visited every house in the village!”

“Did she? Maybe. With what's happened since…”

“Nothing's happened! I keep…”

“Don't deny you were seeing the little tart Issy Chapman! God, you make me sick….”

A second of silence before Bert heard her spit. He could smell bacon burning.

“There's no reasoning with you, is there? You've always been jealous, Louisa, busy imagining things. How many times do I have to repeat myself? You're soft in the head.”

“You wish.”

“If you think I could kill that girl because she threatened to tell about what you imagine was going on…if I could do that, why accuse me? I'd kill you too, wouldn't I?”

“Would you have the guts?”

“Damn you, Louisa! Am I a monster?”

“Maybe you didn't have the guts to kill the little slut. Maybe you meant to scare her into keeping her mouth shut and that temper of yours got the better of you.”

Bert edged away from the door. A scuffling noise. Wainman bellowed a scream that froze Bert where he stood.

“Christ! You bitch! You bitch! That's hot grease….what are you doing? Christ, look at what you've done!”

“Don't ever touch me again, Harry Wainman.”

“Damn you, I'll—”

“What? You'll what? Kill me? Like you killed the tart? Did she have a bread knife like this in her hand, Harry? You want to try and kill me?”

Was a chair knocked over? Thrown?

Bert tried to run but couldn't.

Harry Wainman, half his face fiery red, stomped into the hall and saw him.

Chapter Twenty

No one suspects you of Isobel's murder, Edwin assured himself. Except for Special Constable Green. And why not? Wasn't the person who reported a murder always a prime suspect?

He laid his notebook at the foot of the nearest Guardian Stone and took a tape measure from his trouser pocket. He sharpened his pencil and then paused, looking at his penknife as if it had magically appeared in his hand.

Good job Green only wanted to examine my passport and not my pockets, he thought, remembering the amount of blood on the clothing he had found in the forest.

“You shouldn't have touched that clothing,” Green had told him. “Why did you do that?”

“At first I wasn't sure it was clothes.” Clearly Green suspected Edwin had placed the bundle in the spot he claimed to have found it.

He had met Edwin in the High Street and asked for his passport.

Fortunately Edwin made a habit of carrying that document and produced it immediately.

“I see you traveled from Portugal earlier this year,” Green said. He compared the photo of Edwin with the man standing beside him, a man who was grayer, whose face appeared far more gaunt. The passport photo might well have been taken in another life.

“A strange place by all accounts, Portugal,” Green went on. “Neutral. Crawling with spies and Nazi agents.”

“That may be so, but as far as I know I never met any,” Edwin replied. “Coming by way of Portugal is the obvious way to get from America to England these days.”

“Spies are a clever lot,” Green persisted. “Disguise themselves as all sorts of people. Even Americans. A spy never looks like a spy.”

Edwin a spy? The lifelong academic skulking about on some cloak and dagger mission? He would have laughed were the charge not so serious. He wasn't back home among friends.

He bit his lip. He had work to do and he would do it and leave as soon as possible, though he would be sorry to say goodbye to Grace and the vicar. He was sure Green was enjoying this confrontation. The youngster was smirking, although he probably didn't realize it. He wouldn't have looked out of place in an SS uniform.

“Since you insist on interrogating me, I retired several years back and I've come to England as a neutral Anglophile to offer my services in any way they would be useful. Right now I'm preparing a series of talks about ancient British monuments I've been asked to give by the BBC. I'm visiting the more remote rural areas first, and here I am.”

“A plausible explanation, I suppose. But there's been talk in the village. Some go so far as to say there's no proof you are who you say you are. And you did show up the day after Isobel Chapman disappeared.”

“Who exactly has been talking?”

Green handed the passport back without answering. “That seems authentic enough to me. Of course, they are superb forgers, the Nazis.”

“Should I return to my lodgings and show you my nun's habit and parachute?” Edwin snapped. “Isn't that how all of us spies enter the country? Did you catch Mother Superior? His real name's Heinrich.”

For a few seconds Green gaped at him and then laughed. “Pulling my leg, Professor?”

Edwin grinned. It was not a nice grin. “I'm going up to the Guardians now, Green. You can send the firing squad up there when it arrives.”

Remembering the scene, he was sorry for displaying anger. Grace had mentioned her worry that villagers were drawing apart and keeping to themselves. Fingers were pointed, old scores aired. Edwin, an unknown quantity, was at the mercy of a woefully inexperienced special constable with a swollen ego.

Now, as he stooped over the ancient stones which had surely seen many strange events during the thousands of years they had occupied this place, Edwin's anger was soothed by the sun's warmth, birds calling to each other, a squirrel chattering not far off. There were tales that the stones were cursed, but he could not feel any evil presence in this sunny clearing, where foxgloves were blooming amidst scattered gorse. A light breeze cooled his face as he measured the height and girth of the lichened rocks, recording the results in his notebook. When people thought of standing stones, they pictured the enormous monoliths at Stonehenge. Most were much less impressive, more like the knee-high Guardians.

As he worked he recalled Martha's legend about the wise woman who tried to do good and was accused of evil. There was also the witch said to be responsible for the Rollright Stones story, according to that local legend. One day she'd seen an army camped out, led by a man seeking to depose the king, and predicted that if the treasonous leader saw Long Compton he would indeed ascend the throne. Fortunately for the royal head and British history, the witch, being loyal, turned the traitor and his men to stone. Their leader stood to that day only a few paces from the brow of the hill above the village mentioned in the prophecy, and his men still sat in a circle close to him.

An interesting feature of this particular legend was a nearby cluster of five stones dubbed the Whispering Knights, supposedly standing with their heads together, plotting against their leader and turned to stone with the rest.

Edwin didn't know if there were any other groupings of stones outside the circle here in Noddweir but he would look.

It was said that nobody could count the true number of the Rollright Stones, though many had tried, employing exotic methods when pointing and counting failed to work. A baker put a loaf on each and could never get the same total, another man marked each stone with colored chalk and found a different color when he went round again. Nor could he get the same total twice running.

The Guardian Stones here might also be difficult to count, but only because many of them had fallen over or were hidden by brambles. Edwin began to sketch the stone he had just measured. If he were spotted, his sketching would add fuel to the blaze of speculation, although what military secrets might be hiding in this narrow, isolated valley he had no notion.

Well, he had discovered a secret. The shape of a heart was cut into the stone, so weathered as to be all but invisible. He could see a
J
and an
O
. John? Joe? The other name he couldn't make out at all. Just some grooves where letters had once been. He rubbed at the lichen partly covering the inscription. The stone had already absorbed hours of sunlight and felt warmer than the air. Some of the lichen powdered off, revealing no more detail.

Who had made that carving and when? It might have been centuries earlier. At any rate Joe or John and his unknown love were long parted by death. Had it been a childish romance? Most likely. Then again the two might have married, lived, and died in Noddweir. Their descendants might still be living here.

It might have been Grace's great-great—who knows how many greats?—grandparents professing their love. How long had her family lived in Noddweir?

Then again, the carving could have been much more recent, shallow and so quickly eroded. Perhaps the missing name was “Martha.”

Edwin moved on to the next stone in the circle. Those who hated history mistakenly thought it was about dates. Dates of battles and treaties and endless other scratches by which people marked time. But, really, history was about people.

Measuring the height of the stone he crouched over, he noted crude scratches near its apex. Even after a close examination he was not certain what they were. Initials? Another pair of lovers? A mark left by a passing tramp?

Perhaps not.

The scratches looked new but dirty, where no dirt could have reached them, blending in with the pitted surface of the ancient rock.

Had someone sought to leave a message that would only be noticed by one who knew where to look?

***

“What do you think you're doing, Tom? Get your paws off me!”

Opening the front door Edwin was greeted by the sight of Grace shoving away the ham-like hand of Tom Green. The constable was bent slightly forward, about to bestow a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. When Grace pushed, he lost his balance and grabbed the arm of the settee for support.

“I only meant to—”

“I don't care what you meant. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Come on, Grace. We should get along, working as close as we do.”

“I'll help you carry out your duties. God knows you need the help. But that's all.”

Green stared at Grace like a loyal dog that can't believe it's been chided by its master. Grace kept her furious gaze on the constable, daring him to try anything. It was several seconds before they noticed Edwin observing them in embarrassed silence.

“Professor!” Grace said, startled.

Green glared at Edwin and squared his shoulders before striding out. Edwin moved quickly to one side to allow him to pass.

“You've come to my rescue again.”

“I hope he wasn't getting too impertinent.” Edwin closed the door.

“Nothing I couldn't handle, if necessary.”

Her normally rosy cheeks bright red. To avoid staring at her as fixedly as Green had been, Edwin looked away.

Martha appeared from her room and gave a cackling laugh. “What's this Grace, kicking out one boyfriend for another?”

“Oh, Grandma! I'm not in any mood for your silly jokes! Did we interrupt your nap?”

“No. Not unless you were calling my name. Someone was calling me.”

“You were dreaming.”

Martha shuffled to the settee and plopped down. “Maybe I was dreaming. Doesn't mean someone wasn't calling me in my dream.” She laid her head back against the crocheted antimacassar and closed her eyes.

Edwin followed Grace into the kitchen and set his notebook on the table beside a lined sheet of paper, torn from a school exercise book. Writing covered part of it.

“The constable and I started setting down what we'd learned so far about the missing children,” Grace explained.

“What have you learned?”

“We didn't get far. He was more interested in investigating me than the disappearances.”

Edwin pulled the paper over to see a list of names.

“That young constable is rapidly outgrowing his britches.” He told Grace how Green had stopped him in the street, wanting identification.

“The nerve!”

“It wouldn't be so bad if he knew what he was doing, but I get the feeling he's in over his head, playacting for effect, and doing a poor job of it. It's too bad your father isn't here.”

“Some might say so.”

“He was experienced in law enforcement, unlike Green.”

“We never had anything like these disappearances before. Oh, country kids run off to the city all the time, but not so many at once.”

“I'm sure your father would have been in touch with the authorities in Craven Arms by now.”

Grace took a loaf from the bread bin. “Try some bread and gooseberry jam. Emily brought it over. It's barely cool.”

“That was thoughtful of her,” Edwin remarked as Grace sliced the bread and put it on plates.

“It was an excuse to badger me about how I ought to be doing more to find those beasts who killed her dog.” Grace's knife rattled around the rim of the jar and she slapped jam onto the bread as if the slices offended her. She brought the plates to the table and sat opposite Edwin.

Edwin nibbled the bread and jam and his lips puckered. “Rather tart.”

“Susannah made it. What would you expect?”

Edwin chuckled. “I'll bet she was a tartar in the classroom.”

Grace allowed herself a tight-lipped smile. The bread vanished into her generous mouth in four or five huge bites. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, leaving a crumb at the corner of her mouth.

“It's none of my business,” Edwin went on, “but don't you think it's time outside authorities were brought in?”

“Well, at least you know it's none of your business, Professor Carpenter.”

“Sorry.”

Grace put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. Edwin had a sudden urge to wipe the crumb from her lip but refrained. Was he staring again? Her tongue flicked out and removed the crumb.

“Maybe you don't understand how country people are,” she said. “We take care of our own. We don't like outsiders meddling. People like Tom Green.”

“Or myself?”

“You're not meddling though, are you?”

“Hardly.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Now look, Professor. Country kids get bored and leave the villages where they were born, even in peacetime. How many of these evacuees scattered all over England must be running away from unfamiliar places they don't much care for? We don't have enough police as it is and have to depend on the likes of Tom Green. There are more runaways than police. Besides, what could the authorities do that we can't? They don't know the forest around here like we do. What kind of a search could they make, even if they were willing?”

“If it were only a matter of runaways…”

“It is right now.”

“But Isobel's blood-stained clothes…”

“Prove nothing. Where's the body? How did the clothes get there? Why would the culprit leave them where they were sure to be found? In fact, we don't even know they belong to the girl.”

Edwin finished his bread, looked for a napkin, and seeing none licked his lips. “But surely….”

“Surely nothing! We asked that fool of a father to identify the clothes. He said they were Issy's but what else would he say, the state he's in? Do you think he ever noticed what she wore? I went through what few clothes were in her room to check their sizes to see if they matched, but they were all different sizes.” Grace shook her head crossly and continued. “The war again. We all wear clothes that are threadbare or second-hand, whatever we can manage. You can darn a lot of socks with an unraveled sweater, or even knit a sort-of new one. It's hard to get by, but that's what we do. In fact, part of the work I'm doing with the WVS—that's the Women's Voluntary Service—is running clothing exchanges in town.” Grace swept their empty plates off the table and dumped them into the sink.