The Guardian Stones (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

Muttering his annoyance, Edwin answered the rapid tattoo on the front door. He and Grace hadn't been back from the meeting at the pub long enough to sit down. He was surprised to see one of the woman he had overheard arguing in front of Emily's shop.

She gave no sign of recognizing him. She looked distraught. “I have to talk to the constable…to Grace, I mean…”

“Don't you think you should be talking to—?” Edwin almost said “Constable Green” then remembered and stopped short. Who could villagers turn to other than Grace?

The de facto constable appeared from the kitchen. “Oh, good God! Now what?”

She led the woman, who had begun to tremble, to a chair and sat her down. “What is it, Betty? What's happened?”

“It's me boys, Patrick and Jim,” the woman blurted. “They've gone! Disappeared!” She looked at Grace wide-eyed and started crying.

Grace patted her shoulder. “Try to calm down. Tell me what's happened, and we'll see what can be done.”

The woman subsided into hiccupping sobs. “Me twins! Gone!” Her voice rose into a wail. “They just…went…”

“When did you see them last?”

“Right before bedtime. They went the usual time. And that's the last I seen of them!”

“But it's the middle of the afternoon. You only just noticed they were gone?”

Betty dabbed at her eyes. “There's all the others, you know. The girls and the other boys. It's enough not to trip over them while doing housework, never mind counting them.”

Edwin had sat down on a chair by the door and tried to remain unobtrusive. He recalled Betty's supposed friend railing about how many kids she had.

“What makes you imagine they're gone? Probably they went out to play.”

“And miss breakfast and dinner too?” Betty snuffled. “Anyway, I checked their room and the window was wide open. They must have gone out it so as not to be heard.”

“No one heard them leave?”

“Me mum's room's next to theirs but she's deaf as an adder.”

“All right. We'll organize a search party right away. You go home for now.”

***

Three hours later Grace and Edwin conferred in the kitchen. No trace of the twins was found and nobody had seen them. The villagers searched dutifully through forest and fields but it was easy to see they no longer expected to find anything. The spirit had gone out of everyone.

Grace left off searching to rest before her evening patrol, giving orders to the searchers to report back to her by dusk. She had no authority but most of Noddweir was inclined to take orders from her, nonetheless.

She boiled water for tea. “The question is did the boys run off? Or were they taken? “

“Taken from their bedroom? Wouldn't they have kicked up a devil of a row?”

“Not to mention these are village children, not evacuees.”

“Isobel was from the village.”

“She's the only one who seems to have come to grief.”

“There isn't any pattern.”

Grace swirled bubbling water round the teapot to warm it, drained the pot, and made tea. “No. It doesn't make any sense, does it?” She handed a cup to Edwin.

Edwin lowered his face to his cup. The tea was too hot. It burned his lip. He blew on it and the rising steam misted his eyeglasses. “Here's a theory. Let's say Isobel bragged about how she planned to take off for the big city. However, something else happened to her before she had a chance to run away.”

“Something to do with her father,” Grace said sourly.

“Not necessarily.” Edwin stared through his foggy lenses into his cup. “Whatever happened to Isobel, when she went missing the other kids thought she'd made good on her promise, so they followed her. Or thought they were following her.”

Grace said nothing for a moment, staring thoughtfully out the window. “The Finch brothers, I can see. And maybe Bert and Reggie. They all spent a lot of time together. But Betty's twins…they can't be twelve yet.”

“They weren't friends with the others?”

“Not that I know about. They're so young. Why would they imagine they could run off and survive on their own?”

“At that age it's nothing but a game. As soon as the sun starts to go down they will be back with their tails between their legs.”

“A nice thought. If they've stayed that close why haven't we found them?”

Edwin tried his tea again. “What's your idea then, Grace? You know people here better than I do.”

“I'm trying not to form any opinions. I don't want to cut off a line of investigation because of my own preconceptions about the solution.”

“You sound like a detective. Did you pick up a few tips from your father?”

Grace's face clouded. “Hardly. From detective books. By the way, you left your copy of
Brighton Rock
in the front room. Right vicious little bugger, that Pinkie.”

“Do you suppose there's an adult Pinkie in Noddweir?”

She hesitated. “A person as evil as that?”

“Hitler, for example.”

“Well, yes, but not here in Noddweir. Can you see Hitler goose-stepping down the High Street? Ordering a pint at the pub? But Pinkie now. What he did to that poor—?”

Edwin raised his hand. “Please. Don't tell me how it turns out.”

Immediately he saw the incongruity. Why should he care how Graham Greene's invented story ended when he was faced with a potentially more tragic and unresolved real life situation?

Grace lifted her cup, swirled tea around. “I don't think people like them are actually human. They look human on the outside, but what's inside isn't anything like you or me, like normal decent people.”

“I appreciate the compliment.”

“I can see you think that's silly. But there's definitely evil in the world. Darkest evil.”

Martha appeared in the doorway. “You're right. There's evil abroad. And it's been in this very house.”

“Grandma! Have you been eavesdropping? And what do you mean by evil in the house?”

“Somebody's been stealing my things,” she grumbled.

“Things?”

“My herbal headache necklace and rheumatics liniment for a start. And my false teeth.”

“Oh, Grandma. You're always forgetting where you put them! Why would anybody want your false teeth?”

“Same reason I bought them secondhand years ago, of course. So's they could eat solid food.”

“And the other things?” Grace searched the kitchen, looking into drawers and the pantry.

“Them with the knowledge can find other uses for what I makes them from.”

The bread bin's enamel lid rattled. Grace reached in and produced a set of false teeth. “The rest will turn up soon enough.” She handed the dentures to Martha, who took them gingerly, as if they might bite. Then she shuffled out.

Grace closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. “Grandma can be a real problem.”

“You have too much on your plate,” Edwin said. Should he try to help or mind his own business?

He didn't have time to weigh the options before there was yet another knock on the door.

“Oh, for…” Grace turned to go to answer it, then stopped. “Come in,” she called out. “Door's on the latch.”

In a moment Harry Wainman blocked the kitchen doorway, looking more infuriated than ever.

“How's the search going?” Grace asked.

The corner of Wainman's tightly compressed lips twitched before he spoke. “Wouldn't know. Bert's gone again. He wasn't in his room this morning. His clothes are gone too. And good riddance says I, but the wife, you know, softhearted bugger, said I should report it.”

Grace rubbed her eyes wearily. “Consider it reported.”

Wainman hesitated at the door. “Should I turn in his ration book?”

“No, hold it for now. But don't use it.”

Wainman nodded curtly. “I won't be taking the little bugger back. Enough is enough.”

Edwin watched the farmer's broad back as he stalked away. If only enough were, in fact, enough.

Chapter Thirty-six

Susannah Radbone did not know how much more she could endure. It was not like her to acknowledge the possibility of defeat. That she could not help but do so as she completed her solitary patrol of Noddweir's night-shrouded streets frightened her.

She would have preferred to be out with a partner but, predictably, more villagers approved the patrol scheme than cared to volunteer. Given another day or so, things might be better organized. In the meantime she went out on her own.

She succeeded only in discouraging herself. With the blackout curtains drawn, the streets were inky corridors. Most residents were in bed. Susannah might as have passing through rows of mausoleums. Beyond the village the mountains rose up forebodingly, darker than the star-specked night sky.

What might be hiding out there?

Susannah stopped beside a gate leading into a narrow field fronting the forest and lit a cigarette.

The air smelled of dust and grass and throbbed with insect sounds.

Was her discouragement a result of old age? Was she simply worn down by all the years of contending with life? All the troubled students. All the disappointments. There were triumphs too. But even the promising pupils usually stepped straight from school into a lifelong cage formed of family, poverty, factory, and drink.

For those the war wasn't such a bad thing, uprooting them from the impoverished surroundings which would have trapped them otherwise.

Susannah took a drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nostrils. There had once been a young man who said she did that like a film star. She had never married. She would have had to give up too much of herself. Now she wondered if she had given up more by not marrying.

She had always been entirely self-sufficient but the loss of her friend Emily had taken something from her that she did not have it within herself to replace. The disappearance of Reggie had stolen something as well.

If she were still in Newcastle she would be able to find tutoring jobs. She missed working with children.

Had it been a mistake to retire to the countryside? What did she care about making jam she found barely palatable? Years ago the idea of country living sounded appealing. But she was a city girl. Night in the countryside unnerved her. The racket made by insects was nothing like the scattered voices and sounds of vehicles one heard in the city. The noise from the insects was inhuman, mechanical. The random chirps and ratchetings blended into rhythmic waves, a trick of the mind. What stealthy sounds were being obscured?

She drew more smoke into her lungs and shuddered. How did the saying go? A goose just walked over my grave?

The dark mountains radiated malevolence.

It was nothing but her imagination. Merely the environment acting on her nervous system at a subconscious level. No wonder country people were superstitious. No wonder a doddering, half-senile old woman like Martha had her followers and everyone in the village slavishly paid obeisance to the fairy tales pawned off on them by the vicar. It was all environment.

Whether city or countryside, people ended up enslaved by their environment. In Newcastle people were enslaved by the poverty surrounding them, here it was these damned spooky mountains.

She tossed the cigarette butt down, ground it underfoot, and strode homeward.

She was approaching the church when she noticed movement further down the street.

Her heart sped up.

What exactly was she supposed to do anyway?

She forced herself to walk faster, toward where she had glimpsed the movement. Now she could see nothing. Had it been her imagination?

A high hedge grew before her cottage. Her chest tightened with apprehension as she walked past hurriedly. Someone might well be lurking behind it.

“Don't be an old fool,” she chided herself. “You're acting like a schoolgirl.”

Across the street Emily's shop looked the same as always. Her friend could have been inside finishing
Treasure Island
. Except Susannah knew better. She realized she would think of Emily every time she passed the shop.

But it had been a heart attack, hadn't it? Everyone got old and died. Why did Emily's death feel so wrong to Susannah?

She went in and locked her front door. A faint noise came from the kitchen. A scratching. Scratching at the kitchen door.

For an instant she had the impulse to turn and run. But where? And how far would she get at her age?

She edged into the kitchen and took the largest carving knife out of the rack by the sink.

The scratching continued.

Susannah felt dizzy with fear. She raised the knife shakily.

Who was about to break in?

Or what, she suddenly thought.

Then there came a distinct meow.

“Blackie!”

Susannah closed her eyes for an instant and exhaled with relief. Then she threw open the door without looking out.

The black cat trotted in, dropped a tiny bloody bundle of fur at her feet, looked up, and gave a loud meow.

“The great hunter makes an offering,” Susannah muttered to herself. Her smile was faint and her lips trembled.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Thursday, June 19, 1941

Long morning shadows reached toward Guardians Hill, visible above slate rooftops, when Edwin set out for the vicarage. A week had passed since Isobel Chapman went missing.

As Edwin approached the vine-covered house a small girl came racing out from the back as if the devil were after her. “Hold on!” He put a hand into her path. “What's the matter?”

The girl stopped and looked up at him wide-eyed. “Nothing's the matter. The vicar's going to have a parade!”

She clutched a sheaf of papers. She handed him one and he saw penciled in childish letters:

PARADE
Saturday, 21 June
MEETING at CHURCH
Tonight, 7 pm

“I'm to take these to Mr. Gowdy so he can let everyone know,” the girl said excitedly.

“What a good idea. Well, off with you then.”

“There'll be prizes too,” the girl called back as she ran.

Edwin found Timothy Wilson in the vicarage garden, seated in one of those low-slung chairs cobbled together from a few lengths of wood and a piece of canvas. Several small girls were busy pulling weeds from a vegetable patch which ran up to the churchyard. The vicar took books from a carton at his feet and placed them on the small table beside him.

At Wilson's invitation Edwin lowered himself gingerly into an identical chair. To his surprise he found it more comfortable than he'd imagined.

He picked a book from the pile.
The Wind in the Willows
. “Prizes?” Edwin guessed.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I ran into your little Mercury on the way over. A parade's an excellent idea to take the children's minds off everything that's going on.”

“I hope it will take the parents' minds off our troubles too,” Wilson said. “Finding ways to outfit the children will give everyone something different to think about. We must continue to give the children as normal a life as possible.”

He lifted a ponderous tome with a dark cover from the box, scowled, and set it in the grass by his chair.

Edwin gave him a questioning look.

“
Pilgrim's Progress
. Not sure how that got in there.” He carefully hacked into a handkerchief.

Edwin glanced away and studied the spines of books piled on the table while Wilson's coughing fit subsided. He made out Beatrix Potter, A.A. Milne,
The Railway Children
. “You don't want to save these for your own charges?” He nodded at the girls in the garden who were intent on extracting an earthworm from the roots of weed they had pulled. They had taken great care to plop themselves squarely in the dirt.

Wilson stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. “Oh, I have plenty more books to amuse my temporary guests.”

Edwin frowned sharply. What was the vicar, an unmarried man with no children, doing with children's books anyway?

Maybe Wilson realized what he was thinking because he explained that between the wars he had administered spiritual guidance to an orphanage and been given a few boxes of books when he left to take up his new post in Noddweir.

Edwin felt ashamed he had, for a second, almost suspected his friend of what was better left unsaid. It was all the terrible events that had taken place. The very air they breathed was poisoned. After a while nothing seemed impossible, no matter how unthinkable. He waved
The Wind in the Willows
before replacing it on the pile. “Too bad we all can't get along famously like Mole and Ratty.”

“Unfortunately, the world is filled with weasels. And let's not forget that Mr. Toad was a bit of a loose cannon.” Wilson paused, studying the book he'd picked up and then placed it on top of
Pilgrim's Progress
. “Biggles,” he explained. “I don't believe in war books for children. War is so much worse than depicted. Even so, Biggles is too realistic for the little ones.”

While a new war raged, many still suffered from the last war to settle everything once and for all. Others who weren't yet born when the last war was fought suffered, thanks to it as well. Isobel Chapman for example, if the villagers were to be believed. Abused by her father because his mind as well as his body was damaged in the trenches.

“By the way,” Wilson went on. “Did you hear Susannah Radbone has left?”

“Left? Why, no. Did she tell you?”

“Hardly. My cleaning lady said she was on her way to the vicarage when she ran into Susannah. Had her bicycle out in front of her cottage. Told her she's too upset to stay in Noddweir, between Reggie vanishing and Emily's death. She's gone to stay with her sister for a while. In Aston on Clun, I think. She'll make arrangements for Emily's funeral from there and let us know so those who wish to can attend.”

“I'm surprised. I'd have thought if anyone I've met here would stick it out, Miss Radbone would.”

“A tough old bird, but we all have our limits.”

“And what about you, Timothy? You don't sound well.” Edwin had intended to ask the minister to elucidate more clearly what he intended at certain spots on his map, but now he decided to keep it firmly in his pocket.

Wilson shrugged his coat hanger shoulders. “I'm fine. The difference is that Susannah's alone and I'm not.”

“You have your charges to look after.” Nodding toward the garden Edwin saw the girls busily collecting earthworms, their battle against weeds forgotten.

“True, but that's not what I meant. It's that as a man of God—but I shouldn't get into that.”

“With an atheist like me, you mean? I wouldn't mind being able to believe. I'm afraid I simply lack any sense of the divine. Elise believed in God and an afterlife, but we never discussed it.”

“Maybe she's right, Edwin, and will be waiting for you.”

“Yes, well…”

“At least you won't depart Noddweir and make a rude gesture in my direction as Susannah Radbone probably did as she left!”

There was a blood-curdling shriek from the other end of the garden.

One of the girls hopped up and down, frantically slapping at her dress.

“They're throwing worms! They're throwing worms! Where did it go?”

Two other girls rolled in the dirt, yanking each other's hair.

Wilson levered himself out of his chair. He looked white as a ghost. “Pardon me, Edwin, while I sort this out.” He smiled wanly. “Satan never sleeps.”