No Stone Unturned (5 page)

I
t was a cold, stormy, winter evening and the fireplace in the study in Sir Charles Barry's London home on Clapham Common was stacked high with logs. The fire crackled and roared as the high winds sucked the flames up the chimney. But even the heat of the raging blaze did little to soothe the tension in Sir Charles' tired, aching body.

He was working late, as usual, having headed back to his study immediately after supper, asking his wife Sarah to excuse him from her company while he tied up a few loose ends from the day. How ridiculous that was, he thought to himself as he uttered those words. He wasn't sure he would ever tie up all the loose ends on this project. They were more like gaping holes.

What had first been an enviable prize had turned into a burdensome weight around Barry's neck. His designs for the new Palace of Westminster had been chosen as the favourite from ninety-seven entries, submitted by top architects from all over the world, so the news that he had won the commission had left him bursting with pride. Now, six years beyond his original target completion date, Barry felt suffocated by the pressure of it all and wrung out by the challenge of overcoming one unexpected setback after the next, and answering to so many masters. Lately, even Prince Albert had begun to take an interest in the building by chairing the committee which vetted the choice of sculptures and paintings. While the support of such an important figure was flattering, the Prince's involvement meant there was yet another voice to listen to, another body of opinion to be seen to consult.

And the pressure was mounting. Tomorrow was the official state opening by Her Majesty the Queen. Preparing for the event had been a living nightmare. Although the House of Lords and the House of Commons were both now in use, large sections of the building were still incomplete, with months if not years of interior work still to come. Barry and his team had spent the last few weeks focusing on the route that the Queen would take through the building, making sure that royal eyes would not see a single bare wall, unpainted ceiling, or even the tiniest speck of dust. His team had done a marvellous job of preparing those rooms, but Barry still felt like a reluctant party host, caught out by guests arriving too early.

Not that he was in the mood for a party. How could he be, when just one month before he had buried his dear friend and partner, Augustus Pugin? An esteemed designer, Pugin had worked with Barry successfully many times in the past and had proven himself to be an unsurpassable talent. Over the years, the two men had formed a firm friendship, and Barry's affection and admiration for his friend was summed up by the nickname he chose for him: Pugin was his Comet.

The shared stresses and strains of the Westminster project had cemented the two men's friendship, but what Barry loved most about Pugin—his attention to detail and quest for impossible perfection—had been the poor chap's undoing. Achieving perfection on the interiors of a building as large as the Houses of Parliament had proved impossible. Pugin's vision had been compromised all too often and the project had driven his sensitive soul quite mad. In a state of high stress and fragile health, Pugin had finally been admitted to Bedlam, the huge asylum for the insane in Southwark, and had died there before the month was out. Grief at the loss of his friend, and the fact that he felt partly to blame, lay heavily on Barry's mind.

Barry bent over his desk and studied the latest drawings for the Members' Lobby on which he had pencilled some of the most recent amendments. His eyes were scratchy and sore and, in the gloomy evening light, he struggled to read the tiny notes that he had scribbled all over the margins during his last site visit.

‘Come in,' he croaked, as he heard a gentle knocking on the door. It was his wife, carrying a glass of brandy on a silver tray.

‘I thought you might like a little refreshment, my love,' she said softly as she put the tray down on the end of her husband's desk. ‘Do you have much more to do? It's getting so late.'

‘Oh my dear, I could work through the night and still not complete everything.'

‘Well, I simply won't allow it.' Sarah placed her hand tenderly on top of her husband's. ‘Tomorrow is a day to celebrate what you have achieved. You should enjoy it and be proud, and to do that you need a good night's sleep.'

Barry had aged at a frightening rate since the construction of the Palace began and Sarah had nursed him through long bouts of illness. Although she tried to keep his home life free from worry and stress, she could not protect him from events beyond their door. The rush to prepare for the state opening, Pugin's death, and even his recent knighthood had added layer upon layer of pressure upon him.

‘The work doesn't stop when the building is officially opened, Sarah,' snapped Barry, then immediately felt bad for taking his frustration out on his wife. Sarah flinched at his abrupt tone but did not move from his side.

‘It became necessary to change the dimensions of the Members' Lobby,' Barry explained, pointing to his drawings. ‘So we have had to alter the size of the floor slabs also. Each one needs to be a few inches smaller or we won't be able to lay them without cutting them. Normally that wouldn't matter, but on a project like this, everything has to be just so. Only whole slabs will do. It might sound like an insignificant change but it has resulted in a delay at the quarry in Wilmcote—and their deliveries are still coming by canal, which means a further wait. I need the new slabs right away.'

‘But did you not say that there was to be a new railway line through Wilmcote? I thought that was all part of the original agreement?' Sarah enquired.

‘It was indeed,' said Barry. He looked his wife directly in the eye. ‘Sarah, I apologise, but there is something I have not shared with you. I invested some money in the railway company too—our money—to speed the whole thing along. They needed £150,000 for a charter, and I gave them a significant sum towards it. Our friend Sir Francis invested too—as did the quarry owner, Richard Greenslade, so I can't hold him responsible for the delay. But we all underestimated how the waterways company would respond to the threat from the new railway. Holding the keys to the quarry's only existing transport route, the owners of the Stratford-upon-Avon canal had a lot of power to wield. So they launched one appeal after the next.'

‘I suppose one can't blame them for trying to protect their business,' remarked Sarah.

‘No, but they have become a thorn in my side. I should have given the flooring contract to a quarry that already had rail links.'

‘Is it too late to change? Could you get the Yorkshire quarry to take over the whole contract, perhaps?'

‘Unfortunately, that's not possible. Even if we did terminate the contract with Wilmcote, there is a difference in the colour of the stone. It is far paler than the sand-coloured stone from Anston Quarry. And my goodness, Pugin would turn in his grave if he thought that his floors wouldn't all match perfectly.'

Barry sighed. ‘Anyway, I have sunk too much money into the Wilmcote deal to back out now. No, I shall have to fall back on Sir Francis and his political contacts if I am going to make that railway happen soon.'

Sarah smiled at her husband. ‘I am sure you will succeed, my dear. I have every confidence in you. But you also need to look after yourself and to do that you need sleep. So promise me, no more than half an hour more.'

Barry nodded at his wife. Kind, gentle, sweet-natured Sarah. It would break his heart to let her down.

Chapter 7 – August 2012

I
t was Sunday morning, and Kelly had just finished her morning chores. She had been helping her mum to wash all the lace curtains, which had to be done outside by hand as they were so delicate, and she was now pegging them out on the washing line to dry. It was a perfect day for the job, as the sun was shining and there was a warm, gentle breeze. The curtains would be fresh and dry and back up at the windows in no time.

Tyson, whose lead was looped around the washing line pole, was watching Kelly avidly, yet every now and then he was unable to resist the urge to jump up and snap at a passing fly. As Kelly bent down to take the last curtain from the washing basket, Tyson caught her eye and wagged his tail hopefully, knowing that it was almost time for his walk.

Kelly decided to take him down the road into Wilmcote to the village shop where she planned to buy her favourite magazine.

‘You can have a run in the playing field after. As long as there are no dogs about,' she whispered to Tyson, as she put him on his lead.

The two of them set off down the lane that led to the main road into the village. About a quarter of a mile on, the road crossed first the railway and then the canal. The village centre, with its small green, shop and pub, the Mary Arden Inn, was straight ahead, but when she reached the kissing gate that led onto the canal-side, Kelly automatically turned and headed down the slope onto the towpath. She was about a hundred metres along before she realised what she had done.

‘Oh!' She stopped in her tracks, looking down at Tyson by her side. ‘I didn't mean to come this way. I wanted to go to the shop. Must be force of habit, from last time we came.'

Tyson was panting happily, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. He looked like he was smiling.

‘You little monkey. You didn't stop me, did you? I reckon you wanted to come this way. Oh well, we might as well carry on now. We can cross the canal at the next bridge and circle round into the village from that direction. I'll pick up my magazine on the way back.'

They carried on. Tyson was pulling at the lead, desperate to charge at three fat little ducks sitting on the grass at the side of the water. ‘Sorry, mate,' said Kelly, reining him in. ‘Not today. After what happened last time, I'm keeping you on a lead. It's your own silly fault!'

After a few minutes, they reached the spot where the footpath from the village crossed the towpath and went on over the railway bridge. Kelly glanced to her left towards the footbridge, and noticed a boy standing exactly where Kelly had when she had been calling to Tyson.

The boy was staring down at the track, but he must have sensed Kelly's presence, because he turned his face towards her and smiled. Kelly half nodded and raised her hand to acknowledge him. She was about to turn right to carry on towards the village when Tyson, who had been sniffing around at the base of a tree, suddenly noticed the boy too, and nearly yanked Kelly's arm out of its socket in an effort to reach him.

‘Tyson!' Kelly cried. ‘Don't pull me like that!'

But Tyson seemed desperate to get to the stranger and, equally desperate not to let go of the lead, Kelly had to let the little dog drag her along the path and up onto the bridge.

‘I'm so sorry,' she panted, as Tyson put his front paws up on the boy's trousers, leaving two muddy streaks down his knee. ‘I think he just wants to say hello.'

The boy, who was wearing a dark green checked shirt tucked into his now filthy brown trousers, laughed and bent down to tickle Tyson behind his ears. ‘It's fine, really. I like dogs. He's a friendly little chap, isn't he? What's his name?'

‘Tyson,' said Kelly. ‘Like the boxer.' The boy looked blank. This was when Kelly usually had to explain that it was Tyson
Fury
not
Mike
Tyson, but as the boy didn't offer any comment, she quickly moved on. ‘He's not usually this friendly with strangers. He can be a bit of a fighter.'

‘I find that hard to believe,' the boy said with a laugh, as Tyson sat down in front of him and held up a paw as if wanting to shake hands.

Kelly thought what a nice face the boy had. He looked friendly and kind, and when he laughed his blue eyes twinkled. That, combined with his fair hair, which flopped softly about his face, gave him an altogether angelic look.

‘I'm Kelly, by the way.'

‘And I'm B…Ben.' The boy briefly stumbled over his name.