The Guardian Stones (19 page)

Chapter Forty-one

“You suspect your father of murdering Isobel?” Edwin heard his voice rise.

“If you knew him—”

“But what about everything else that's happened? Emily and Constable Green being killed, all the others gone missing, the fire at Haywood's house?”

“There doesn't appear to be a common thread, I admit. But my father is an evil man.” Grace clenched her eyes shut. “I pray to God I haven't inherited any of his evil.”

“I…I'm sure you haven't, Grace.” Edwin immediately felt stupid. What did he know about inherited evil? And what did Grace mean about her father being evil? Only that he had molested Isobel? Or was there more?

Grace put her face in her hands. Edwin leaned over impetuously and put an arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder and shook with sobs.

Edwin didn't know what to say. How could a tiny village conceal secrets of such enormity? He remembered his initial sight of Noddweir from the cart. Looking down the High Street he had seen the well-kept public house, the ancient church, the slate-roofed houses with their neat gardens. But he also recalled the dirt road into the village, the forest pressing in toward the narrow way as if to cradle it in dark green fingers. In retrospect perhaps the forest had its claws fastened onto the road and Noddweir to keep anyone from escaping.

And forests hid secrets.

Grace cried until Edwin felt her tears soaking through his shirt. Although he realized with a pang it was totally inappropriate under the circumstances, he couldn't help enjoying her so near to him.

Finally she raised her head, snuffled, and gave him a sheepish look. “I'm sorry. I'm probably imagining things. Maybe I'm no better than Grandma, convinced the Guardian Stones are to blame. Imagine them stumping down the High Street, intent on mischief!” She forced a smile.

Edwin thought it best not to mention old tales about stone circles coming alive at midnight to prowl the forests or lumber to a brook to drink.

Grace kept talking. “He never was much of a father. Drank too much, especially for a policeman. It was an easy job then, before the war. The occasional bit of poaching was about the worst he had to deal with. Half the men in the village go out of a night to do it. They'd slip him a rabbit or two and never get caught.”

“Village men go out in the forest at night, you say? Who in particular?”

“Means nothing. There was never any reason not to be out at night. Grandma occasionally wanders about at night. In fact, she's out right now.”

Edwin asked what Martha did when she went out after dark.

“Gathers herbs and roots,” Grace replied. “You have to pick certain plants at the right phase of the moon to get the best results, or at least according to the old ways. I expect you know a bit about that?”

Edwin nodded. “I've read about that belief a number of times, but Martha is the first person I've met who actually does it.”

“You can't suspect Grandma?” Grace said.

“No. Certainly not,” Edwin said quickly and not altogether truthfully. “But there are others who…”

“…think she's mad? That's true. More than one villager thinks she's mad. Who knows what lunatics do when the moon's right!”

Tears flowed again and she wiped her face. “Cursed on both sides of the family, I am. My evil father, my crazy grandmother.”

“You aren't like your grandmother. Or her mother, from what Martha told me.”

“Oh yes, she says she's from a long line of wise women. Not witches, mind you. She complained I refused to follow in her footsteps, didn't she?”

“Well—”

“She was stuck with Polly, the only one in the village willing to learn. Unfortunately Polly's a half-wit. Hardly suitable. Then Isobel took an interest.”

“Isobel?”

Grace made a noise between a sob and a laugh. “Amazing how evil works, isn't it? How Satan plots against us. Why, if I hadn't agreed to look after Grandma, she would never have brought Issy into the house to tell her about her persuasions, and if she hadn't brought Issy into the house, Father would never have—”

“He might have anyway. Look at Harry Wainman.”

Grace glared. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Better than seeing everything as a plot by satanic forces. Evil isn't a force, it's an attraction. It can't control anyone who chooses to resist its attraction.” Edwin felt awkward, finding himself talking about evil forces.

“It wasn't me who broke away,” Grace said. “It was Mum. Grandma would try to teach me her secrets and Mum would read to me from the Bible. Not that I was old enough to understand much of it. But I could understand the difference between right and wrong.”

“You owe a lot to your mother, then,” Edwin said, although he believed that giving up Martha's wisdom for the Bible's was simply trading one set of superstitions for another.

“I can barely remember Mum. One day she was simply gone.” Grace got up suddenly to rummage in the pantry. She brought out a rifle and a box of ammunition and laid them on the table.

“Father's rook rifle,” she told him. “Telling you about poaching reminded me. He used to hunt rabbits mostly. It's time I made sure it was still in working order.”

“Don't tell me you know how to use that?”

“Father taught me to shoot rabbits practically before I could read.”

“You killed rabbits? When you were a little girl? You must have been horrified when you realized what you'd done.”

Grace hefted the gun. “Why would I be? They're nasty pests, even if they do make a decent stew. They'll destroy your whole garden if you let them. I was proud of being a good shot.”

***

Not long afterward, Edwin sat in bed unable either to sleep or switch his mind off. He had tried to look over his notes but couldn't concentrate. Grace suspected her father of murder? Grace's father was molesting Isobel? Grace described it as “carrying on” as if it were an affair, but when a grown man did that to a child, it was nothing but molestation, wasn't it?

The
Light of the World
print struck Edwin as grotesquely ironic. Where was the light in Noddweir? Every knock on the door brought more bad news. It would never be Jesus at the door with a lantern. If He ever did arrive, He'd knock in vain. Everyone would be far too frightened to open up.

He had an uneasy vision of Grace kneeling beside her bed not far away and praying to her unseen and apparently uncaring God. Did she kneel to pray? Why would he think of such a thing anyway? Did his treacherous imagination want to see her in her bedroom? When he had put a comforting arm around her she had not shrugged it off. How had it happened he accompanied her on her night patrol? Surely he was not any real help. Did she simply enjoy his company?

What's the matter with me? Edwin asked himself. I should know better at my age. Grace could be my daughter. It was almost as bad as Grace's father or Harry Wainman with Isobel.

His wife's photograph smiled at him from the table.

And how could he be thinking about a young woman he hardly knew while Elise looked on? It was a betrayal of his wife's memory. The very fact Edwin continued to live was a betrayal.

Yet he was only doing what the two of them had planned all along. And very soon, when he reached the end of what they had planned, he would roll to a stop and that would be that.

“I am sorry, Elise,” he murmured. He removed his glasses and set them on the table and his wife's face blurred like a fading memory.

Chapter Forty-two

Friday, June 20, 1941

“That's that then!” Joe Haywood spat into the blackened ashes where his house had stood.

At least his wallet was full, thanks to the deals he'd done while away. Had someone destroyed all his stock because they had it in for him? A jealous villager? A business rival?

It was getting too risky to continue trading here anyway he decided, poking at what remained of a sofa with a large stick. He couldn't find the envelope stuffed with cash. Probably it burnt, though it was possible the place was robbed and then set alight.

Some called it black marketeering, but he preferred to think of it as helping buyers obtain desirable goods which happened to be in short supply. And why not? The poor buggers worked hard enough with little by way of recreation except a game of darts at the pub and singing hymns on Sundays.

A shame he had to move on so soon. The isolated village was out of the way of uniformed snoopers on the lookout for resourceful businessmen or those who had better things to do than take orders and march around. Both descriptions fitted Haywood. His claim of being a conscientious objector had worked well enough so far but the current series of events in Noddweir was attracting far too much attention, including that of a regular constable from Craven Arms. He didn't need anyone checking into his background.

Better to get out before he was arrested for one reason or another.

It could be whoever had set fire to the house had done him a favor. If everyone assumed he'd died in the flames he should be able to disappear before they found out he wasn't dead, if they ever did.

There was only one problem.

She had red hair and sweet lips. Could he convince Meg to come away with him?

He laughed harshly at himself. Was he getting soft? No matter where he set up shop next there'd be women. And the moment he flashed a handful of pound notes in the local pub they'd be around him, drawn as moths to a flame.

Besides, he could always send for Meg if he wanted. After a few weeks without him she'd be all the more eager to escape that feckless lump of a husband.

The decision made, Haywood decided to cut through the forest to the main road and hitchhike back to Craven Arms. From there he could catch a train. He didn't want to run into anyone while he was leaving.

It was surprisingly dark under the canopy of trees. He passed through a stand of pines, their trunks rising branchless almost to their crowns, columns in a cathedral tossed together by a mad god. Twice he tripped over roots and fell. Dried pine needles stuck in his palms. He cursed. At this rate his trousers would be ruined by the time he got to the road.

There were sounds too. Rustlings. Birds maybe, or rabbits, or whatever the hell else lived in the forest.

A loud snort brought him to a halt. A deer emerged from the vegetation. It looked straight at him with huge eyes, then bounded off.

He shivered. Christ! Those big buggers made him break out into a muck sweat every time he glimpsed one. They were worse than cows. At least cows were confined behind fences.

As he continued on, his thoughts turned to the disappearances that had bedeviled Noddweir. The villagers were afraid there was a criminal lurking in these forest. Haywood dismissed the idea. The only criminal in the forest right now—“criminal,” technically speaking—was Joe Haywood.

No wonder the villagers acted weird, surrounded by dark forests with that damned stone circle brooding over everything. You wouldn't find him anywhere near those stones, even if all the talk about them was nothing but superstitious nonsense. Luckily, to reach the main road without being seen, he only needed to skirt the hill, which was in fact what he was currently navigating.

There was an evil atmosphere about the circle. If he was honest—and he reckoned he was, with himself at any rate—he'd admit it frightened him.

Through the trees ahead he could see light. Had he reached the road already? No, as it turned out. He'd come upon one of those abandoned charcoal-burning platforms. He'd seen them often enough to have found out what they were. However, he'd never seen one before with a crude cross made of large dead limbs in the center.

His foot touched something soft concealed in long weeds. Bending down he saw it was a haversack. He started to utter a curse and stopped himself. The owner was probably lurking nearby.

He looked into the clearing. A big crow perched on the one arm of the cross, moving jerkily, a wind-up toy, pecking. At what? A ripe stench filled the air.

Haywood didn't linger. He skirted around the clearing. When he reached the far side he glanced back, curious to see what had kept the crow busy.

Joe Haywood had not spent his life in genteel surroundings. He had got up to dirty business in his time and seen rough sights, many of which he'd taken a hand in creating. But what hung on the cross caused him to fall to his knees instantly and vomit onto the moss until his sides ached.

When he had finished, wiped his mouth, and got dizzily to his feet, he realized he was being watched.

He didn't have the impression he was being watched. He was certain.

A twig cracked in the trees to his right. Turning, he could see nothing.

Leaves rustled. The sound came from behind him. Nothing there either that he could see. The faint rustling might have come from anywhere in the surrounding thick undergrowth. He wasn't used to forests. Maybe the mountains created an echo.

Another noise.

In front of him?

“Bloody hell.” He couldn't tell what direction sounds came from in this damned forest. What could be everywhere at once?

In the next second, he found out.

Chapter Forty-three

It was time he got in touch with Joe Haywood, Timothy Wilson thought as he searched through almost-empty kitchen cupboards. Then he remembered Haywood's house had burnt down. Had all his illegal wares gone with it?

Finally he found a tin containing a handful of broken biscuits. What else did he have to offer his visitor? Emily Miller had given him a jar of gooseberry jam. Did anyone really like gooseberry jam?

It might not be strictly proper for a vicar to deal with a black marketeer, but when parishioners sought Wilson out for counseling, advice, and comfort, they naturally expected a cup of tea. Or so he thought.

He had set cups and a plate of biscuits—the largest of the remaining pieces—on the side table in the parlor when one of his resident evacuees showed in Violet Gowdy. He directed her to a chair. Perched on it with her auburn hair neatly braided, wearing her Sunday best pink-flowered dress she resembled a Victorian china-doll waiting for the tea party to begin.

Wilson served the tea and biscuits while Violet looked at him, solemn and silent. He leaned back in his chair. “Well now, Violet.” His voice was especially weak this morning, a ragged croak. “Your mother asked me to talk to you. What seems to be the problem?”

She looked at him suspiciously. “There's something bad stealing children. Everyone knows that.”

“There are those who think that. Others think the children are running away. Copycats, you see.”

Her mouth full of biscuit, Violet scowled at him. Talking with children was not the vicar's forte. He'd never married and had children of his own. He was comfortable teaching them in a group, but speaking with youngsters individually about personal matters made him feel awkward. He didn't speak quite the same language.

“Mum told me she prayed to Jesus to keep me safe,” Violet stated. “But I saw the White Thing! I did! And Bert never came back neither.”

“You can be sure your mother's prayer will be answered, Violet. Jesus is everywhere.”

“Even in Noddweir?”

“Of course.”

“Then he knows where Bert and the other children are. So why doesn't he send them back or tell us where to look?”

Wilson sipped his tea slowly to give his voice a rest and his mind time to work. The trouble with children was they hadn't yet learned to pretend to accept platitudes as answers. “Violet, your mother is concerned about you. She doesn't want you to be afraid. You know from your Bible lessons that Jesus walks beside us. He's right here in this room with us.”

Violet's expression darkened. “I saw the White Thing going to Constable Green's room and he got killed. I never saw Jesus. Except one time after church my friend Patrick claimed he saw him in a cloud, only it didn't look like Jesus to me. It looked more like a tiger. And now Patrick's gone too.”

What was this “White Thing” she was so convinced she had seen? Wilson decided it would be better not to inquire. “Haven't you ever felt Jesus was near to you?” he asked instead.

“At times I sing a hymn and I feel…something…” Her tone suggested she was trying to get the answer correct rather than from any conviction.

“See. What a good idea. Singing a hymn is a way to feel Jesus protecting you.”

“But why didn't Jesus protect the other children?”

“We don't know that he didn't. They may all have got back to their homes by now.”

“Not Issy or Patrick and Jim. They live here.”

“And how do we know they aren't going to return safe and sound?”

Violet had finished her biscuits. She still resembled a china-doll, a sullen china-doll with crumbs around her perfect cupid's bow mouth. Wilson had to clear his throat before speaking. “No one is more precious to Jesus than children. Remember how He said suffer them to come to Him?'”

“If Jesus loved children why would He want them to suffer?”

“When He said
suffer
, He meant allow them to come to Him.”

“My mum is always telling Dad he makes her suffer.”

Wilson tried to suppress a cough and failed. He covered his mouth with his handkerchief and hacked uncontrollably until his eyes streamed. He could see Violet staring at him with alarm. He was supposed to be offering the child comfort. A right mess he was making of it. Finally the spasms subsided and he forced his lips into what he hoped was a reassuring smile but suspected was a frightening rictus.

***

When Violet left, Wilson went to the church.

Although people were in and out the past few days, the church was deserted at the moment. Light streamed in through the stained glass windows, scattering rainbow colors across the empty pews. Should he have spoken with Violet here, where the grace of God was more evident than in his gloomy parlor? He had continued to talk to the child but doubted whether his efforts had helped her. His words had sounded feeble even to himself.

His own beliefs were complicated, intellectual, not anything he could convey to a child. Not as comforting as simple beliefs.

He knelt before the altar and prayed.

He had assured Violet that Jesus was always close at hand but this morning it felt as if He were far away.

Wilson spoke easily to others about the presence of Jesus but he was not certain he could feel that presence himself. Or not so strongly as a man of the cloth should. Certainly he had experienced a sense of the divine during services, as Saint Winnoc looked down and the light coming through the colored windows suffused the worshipers' rapt faces with a warm glow. At night, in the quiet hours when he studied the Bible, trying to parse out the meaning of a particularly troublesome verse, a stack of exegeses beside him, the presence was there also.

But was it Jesus he felt swelling within his chest during these times or merely beauty and intellectual challenge, a sense not of the divine but of the heights of human endeavor?

Colleagues, when he had had contact with colleagues, claimed that Jesus spoke in their ear, that they knew He was there as surely as they knew Wilson was sitting across from them. Did they? Or did they say so because they thought they should? Or did they merely interpret whatever they did feel in the manner they supposed appropriate? And what did they feel? Was it different from what he felt or were they simply being dishonest about it or interpreting it differently?

Not that Wilson needed to hear the voice of Jesus to believe. He believed in his own way, because he had heard the fading voices of soldiers on the battlefield, young men dying in hope rather than despair, thanks to the sacred teachings. Didn't that alone justify it all?

What, in the end, would be the point of not believing, of having no hope?

He clasped his hands and closed his eyes. He prayed again, but could not convince himself that his words were escaping past the devil looming over Noddweir.

***

Violet walked home feeling cross after her visit with the vicar. An excruciating experience, like having to sit through a church service all by herself and not being able to daydream. The biscuits were stale too. She ate them because her mother ordered her to be polite and act like a young lady.

She was never sure what to make of it when adults talked about Jesus and God being up in the sky but walking around on earth like ghosts too. Did her mum really believe that? Did Violet? She kind-of did and she kind-of didn't. She scuffled slowly along the High Street, happy the day was young and that she wouldn't need to worry about the night for many hours yet. She didn't notice Martha approaching until the old woman called to her.

“Violet, my child, I've made something for you.”

Martha was too close for Violet to pretend not to see her so she stopped and waited. When Martha got close Violet could smell her old lady scent, faded flowers in a dim, musty room.

She held out to Violet what appeared to be a small doll.

Violet peered at the object. It was shaped like a person yet on closer inspection its humanity vanished. There was nothing but dead entwined twigs, dried grass, and bits of bark, all bound together with string.

“It's a charm,” Martha told her. “It's to protect you from what's coming to Noddweir.”

A chill ran down Violet's back. She bit her lip. One second Martha was holding a doll, the next it was a bunch of dead sticks.

“Go on, take it,” Martha urged. “Keep it near you all the time. Then bad things won't be able to get at you.”

Violet took a step backwards, confused. What scared her about a bunch of sticks tied together?

She looked at Martha. With her wrinkled, dried-apple face and wild hair she suddenly looked like the witch many villagers claimed she was.

Don't be silly, Violet told herself. It's only old Martha. You know Martha.

Issy had known Martha too, hadn't she? Spent hours with her, and where was Issy now?

Violet felt panic rising.

The witch pushed the hideous stick man toward her.

Violet turned and ran home to the Guardians pub as fast as she could, without looking back.