The Guardian Stones (20 page)

Chapter Forty-four

Leaving the house, Edwin met Martha. Stamping along, muttering to herself and looking disgruntled, she didn't acknowledge his greeting.

Grace had already left when Edwin got up. He'd felt vaguely disappointed when he found the kitchen deserted. It was early. There was still a chill in the air. Had she raced off to avoid seeing him after her confessions the night before?

He had jam and toast and made tea. Although he lingered, Grace didn't return. Edwin knew he ought to be pursuing his studies, but when he sat down with his notes and tried to go over them they didn't seem important, everything considered. Visiting the stones or rambling around the forest alone probably wasn't a good idea. Even if one assumed Emily Miller had died of a heart attack, Susannah Radbone's disappearance indicated that whoever or whatever was preying on Noddweir's children had now turned its attention to adults.

Or was he being an alarmist? There was no evidence Susannah had come to grief. Perhaps her bicycle had broken down and she had left it and hitchhiked to town. She had struck him as the stubborn type who would do such a thing. Possibly the bicycle was damaged in an accident, not that he and Grace had noticed any sign of one.

But supposing his theory was correct, why had she left her belongings and the cat-carrier?

There was no point sitting around waiting for Grace and brooding. He'd walk around the village. He told himself he wasn't really hoping to run into Grace, merely getting a little fresh air while it was still cool. With sunlight sparkling on quaint cottages and birds singing, it was difficult to believe in distant war, let alone murders at home.

Could there really be an evil creature lurking in the forest, beneath the very trees from which birds called so cheerily? Suddenly there was a dreadful howl of excruciating pain.

Looking around he saw a black cat—Susannah's cat—sitting before the closed door of her cottage, tail flicking in annoyance.

When he walked over, the cat looked at him, back at the door, and yowled. “I'm afraid your mistress isn't home.”

Would Timothy's young charges like a cat? He tried the door. It was unlocked. The cat trotted inside, tail raised high, went straight into the kitchen, and resumed caterwauling.

Edwin followed. There was a faintly unpleasant smell in the air. “Waiting to eat, are you?”

He'd visit Timothy right away. If one of his girls wanted a cat she could take him back to the vicarage.

The cat circled Edwin's legs, making pitiful noises. When he moved, it made no effort to avoid his feet.

“I won't be able to get you anything if you trip me up and I crack my skull,” Edwin chided. The words had as much effect as his remonstrances had on his duller students.

Feeling guilty, he poked around. The first jug of milk he found had soured, accounting for the smell. Another jug had not yet soured. He poured it into a saucer and watched the cat lap greedily. Would Susannah be so extravagant?

He poured the soured milk down the drain in the sink. The odor lingered behind.

The kitchen looked in perfect order, with no dirty dishes waiting to be washed, no sign that Susannah had left in undue haste. Jars of gooseberry jam marched in neat rows across the counter.

Might there be a clue to Susannah's departure in the house?

Not that Edwin had any inkling of what it could be. Susannah had simply become disenchanted with Noddweir following the death of her friend Emily and decided to leave. It was understandable, wasn't it?

On the other hand, Grace couldn't be expected to investigate everything at once. Edwin could help.

He'd already scanned the kitchen and seen nothing unusual. Although what did he expect to find? A reminder note? “Leave Noddweir tomorrow?”

He left the cat working at the milk in the saucer—Edwin was overgenerous—and went down the hall. A cramped, starkly furnished bedroom on one side he guessed was Reggie's.

He hesitated before going upstairs but finally did, finding a larger room with lace curtains that was obviously Susannah's bedroom.

Edwin paused in the doorway. On a small round-topped table inside lay two books. Russell's
The Problems of Philosophy
and Virginia Woolf's
Mrs. Dalloway
. He could see himself in the dressing table mirror, his image that of a graying burglar with eyeglasses slipping down his nose.

What was he thinking? He couldn't go snooping through Susannah Radbone's possessions. He shouldn't be here.

Shaking his head, he turned to leave. The smell was stronger here than in the kitchen. A foul odor. Not sour milk then? A few steps further down the hall, the stench increased. He had come to what must be a closet door. He pulled it open. A cloud of flies exploded into his face.

Several fat bodies smacked against his forehead and cheeks, obscene raindrops.

He backed away, cursing and waving his hands at the disgusting insects.

Now he could definitely smell decay.

His heart raced as he peered into the dim closet filled with brooms and mops and hanging coats. Several cardboard boxes sat on the floor. Bending, Edwin saw those in front contained canning jars.

He pushed them aside and pulled out the box in the back.

More flies.

A tea towel was loosely draped over the box. Edwin lifted the towel.

In the bottom of the box, alive with glistening flies, sat an unidentifiable object about half the size of his hand. Was it a scrap of meat or the remains of a small animal a cat would drag in? It was too badly rotted to identify. He gagged and tasted bile.

Beside the putrescent mass was a jumble of kitchen utensils—knives of all sizes.

All displayed rust-colored stains.

***

Edwin and Grace stood at the edge of the pond behind Susannah's house, watching Jack Chapman wade around and probe the water with a long metal rod.

Edwin shook his head. “You can't really suspect Susannah murdered all those children and hid the bodies in the pond? Surely after a certain time they would—”

“I know it sounds ludicrous, but considering what's happened here lately…”

“I suppose she is an outsider by Noddweir standards.”

“That's nothing to do with it.” Grace sounded exasperated. “Well, maybe something to do with it. Of course I don't believe a word of it, but if I look into the possibility it might stop the talk. You can't tell with strangers. Who knows what she got up to before she arrived. That's the sort of thing they're already saying.”

Chapman worked his way methodically across the pond. Water rose over his waist, then to his chest. Dragonflies flashed in the sunlight. Spindly-legged bugs skittered across the water. What was beneath that placid surface?

The water came nearly up to Chapman's shoulders now. Edwin shuddered, imagining himself wading out there, setting his feet down blindly into muck and weeds. Finding his leg caught suddenly in….what? A tangle of branches or the ribcage of a half-decayed torso?

“What was it in the box, Grace?”

She shrugged. “Couldn't tell. Nothing left but a badly decayed chunk of flesh.” She didn't speculate on the knives' significance.

“I can see what you mean about gossip,” Edwin said. “Saying Susannah only came here because she planned to kill the children. Hid the bodies in the pond. Mad, you see. Her friend Emily became suspicious so Emily had to die too. But then the fiend was afraid Emily might already have talked, so it was time to depart.”

“Something like that. She'd be a suitably unlikely suspect in a mystery.”

Edwin guessed she was right. What did he really know about Susannah Radbone, whom he'd only met a handful of days ago? What did he know about anyone in Noddweir, when he came down to it?

Shielding his eyes against the sun, he watched Chapman work on the other side of the pond. The big man's shirt was plastered to his broad chest. When Grace had gone to the smithy to borrow a suitable rod for the job, he'd immediately volunteered to do it. Was it because if any victims were to be found, Issy was the most likely?

Chapman paused and felt around with the rod, as if prodding at an object concealed in the mud. He jammed the rod down, letting it stand upright. Clearly he'd found something.

The buzzing of insects sounded suddenly louder as Chapman bent and reached into the water. When he straightened up he held a rusted, muck-filled biscuit tin.

Edwin could see relief on Chapman's face.

“If Susannah didn't reach her sister's home, what happened to her?” Edwin asked Grace as the blacksmith resumed his search.

“I'm hoping she walked out to the main road and got a ride. And while her cat apparently escaped, what worries me is she left her suitcase.”

“Maybe she's planning on hiring someone to bring her back for it.” Edwin realized it sounded silly.

Chapman waded back toward them, coming around the pond's edge where it was shallower. “Checked it all, Grace. Nothing.”

“Thank God,” Grace murmured. “I appreciate your help, Jack.”

As Chapman approached he suddenly looked down, leaned over, and reached into a clump of vegetation.

He bellowed in pain as he yanked his hand away.

A tiny gray shape clung to his finger.

Chapman cursed and shook his hand. Whatever had hold of his finger refused to let go. He stumbled onto the land and slammed his hand on the ground until his miniature assailant relented.

Edwin saw a small, limp, furry form. “Looks like Mole from
The Wind in the Willows,
” he muttered.

Chapman wrapped his wounded finger in a grubby handkerchief. Blood soaked through the fabric.

“Water shrew,” Grace explained. “They're not a fit animal for children's stories. They'll give you a nasty bite.”

Chapman saw Edwin's distress. “Don't worry. It won't kill me. Hurts like hell, though. The movement caught my eye. Serves me right, looking with my hand.”

Grace clucked with sympathy. “You'd better go home and clean it off well, Jack.”

Chapman stared down at the tiny corpse. For a moment Edwin thought he was going to kick it, but he turned away and walked off.

“He's embarrassed such a little beast gave him such a big tussle,” Grace observed. “He'll have bad pain and a bit of swelling, but he should be all right.”

Edwin shook his head. “A venomous shrew. Who would've guessed?”

Grace grinned bleakly. “We're full of surprises in Noddweir, aren't we?”

Chapter Forty-five

Edwin was in his room changing his muddy trousers when the shouting started. He rushed downstairs into the kitchen without putting on his shoes. A rotund, red-faced little woman was loudly haranguing Grace, who sat wearily at the table.

“Are you sure that Alan is gone, Harriet?” Grace asked the woman, who looked to Edwin like an enraged garden gnome.

He started back, but Grace gestured him in urgently. “Harriet, this is my lodger, Professor Carpenter. Professor, Harriet Lamb.”

Harriet nodded curtly as Edwin took a chair beside Grace. Harriet lowered her voice in deference to the newcomer but her words were no less vehement. “Am I a liar, Grace Baxter? I had to borrow sugar from Nellie Atkinson and you know how she gossips. When I got back Alan wasn't in the house.”

Grace leaned back in her chair, perturbed as well as tired. “And he was there this morning?”

“His door was still closed, didn't I already tell you?”

“But it's afternoon. What makes you think he didn't get up and go out to meet his friends?”

“With the devil stalking the streets? Besides, I've told him not to go out on his own.”

“I saw Alan and a couple of other boys playing by the pond yesterday.”

“Did you know? Are you hinting I can't control my own son?”

“Why don't you wait a bit, Harriet? If he doesn't come home for his tea—”

“Wait! There's a fine thing. My boy gone and all you can do is tell me to wait.”

Edwin forced himself to sit in silence. He didn't want to give Grace the idea he thought she couldn't handle her unofficial job.

“We're doing as much as we can.” Grace's voice was tight with irritation. “Where would you suggest we look for him?”

Harriet remained planted stolidly where she was. She crossed her big arms and scowled. “If I was in charge I'd be questioning the vicar!”

“What? Do you think Mr. Wilson—”

“He's a deep one, that vicar, if you ask me. What's he always doting on the children for? This parade he's arranged and all those little girls he keeps in the vicarage and him not married, as Nellie pointed out to—”

Edwin couldn't restrain himself. “That's absurd,” he snapped. “Besides, he can barely manage to cross the street after what the Germans did to his lungs.”

“You know the vicar better than we do then?” sniffed Harriet. “He can get around better than he lets on.”

“I know him as well as you do, Harriet,” Grace put in, “and I agree with Professor Carpenter.”

The glare Harriet gave them both could only be described as malevolent.

“How about all them boxes of books?” The way Harriet spit out ‘books' made it sound like a dirty word. “Children's books. What's a grown man without a family, an unmarried man, doing with boxes of children's books? Bait, that's what I call them. Bait to lure the innocent. All them wild tales. Fairies and pirates and such. Useless they are, putting ideas into kids' heads. The only book we need's the Good Book.”

Grace stood. “I will send someone to look for Alan as soon as I can, Harriet. Now I must get back to this report I'm working on, so if you'll excuse me….” Her glare convinced Harriet to stump out, ungraciously muttering over her shoulder about how deep the vicar was and it was a disgrace nothing was done about it.

Grace slumped back down in her chair. “Grace is in disgrace,” she suddenly giggled. The dark concavities under her eyes made her look older.

“You should rest, Grace.”

“I wish I could.” She took a deep breath. “But there's work to be done.”

“You don't think the boy is actually missing?”

“I don't think so. It's possible, of course.” She shrugged. “Mothers are afraid to let their children out of their sight. I can't say I blame them.”

Edwin tapped the pad on which he could make out Grace's neat, schoolgirl's handwriting. “What's this report? Can I help?”

“Thanks, but no. I'm summarizing what's happened here this past week. I intend to make sure the authorities take notice and send help.”

“You're not thinking of going to Craven Arms yourself after what happened to Susannah?”

“We don't know that anything happened to Susannah.”

“We're under siege here, Grace. I think it's time we stop pretending otherwise.”

Grace pulled the pad over and scanned it. “Everyone's on edge. Losing their tempers. Scared.”

“With good reason.” Edwin stared intently at her. She was trying not to meet his gaze. “You can't try to go into town by yourself. I'll go.”

She turned a puzzled face toward him. “You? But Edwin, why would—”

“I'm very fond of you, Grace. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you.”

There, he'd said it.

She looked at him in confusion. “I…”

Had he made a fool of himself? An old fool? He started talking again, as if that was going to help matters. “When we were out walking last night, I could sense that you….well…”

Grace bit her lip.

She put her hand on his arm. “Edwin, I'm very fond of you. You're like the father I never really had.”