No Stone Unturned

 

 

A bitter cup, a shock severe

To part with ones we loved so dear.

Our loss is great, we will not complain

But trust in Christ to meet again.

Epitaph from a gravestone in the cemetery at the Church of St Andrew, Wilmcote, Warwickshire, commemorating the deaths of Edward Sherwood (age 43), Lewis Thomas Washburn (age 41), George Gustavius Booker (age 43) and William Thomas Bonehill (age 27), on 24th March, 1922.

The following story is inspired by real people, places and events. However, some names, locations and dates have been changed, as have certain descriptive details. Some events and characters are completely fictional.

 

Contents

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Author's Note

Copyright

PART 1

Chapter 1 – July 2013

T
here are angels up there,' whispered Kelly.

When you have spent the entire thirteen years of your life living in a caravan with your parents and a less than tidy older brother, buildings of any size can feel cavernous, so when Kelly first stepped in through the doorway of Westminster Hall, it was perhaps not surprising that her jaw dropped, her face turned skywards, and she stopped dead in her tracks. Her arms fell to her sides and her black and white striped beanie hat slipped silently from her fingers to the floor. She gazed in awe at the solid oak beams arching almost thirty metres above her head.

‘Yes,' she murmured, as she made out the delicately carved shapes that clung to the roof beams, each holding a shield as if to protect their wooden bodies. ‘Those are definitely angels.'

‘Earth calling Kelly,' chanted her friend Leanne, swooping down to pick up the fallen hat and plonking it unceremoniously back onto Kelly's head, messing up her long, wavy, dark-brown hair. ‘We haven't even started the tour yet and you've already zoned out!'

‘No I haven't!' retorted Kelly. ‘It's just, well, look at this place! It's massive…it's stunning…and this is the oldest part, as well. Do you know, they sentenced King Charles I to death in here? Think about it. He could have been standing right where you are now when they told him they were going to cut off his head.'

Leanne laughed, linking her arm through her friend's. ‘Honestly, Kel. The things you think about. You're such a weirdo. Come on, let's catch up with the others.'

Kelly, Leanne and the rest of their Year 8 English group were on an end-of-term trip. For the last few weeks, they had been learning about public speaking and how to hold a debate. So to cap it off, their teacher, Miss Shepherd, had organised a visit to London and the Houses of Parliament. They were going to take part in a special workshop, and they would each write their own manifesto—just like real politicians—and present it to the others. Then they could vote on whose ideas they liked the best.

Kelly didn't particularly like public speaking, and she definitely didn't want to be a politician, but she had her own reasons for jumping at the chance of a tour of the Houses of Parliament. It hadn't been easy to talk her parents into letting her go but she had been given a good Year 8 report, so Kelly had argued that she deserved a reward.

The girls hurried down the length of Westminster Hall and ran up the stone steps beneath the huge stained glass window at the far end, to catch up with their school group just as they moved into St Stephen's Hall. A tingle went down Kelly's spine. This was part of the entrance to the Palace of Westminster, which Sir Charles Barry had built after the great fire of 1834.

You did a good job, Sir Charles
, she thought to herself as she walked past the statues of former MPs, their smooth marble faces frozen mid-debate.

As Kelly's thoughts drifted back to the present, she realised that the tour guide was speaking. He was pointing to a statue of William Pitt and explaining that this was the Prime Minister who had led Britain in the Napoleonic wars. The rest of the girls in the group were hanging on the guide's every word, which probably had more to do with his uncanny resemblance to the singer Ed Sheeran than his knowledge of the country's former leaders. Kelly adored Ed Sheeran, but even so she found it hard to concentrate on the guide. She was far more interested in the building, and while everyone else stared up at the statue or lovingly at their guide, her eyes wandered around the hall. She was taking in all the details—the vaulted ceilings, the intricate mosaics and the multicoloured stained glass windows. Her gaze lingered on the tiled flooring, patterned in rich reds and blues, interlaced with rectangular pieces of black slate.

After pausing in front of two further statues, Miss Shepherd and the tour guide eventually ushered the group into the octagonal Central Lobby—the crossroads between the chambers of the House of Commons and the House of Lords.

‘We're going into the House of Commons first,' announced Miss Shepherd, as she led them into the Members' Lobby. ‘Now, listen. Once we are inside, we will only have five minutes, so I want you to have your question sheets and pencils at the ready. I don't want you all spending half the time riffling through your bags and missing what there is to see.'

There was a surge of noise as everyone got themselves organised, and chatted excitedly about the famous room with the green leather benches, which they had seen so many times on TV and were now about to enter. Only Kelly fell silent, eyes fixed to the floor once again. No patterned tiles in here, only smooth, plain limestone paving flags.

Instinctively, she crouched down and laid the palm of her hand flat in the centre of one of the slabs. As her skin touched the cool, polished surface of the stone, Kelly's breath caught in her throat and an image filled her mind. His face. So familiar and yet now so distant. That fluffy, golden hair as untidy as ever. Those piercing blue eyes. The gentle smile. Was it really almost a year since she had last seen him, on that crisp and sunny September afternoon?

‘Kelly Hearn, what
are
you doing?'

Miss Shepherd's voice pierced through Kelly's thoughts and the boy vanished from her mind as quickly as he had appeared.

‘Nothing, Miss.' She stood back up. ‘It's just… It's this stone floor, Miss. I was wondering if this was some of the limestone that came from my village.'

Miss Shepherd seemed confused. ‘What do you mean? Which village? Why?'

‘When the Houses of Parliament were rebuilt, Miss, after the fire in Queen Victoria's reign, they used limestone from Wilmcote quarry for some of the new floors.' Kelly could see Leanne smirking at her. She blushed. ‘Well, that's what I found out, anyway, when I did that local history project for Mr Walker.'

Miss Shepherd was impressed. ‘That's fascinating, Kelly. Who would have thought? A tiny village like Wilmcote, supplying the floors for somewhere so magnificent. Imagine all the famous politicians and prime ministers who have walked on it over the years. Well done. I think you should ask the guide about that, after we've finished the tour. There will be some time for questions, I'm sure.'

In spite of her teacher's praise, Kelly remained rooted to the spot, staring down at the flagstones while everyone else began to move towards the door to the House of Commons.

‘Why the sad face? Can't be that bad, being the teacher's pet,' teased Leanne, playfully boxing her arm.

Kelly forced a smile and gave a little sniff before squeezing her friend's hand. ‘Nah, it's not that. It's just… well, I was so desperate to come here, you know? To see this place. But there's someone else I
so
would have liked to be here to see it all with me.'

‘Oh, right,' sneered Leanne, feigning offence. ‘I'm not good enough company, am I?'

‘Of course you are.' Kelly laughed. ‘I don't mean it that way. I'm just missing someone, that's all. An old friend.'

Leanne took Kelly's hand and began to pull her towards the doorway into the House of Commons. ‘I know what'll cheer you up.'