The Guardian Stones (15 page)

Chapter Thirty

“I ask that free from peril, the hours of dark may be. I ask that free from peril, the hours of dark may be.” Violet Gowdy tiptoed up the pub stairs singing a hymn under her breath. Her heart beat a tattoo of fright. She was afraid that the next second she would feel the sudden, shocking touch of the White Thing. Her back and arms tingled, as if sensing an unseen hand a fraction of an inch away.

About to make contact.

Now.

No, thank goodness, not yet.

She was always frightened when she visited the pub's privy in the dark, even though an oil lamp set on the well-scrubbed wooden bench seat burned all night. She feared bad, unseen things might grab her from behind as she passed down the short path in the back garden. Or perhaps the bad things would use her temporary absence to get inside the house and wait for her behind the back door.

As to what would happen after they grabbed her, Violet dared not speculate.

Except whatever happened would be very bad.

So she always ran out and back when the need arose and crept upstairs to her bedroom as quickly as she could.

Nothing had caught her so far.

But since the White Thing had begun to lurk, the journey was more terrifying than ever.

Recent events showed that her fear was not as silly as her parents tried to make out. Something was in fact taking children away and night would be the best time to catch a little girl alone outside.

A little girl called Violet.

Tonight, singing the hymn under her breath with a dim idea of holy protection, Violet had run back up the path. The moon washed the garden with a cold, blue light that deepened shadows among the bushes and trees.

Yes, anything could be hiding out there, waiting for Its chance.

But tonight It did not get one.

With a sigh of relief Violet reached the landing and crept past the open door of Tom Green's unoccupied room. Down the hallway she could hear her father snoring, a sound that usually kept her awake but tonight sounded comforting.

Safely in her bedroom, she turned the big key in the ornate lock and pushed a tilted chair under the doorknob.

At least the White Thing could not try to get in without her knowing. And when she heard the Thing she would scream and scream and her father would come running and save her from It. Her mother probably wouldn't bother to get out of bed.

There was something wrong between her parents. She could sense it. Her father often looked angry and her mother had become more short-tempered than usual. She had paid no attention to Violet that very morning when she tried to tell her what she'd seen. Indeed, she had been told at her age she should not be so daft, that there was nothing strange hanging about the pub despite its age, and besides how could anyone get in when the doors were locked at night?

Violet knew better.

The White Thing had somehow got in the night before.

Awakened by another row between her parents, she had lain, sleepless, for a time after silence fell. As she was about to drift off to sleep, she heard shuffling noises and, curious, got up to peer through her bedroom keyhole.

Because of the blackout the hallway had only a sliver of light along the top step, cast upwards by a lamp at the bottom of the stairs. Her father placed it there on retiring to avoid anyone falling in the dark. Then too, despite the fairly large keyhole, her vision was limited to a small stretch of hallway and the door to Green's room. However, she had glimpsed movement. Something white and formless creeping about in the dark.

It paused at Green's door. She didn't wait to see whether It entered his room. Terrified, she ran back into bed and burrowed under the blankets.

She waited and waited, listening for the sound of It at her own door, hearing only her own heart pounding. Finally she fell asleep.

Now she was snuggled down in her bed again, happy to be safe behind her locked door, with the chair propped against it.

Suddenly a thought struck her and she sat bolt upright, gasping in horror.

Was she really safe? Had she remembered to lock the back door just now?

What if she had forgotten in her hurry to get back to her bedroom?

It would be able to get in!

She was certain she had locked the back door.

At least, she thought she had.

But could she be certain?

Hadn't she better go and check? What if she hadn't? It might not come again but her parents would not be happy to find the door open tomorrow.

She might be sent up to her room all day.

At least she wouldn't have to go outside this time. Just down the stairs.

Her hand was on the chair to remove it from under her bedroom doorknob when her heart suddenly gave a leap.

Something was scratching at her door!

She didn't dare look through the keyhole. She was certain a huge, gleaming eye would be looking back at her if she did, and her heart would stop beating and she would fall down dead and her parents would be sorry for not listening to her.

But then it would be too late.

She backed away from the door and hid under the bed. She started to sing again, very low, “I ask that free from peril, the hours of dark may be.”

Chapter Thirty-one

In the dark, Grace and Edwin walked around the sleeping village. Edwin was glad for the brisk pace Grace set. Despite it being midsummer the air had chilled the moment the sun vanished behind the mountains.

Having patrolled past the glimmering pond behind Susannah's cottage they were back to where the narrow way debouched into the High Street by the church. The only sounds disturbing the night were their footfalls and the occasional barking of a dog.

“There's something odd about being out at night when nobody is about and everyone is asleep. I feel as if I should whisper in case I wake them up,” Edwin remarked.

“You are whispering.” Grace smiled.

They continued on in companionable silence. The smell of earth and greenery, burnt away by the heat of day, filled the cool darkness. Insects sang in a monotonous cadence. Edwin was aware of Grace close beside him. From time to time her sleeve brushed his.

Had Grace really wanted his company during her rounds to show him the forest? If he were thirty years younger, or twenty, he might almost have allowed himself to imagine….

No, he refused to become a foolish old man.

Still, walking with her in the night like this, Edwin was reminded of walks with Elise. Grace was taller and sturdier than Elise, though. Nothing like her, even when Elise was the same age.

For a heart-stopping moment Edwin was afraid he was going to put his arm around Grace, lean over and kiss her cheek, as he had kissed Elise during those walks in the park.

Grace touched his elbow. “Did you see that? The light up there?”

They had reached the point where the High Street joined the road to the Wainmans' farm. Grace halted and looked toward the forest.

“No.” Edwin didn't confess he had been looking at Grace.

“It's gone now. It was at the stone circle. We'd best go and see who it is.” She stepped off the road. Edwin followed.

“Shouldn't we get hold of Green?”

“Probably, but whoever it is will be long gone by the time we drag Green out of bed. Maybe it's a tramp or a deserter. I can't think who else it could be.”

Grace led Edwin up a steep path lined by black walls of vegetation.

This is madness, Edwin thought, toiling up behind. What if it's someone dangerous? A woman and an elderly man wouldn't be any match for a maniac. Still, he couldn't very well let Grace go on her own.

All the talk about supernatural events in the vicinity of the stones was so much nonsense. It was an interesting historical site but nothing more than that.

Or so Edwin tried to convince himself.

It was all he could do to keep up with Grace. To him the forest looked as black as a basement before you hit the light switch. He assumed she must be following a path but he couldn't see it. At long intervals Grace flicked her torch on for a second to orient herself. Mostly they plunged ahead through stygian darkness.

Grace had suggested he come out with her to see what the forest felt like at night. Now he knew. It felt like he was walking into danger. As they toiled upwards, his chest started to burn. He tried to stop himself from breathing in noisy, gasping breaths. He didn't want Grace to think he was…well…to think what? That he was older than her absent father?

They scrambled up the final steep incline, through a wall of blackberry bushes, and arrived at the stone circle.

“You can almost sense the stones thinking, brooding.” Grace remarked.

The only entity Edwin could feel brooding was himself.

They stood and looked at the stones, nothing more than dark shapes barely discernible against the slightly paler grass and foxgloves around them.

Grace walked toward the circle and Edwin followed.

Despite not believing in the sentience of rocks, he felt a shudder of fear as he stepped into the center of the ring. Don't be stupid, he scolded himself.

Grace swung the torch around. It was she who noticed the trampled area within the circle but it was Edwin who pointed out markings on the stones.

“Those are new. I'm certain these ones weren't here when I was sketching yesterday.”

“What do they say?”

“Nothing that I can make out. They're symbols.”

“Tramps maybe?”

“The Guardians might be a place to pass on messages. A tramp's gazette.” Edwin's attempt at humor sounded feeble even to himself.

Grace flicked on her torch and surveyed the circle again. “Someone was here, where that grass is trampled. A deer wouldn't bed down in the open. Whoever it was had that light we saw.”

Edwin could feel the immensity of the starry dome of the sky open above him. He could almost admit to sensing a connection between the ancient stones and the depths overhead, receding into infinite silence.

“Nothing here,” Grace said. “Let's go back by the path past the cliff.”

They had taken what Grace called a shortcut on the way up. Now they went through another half-overgrown gap in the bushes and descended.

Passing the hazy glimmer that was the limestone cliff below the crest of the hill, Edwin stepped on something and stumbled. He grabbed a sapling to keep from falling.

Bending down he saw a torch on the path.

Grace shone her light around.

She gasped and broke into a run.

Edwin hobbled after her as fast as he could.

“Oh, dear God!” Grace stared down at a shadowy, lumpy shape.

It's Isobel, Edwin thought. Hadn't half of Noddweir expected to stumble across her body for days?

When he reached Grace's side she was shining her torch downwards. At the foot of the cliff, his neck at an unnatural angle, lay Special Constable Tom Green.

***

From the forest the observer can see the wooden sign above the village shop's window. It has been painted over but on closer approach there can be made out beneath the whitewash the ghost-like “O” of “Noddweir” and the phantasmal curve of the “S” in shop. Each pane in the big front window shows the moon's reflection, a cold spot of colorless light repeated twenty times. The blackout curtains behind the glass hide the shop's interior from view. There is no way to tell whether Emily Miller has left a lamp or a candle burning. She is almost certainly asleep at this hour. There is no dog guarding the shop. Perhaps she has chosen to sleep downstairs to guard the shop herself.

The faint crunch of footsteps on gravel, quieter than the noise of the night insects, will not wake her. The smaller window on the ground floor, which is sometimes cracked open during the day for ventilation, is closed now. There too, curtains conceal whatever lies inside. There are papers stuck to the bulletin board by the door beside the big window with its tiny reflected moons. The papers glow in the moonlight. The words on them are of no importance.

It is unlikely the front door has been left unlocked and is attached to a bell which jingles when a customer enters. This is not true of the back door. There is only cardboard stuck in the frame of the broken window beside that door, visible through the hollyhocks rising all along the back of the house.

The cardboard comes away easily, silently. A floorboard creaks underfoot. There is no sound in response.

Emily continues to sleep.

The village continues to sleep.

Chapter Thirty-two

Wednesday, June 18, 1941

“Cliffs and bad tickers can't be charged with murder,” said Constable Harmon. “And yes, I'm unhappy—as you put it—about being dragged out here for two deaths from natural causes. The police are stretched to the breaking point these days, you know.”

It was morning and the blackout curtains in Grace's front room were open but the nightmare continued. Constable Harmon, summoned by messenger from Craven Arms, lectured Grace as if she were a schoolgirl. Edwin guessed the man was barely older than Grace, of average size, with a bland face, untouched by experience. Looking at him, the main thing one noticed was the uniform.

Harmon picked irritably at the burrs that had stuck to his trousers during the walk through the forest to the cliff where Tom Green's body was found.

“I'm surprised at your attitude, Constable,” Grace said evenly. “Especially after everything I've explained to you.”

“About the evacuees running off?”

“Children gone missing.”

The policeman sighed too loudly. “Semantics, Miss. And as for Constable Green's suspicious death…you said he was a city lad.”

“Like yourself,” Grace said. Her broad cheery face was chiseled by worry and exhaustion. The rosy cheeks were pale.

Harmon ignored her. “So this constable of yours, he obviously blundered through those thick shrubs in the dark and went straight over the cliff. Broke his neck. No fiendish killer there, Miss, just gravity. Not that gravity hasn't killed more than a few.” He chuckled to himself, then frowned at the burr he'd detached from his trousers. He set it next to his notebook on the table by the armchair.

The man's demeanor exasperated Edwin. “Look, Constable Harmon, you haven't been living here in Noddweir the past few days. You don't know what it's been like. Emily Miller was frightened. And justifiably so, it turns out. As Grace told you, her shop was broken into. Her dog was killed. Burned to death.”

“Of course she was upset,” Harmon replied. “Bad for the ticker. A woman as elderly as she was. Is it surprising her ticker gave out? Her neighbor…” he picked up his notebook and consulted it. “Miss Radbone admitted that Miss Miller has a bad ticker.”

“Heart!” Grace said. “Heart, for God's sake! You make her sound like she was a clock. And the way you act, as far as you're concerned, she might as well have been!”

“Let's not get emotional, Miss Baxter. Consider the situation reasonably.” Harmon's gaze ran over his notes. “Miss Radbone stated that Miss Miller was always up with the sun, so she went to check on her very early this morning and found her dead on a cot in the shop. No signs of violence.” He looked at his watch. “The ambulance will be here soon. Ambulances are in rather short supply at the moment.”

Harmon, like the eager boy who was sent for him, had used a bicycle.

“What about the cardboard that was missing from the broken window at the back of Emily's house?” Grace asked.

“I assume it hadn't been secured very well. Fell out. Nothing gone from the shop. Or at least nothing that can be proved, because you admit you hadn't taken an inventory after the break-in and robbery.”

Grace tensed visibly and glared at Harmon. “Emily was murdered.”

“As a citizen, you can think anything you like, Miss Baxter. It isn't a crime. But as a policeman, I can't operate on beliefs.”

Grace's clenched her hands. “Even if no one broke into the shop and killed her last night, it was the previous break-in and what was done to her poor dog that killed her. I insist that you take this seriously, Constable.”

Edwin said, “And what about the markings we showed you on the stones? Don't you find that suspicious? All these deaths and those inexplicable scratchings, and—”

“Perhaps your constable was a secret Druid, Mr.….uh…?”

“Professor Carpenter,” said Grace.

Harmon made a notation on his notebook. “You're not from around here, are you?”

Edwin persisted. “Don't you think there have been far too many unusual things happening to dismiss them all out of hand?”

“No, I don't think there has been anything unusual happening.” Harmon stabbed his pen at his notebook as he ticked off the facts he'd recorded. “Four evacuees have disappeared. Len and Mike Finch, Reggie Cox, and Bert Holloway. Bert Holloway returned and said that he and the Finch boys had run off together. No doubt the boys broke into the shop to steal supplies before they left. A village girl—Isobel Chapman—previously ran away. Not surprising, is it? You told me yourself that everyone in the village knew her father beat her. She and the boys had probably all arranged to meet. Then your new constable, Tom Green, unfamiliar with the terrain, walked over the edge of a cliff in the dark and broke his neck, and an elderly woman with a heart problem—Miss Emily Miller—upset by recent events, died of a heart attack in her sleep.” He looked up from his notes and raised his eyebrows. “Not a single one of those events is in the least bit unusual.”

“But taken all together—”

Harmon cut Edwin off. “You're connecting dots in your imagination that don't have any connection in reality.”

“What about the blood on Isobel's clothing?” Edwin struggled to keep his voice down.

“Worked a treat, didn't it? Kept you searching your backyards and annoying the constabulary while young Miss Chapman keeps getting further and further away. She's probably in London by now. If I had those clothes tested I'd lay a pound to a penny it would turn out to be chicken's blood. Or rabbit's.”

“What do you mean ‘if'? Surely you'll test them?” Grace put in.

“Do you know how many kids go missing these days?” Harmon paused. He tapped his lower lip with the end of his pen, as if making the calculation. “Let me guess. Quite apart from the abusive father, the little miss was the village tart. Liked hanging about with the boys. She's probably got herself into trouble and done a bunk. They're all at it these days.”

Grace reddened. “You don't know what you're talking about!”

“Maybe you should make up your mind,” snapped Edwin. “First she ran off because she was abused. Then she ran off because she was a tart. We're wrong to worry, because you have the answer, whatever it is.”

Harmon shrugged. “Either way—”

He stopped abruptly.

There in the doorway stood Jack Chapman.

He was, Edwin thought, a terrible sight. His eyes glittered like glass. Black stubble stained his jaw. Other black stains spotted his gray shirt and leather apron. His huge arms hung at his sides. He looked borne down under a massive weight, heavy as death.

His voice came out in a hoarse whisper but it didn't matter. Edwin, Grace, and even Harmon, were stricken utterly silent. “I heard a policeman were here. My daughter's gone. I want you to look into her disappearance.”

Harmon found his voice. “I'm sure you do.” He consulted his notebook. “Mr. Chapman, isn't it? With all the unhappy evacuees we have running around these days, there are more missing children in the country than there are policemen. I was sent here about Constable Green. I am not authorized to take time to look into your daughter's running off.”

“Green's dead. My daughter may still be alive.” Jack shuffled forward ponderously. He looked even larger in Grace's small front room than he had in his smithy.

Harmon stood up. “Girls go off all the time.” His tone was more conciliatory. “You'd be surprised how many we pick up every week. Usually they come back of their own accord, like—” He started to lift his notebook to his eyes but then apparently thought better of removing his gaze from Jack, who took another few steps forward. “Like the boy, who came back. What's-his-name. Not to mention she hasn't been officially reported as missing and until she is, well….”

“I'm reporting it to you now!” Jack's voice sounded like a rasp drawn against a horseshoe. “Take this down.”

Harmon closed his notebook. “I'm here on other business. You'll have to go to the station in town to file a missing persons report. And I advise you to speak more respectfully when you do.”

Jack took one more step forward and without a word struck Harmon on the jaw. The constable crumpled back into his chair, a puppet that had its strings cut.

For an instant Jack loomed over the man, then, thankfully, turned and walked slowly out.

When Edwin saw that Harmon was not dead, but blinking and groggily shaking his head, he turned to Grace and smiled.

She smiled back.