The Guardian Stones (9 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Monday, June 16, 1941

Edwin slept late.

When he opened the blackout curtains he blinked in bright mid-morning sunlight. Never one to sleep in, he did not intend to start in his retirement.

Elise's photograph smiled good morning.

Edwin dressed and went downstairs. The house was quiet. Martha's door was closed. Where had Grace gone? He reminded himself he was a lodger, not a family member. It was none of his business.

The sun felt hot against Edwin's shoulders. People passed by. A woman hung out her washing. From somewhere came the sound of hammering. The world was up and about while he slept.

The pub was all but deserted, a contrast to the crowd it had held the day before. Joe Haywood sat at a table near the end of the bar. Meg Gowdy put a plate down in front of him. He said something and Meg laughed. Duncan Gowdy slowly and meticulously wiped the top of the bar, its length already shining in the morning light.

Edwin said he hoped he could get something to eat.

“How about eggs and bacon?” Duncan suggested.

“If you have them.”

Haywood laughed loudly.

“Meg,” Duncan raised his voice, “cook up some more eggs and bacon for our customer here.”

She frowned at Duncan over her shoulder, said a few more words to Haywood, then went out to the kitchen.

Edwin leaned against the bar and watched Haywood methodically devour his breakfast. He was a broad-shouldered young man, with a Roman nose and dark hair, slicked back and glistening.

Duncan gave Edwin an uneasy look. “We've all got ration books, of course, but things out here in the countryside's a little different than in cities. We might not have electricity yet, but what with one thing and another we have a decent amount of food.”

Edwin nodded, not knowing what to say. He hadn't been thinking about rationing until Duncan mentioned it.

“Grace must be out searching for Issy again,” said Duncan.

“I suppose so,” Edwin replied.

“Looking for her body. Or more likely where Jack buried her body,” Haywood observed. His knife clicked against his plate and he forked more bacon into his mouth.

“Just because a man drinks doesn't mean he'd kill his own daughter,” Duncan said.

“You would stand up for him, seeing what a good customer he is.” Haywood chuckled.

Duncan threw his cloth down angrily. “How long have you lived in Noddweir, Joe? You don't know nothing about us.”

“Oh, I know what I need to, Duncan.”

“You don't know Jack Chapman took to drink after what he saw in the war. I can't blame a man for that, I was there and I saw some things. Turning to booze isn't so bad. There were young men, all their lives before them, who purposely slept with tarts until they caught the pox just to get out of the trenches for a while.”

Haywood smiled. “Women, pox, and getting out the trenches, eh? Two out of three isn't bad, Duncan.”

Meg set a plate of fried eggs and bacon in front of Edwin. Her lips were painted a bright red to match her hair. His bacon was limp and his eggs runny.

“I wouldn't have thought you were old enough to be in the war,” Edwin said to Duncan.

“I lied about my age. Even then it was almost over by the time I got there.” Perhaps he saw Edwin's gaze following Meg as she walked over to Haywood's table to retrieve his empty plate. “I'm a bit older than my wife. Robbed the cradle.”

Edwin could not see Meg's face but guessed she wasn't smiling at Duncan's joke. “Oh, I wasn't thinking about that. My wife was somewhat younger than me.”

“Oh, aye? She was, you say?”

“She passed away last year.”

“I'm sorry.”

Edwin looked down at his plate and cut his egg. He had never quite got the knack of expressing sympathy, let alone accepting it. “Never imagined she'd go before me.”

Meg came past with Haywood's empty plate. “You'd be surprised how many wives go first.”

Haywood stood and hitched up his trousers, freshly pressed with a crisp crease. “Back to work. I'll be in again tonight, Duncan.”

Duncan grunted a vague assent.

“And we'll have to get together some evening, Professor Carpenter. I'd like to hear about your studies,” Haywood continued. “Those stones, now, queer things they are. I'll buy you a drink. It'll pay for a lecture on the mysteries of Noddweir.” His smile showed big, white, even teeth.

“Certainly. It would be my pleasure.”

Haywood left, whistling.

“What does he do?” Edwin asked Duncan.

The publican looked uneasy. “Oh, well, everyone knows he works for the Wainmans. Rents a rundown farmhouse owned by Harry Wainman. Louisa Wainman's father lived in it for years before he died. With so many people off to war, the Wainmans were happy to find a tenant.”

“What is he, early thirties?”

“He's a conchie, if you're wondering why he isn't fighting. Here to do farm work.”

“He looks well-turned out for that sort of job.” Edwin cut another piece off his runny egg, put it into his mouth, and swallowed without chewing. He was particular about having his eggs well done.

“Mind, I'm not saying he does much farm work or that he might not do a bit of other business on the side,” Duncan admitted.

Edwin smeared the remaining yolk around his plate rather than forcing it down, feeling like a wasteful child for doing so. “Surely Constable Green must know what Haywood's up to?”

“Knowing and proving is two different things, particularly when no one but Green wants it proved.”

Edwin recalled the vicar's exceptionally strong tea. Did Emily, with her shop, deal with Haywood too, or was he a competitor? Though the black market was contrary to the war effort he found it difficult to be too enraged. He suspected most people felt the same way, especially when they were the beneficiaries of the bit of sugar needed for a cake or extra ounces of tea to brew a decent pot.

“Sorry if Meg was rude,” Duncan changed the subject. “She gets in these moods. It's hard on her, living out here in the country. She longs for the bright lights.”

“She might not enjoy the bright lights right now with the Germans dropping bombs on them.”

“If there was a cinema closer…but the nearest one is too far these days.”

“My wife—Elise—loved the theater. On our honeymoon we went to the London Palladium. It hadn't been opened long, back in 1912.”

“I was still in short trousers then. Five years later I was in France.”

Edwin searched his memory, as if reconstructing those days might bring back Elise. “We saw Ruth Vincent, the singer.”

“Oh, aye, that'd suit Meg a treat. Before the war we'd go to see all the musical films. Fred Astaire is the one she likes. Fred Astaire.” He let out an unhappy laugh. “Can you imagine me doing the Continental?”

The short, chunky publican spread his thick arms, hands palms up, and shrugged. A hint of belly was visible where the lower buttons of his rumpled shirt had come undone.

“You have more hair than Fred,” Edwin told him. “I'm not keen on musicals myself. Elise was. I only watched them for her sake.” He stopped abruptly, put the brakes to his thoughts, trying to avoid the memory—that memory.

“Fancy restaurants too,” Duncan continued. “She'd sooner be dining on something or other I can't pronounce than serving up bacon and eggs. But then wouldn't we all?”

Edwin finished the under-cooked bacon and put his knife and fork on the plate. “Fancy restaurants make me uncomfortable.” He immediately regretted it for fear Duncan would think he was an ascetic.

“If you don't like fancy eating establishments, you're in luck here. Come over later today. I'll have the wireless on. Mr. Churchill is giving an address.”

“What is it? Have the Germans attacked Russia after all?”

“Nothing like that. Some American university is giving him a degree. He'll be talking to the Americans. I'm hoping he'll give them what for, hanging back like they are. No offense to you, Professor.”

Edwin asked if Duncan knew what university was involved.

Duncan narrowed his eyes and scratched the sandy hair at the back of his head, which may have triggered his memory. “English name. Rochester. that's it. Never heard of a Rochester except the one in Kent. Have you?”

“Yes. Rochester in New York State is where I taught.”

Duncan looked bemused. “Well, there's a coincidence for you. You're from the same university that's giving a degree to the prime minister. And here you are in Noddweir! You're not a spy, are you?”

Chapter Eighteen

“Why do I want to listen to old Winnie?” Emily Miller asked. “If fancy words could kill Germans we could've shouted them devil's flies out of the sky last night.”

Susannah Radbone tut-tutted. “Devil's flies indeed! You sound like Martha Roper. It's our duty to listen to what the prime minister says. Besides, he's a wonderful speaker. He inspires the nation to keep persevering.”

“People hardly need to be inspired to keep going. What else are they going to do, die?”

Susannah smiled to herself. Emily's spirits must be improving if she felt up to being irascible. “You will come along to the pub to keep me company even so?”

“Are you afraid Joe Haywood might press his attentions on an unaccompanied lady?”

Susannah tut-tutted again.

Several jars of gooseberry jam sat cooling on her kitchen table. A second batch bubbled gently on the stove while she and Emily topped and tailed berries for a third batch.

“Why didn't you wait until they were riper? Wouldn't need so much sugar then,” Emily said, as her knife seemed to work automatically, clicking rhythmically against the chopping board.

“What, and let the birds get half my crop?” Susannah winced in mock horror. “Besides, since I don't take sugar in my tea I had enough saved up for the job.”

“You'd better not let Green hear that. He'd call it hoarding.”

“That young fool better not cross swords with me.”

They worked on in companionable silence for a while, a mismatched pair—the tall, angular former schoolteacher now standing watch over the stove, and the short, round shopkeeper sitting and chopping. Finally Susannah wiped her hands on her apron and lifted the simmering pan off the heat.

“I must say gooseberries aren't my favorite fruit.” Emily laid down her knife.

“Nor mine, but jam's jam,” Susannah replied. “Take a couple of jars when you go. You can probably swap for something you prefer. I had a good crop this year. Last year half the berries disappeared in one afternoon. Wasn't birds, though. One or two of our reluctant young visitors looked green about the gills next day. But then boys will be boys.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I taught for years and found most children good-hearted. Not all of them, it's true.” Susannah paused, thinking about Emily's dog, Patch. “It's life as much as anything that eventually hardens them. Of course, sometimes the parents—”

“When I was young, children were seen and not heard,” Emily interrupted. “But with the war splitting up families, children with no supervision, fathers gone, mothers away all day working at this or that, is it any wonder kids go wild, the little beasts? If they'd tried to billet them on me, I'd have refused.”

Emily sounded fierce. Perhaps it was a result of a lifetime spent guarding her counter against nefarious little sweets predators. So much sneakier than adults, she'd once confided. But Susannah knew very well that her friend always had spare sweets set aside for children whose families were going through hard times.

Susannah had been judged as an authoritarian during her teaching days. In her opinion, when children came from homes with no supervision at all, discipline at school was necessary. Better a ruler across the knuckles now than a police officer's truncheon on the head later, she explained to her students on the first day of school.

“Children without supervision often come to no good. That's true. They tend to revert to a state of nature. But they aren't all bad. When I was still teaching—this was in Newcastle—one of my pupils brought a kitten to me. It had a broken leg. She found it lying in a back lane. And who do you think was responsible for the broken leg? Some lout of a boy having what he called fun. The kind of boy who would grow up to enjoy dropping bombs on innocent people. Including girls who rescue cats.” Susannah sighed. “When this war ends things will get back to normal and life will be better for all of us.”

“I doubt it. There'll just be more little savages running about, causing trouble.”

“I daresay. Poor Reggie Cox won't be running about, wherever he's got to.” Susannah paused. Thinking of the vanished Reggie brought tears to her eyes. She was used to having temporary custody of children who disappeared into an unknown future at the end of their final school term.. But those departures took place in an orderly fashion on a predictable schedule. Reggie was like one of those students who simply, unexpectedly, stopped coming to class. Usually Susannah never found out why, and if she did find out, the reasons were often unpleasant—accident, illness, a father losing his job, an impoverished family doing a moonlight flit, leaving their lodgings secretly in the middle of the night.

Susannah turned away from Emily long enough to blink the moisture from her eyes. “Reggie is a good boy, basically. Even if I did have to give him a scrubbing when he arrived. His family is respectable enough. His father's a porter. But they're poor. The poor don't always have time to train their children properly. All he needs is guidance, a firm hand.”

“Well, being crippled don't make you a saint,” grumbled Emily. “Look at Long John Silver.”

“Oh, Emily! Really! Is that what you're reading in the shop now, Robert Louis Stevenson?”

“I've have a lot of time to read, considering how few customers I've had lately. Do you think I should read something more educational? I want to see how the story comes out.”

Susannah's black cat trotted into the room, sniffed, shook its tail disdainfully at the scent of gooseberries, and stalked under the table.

“Remember how fond Reggie was of—” Susannah broke off. She didn't want to remind Emily about the death of her pet.

“Blind Pew frightens me,” Emily admitted. “Yet why should I be frightened by a book when there are worse things lurking everywhere these days?”

“Is it easier to believe the frightening things in books?” Susannah suggested. “We try not to believe in things that happen in real life.”

“Like what happened to Issy?”

“All that's been found so far are some clothes.”

“Blood-stained clothes,” Emily pointed out.

“We can still hope.”

“And Reggie? Do you think the same thing happened to him?”

“Surely the Finch boys had been bragging to him about how they were going to run off? Maybe he decided to follow them.”

“Maybe.” Emily sounded doubtful.

“I warned Reggie those boys were trouble, but he's an innocent. There are all sorts of possible explanations for these children vanishing, and there's no reason to imagine all the disappearances are related. Coincidences happen. People are too quick to find relationships between things. That's where your superstitions start, isn't it? Somebody opens an umbrella in their house and next day they trip on the stairs and break a leg. Suddenly the umbrella's the cause of bad luck. But the umbrella didn't trip them.”

“Try opening one on my narrow stairs and you'll fall down them, sure as eggs is eggs.”

Susannah gave a sour laugh. “You and Martha Roper would get along. She's as superstitious as the vicar. She's sure the Guardian Stones are responsible for all our problems. How, I'm not certain, and I don't think she is either.”

“Martha isn't certain of anything these days,” Emily said. “Sharp as a tack at one time she was, too. It's a shame. You have to admit, though, that Issy has come to harm. And someone's responsible.”

Susannah felt angry, not at Emily so much as at the whole confounding situation, and at herself not being able to form a coherent opinion. Susannah did not tolerate sloppy thinking, least of all in herself. “Maybe Issy is responsible. Maybe she brought it on herself. She hasn't had proper guidance from that father of hers.”

Emily nodded. “Girls today have no morals. What about that one who came round last month knocking on doors looking for a fellow name of MacDonagh who supposedly lived in Noddweir, wanting him to marry her and soon? Of course the man gave a false name. If the description of the culprit fitted Duncan, what with the name and his accent and all, that wife of his would have had plenty to say.”

“Be almost comical, wouldn't it, if it had been him? Meg with her stuck up ways! But it's a shame for the baby.” Susannah skimmed surface scum from the waiting batch of jam.

“That baby'll be like his father,” Emily predicted. “No sense of responsibility, breaking windows and stealing gooseberries and blouses for a start. Not to mention worse. Who was it set fire to the Bertram's hen house last summer? That evacuee from Manchester. Only six, mark you, and already—” Emily stopped abruptly. A shadow of pain fell across her face.

She's reminded herself of Patch, Susannah realized. Seeking to change the subject she glanced out the window over the sink. “Who do you think is just coming out the vicarage?”

Emily pushed herself up with difficulty and grabbed the back of the chair as a cat went flying out from under the table.

“Blackie just tried to trip me, Susannah!” She stepped over to the window and looked out. “Why, it's Joe Haywood. I doubt he'd be visiting the vicar for spiritual comfort. Wonder why he was there?”

Susannah shrugged. “What does Haywood do anywhere? I'm sure the vicar feels the pinch of rationing like everyone else. It's one thing to preach about the spiritual benefits of poverty, and quite another to actually live with them. Or even to be without sufficient tea.”

“You're being nasty, Susannah. So what if the vicar has an extra pot of tea? Poor man. Look at what the Germans did to him. He'll be lucky to see peace again, the way he wheezes and coughs.”

“You don't do business with Haywood?”

“We all have to make our own choices.”