CHAPTER 1
Devon, Autumn, 1916
It always stood in the back garden--what my cousins called
the Murder Stone.
They teased me about it often enough.
"Put your head here, and your brains will be bashed out."
"Lie down here, and the headsman will come and chop your
neck!"
Nasty little beasts, I thought them then. But they're all
dead now. Lost at Mons and Ypres, Passchendaele and the
Somme. Their laughter stilled, their teasing no more than
a childhood memory. Their voices a distant echo I hear
sometimes in my dreams.
"Do be quiet, Cesca! We're hiding from the Boers--you'll
give us away!"
But The Murder Stone is still there, at the bottom of my
grandfather's garden, where it has always been.
And the house above the garden is mine, now. I've
inherited it by default, because all the fair-haired boys
are dead, gone to be real soldiers at last and mown down
with their dreams of glory.
CHAPTER 2
It seemed quite strange to be sitting here--alone--in the
solicitor's office, without her grandfather beside her.
Francis Hatton had always had a powerful presence. An
impressive man physically as well: tall, strongly built,
with broad shoulders and that air of good breeding
Englishmen wear so confidently. Someone to be reckoned
with. Women had found him attractive, even in age.
He had carried his years well, in fact, his face lean and
handsome, his voice deep and resonant, his hair a
distinguished silver gray.
Until 1915.
In 1915 the first of the cousins died in France. They had
hardly had time to grieve for Simon when Robin was killed
at the Front. Freddy and Petersoon followed, and Francesca
watched each blow take its toll. The man she had always
adored had become someone she barely recognized. Silent--
dark. And then Harry died . . .
She stirred in her chair. Mr. Branscombe had always
toadied to Francis Hatton. The solicitor fussed with the
papers before him now, setting the box marked HATTON aside
and uncapping his inkwell, as if hoping to delay matters
until his true client arrived. Reluctant somehow to begin
this final duty.
And had she failed in her own duty to her grandfather? She
had hated the change in him, that gradual withdrawal into
himself, leaving her behind. Instead of mourning together,
for the first time in her life she had felt shut out of
his love. When Harry died on the Somme in the late summer
of 1916--scarcely two months ago--she had witnessed
Francis Hatton's descent into despair.
In the weeks following his stroke she had prayed for her
grandfather's death, and at night, walking the passages in
restless repudiation of approaching death, she had wished
with increasing fervor that she could hasten it, and be
done with it at last. For his sake. For release . . .
A surge of guilt pressed in on her.
Mr. Branscombe cleared his throat, an announcement that he
was ready to begin the Reading of the Will. Ceremony duly
noted . . .
The servants--the older ones, the younger ones having gone
off one by one either to fight or to work in the factories-
-were in an anteroom, waiting to be invited into the inner
sanctum at the proper moment.
" 'I, Charles Francis Stewart Hatton, being of Sound Mind
and Body, do hereby set my Hand to this, my Last Will and
Testament . . .' "
The Devon voice was sonorously launched on its charge.
Francesca found it difficult to concentrate.
My grandfather is only just dead, she wanted to cry. This
smacks of sacrilege, to be dividing up his goods and
chattels before he's quite cold . . . I haven't earned the
right to sit here. Oh, God.
But who else was there to sit in this room and mark a
great man's passing? She was the last of the Hattons. A
long and distinguished line had trickled down to one girl.
Mr. Branscombe paused, glancing over the rims of his
spectacles at her, as if sensing her distraction.
"Are you with me thus far, Miss Hatton--?"
"Yes," she answered, untruthfully.
He seemed far from satisfied, regarding her intently
before returning to the document.
Francesca felt pinned to the hard, uncomfortable chair
provided for the solicitor's clients--chosen, she was
certain, to prevent them from overstaying their welcome--
and wished she had the courage to stop him altogether. But
listening was her duty, even if she cared little about
provisions for her future, and she had absolutely no idea
what she ought to do about the house at River's End. Close
it? Live there? Sell it?
Ask me next month--next year! I'm so weary--
It was haunted, River's End. Not by ghosts who clanked and
howled, but by the lost souls who were never coming back
to it. She could almost feel them, standing at the bottom
of the stairs each night as she climbed to her room.
Shadows that grieved for substance, so that they too could
come home again.
It was a stupid obsession on her part, and she hadn't told
anyone of it. But the old black dog also seemed to sense
their presence, and ran up the stairs ahead of her, as if
afraid to be left behind among them.
Just that morning the rector had said, worried about
her, "This is such a large, rambling house for a woman
alone. Won't you come to us at the Rectory and stay a few
days? It will do you good, and my housekeeper will take
pleasure in your company . . ."
But Francesca had explained to him that the house was all
that was left of home and family. An anchor in grief,
where she could still feel loved. She knew its long dark
passages so well, and its many rooms with their drapes
pulled tight, the black wreath over the door knocker.
River's End was peaceful, after the tumult of her
grandfather's dying. And the ghosts were, after all, of
her blood.
Mrs. Lane came in to cook and to clean. It was enough.
There was the old dog Tyler for company, and the library
when she tired of her own thoughts. Her grandfather's
tastes had run to war and politics, history and
philosophy. Hardly the reading for a woman suffering from
insomnia. Although twice Plato had put her soundly to
sleep--
She became aware of the silence in the room. Mr.
Branscombe had finished and was waiting for her to
acknowledge that fact.
"Quite straightforward, is it not?" she said, dragging her
attention back to the present.
"In essence," he agreed weightily, "it is indeed.
Everything comes to you. Save for the usual bequests to
the remaining servants and to the church, and of course to
several charitable societies which have benefited from
your grandfather's generosity in the past."
"Indeed," she responded, trying to infuse appreciation
into her voice.
"It's an enormous responsibility," Mr. Branscombe reminded
her.
"I understand that." What might once have been shared
equally with the cousins would be hers. She would rather
have had the cousins--
It was clear that Mr. Branscombe was uncomfortable with a
woman dealing with such a heavy obligation. He fiddled
with the edges of the blotter, and when no questions were
forthcoming, he asked, "Do you wish to keep the properties
in Somerset and Essex? I must warn you that this is not a
propitious time to sell--in the middle of a war--"
He had her full attention now, as she stifled her surprise.
"Properties--?"
His thin lips pinched together in a tight line, as if he'd
finally caught her out, as he had known he would.
Trying to recoup his good opinion of her and conceal her
ignorance, she asked, thinking it through, "Were these
estates destined for my cousins? You see, my grandfather
told me very little about them."
He told me nothing--
"The properties have been in his possession for many
years. Quite sizable estates, in fact. Whether he intended
to settle either of them on one of his male heirs in due
course, I don't know. He didn't confide in me." It was
grudgingly admitted. "I can tell you that the property in
Hampshire that belonged to your uncle, Tristan Hatton, was
sold at the time of his death. It would have been prudent
for your grandfather to provide in some other fashion for
his eldest grandson. Sadly, Mr. Simon Hatton is also
deceased."
Simon. The first of the cousins to go to war . . . the
first to die.
Francesca was still trying to absorb the fact that her
grandfather had owned other estates. But if it was true,
why had he always chosen to live in the isolated Exe
Valley? It was the only home she had ever known. And as
far as she was aware, that was true of her cousins as
well. Even Simon had had only the haziest memory of his
parents.
Why had he never taken us to visit houses in Somerset or
Essex, if they were his? There hadn't been so much as a
casual, "Shall we spend Christmas in Somerset this year?"
Or "Since the weather is so fine, we might travel to Essex
for a week. I ought to have a look at the tenant
roofs. . . ." If he had gone there at all, it had been in
secret.
The thought was disturbing. Why should secrecy have been
necessary? Hadn't he trusted her? Or had he never got
around to telling her, after Simon was killed? Or at
Harry's death? The last of the five grandsons to die.
Francis Hatton had abandoned interest in everything then,
including the will to live . . .
"Before I summon the servants to hear their bequests,
there is one other matter that your grandfather wished you
to deal with. A recent Codicil, in fact."
"Indeed?" she said again, still wrestling with the puzzle
of the properties.
"It involves the Murder Stone, whatever that may be."
Caught completely unawares, Francesca stared at him. "But--
that's nothing more than a jest--a largish white stone in
the back garden that my cousins were always making a part
of their games!"
"Nevertheless, your grandfather has included in his will a
provision for its removal from Devon to Scotland."
"Scotland? My grandfather has never been to Scotland in
his life!"
"That may very well be true, Miss Hatton. But I shall read
you the provision: 'I place upon my heir the solemn duty
of taking the object known to her as the Murder Stone from
its present location and carrying it by whatever means
necessary to Scotland, to be buried in the furthermost
corner of that country as far away from Devon as can be
reached safely.' " He returned the Codicil to the will,
and cleared his throat again. "I was summoned to River's
End after his stroke especially to add this clause."
Mystified, Francesca said, "The deaths of my cousins must
surely have turned his mind--"
"Perhaps this stone reminded him too forcibly of their
lost youth," Branscombe suggested gravely, with an insight
she had not thought he possessed. "When men are old and
ill, small things tend to loom large."
Francesca shook her head. "It's such an insignificant
matter . . ."
"Perhaps to you, my dear. But I assure you, to your
grandfather it was quite important. I was under the
impression that Mr. Hatton was--um--extraordinarily
superstitious--about this matter. Speaking to me about
this stone seemed to agitate him. The nurse had cautioned
me not to allow him to exert himself unnecessarily. And
thus I neither questioned nor inquired but wrote his words
down directly as he spoke them."
"My grandfather was never superstitious! And he allowed my
cousins to use the stone as they pleased. It was always a
part of our games--we were never warned away."
"I have no answer to that. But I can assure you that this
responsibility is yours and must be regarded as a binding
charge. He was absolutely adamant on that score."
"But surely not right away--not while the war is going
on?" She couldn't begin to imagine how she would manage to
dig up the stone--it most certainly weighed more than the
elderly gardener and the coachman put together! There was
no one else who could be spared for such work--help was
short as it was. And how could she arrange for it to
travel to Scotland, when petrol and tires were so dear? It
was an enormous undertaking, and one she couldn't face
just now.
"At your earliest convenience, of course." Branscombe's
tone indicated disapproval of using war as an excuse.
Francesca was about to protest, but the solicitor sat
waiting for her to agree to the terms of the Codicil, as
if her grandfather's unfathomable anxiety had invaded him
as well. She nodded and was relieved when he finally
seemed to be satisfied.
He set aside the thick sheets of the will. "I have already
taken it upon myself to send a Death Notice to the Times.
And I've ordered the grave to be opened, and instructed
the rector that the services are to be held on Friday of
this week. If that's agreeable . . ."
Whether it was or not, she couldn't do much about it. Men
arranged such matters, as a rule. And all the cousins were
dead. . . .
There were other papers in the box labeled HATTON in a
fine, antique copperplate. Most likely Branscombe the
Elder's hand. "What else is in there? Besides the will?"
More surprises? Other secrets?
"Our family has always handled the legal affairs of your
family," Branscombe reminded her with satisfaction,
glancing at the contents. He plucked out several folded
documents. "Here we have your great-grandfather Thomas's
will, and this is Francis Hatton's grandfather George. He
fought at Waterloo with the great Duke of Wellington. His
grandfather Frederick was with Cumberland at Culloden.
Amazing history, is it not?" A reminder that she would be
expected to leave her own affairs with the firm that had
mounted guard over it for generations.
On the papers she could see the faded handwriting. A
family's continuity preserved in old ink . . . It was a
heritage she had been taught to revere. The Hattons had
always served their country well. She, the only girl in a
family of six cousins, had been expected to do the same.
It was why she had volunteered to serve with the Red Cross
in London.
"All quite regular and in order." Branscombe returned the
documents to the box with affection, as if he counted them
old friends. "Ah. There's also a letter here that your
grandfather deposited with the firm--"
"May I see it?"
"I know of no reason why you mayn't. As heir . . ." He
lifted it out of the box and passed it across the desk to
her.
Curious, she examined it. It was wrapped in a piece of
parchment on which was inscribed over the seal in her
grandfather's beautiful hand, "To be held and not acted
upon."