Blood From a Stone (3 page)

Doctor Mountford muttered deprecatingly, but he couldn't help feeling flattered. Mrs Paxton was a sharp old lady. Very sharp indeed.

For a few moments she didn't speak. She was obviously turning something over in her mind. Then she raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Doctor, you're a man of the world. Tell me, is it true there is a general amnesty for deserters from the war?'

This was so unexpected that Dr Mountford was totally taken aback.

‘An amnesty for deserters?' he said in complete astonishment. ‘Whatever ...' He stopped abruptly, covering his confusion with an artificial-sounding cough.

Her voice trembled. ‘Is there, doctor?' She put a hand to her face, her eyes fixed on him.

Dr Mountford picked his words carefully. ‘A deserter certainly can apply for amnesty. That's perfectly true.' He put his head to one side. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Paxton, but have you got someone particular in mind?' He coughed once more. ‘Your nephew, perhaps?'

To his surprise, she shook her head vigorously. ‘No, not my nephew. Certainly not. Is there an amnesty, doctor?'

The doctor ran his hand round his chin. ‘It's been discussed in Parliament a few times, as you probably know. During the war, a deserter would be shot –' Mrs Paxton winced – ‘but now? They should be safe enough. There isn't a general amnesty, although it's often referred to as such. Each case is treated on its merits. The man has to report to the correct authorities and establish who he is, then his case is gone into. If he's not guilty of any other crime, apart from desertion, the War Office won't prosecute.'

Mrs Paxton swallowed hard and looked at him sharply. ‘No other crime?' She bit her lip. ‘That might be awkward,' she muttered. ‘People are always so ready to judge, aren't they? It's only natural that a young man should want to enjoy himself but there was never any vice in him. He just wanted to enjoy himself. He was basically a good boy but very easily led and got into bad company. I hoped, at one time, that he would consider the church. I know he had a friend who was a minister – a vicar – but that came to nothing.' She scrunched a fold of her dress in her hand. ‘I've read of explanations – medical explanations – where the boy in question was excused after he'd deserted. Especially if
he had a ...' She paused. ‘A trusting nature? There really isn't any blame in those circumstances, is there?'

‘Excuse me, Mrs Paxton,' said Dr Mountford. ‘Who are you talking about?'

The Topfordham Poor Person's Clothing Aid Society and Ladies' Sewing Circle met every Thursday evening in the Vicarage. The Reverend Douglas Billington was dubious about the circle, referring to it, in private, as The Coven. He characterised it as nothing more than a gossip shop.

His wife disagreed. ‘It's all very well, Douglas, saying it's a gossip shop but you can't expect the ladies to sit and sew in absolute silence. They do some very good work, you know. There's plenty of mothers and old people in the parish who rely on what the sewing circle provides.'

‘I still say it's a hotbed of gossip,' grumbled the Reverend Billington.

And, on this particular Thursday evening, his wife had to agree that her husband might have a point.

‘A nephew,' said Winifred Bilborough, her eyes bright with excitement as she crocheted the trim for a baby's dress. She glanced around the room. It was a great pity, she thought, that Mrs Henderson hadn't arrived. Mrs Henderson's Mavis was a great friend of Mrs Paxton's Florence and could be relied upon as an authoritative source of news. ‘A nephew,' she repeated. ‘From nowhere!'

‘Hardly from nowhere,' countered Edith Henshaw. ‘I understand he's a connection of the Leighs.'

‘The Leighs,' repeated Agnes Beeding in a rumbling undertone, looking up from the grey woolly hat she was knitting. ‘Mrs Paxton has always disapproved of
that
family.'

‘I don't see why,' said Violet Sutton, her mild blue eyes circling. She was a good deal younger than Agnes Beeding. ‘I mean, they're landed gentry, aren't they?'

Mrs Beeding pursed her lips and gathered herself for a rebuke, when she was pipped at the post by Susan Cunningham.

‘You are too young to have heard the stories, my dear, but Matthew Leigh was an old reprobate.' She dropped her voice to a low whisper. ‘He was a
gambler.
' Her voice became nearly inaudible. ‘Horses! Fallen women! Nameless vice! Do I have to say more?'

Gwyneth Williams, who prided herself on being up to date with modern thought, tossed her head in disapproval. ‘I imagine the stories lost nothing in the telling. All those Victorian types were far too bound by outworn shibboleths.' She pronounced this word with some satisfaction. ‘I know it's difficult for older people to adjust,' she added, ignoring the disapproving snorts from Agnes Beeding and Susan Cunningham, ‘but we have to move with the times. Terence Napier,' she added, glancing up to see the reaction, ‘is an artist.'

‘An
artist?
' repeated Agnes Beeding, aghast. ‘What? Here in Topfordham? You don't mean ...' Her soundless lips framed the words. ‘
Nudes?
'

Gwyneth Williams nodded in delight. ‘I believe he paints from life. In Paris! And,' she added, dropping her voice to a breathy whisper, ‘I did hear that he's taking Mrs Paxton to Paris with him. They leave tomorrow.'

Susan Cunningham was so agitated she jabbed the needle into her thumb. ‘To Paris? At Mrs Paxton's time of life? Whatever for?'

No one knew the answer to that.

‘No good will come of it, Mrs Williams,' said Susan Cunningham, sucking her thumb. ‘I shall tell my girls they must steer well clear of him. An artist! You know what they're like.' She struggled with the word and dropped her voice. ‘
Nudes.
And Paris! Whatever does he want to carry poor Mrs Paxton off to Paris for? He can't wish to paint her, surely?'

The collected ladies blinked, shuddered and shied away from this association of ideas.

‘Hardly,' boomed Agnes Beeding. ‘The reason's staring you in the face, if you ask me. He's after money. Mrs Paxton,' she said, dropping her voice portentously, ‘has been left very comfortably situated.'

‘But he's well-off, isn't he?' said Violet Sutton wistfully, letting her mind dwell on a romantic bohemian world she knew solely from magazines. ‘He must be if he's really a Leigh. Even if he is an artist.'

Edith Henshaw shook her head decisively. ‘The Leigh family are not as blessed with the world's goods as you may think, Mrs Sutton. Besides that, money in the family is not at all the same as having money oneself.'

‘Exactly,' agreed Winifred Bilborough. ‘I'm glad to say that Mrs Paxton's jewellery is not kept in the house. That would
be
most
ill advised. Horace insists that I keep my jewellery in the bank.'

Mrs Bilborough's jewellery, consisting of an opal necklace and a pair of earrings, had long since ceased to be of any interest to the Topfordham ladies. Mrs Paxton's jewellery, on the other hand, a sapphire necklace with matching sapphire drops, rumoured to be worth many thousands of pounds, had assumed almost mythic proportions, partly because it had never been seen.

‘How on earth do you know where Mrs Paxton keeps her jewellery?' asked Edith Henshaw. ‘Oh, I was forgetting. Your Sally is very friendly with Mrs Paxton's John Bright, isn't she?'

Now this was something of a social brick. As a matter of course, all the women relied on their servants for news but it wasn't really done to say so quite so baldly.

‘
Not
the most reliable source,' sniffed Agnes Beeding. ‘And I, for one, would positively forbid any dalliance with John Bright.
Most
undesirable. I know it is the fashion to allow servants to come and go as they please, but we have an
obligation
to supervise the girls under our roof. Although there might be two views on the subject –' Mrs Beeding's tone informed her listeners precisely what she thought of anyone holding the second view – ‘I would be failing in my duty if I did not warn my servants against, or, indeed,
prohibit
what I cannot but regard as a most undesirable association.'

‘Some people's attitudes,' remarked Gwyneth Williams, ‘are positively Victorian.'

‘And no bad thing too,' said Mrs Beeding, swelling visibly. ‘John Bright should have settled down long since. He must be at least forty, if not older. A man of his age should be married. It would, in my opinion, be a great deal
safer.'

‘He spends far too much time in the Malt and Shovel for my liking,' said Susan Cunningham. ‘A very low establishment. If I were Mrs Paxton, I would have something to say about it.'

‘He's only the outdoor man,' remarked Winifred Bilborough. ‘And really, in this day and age, what can one expect? Mrs Paxton's Florence is, in my opinion, inclined to insolence but I understand her new housekeeper is an excellent cook and a most
managing
woman.'

‘I know nothing about her,' said Edith Henshaw. ‘She's not local, is she?'

‘She's from Leeds, I believe,' said Mrs Bilborough, ‘but she has excellent references.'

Violet Sutton sighed deeply. She wasn't remotely interested in servants. ‘An artist sounds terribly romantic. I wonder if he was cast off by his family? Maybe they wanted him to marry against his will. Perhaps he's eloping to Paris.'

‘He'd hardly elope with Mrs Paxton,' said Edith Henshaw dryly.

‘Maybe his true love lives in Paris,' said Violet Sutton dreamily. ‘Just like
La Bohème,
you know, where the poor singer was desperately ill. Perhaps she needs money for an operation and Terence Napier has promised to get it for her. You did say, Mrs Bilborough, didn't you,' she said, resuming hemming a blanket, ‘that you knew he needed money?'

‘Indeed I do,' said Winifred Bilborough. ‘Shameless! You mark my words, this young man's scented some rich pickings.' She looked up as Mrs Dorothy Henderson joined the group. ‘Ah, Mrs Henderson.' She leaned forward confidentially. ‘We were discussing this nephew of Mrs Paxton's. He's whisking Mrs Paxton off to Paris, would you believe!'

‘I certainly would,' said Mrs Henderson, opening her work-bag and taking out her knitting needles and a ball of navy-blue wool. Her eyes were bright with excitement. ‘What's more, I know why.'

There was a collective gasp and the ladies craned forward.

‘She's going,' said Dorothy Henderson, with the pleasurable anticipation of one about to drop a bombshell, ‘
to find her son.
'

She couldn't complain about the lack of reaction. There was a stunned silence as the ladies froze in their seats.

Agnes Beeding was the first to recover. ‘But Mrs Paxton hasn't
got
a son,' she said blankly.

‘Oh yes, she has,' said Dorothy Henderson, lowering her voice still further. ‘But I'm not surprised she kept it quiet. In the circumstances she would.'

Winifred Bilborough's eyes bulged at the possible implications of this remark. ‘
What
circumstances?' she demanded, horrified. ‘Surely you cannot mean –' her voice became virtually inaudible – ‘
immorality!
'

‘Really, Mrs Bilborough,' said Edith Henshaw, shocked. ‘How can you imagine such a thing? I must say, Mrs Henderson, I think you have been misinformed. Mrs Paxton's son died on the Somme. She told me as much. And,' she added grimly, ‘sad as it was for Mrs Paxton, he doesn't sound any great loss. He was a little too free with other people's possessions, if you see what I mean. A great friend of my sister-in-law's came across him, years ago. Pleasant enough, but, to call a spade a spade, he never ran straight. That's why Mrs Paxton's never talked about him.'

‘He didn't die in the war,' said Dorothy Henderson. ‘He went missing. And why?' The ladies waited in breathless anticipation. ‘He was a deserter!'

A pool of silence widened round Dorothy Henderson.

‘Are you sure?' demanded Agnes Beeding eventually.

Dorothy Henderson nodded vigorously. ‘Absolutely. She said as much to Dr Mountford. She swore him to secrecy and I'm not surprised. This Terence Napier came across him in Paris and he's taking Mrs Paxton over there to find him.'

‘Stuff and nonsense,' boomed Winifred Bilborough. She was feeling very put out that the most red-hot piece of news ever voiced at the sewing circle had not fallen to her to announce. ‘A likely tale! I don't believe a word of it! You mark my words, Mrs Henderson, there's more to this than meets the eye! If you want my opinion, Terence Napier has made up the whole story in order to ingratiate himself.'

The vicar's wife, who had caught snatches of the conversation, thought it was time to intervene. ‘Why, you've nearly finished that crocheted trim, Mrs Bilborough! Well done! Those stitches are perfect. I want to put together a parcel of baby linen for Mrs Meddon. It's her fourth, you know, and it could be any time now. And Mrs Beeding, do you think that hat would be suitable for Wally Lightfoot? His mother would be very grateful for it.' And, much to the collective ladies' seething annoyance, she firmly steered the conversation towards clothing.

‘I know what I said earlier, Douglas,' she remarked to her husband that evening, ‘and I take it all back. Who on earth is this Terence Napier they were talking about?'

‘I haven't a clue, my dear,' remarked the vicar absently. ‘I've never heard of him.'

Two weeks later, everyone who bought that morning's newspaper had heard of Terence Napier. His name was headline news.

M
rs Paxton and Terence Napier, much to Topfordham's collective disappointment, returned from Paris alone.

That evening, Mrs Welbeck, Mrs Paxton's housekeeper, called at Doctor Mountford's to request a bottle of her mistress' sleeping-draught and to ask the doctor to attend Mrs Paxton the following day.