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

  There 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.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A foot rub.’

  ‘What?’ Kelly looked at her friend as if she had gone mad, then laughed as she realised what Leanne meant. Standing to the left of the arched doorway leading into the House of Commons was an impressive bronze statue of Sir Winston Churchill, hands on his hips, purposefully stepping forwards as if to show off a fine pair of shiny new boots.

  ‘You’re supposed to rub his boot for luck,’ said the tour guide, as he caught Kelly’s eye. ‘New MPs like to touch Churchill’s foot before making a speech in the Commons for the first time.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Leanne, nudging Kelly.

  Kelly laid her hand on the tip of the statue’s foot, polished to a shining gold by the hands of decades of hopeful politicians. ‘What is it about me and old boots?’ she whispered.

  Chapter 2 – July 2012

  Twelve months earlier, Kelly Hearn was reaching the end of her first year at The Shakespeare Academy. As she emptied her locker outside her tutor group room on the first floor, a wave of relief overcame her. She had made it through three whole terms—two terms longer than her brother Perry had bet she would—and a smile spread across her face as she thought about the summer holidays ahead. Six weeks of not having to get up early and run for the bus. Six weeks of not having to wear a tie and go everywhere dressed like a stick insect in a stupid bottle green blazer. Even better, six weeks in which the only skirt she possessed could stay on its hanger in her wardrobe.

  Kelly stuffed the last of her books into her bag, swept the stale crisps and biscuit crumbs out onto the floor with her hand, threw the empty water bottles into the bin and headed outside to join the queue for the bus. With any luck, she would avoid seeing Charlotte, her tutor group’s resident bully, and her sidekick Leanne, who followed Charlotte everywhere like an adoring puppy. That was something else Kelly wouldn’t miss over the holidays: all those so-called accidents, where Charlotte would knock Kelly’s pencil case off her desk, sending her pens skidding across the classroom floor, or bump her arm just as she was pouring her juice in the dinner hall. Nor would she miss Charlotte’s pathetic name-calling. Dirty pikey. Smelly tinker. Thieving gypsy. They weren’t the worst of the insults that had been hurled at Kelly—or muttered under the breath—at one point or another during her first year.

  Although she never gave Charlotte the satisfaction of seeing it, the bullying upset Kelly badly. She knew she ought to report it, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Instead, when things got bad, she would hide in the toilet and stuff her tie into her mouth to stop the sobs from escaping, or retreat to a far corner of the Learning Resources Centre and duck down behind a PC screen until she could control her urge to cry. The LRC was one room where Kelly knew she was safe. Charlotte never went there. To Charlotte, studying outside of lessons was definitely not cool.

  Kelly took her usual seat three rows from the back of the bus: far away from the geeks in the front seats, close enough to the in-crowd at the back to enable her to hear what they were up to, without being in their direct line of fire. Thankfully, the ‘cool’ kids had stopped staring at her, nudging one another and giggling, a long time ago. Mum had been right about that. ‘Don’t react, love,’ she had said, when she met her off the bus at the end of her first week. ‘If you ignore them for long enough, they’ll just get bored of it.’

  And they had. Kelly spoke to no one and kept herself to herself and her bus journeys became quite tolerable. Kelly wondered how she would have fared if she’d followed her dad’s advice. The Hearns had a reputation for being useful with their fists, and Kelly knew that her dad’s approach to dealing with someone like Charlotte Kennedy would be physical.

  Kelly cooled her forehead on the glass of the bus window and smiled as she pictured the look of surprise on Charlotte’s usually smug face if Kelly laid a punch on the end of her podgy, spotty nose. No, she thought. Somehow I don’t think that would help. Not unless I wanted a fast ticket to the head’s office.

  Kelly had had to stand her ground with her dad about taking the school bus. At first, he had wanted to drive her there and back every day, but Kelly knew that would only give Charlotte an even bigger excuse to tease her. ‘No,’ she had argued. ‘You need to let me do this my way. I have to try and fit in, do what everyone else does.’

  In the end they had reached a compromise. Kelly agreed to let her mum meet her off the bus for the first few days, until she settled in. But even that gave some of the other kids something to laugh about. Thankfully, Mum saw how uncomfortable Kelly felt, and soft-talked Dad until he relented and let Kelly walk home from the bus stop unchaperoned.

  It wasn’t nice being an outsider. It was a lonely place to be, and as she watched the streets of Stratford-upon-Avon make way for the fields and hedgerows lining the lanes leading towards Wilmcote, Kelly felt more than a little sorry for herself. She had found a way to survive school, but after a whole year she hadn’t made any friends. The Shakespeare Academy wasn’t like any of the primary schools she had been to, where everyone was kind and the other children didn’t seem to care where or how she lived.

  She did like her form tutor though. Could she count him as a friend? Yeah, why not? Good old Mr Walker. He was also Kelly’s history teacher, and quite early on he had told her that he considered himself a bit of a traveller too. His father had been in the military and had been stationed all over the world so, as a child, Mr Walker had never stayed in one place or at one school for very long. Secretly Kelly thought Mr Walker looked pretty hip, considering he must have been nearly fifty. He rode a motorbike to school and arrived each day clad in black leather, and although he would change before lessons, he always had a slightly greasy, scruffy look about him. Kelly liked that. He wasn’t perfect.

  The thought of the disapproving looks that some of the other teachers gave Mr Walker when he roared into the school car park on his old motorbike made Kelly snigger, and she shook her head, throwing off her earlier gloominess. After all, what had she expected? She’d known when she started at The Shakespeare Academy that she was going to be the only Traveller in Year 7. She’d known it was going to be tough.

  She had fought so hard to get there, too. It hadn’t been easy, convincing her parents to let her go on to secondary school. Her elder brother Perry, who was fifteen, hadn’t been to school since he was eleven and now worked with their dad in his tree-cutting business. That was the norm in her family. Boys went to work with their dads and girls learned to clean and cook with their mums. That was just the way it was. But Kelly had been determined to carry on with her education—and so had begun a long campaign to convince her parents to let her.

  Kelly’s mum and dad loved her dearly and it wasn’t a case of them wanting to hold her back. It was more that they worried for her, knowing how tough life could be for Travellers who tried to carve a place for themselves in regular society. They had experienced plenty of prejudice in their lifetime and wanted to protect their children as much as they could.

  But what finally swung it for Kelly was her final primary school report. ‘Dazzling,’ her headteacher had called it, arguing that it would be a crime if Kelly did not go on to secondary school. So Kelly’s parents gave in, and their daughter’s place at The Shakespeare Academy was confirmed.

  As the school bus came over the humpbacked railway bridge into Wilmcote and pulled up at her stop, Kelly thought of all the lovely long walks she would have time for over the summer holidays with her dog, Tyson. She hurried to the front of the bus and got off without a backward glance at her schoolmates. She sucked in the fresh air and heard the whoosh of the bus’s doors as they closed behind her. Six weeks of freedom had just begun.

  Chapter 3 – Summer 1839

  The elegant hands on the mantelpiece c
lock were pointing to half past five when architect Charles Barry swung his legs over the side of the four-poster bed in his room at the Arden Inn. He groped for his boots, feeling on the rug with his toes. Although dawn had not yet fully broken, Barry was wide awake and anxious to get on with the day.

  He had arrived in Wilmcote the night before in the company of two of the country’s leading geologists and a highly acclaimed stone carver. The men were nearing the end of a four-week tour of England, visiting the six quarries bidding for the contract to supply the building stone for Barry’s latest project. One hundred and two quarries had originally been identified, and many months of paperwork and studying rock samples had been devoted to the task of narrowing the shortlist down to six. It was essential that they made the right choice.

  It was now three years since Barry had won the commission for what was likely to be the greatest project of his career. It was a venture of such immense scale that it gave him recurring nightmares and stretched his abilities—and his patience—to their limits. But the rewards should be huge and would mean that Barry, his beloved wife Sarah and their six children could live for the rest of their days in luxurious comfort. Barry had no intention of working into his fifties. His eldest son, Edward, was now sixteen and was proving himself to be a brilliant student, with an ability to learn fast and a keen eye for design. He had made clear his wish to become an architect in his father’s practice. Confident that the future of his business would be in safe hands, Barry already had retirement in his sights.

  The extensive land reclamation and ground works that formed the first part of the project on the Thames in the heart of London were now nearing completion, and the foundations for the building were already being dug. A decision on the limestone, the main construction material, had to be made—and swiftly.

  Today’s visit to Wilmcote Quarry and Cement Works was the last of their tour, and Barry was looking forward to making his decision, placing his order and moving on to the construction stage. The owner of the quarry, Richard Greenslade, was not expecting Barry and his colleagues until nine o’clock, when he had promised to give them a full tour of the quarry so they could assess the quality of the stone and his company’s production capacity, as well as their ability to deliver the material on time.