Softly Grow the Poppies (37 page)

‘Why does she get her own way all the time?’ he shouted. ‘That’s my teddy, ball, drum, kitten’ – the one he had picked from the regular arrivals in the stable. No one told him the rest would be drowned! ‘It’s mine, not hers,’ and when told they must share their toys burst into angry tears. Lisa, cousin to Maggie, had been added to the nursery staff since Polly protested she could not manage the three of them.

‘She’s very strong and very noisy,’ Lisa was heard to complain to Dolly. ‘She’ll take some quietening down, Miss Davenport, I’m telling you, when the time comes.’

But the time, said her doting mother, had not yet come when it was necessary to explain to her that a young lady must behave herself since she was barely walking; but surely, Lisa commented to Polly, that when she put her fist in Will’s eye then staggered off down the sloping lawn, shrieking with laughter, it must come soon. She reminded them of the lad before he was kidnapped. Will had been told he must not hit his little sisters and Poppy, whose bottom lip quivered when the tiny girl bashed her big brother, hid her face in Lisa’s skirt and was overcome with tears for it was obvious Will longed to strike back. What a to-do, Lisa moaned, and in her opinion the child needed a good spanking but Sir Harry and Miss Rose did not believe in it. Her mam had often given Lisa and her siblings a thick ear and it had done them no harm but that scallywag, meaning Elly, needed a firm hand.

Rose and Harry, being unconventional parents and it being a wet day, were in the drawing room sharing the
Sunday Times
newspaper. There were toys everywhere, littering the carpet, on the window-sill and on every chair. The children were playing some game that Will had contrived. Lions and Tigers it was called and when Maggie knocked and entered saying there was a Mr Arthur Weatherly to see them, they both, for reasons unknown to Maggie, put down their paper and stared at each other in consternation.

‘Show him in, Jenny,’ Harry told her at last, his eyes still on Rose.

Will was crouched on top of a round table because he was the lion tamer and the two little girls were under the table ‘in the woods waiting to be captured’ when the visitor walked in, eyebrows raised as if he couldn’t believe his eyes since he was a firm believer in children being seen but not heard.

Will became very still and every vestige of colour left his face when he saw who it was. His worst fears, his terror, his horror at the memories this man had been a part of rose in his throat and he began to moan. The moan grew wilder and wilder and like the lions his sisters were playing he sprang from the table and flung himself into Rose’s arms. He was a big boy, tall, handsome and he was a handful for Rose to cope with but he burrowed in her lap almost as though he were trying to get inside her so that she was knocked back against the arm of the sofa, his moaning rising in pitch to a series of demented screams.

‘Dear me, what a display and from such a big boy. I am surprised. Are all visitors treated to this performance?’

Harry rose to his feet but he was constricted in his movements by the two little girls who clung, one to each leg, crying piteously, frightened by Will’s screams and therefore of the man who had caused them. Harry leaned towards the fireplace and rang the bell but he had no need to because those in the kitchen were shocked beyond measure by the sounds coming from the peaceful Sunday afternoon drawing room. All except Dolly!

The door opened even before Harry’s hand had left the bell. She marched across the rich carpet, ignoring the visitor, for she knew who he was and, staggering a little because of her age, she plucked the terrified child from Rose and, screeching for help, was joined by Lisa and Polly who lifted the two little girls into their loving arms and carried them from the room. They were taken to the kitchen where a horde of women were waiting to comfort them. Elly and Poppy were soon appeased with a lap to sit on and a biscuit each, smiling round the room at the faces they knew and trusted, amazed at their big brother who was curled up on Dolly’s knee. He kept begging Dolly to ‘send him away, please, send him away’.

In the drawing room all was silent until Arthur Weatherly spoke.

‘Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down, old chap?’

‘No.’ Rose and Harry spoke as one.

‘Well, I must say—’

‘You have nothing to say that will interest us,’ Harry said icily, for by now he understood who had taken their Will, treating him cruelly, and, not with his own hands, of course, since a man like him would know where to find men who would, for a price, attack Charlie.

‘Now I wish you to leave because I have a telephone call to make to the inspector of police.’

‘Now then, that’s no way—’

‘You bastard, get out of my house before I give you the hiding you deserve.’

Arthur Weatherly smiled. He was not afraid. He was a man who feared nothing and no one. His smug expression and the way his portly figure seemed to lounge said so. He had been a dinner guest at the same functions as the Chief Constable and soon Summers would realise that they moved in the same circles.

‘Well, if that’s the attitude—’

‘Get out.’

‘I only wished to know the whereabouts of my daughter who—’

‘You threw her out when she was pregnant and she came to us for protection eight years ago.’

‘And, believe me, if we knew you would be the last person—’

Weatherly interrupted Rose rudely, watching as Harry moved protectively towards her. He had done his best to get his grandson from under the roof where he had been molly-coddled and into his own home where he could bring up the boy as his grandfather thought best. He had broken the boy’s spirit and had been ready to claim his right as the child’s next of kin, his guardian, his solicitor had informed him, but this couple, Sir Harry and Lady Summers, had stolen the boy from him. They seemed to think they had a prior claim on him, a stronger claim. True, the child was the son of Sir Harry’s brother but he was also the son of Alice Weatherly who was
his
daughter.

He spoke sneeringly, sure of his ground. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’

‘And neither have you. We are puzzled by one thing. Who is the grey lady who haunts my son?’

‘Your son!’ Weatherly said incredulously.

‘Yes. My brother’s and now mine.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Weatherly said, turning towards the door and as he did so Harry went for him, his face a mask of loathing.

‘
No
, Harry, no!’ Rose screamed when suddenly the door opened and there were Tom, Jossy, Ned and even Sergeant Mark on the threshold of the drawing room.

‘Do you want this chap ter leave, Sir Harry?’ asked Tom and when Lady Summers shrieked hysterically, ‘Yes, oh yes,’ terrified Harry might do Weatherly some serious damage, Tom said pleasantly, ‘Please go peacefully, sir, or we might have to help you,’ obviously hoping it would be the latter.

‘Get out of my way,’ Weatherly snarled, jostling against Tom, almost knocking him over. He had not reckoned on the devotion of the staff at Summer Place. It took three of them to manhandle him to the top of the steps that led down to the freshly raked gravel driveway. Arthur Weatherly’s immaculate motor car stood at the bottom and his chauffeur, open-mouthed, clearly didn’t know what to do. He sprang from the driver’s seat and ran round to the passenger door, opening it, ready for them to fling his master in. They did so but with such force that Weatherly landed across the back seat with his head jammed against the opposite door. His chauffeur wanted to laugh and congratulate the men who were standing at the foot of the steps, for Arthur Weatherly was not liked by his staff. They had all known, of course, of the silent child in the nursery and the woman who had him in her care, poor little sod, but they had been led to believe their employer had a perfect right to his grandson, his daughter’s child. It was a mystery to them that no one from Summer Place had come enquiring after the lad but they had been threatened with the loss of their jobs if they went ‘tittle-tattling’ – Arthur Weatherly’s words – beyond the walls of Weatherly House. When the boy had suddenly vanished eighteen months ago they had whispered and wondered what had happened until today when their master had ordered out the motor car to take him to Summer Place.

They were further to be enthralled when, an hour or so after their master arrived home, his face mottled with rage, the Chief Constable of the county called and was shown into Mr Weatherly’s study.

‘Well, Thomas, this is a fine “how d’you do”,’ his housemaid heard him say before the door closed. She would have given a week’s wages to put her ear to the keyhole and listen to their conversation.

Sir Thomas Fowler, though he had dined in the same company as the man behind the desk with an expensive cigar between his lips, could not say he liked him. Sometimes it was diplomatic to show friendship to the influential and very wealthy: they could be generous with their donation to police funds.

‘It is indeed, sir, and a very serious one. Sir Harry Summers wants you arrested for kidnapping the child William Summers and though the boy is your grandson, I’m afraid—’

‘
WHAT
?’ roared Weatherly and the servants in the kitchen looked anxiously at one another. Since Miss Alice disappeared out of their lives, years ago now, their master’s temper could be touched off by the slightest thing. His boots not polished to his satisfaction, his shirts poorly ironed, and, he thundered, was it not possible for Cook to vary his meals. She’d better buck up her ideas or she could take her foot in her hand and find another job. Cook, who was sixty-two, knew she would never find employment at her age and was frightened and constantly in tears, ready to slap the kitchen-maid a dozen times a day. Not a happy household!

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I must ask you if you took his nephew—’

‘
MY
grandson and I resent your attitude, Inspector. I shall report—’

‘And the death of Sir Harry’s brother who was apparently with the boy at the time. He had been beaten to death, sir. Have you any knowledge of that?’

The Chief Constable’s face was grim. Arthur Weatherly stood up, pushing back his chair so forcefully it fell into the fireplace where a fire was lit. Fortunately it fell just short of the blazing coals.

‘I shall be speaking to my solicitor about this, Inspector. Now I would be obliged if you would leave my house at once,’ he blustered like the bully he was.

‘Very well, sir, but I shall be back, probably with a warrant for your arrest. I shall need to question your servants and—’

‘If you don’t leave my house I shall have you thrown out, you . . . you . . . How dare you come here and threaten me as if I were some common fellow from the slums of Liverpool. Do you have any idea what I could do to your career?’

Sir Thomas Fowler sighed because he could see a great deal of trouble ahead, pondering on why this arrogant man had waited so long to accost Sir Harry Summers on the matter of the small boy who was his grandson. He stood up and made for the door, leaving Weatherly spluttering and fuming in a way that would have alarmed his doctor. He felt a good deal of sympathy for any child who fell into this man’s hands.

Sir Harry Summers’s solicitor stood up politely as Sir Harry and Lady Summers entered his office. They exchanged handshakes and murmured about the weather and such. When they were seated he sat down himself and waited for Sir Harry to speak.

‘What do you know about adoption, Mr Hopkins?’ Harry said abruptly and to Mr Hopkins’s astonishment reached for his wife’s hand.

‘Adoption! You are planning to adopt? I understood you had two daughters—’

‘Yes, yes, we do but I also have a nephew. My late brother’s boy. With Charlie dead and the boy’s mother vanished – well, you might as well know the complete truth. She ran away with another chap. She was still married to Charlie at the time so . . . well, it, or rather she, doesn’t matter now.’

‘Harry, darling, don’t.’

He turned to his wife and gently squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Rose, but I meant she is not involved any more. She never cared about Will, you know that. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know how fond you were of her.’

‘I loved her, Harry. She was my friend. That’s why I want to keep her son safe.’

Mr Hopkins felt quite embarrassed as though he was a spectator to something private. These two obviously thought the world of one another but he hadn’t got all day, had he? He cleared his throat. At once they both turned towards him and he was quite surprised at his own reaction to Lady Summers’s exceptional looks. No wonder Sir Harry thought so highly of her.

Now that she had become a mother Rose was even more lovely than she had ever been. Rose in her early thirties had taken to motherhood and, surrounded by her husband’s love, her children’s need – and she included Will – and her servants’ devotion, had flowered into a true beauty. There was a serenity, a calmness, a sense of peace about her that warmed all those she met. She had three children who blossomed in her protection and a husband who was her rock.

Harry, still holding her hand, began to explain. ‘My brother, Will’s biological father, was badly wounded in the trenches. When he came home he didn’t even know us. He was . . .’ Here his voice trembled and his wife leaned towards him and Mr Hopkins thought she might embrace him but Sir Harry pulled himself together with a visible effort.

‘You must pardon me, Mr Hopkins. My brother and I were very close.’ Again he hesitated, doing his best to keep his emotions in check. ‘He and Will, perhaps not surprisingly, became friends, though Charlie could never be a real father to Will . . .’

‘Yes, Sir Harry?’

‘I sometimes think that their closeness was . . . oh, I’m sorry, Mr Hopkins. Charlie was beaten to death in Will’s presence and Will was kidnapped and though we can’t prove it we believe it was Arthur Weatherly, the boy’s grandfather, who was behind it. He came to our home on the pretext of finding Alice, his daughter. We don’t believe him. We are convinced he had Will for six months. The boy managed to escape him, but by God, if you’d seen the difference in him. He was spoiled, I admit, but he was very lovable. A cheerful, endearing child who was so abused that he is now afraid to go out of the garden. He was with us, playing with our daughters, when Weatherly walked into the room and at the sight of him Will was almost paralysed with terror.’