Broken Threads

by Tessa Barclay

  They stood close in silence, the arms of the older woman around the younger. After some moments Baird led her to a chair.

  ‘Ach, you look unlike yourself wi’ your hair in a connach. I’ll fetch the brushes and combs and see to it while you sit here.’

  So they spent the next half hour, Baird soothingly brushing and combing the long dark hair, winding it into the coils that made a chignon on top, turning wisps round her finger to soften the cheekline. She was placing the final tortoiseshell comb when Millicent murmured and moved a hand on the coverlet.

  ‘She’s waking!’ Jenny cried, jerking herself away from her maid’s ministrations. ‘Quick, Baird, draw back the curtains.’

  The cold light of a January morning flooded into the room. The wind had died, taking the clouds with it. By and by the sun would come from behind the hill to brighten the room, but as yet everything was coolly illuminated.

  Millicent moved her head. ‘Jenny … Jenny …’

  ‘I’m here, Mother.’

  She sat by the bed, her two hands holding Millicent’s one. There was a long pause while her mother breathed in long, almost weary sighs. ‘Is it daytime?’

  ‘It’s almost eight o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Eight o’clock …’ A silence. Then the hand Jenny was holding clutched at her.

  ‘Did you get her back?’

  Jenny went cold, then hot. ‘Who, Mother? Who?’

  ‘The baby! Did you get her back?’

  The negative almost slipped out. Then she caught it back. It would be bad for her mother to know the truth yet. ‘Did you see Heather last night, Mother?’

  ‘In her arms … I tried to stop her, Jenny …’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Is she all right? She’d take a cold, the wee lamb.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Millicent’s voice was husky. ‘I’m dry,’ she said.

  The doctor had prescribed brandy in milk for when she awoke. It was in a glass on the bedside table. Jenny raised her mother’s head a little and gave her sips of the mixture.

  ‘You know I sleep lightly since your father died,’ Millicent began. ‘I heard a sound. I couldn’t think what it could be at first, then …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I thought it sounded like the side door being opened. Then I thought, no thief could open the door, it’s bolted on the inside. So I thought …’

  The words faded. Jenny gave her another sip of brandy and milk.

  ‘I thought it must be somebody going out. But I looked at my clock and it said ten minutes past midnight. I couldn’t understand it. So I put on my dressing-gown and slippers and went down the back stairs …’

  ‘And the side door was open?’

  ‘Aye, so I went out for I could hear light footsteps on the paving ‒’

  She broke off, panting a little under the emotion of her memories. Jenny brushed the hair back from her brow, soothed her, offered the drink again. Millicent shook her head.

  ‘It was gey dark out there, and the rain coming down across the wind. I was frichted, daughter. Then I put my trust in the Lord and went out, and I saw a shape against the clouds for a minute ‒ just the outline, but I knew it, it was the new fur cape with the upstanding collar that Ned gave to Lucy for her Christmas.’

  Behind her Jenny heard Baird draw in her breath. Baird knew that cape only too well, she had had to alter the fastening at the neck to make it fit better.

  ‘I knew then. It was your sister-in-law, Jenny. I was sore astounded. I went after her and cried her name, and she turned in surprise.’

  ‘Quiet, now, Mother, quiet. Don’t upset yourself.’

  Tears were dropping down her mother’s cheeks. ‘I canna help myself. I was staggered at the sight. She had your bairn in her arms! I ran at her ‒’ A sob shook her, she broke off. ‘Jenny, I ran at her, and she thrust out her free arm that had a bag or a case in it, and I went over ‒ stupid fool that I was, I lost my balance and went over, and I think I hit my head for everything went swirling round me and I couldn’t tell where I was.’ She paused and added, ‘And I think I twisted my leg for it’s aching sore.’

  It was like a description of a nightmare dream being made reality. Jenny murmured, ‘Dr Lauder is coming in a little while to see to your leg, Mother.’

  ‘But the baby? Did she take no harm? The last I saw, Lucy was vanishing down the drive with her. At least I think so ‒ unless it was a confusion from hitting my head.’

  Millicent gazed inquiringly into her daughter’s face. Caught without her mask, Jenny’s misery and exhaustion were clear to see.

  Millicent Corvill gave a shuddering gasp. ‘It’s true, then. Ned’s wife has taken away your baby.’

  Chapter Seven

  When Ronald Armstrong stepped off the train at Galashiels Station he could tell at once that things were as bad as he had suspected from Jenny’s terse message: ‘Come at once, very bad news.’

  Gowan the station-master came hastening to him with a porter eager to take his portmanteau. They treated him as if he were some kind of delicate invalid.

  ‘What is it? Has there been an accident at the mill?’

  ‘Na, na, nothing like that. The carriage is waiting for you, sir.’

  He hurried out. The coachman opened the carriage door for him. ‘Dunlop, what the devil is the matter?’

  ‘They’re in sore trouble, sir ‒ we’ll hasten hame.’

  He threw himself into the coach, angry with the man for not saying more and made even more anxious by the fact that whatever was wrong could scarcely be talked about.

  They went through the main street of Galashiels with the street lamps shining on them. He thought the few passers-by turned to look after the carriage. He began to think there must be a death in the family. His mother-in-law? But Millicent, though not burgeoning with health, had been quite well when he left home.

  As the carriage turned in at the gate, he glimpsed a uniformed policeman on watch. They breasted the steep drive. At the sound of the wheels the front door burst open. A flying figure rushed to him. Jenny was in his arms, sobbing, clasping him, uttering his name as if he were the rock of salvation.

  He looked at the open door. There was no crepe bow on the knocker. No one had died.

  ‘Jenny, dear heart ‒ Jenny ‒ what’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t know how … I don’t know how to tell you. Ronald, Ronald … our baby is gone!’

  He was sure he had misheard it. ‘Wait now ‒ say it clearly, my lassie. What is it?’

  ‘Heather’s gone … gone … taken away!’

  He was holding her fast. He looked over her head. In the doorway hovered Thirley. One look at the parlour maid’s white and frightened face told him it was true. He felt everything waver before his gaze. But Jenny was clutching him, he had to stand upright and hold her.

  ‘Come indoors and tell me,’ he said, through lips that would hardly form the words.

  In the hall was another police constable, bareheaded, his helmet and gloves on the table. The familiar drawing room had the curtains closed and the fire made up, safe and comfortable, totally at odds with the idea of policemen and missing children.

  He drew Jenny down beside him on the sofa. Thirley closed the door on them.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘tell me.’

  In a voice totally unlike the one he loved so well, she told him the story. His sense of disorientation grew as he listened. He simply couldn’t take it in.

  She ended with the latest news. A lady answering Lucy’s description was seen in a post chaise at Hexham, waiting for fresh horses. Attempts by the police to trace her further had met with no success so far. There was no word whatever of a child being with her.

  ‘What you’re saying,’ Ronald said, after staring at her in dismay for a long moment, ‘is that Lucy ran off last night to join this man ‒’

  ‘Harvil Massiter.’

  ‘And took Heather with her?’

  She said not
hing. Her breath was coming unevenly, shaken by suppressed sobs.

  ‘It can’t be true.’

  ‘Mother saw her.’

  ‘She took Heather with her to join her lover? Jenny, it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘But Heather’s gone, Ronald. And Lucy’s gone. And Mother saw them.’

  He got up, and paced about the room a moment, his hand going up to his mouth to keep back the flood of frightened oaths. That damned little bitch! He had always disliked her, always distrusted her!

  After a moment he came to Jenny and sat down. ‘She was last seen at Hexham.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She was heading for the railway.’

  ‘That seems likely. She could have got on a train at several stations. If only they can find someone who saw her!’

  Ronald felt stifled. He began to undo the buttons of his greatcoat, and shrugged it off. ‘Who’s in charge of the hunt?’

  ‘The Police Commissioner has taken charge personally. He’s sent an inspector to Hexham. But it’s so long since the sighting ‒ eighteen hours or more.’

  ‘She’ll be in London by now! With her lover.’ An additional horror struck Ronald. ‘Is Ned here?’

  ‘No, I sent for him at the same time as my message to you but his journey home is more difficult ‒ he has to wait for a connection twice, I think.’ Jenny sank her face into the cloth of her husband’s jacket. ‘Ronald, what are we going to say to him when he comes in?’

  Ronald had no idea. He put his arms around his wife and sat rocking her to and fro in stricken silence.

  After a time they went over the story again, and yet again. Then he thought to ask after his mother-in-law. She told him the broken leg had been set but that Millicent was in pain, softened by laudanum drops. ‘She’s very poorly, husband. She was lying out there for perhaps two hours, with a slight concussion and unable to move because of the injury to her leg.’

  ‘And that damned little cat did it to her! When they catch her I hope they lock her up for a thousand years.’

  ‘Please, Ronald … don’t speak like that in front of Ned. He adores Lucy.’

  ‘Not after this,’ Ronald said grimly.

  ‘No. Oh, how could she do it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you how! By closing her eyes to everything but her own desires, that’s how! She never gives a toss about anyone but herself. Well, we’ll see how she likes what she’s got when Ned divorces her.’

  ‘Ronald!’

  ‘What else can he do? And I’ll make sure they press every charge against her that can possibly be devised. Abduction of a child, assault, theft ‒’

  ‘Don’t, don’t ‒ all I want is to get Heather back, I don’t care about anything else.’

  He was silenced. Anger was no use. What was needed was good sense, calm organisation. The police must be given every possible help in finding Lucy.

  ‘Have you told them about Massiter?’ he challenged.

  ‘Not by name. I hoped they would find Lucy between here and London, if that’s where she’s headed.’

  ‘I think we’re past that point. You must give them Massiter’s name and address.’

  ‘Ronald, Lucy isn’t likely to have gone to Massiter’s London house ‒’

  ‘But the police can go there and ask questions. After all, who else can we suppose she’s going to?’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ She shivered. ‘I’d better tell the constable to take a message to the police station.’

  ‘Yes, at once. The sooner the better.’

  He went with her to the hall. The constable, on hearing Jenny’s information, wrote it down in his notebook, then went to take the torn-out page to his partner at the gate.

  ‘You must have something to eat,’ Jenny said to her husband. ‘Everything’s at sixes and sevens ‒’ Her voice broke.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes ‒ no ‒ I don’t remember.’

  ‘We’ll have something together.’

  They were picking at a meal of hot stew and vegetables when they heard the carriage again in the drive. With a glance of reluctance at each other they rose.

  Ned was in the hall, giving his coat to Thirley. He swung round on them. ‘What’s wrong? At the station they said something about Mother.’

  ‘She’s had an accident, Ned ‒’

  ‘She was attacked,’ Ronald interrupted, ‘last night in the drive, and left lying there to live or die.’

  Ned’s face went white. ‘My God! How is she?’

  ‘Ronald, how could you! Ned, my poor lad, Mother is in bed, the doctor has seen to her and she’s resting. But you see …’ Jenny faltered into silence.

  ‘I’ll say it if you won’t. The person who attacked her was your precious wife Lucy.’

  Ned drew back as if he had been struck. Then a flush came up into his fine-skinned features. ‘Watch your mouth, Armstrong! How dare you make a mad accusation like ‒’

  Jenny went up to him and took his sleeve in her fingers. She was trembling. She didn’t want to hurt her brother but he had to be told the truth. ‘Don’t be angry with him, Ned ‒ he has good cause. What he says is true. Lucy struck our mother down when she tried to stop her from running away in the middle of the night.’

  ‘That’s insane!’

  ‘No, it’s true. Lucy is gone. And’ ‒ she stared up into her brother’s face ‒ ‘she took my baby with her.’

  The only defence against the news was disbelief. Ned swept aside everything they told him. ‘You can’t mean any of this! Is it some kind of joke? Lucy would never harm anyone! She’s sweet and gentle …’

  They let him rage through a defence of his wife. Then Ronald said, ‘If it’s not true, then where is Lucy?’

  Ned drew up in a start of alarm. ‘She’s here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My wife is here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I tell you ‒’

  ‘Go and look for her, then,’ Jenny said in helpless distress. ‘See if you can find her. And find Heather too. Find my baby for me.’

  Ned stalked away from them, up the stairs. They heard him go to the garden-side room, which was the bedroom of himself and Lucy. They heard his footsteps become muffled on the thick carpet inside.

  After a moment he could be heard moving along the landing. He went into the night nursery. No nightlight glowed there. He went into the day nursery. That too was dark and silent.

  ‘He’ll go in to Mother,’ Jenny cried, and picking up her skirts ran up to prevent him. Ned had his hand on the knob of her door.

  ‘No, Ned. She’s resting. Baird is watching by her bed. Don’t wake her ‒ she must sleep.’

  ‘But I must ask her ‒’

  ‘There’s no need to ask her. She told me, I had it from her in so many words. Lucy hit her, and ran off with Heather in her arms past the gates.’

  ‘No, no, I won’t believe it.’ He turned back into his own bedroom, closing the door with a kind of finality. Jenny went back down to Ronald.

  A little later a visitor arrived, Herbert Muir, the chief clerk from Waterside Mill. He came in looking extremely distressed and embarrassed. ‘Mistress, maister,’ he said, touching his hat. ‘I know this is a little thing to be asking now, but are there any instructions for the morn?’

  Next day was Saturday, the day the weavers were paid. Jenny had forgotten all about it. She looked at Muir in consternation.

  ‘If you’ll give a letter of authority, mistress, I’ll go to the bank first thing for the money. The workers’ll be late getting their pay because of the delay in filling their pay tins, but they’ll understand.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Muir. I’ll write a line for you now.’

  ‘And Mr Armstrong, what’s to be done about the doubling for the green fleck tweed?’

  Ronald looked as if he had never heard of it. ‘Tell Ritchie to do the best he can,’ he said.

  ‘Very good, sir. Will I tell him you’ll be in on Monday for the approval of the colours for setting up Leuchar’s or
der?’

  ‘Tell him what you like!’ shouted Ronald.

  Jenny, at the writing desk, turned. Her glance reproved him. He took a grip on himself and said, ‘Mr Muir, tell Ritchie that until things here at Gatesmuir are sorted, he’s to regard himself as in charge. It’s to be hoped I’ll be back in a day or two. Until we know more of what’s to happen to Mistress Armstrong I can’t be sure of coming to the mill.’

  ‘Yes, maister, I understand.’ He was clutching his hard hat across his breast. He half-raised it now in a kind of salute. ‘The workers asked me to say, sir and madam, that we’re a’ thinking of you and wishing you well.’

  ‘Thank you, Muir,’ Jenny said.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Ronald.

  Muir had hardly left when the Commissioner of Police, Major Wishart, arrived. He was an ex-soldier, a stout, generally jovial man with a great gift for organisation. The police force in the Borders was still in course of being established, but in Galashiels there was a small and efficient body.

  ‘I’ve come in person,’ he said, ‘to give you such news as I have. I sent a message by the telegraph to the London force, asking them to call on Mr Harvil Massiter. The reply is that they have done so, that Mr Massiter is from home, but Mrs Massiter asserts she knows for certain that he is in Suffolk at their country house.’

  Ronald looked at Jenny. ‘You’ve met her, Jenny. Would you say she’d know where he is?’

  ‘I’d say not. And, what’s more,’ Jenny said, thinking of that proud, angry woman at the Truscotts’ party, ‘I think she would lie to save face.’

  Major Wishart nodded, pulling at his beard. ‘So if I request the London detectives to go back and ask again, they may get better information?’

  Jenny sighed. ‘I don’t know. She may not know where he is at all. I don’t see that it will help us.’

  ‘Can you suggest anything else to try, dear lady?’

  They talked it over, but there seemed no other lead to Lucy’s whereabouts. Wishart took his leave, promising action first thing in the morning.

  A little later Ned came into the drawing room. ‘Where do you think she has gone?’ he asked without preliminaries.

  His brother-in-law shrugged at him. ‘So you’ve come to the conclusion we weren’t inventing things?’