Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  The inspector frowned and jotted a few more notes in his book. “I assume then that the doors and windows were closed and locked.”

  “Of course not,” Wendy replied, gazing back out the window. “Or how would Peter have gotten in?”

  The inspector stopped writing and glanced sharply up. “Peter?”

  “Peter Pan, of course. He hates a barred window, so I always leave the window unlocked and open for him to fly in.”

  Faye's shoulders slumped.

  The inspector whistled softly through his teeth, then shot a shrewd look at Faye.

  "Peter Pan came here?" he asked.

  "Yes," Wendy replied.

  "To this flat?"

  "Yes."

  "And the children?"

  "They went to the Neverland. With Peter. Just for a visit, of course. They'll be back soon. Really, there's no need for alarm."

  “I see,” he said, frowning, flipping closed the notebook. Detective Ross cleared his throat. “Mrs. Forrester, let me understand you. You’re saying the children didn’t just go to The Neverland as you reported earlier. By that, I mean The Neverland Theme Park. Located in London. You’re saying that Peter Pan, the fabled character from a book, flew into your window last night and took the children to THE Neverland? Second star to the right and all?”

  She turned her head, met his gaze unflinchingly and replied, “The very one.”

  Faye covered her face with her hands, Jack closed his eyes and shook his head in resignation. Detective Inspector Ross tilted his head and stared in disbelief. After a moment spent collecting his wits, he walked with a composure the British were known for, picked up the phone, and punched out a number.

  “Hallo? Detective Ross here. Right, the O’Neill case. I need a psych eval here. On the double.”

  * * *

  A short while later Mrs. Lloyd hurried into the nursery, flush-faced and frantic. She was followed at a slower pace by her husband and her solicitor, a tall, thin-lipped, stately- looking gentleman. Behind him strode a bearish, balding man with a ruddy complexion and round wire-rim glasses too small for his chubby cheeks. The policemen and Detective Ross snapped to attention when they entered.

  “I came as quickly as I heard,” Jane Lloyd announced, hurrying to her mother’s side.

  Faye watched as Wendy welcomed her daughter with a brief smile that seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort. The lamps were lit against the late afternoon’s dusk and a deathly stillness permeated the room, save for the soft murmurs of Wendy’s and Jane’s voices. Faye thought Wendy appeared even more pale and wan as the hideous day wore on, but she couldn’t find it in her heart to worry over her.

  The shock she’d felt on finding the children missing had settled into a deep, black anger. She blamed Wendy, blamed Jack, blamed fate, but most of all, she blamed herself. How naive she’d been to let her guard down even for a moment. She should have remained vigilant, suspected that Rob would try to snatch the children again. It was wrong of her to let down her guard.

  She covered her eyes with her palm, unable to look any longer at Jane comforting her mother. Where was her own daughter, her own sweet Maddie?

  The large, ruddy-faced man who resembled a four-star general turned out to be the chief inspector, which explained Detective Ross’s deferential air. After huddling in consultation with his men, where heated words were exchanged, the chief inspector announced that Rob O’Neill had been located.

  “Your ex-husband is still in Detroit, Michigan,” he informed Faye with an air of disapproval, as though she were to be blamed for wasting precious time and manpower. “He never left the States.”

  Faye slumped and sighed with relief, muttering, “Thank God.”

  “That’s not necessarily good news,” the chief inspector continued. “At least with your ex we had a target. Most kidnappings of children between ages three and eight are by a spouse after divorce. They’re not so much eager to be with their children as they are angry at the spouse and wanting revenge. We’ve been fortunate to find most of those children. Unfortunately, now we’re back to square one. It’s a very strange case. There is no sign of forced entry at either the house entry or the individual flats. At the moment we have no suspects.”

  “Except of course, Mrs. Forrester,” chimed in Detective Ross.

  “What? My mother is a suspect? George!” exclaimed Jane Lloyd. She was white with outrage.

  “I say, Chief Inspector,” said the solicitor in a huff, “if you have any notion to charge my client with a crime, you’d best speak plainly. There has been no evidence to support...”

  “Now, see here. There’s no need for agitation,” the chief replied with his hand in the air. “No one intends to charge Mrs. Forrester with any crime. We don’t even know that a crime has been committed, do we, Inspector Ross?” He turned to glare at Ross who promptly reddened and shook his head.

  “However, sir,” Ross said in a strained voice, “She was the only one at the scene, and her story is, to say the least, quite unbelievable.”

  “Detective, may I see you a moment?” The Chief jerked his head in a direction, and the two men stepped to the corner to speak privately.

  “Do you know who that woman is?” the chief hissed. “That’s Wendy Forrester. The Wendy. Half the Empire believes that woman is Peter Pan’s Wendy. She’s a paragon in the eyes of the people. She founded an orphanage. She knows some of the most influential members of our kingdom. Even the Queen is especially fond of the old girl. Bloody hell, everybody is. If we arrest her all havoc will break loose. We’ve got to have as little publicity as possible.” He fixed Ross with a stare. “If you ever dream of collecting a pension.”

  Ross appeared hunted. “It’s a loony assignment. Are you sure it’s even our area?”

  The chief glared again. “Nice try, Ross.”

  “Well, what do we do now? We’ve got two children missing, and all fingers point to the old girl, crazy or not. I’ve ordered a psych eval, but it’s a sticky wicket, all way round.”

  The chief stroked his jaw, then cleared his throat and joined the group.

  “It appears obvious that Mrs. Forrester isn’t..." he lowered his voice so Wendy couldn't hear, "well. What with her advanced age, dementia perhaps? Confusion? I think it wise to escort her to the hospital for an evaluation and observation, eh? For her own protection.” He offered a condescending nod to Jane Lloyd, who lowered her head and agreed with resignation, then glanced up at her solicitor for confirmation. Mr. Reese- Jones replied with a loud sniff and brusque nod.

  Wendy, however, was desperate to stay in the nursery. When the police tried to gently escort her out she struggled against them, slapping them away and lurching for the window like a small bird with a broken wing, trying to alight.

  “No, take your hands off me. Please. You don’t understand! You must let me stay,” she cried, frantic. “He said he’d be back for me! I must be here. I must! You can’t take me away.”

  Near the door she escaped from the policeman’s grasp and crossed the room to clutch Faye’s hand tightly in her own. Her eyes were brighter than ever, burning with intensity as she bore down into Faye’s eyes.

  “Faye, child, you must keep the window open!”

  Faye couldn’t listen any longer and turned her head away, breaking free from Wendy's grip, her shoulders slumping in despair.

  Wendy's hands fell to her side, the last of her energy flowing from her. The police took hold of Wendy’s elbow, gently replaced the shawl around her shoulders, and led her like a forlorn, lifeless child out of the nursery.

  Jane Lloyd’s voice rose to a wail at the sight of her mother’s disgrace. Her eyes were wild with worry.

  “She’s harmless!” Jane cried to the inspectors, weeping into her handkerchief. “Blameless! The only thing my mother ever wanted was for children to love her. What crime is there in that?” She turned to the chief inspector.

  “Children are gullible, remember. They believe my mother's stories are real. As I o
nce did, when I was very young. And my children, and my grandchildren. They all came here, to this nursery, to believe for a precious short while in Wendy’s stories.”

  Her husband stepped near to her in a show of support and offered her his handkerchief. Jane Lloyd sniffed loudly, then collected herself into a formidable figure, eyes flashing with scorn and finger pointed at Faye accusingly.

  "It's her fault! Mrs. O’Neill encouraged my mother’s unhappy delusion. No doubt the O’Neill children believed the stories were real as well. Theirs was an unhappy, confusing home.” She glanced with a meaningful air at Faye, then at Jack. “Such goings-on in this house... My mother’s nurse was the children’s nanny, and the stories I heard from her. Shocking! All the doors were open, if you take my meaning. It would not surprise me in the least if those two, poor children ran away from home. Not in the very least!”

  “How dare you,” cried Faye, leaping to her feet. She felt Jack’s grip on her arm tighten. “It wouldn’t surprise me if this wasn’t what you wanted. Wendy out of the way. Now the house is yours!”

  “No! Not this way. Never this way. I warned you!” cried Jane, pointing her finger accusingly at both Faye and Jack. “I told you if you didn’t stop this nonsense, something terrible would happen. And now it has. I blame you both. It’s all your fault!” She broke down completely and had to be helped from the nursery by her husband and her solicitor.

  Jack was livid. He stepped nearer to wrap an arm around Faye’s shoulder. “Of course you’re not to blame. It’s no one’s fault. Come on, let’s go downstairs. Get some fresh air.”

  Faye could not be comforted. She felt buffeted by guilt and blame, taking Jane Lloyd’s words to heart. It was all her fault. She was to blame, she thought, placing one foot before the other as she left the nursery. We are the decisions we make, she’d told Jack. It was true, and now she had to live with the consequences of her folly.

  While the sun set and gloomy shadows began to deepen, Faye walked like a haunted ghost through the sepulchral rooms of her flat, away from the monotonous, low mutterings of the police in the hall. One by one she slammed shut each window. One by one, she locked them.

  Chapter 21

  Jack didn’t like feeling helpless. He was a man of action. Surely there was something he could do to help Faye. There were far too many questions that needed answering.

  Once back in his own flat he immediately called his private detective and asked him to deliver any and all information he’d dug up on Wendy Forrester and the files. Anything at all. Despite the wackiness of her story, the fact remained that she was the last person seen with the children. Perhaps there was something in her past that could offer a clue to where she might have taken Maddie and Tom.

  The following afternoon, Jack opened the door to Detective Farnesworthy. After dispensing with the usual pat greetings they got right down to business.

  “I’m not finished going through all the files from the boys’ home,” Farnesworthy said, “but I’ve found some pretty remarkable information. Trouble is, I’m not sure what to make of it.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Yes, sir. I only ask that you listen until I finish, no matter how strange or curious the findings are.”

  “Yes, yes, get on with it.”

  Farnesworthy cleared his throat and checked his notes. “To start off, Wendy’s maiden name was Darling. Father, George; Mother, Moira. Two brothers...”

  “Don’t tell me. Michael and John.”

  “True enough. Deceased now, sad to say. They grew up in this same house. Had a big St. Bernard they named Nana. Much like your little pup there.”

  Jack bent over to pat Nana’s head. She rolled on her back, paws up and offered him a soulful look. “Amazing coincidences.”

  “Yes, sir. And the coincidences continue,” Farnesworthy said, edging up on his chair. “Sir James Barrie, the author of Peter Pan, was, in fact, their neighbor for a while."

  Jack stopped petting Nana and swung his head around, his attention riveted. "No kidding."

  "Used to play with the Darling children and the Davies boys nearby," Farnesworthy continued. "According to the reports, Barrie took the children to Kensington Gardens to sail boats and play pirate, that sort of thing." Farnesworthy checked his notes. "George Darling was a barrister. Very influential. Public school, Eton you know,” he said, nose in the air as one who had attended British public schools. “Mr. Darling didn’t care much for Barrie. He was a small, boyish Scotsman who could wiggle his ears and seemed bent on playing childish games and indulging in frivolities. There was a terrible row after the incident.”

  “Incident?”

  Farnesworthy’s eyes gleamed with meaning. “Indeed. This is where it really gets interesting. There were police reports dating back to the time Wendy would have been about eight years or so. Apparently, one September night, all three of the Darling children, Michael, John and Wendy, were reported missing. It was kept very hush- hush. But”— he leaned forward— “George Darling accused Barrie of kidnapping. He was innocent, of course. Barrie was at the theater rehearsing one of his plays the night the children disappeared. But the bad blood spilled couldn’t be forgotten.”

  Jack shot to his feet. “Well, what happened?”

  “Barrie moved. To Surrey.”

  “No, no, no, not to Barrie. What happened to the children?”

  “Oh, yes.” He cleared his throat and placed his hands on his thighs. He straightened in his chair and delivered a meaningful look. “It’s reported that the children returned home safely. Mrs. Darling’s statement was that she walked into the nursery one evening, just to sit and weep, and there were the children, sleeping in their beds as though nothing had happened.”

  After a stunned pause, Jack sat back in chair and shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. Read for yourself.” He handed him a photocopy of the police report.

  Jack picked it up and read it. He looked up, incredulous. “It says here that the children claimed to have traveled to The Neverland with a boy named Peter Pan?" He closed the papers and leaned far back in his chair. "But this is unbelievable! How come this never hit the papers?”

  Farnesworthy shrugged. “I can only guess. George Darling most likely didn’t want it divulged and took appropriate steps. Who can blame him? Keep in mind that back then there wasn’t much sympathy for the horrors that could happen to abducted children. The way I see it, it’s a simple case of a father protecting his children. They would have been shunned for life. The little Miss Wendy especially. So they kept it all very secret. I only found these old reports because I was digging about the records at the London Home for Boys. Mrs. Forrester kept copies of the report in her personal files.”

  “So, Barrie pulled the rug out from under Darling when he wrote the whole episode as a play.”

  “So it would appear."

  "Hard to believe, of course."

  "Of course." Farnesworthy frowned. "No one ever did find out where the children had disappeared to.”

  Jack didn't respond. The implications of what tragedies might have happened hung in the air between them.

  Farnesworthy paused to rub his chin in thought. “I’m not a psychologist or such, but I’ve done a little reading. It makes sense to me that poor Miss Wendy fabricated this Peter Pan story to block out what really happened. As a result of some, well, abuse or trauma, she may have difficulty differentiating between fantasy and reality. I was wondering, sir. Something like this might explain Mrs. Forrester.”

  Jack rose again, no longer able to remain seated. “She had to believe this fantasy or else remember...well, whatever.”

  “Yes, precisely.”

  “You know,” Jack said, pacing the floor and wagging his finger, “there is one other possibility, since we’re throwing out theories here. It’s possible that the children were abducted by…well.” He coughed. “By aliens.”

  Farnesworthy’s eyes widened. “Aliens? You mean little green me
n, sir?” He swallowed hard and appeared to consider the theory, if only for politeness’ sake. “Well you’re the scientist, of course,” he said in a stumbling manner. “But that sort of thing is only taken seriously by the tabloids and such, eh what? Science fiction. Not by men of real science.”

  “Not true. It just depends on who the man of science is. The mind is either open or shut. I mean, just open up a bit and think of it. Wendy talks to the stars. Claims she flew out the window as a child. Did you know, by the way, that many abductees claim they were abducted as children? And now Wendy claims the O’Neill children flew off. Through the same window. ‘Flew’ being the operative word. If your theory clicks, she’s blocked out her abduction and, as a defense mechanism, transferred in her mind the alien to something, someone, she could accept. Say, a boy. Say, Peter Pan.”

  Farnesworthy scratched behind his ear, dislodging his glasses. “And the spaceship is the Neverland? Hmm, interesting. That would be logical.”

  “You can’t use logic here, Farnesworthy. That shuts the mind. Open up a little more. Who is to say that she’s suffering from a delusion at all? Who’s to say that a superior being of some kind, call him God, might come to us in the guise of a boy? Or an angel? Or anything that would make his wisdom easy for us mere mortals to understand and accept. We create stories around the vision, myths that endure through generations; but through the story, the message is revealed.”

  Farnesworthy looked over at Jack with an expression of uneasiness. “I’m all confused now, sir. All this Peter Pan stuff, it is just a made-up story, isn’t it?”

  Jack sat and steepled his hands under his chin. He was a scientist, trained to face the facts without prejudice. What was real and what was imagined? He shook his head, feeling as though the wind was knocked out of him, along with all reason.

  “Aw, what the hell, Farnesworthy,” he said, slapping his knees then rising to a stand. “Let’s go upstairs and tell everyone else what we’ve found. They’ll think we’re crazy, but facts are facts and damned if I know what to believe anymore.”