by Angela Arney
There was a long pause, then the stranger said, ‘I’m not sure.’ He turned abruptly and plunged back into the depths of the forest, leaving the two Germans staring after him.
‘I wonder who he was,’ said Hans. ‘Bit strange, don’t you think?’
Werner shrugged. He was thinking of other things. ‘I wonder if Bertha will give us some cakes this afternoon as Megan is out? Come on.’ The two men made their way to the stables, now used as the gun room, where Henry was waiting.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was a perfect summer’s afternoon, and Megan relaxed as Ken Steadman steered the little dinghy out into the saltings on the edge of the estuary. He anchored the boat on a sandy shelf and the children scrambled out and made muddy sandcastles. When the tide turned it was time to go, and reluctantly they climbed back aboard and made their way up the estuary against the flowing tide and into the setting sun.
In the gun room it was as Werner had hoped. Bertha arrived with tea and carrot-cake. The guns were put aside in the old manger by the door ready for later and room was made on the table for the tray. Werner cut the cake and passed it around. ‘I don’t know how she does it,’ said Pat, cake crumbs on her chin. ‘Everything she makes is delicious.’
‘We’re lucky to have her here at Folly House,’ said Henry. He sat back listening to the rattling of cups against the saucers, and the banter between the two German boys and Pat. I enjoy my time with these people he thought. And although he could not see it he knew the golden sunlight of early evening would now be flooding through the top of the stable door, burnishing the cobbles with a warm glow. When his inner eye could see the good things in life he knew life was worth living. If only it could always be like that.
Then suddenly he heard another sound. Perhaps it was Megan returning early.
Smiling, he turned his head towards the door, and as he did so he heard Werner’s sharp intake of breath.
There was a scraping sound as if someone’s foot was dragging across the cobbles, then Werner’s voice, high and nervous. ‘What do you want?’ Silence. Then Werner’s voice again. Sharp, anxious. ‘No! Don’t touch the guns, they’re loaded.’
‘Loaded, are they? How convenient, and how very silly of you to leave them lying around.’ It was Adam’s voice. Henry knew it in an instant.
‘Adam,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here? How did you get here? Did someone bring you?’ He sent up a silent prayer that someone from The Priory had accompanied Adam to Folly House.
‘I don’t need anyone to help me these days. I know everyone thought I would die, perhaps even wished that I would. But I’ve regained my strength, although unfortunately not my good looks. I’ll never get an acting job again, unless it’s to play some poor unfortunate wreck in a horror film.’ His voiced was loud, hysterical-sounding, and echoed eerily around the stable. Then he laughed.
Henry shivered; the laugh sounded even more menacing than his words. Then he told himself not to be so silly, the menace was in his head, no one else’s.
‘You know Henry from before the war?’ said Pat, and immediately Henry sensed she was trying to defuse the tense situation. It was not his imagination. She was thinking the same thing.
He wondered where Adam was standing. Was it somewhere near the doorway? And was he pointing a gun at anyone, or was he just holding one? His blindness heightened his senses; he could feel the uneasiness of Werner and Hans as they stood beside him, and he knew they were afraid.
‘I’m not interested in talking to farmhands or land girls,’ Adam snarled back at Pat. ‘I’ve come to talk to Henry. Come outside with me, Henry.’ His voice now had a wheedling sound. ‘We need to talk. We’ve got to get our relationship sorted out one way or another.’ The scraping sound of footsteps came again and Henry knew he was nearer. But how near? He wished he knew.
‘Henry is not going anywhere with you,’ said Pat. Henry felt her hand firmly grip his shoulder. ‘He’s staying right here with Werner, Hans and me.’
‘Mind your own bloody business, woman.’
‘It is my business.’
‘Get out off my way, damn you,’ growled Adam. ‘Or I’ll shoot the lot of you.’
There was a click and Henry caught his breath. He had cocked the gun. It was ready to fire. ‘For God’s sake, Adam. You’ll hang if you shoot anyone.’
‘Do you think the thought of the gallows frightens me, Henry? It will be a blessed relief to leave this world. But I’m not going anywhere unless you come with me.’
That was when Henry realized that Adam was mad. Quite mad. It was not just the words but something in the tone of his voice. Beside him he heard Pat whisper to Hans and Werner. They were going to try and get the gun from Adam. But surely they must realize that he would kill them? He had to stop them. It was his fault, not theirs. He was the cause of Adam’s insanity, not they. ‘Do nothing,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Do you hear me? Do nothing.’
‘But we must…’ Hans whispered.
Henry interrupted him. ‘Do nothing,’ he repeated.
‘That’s it. Do nothing,’ sneered Adam. ‘I can hear you. Do nothing. But remember I can wait for ever. Until the sands of time run out,’ he shouted theatrically, then dropping his voice to a hiss he added, ‘I’ve waited long enough for you, Henry; a few more hours will make no difference.’
So they waited in silence. Henry knew the sun was sinking in the evening sky because he could feel the dampness of evening creeping in through the stable door. Soon someone would be coming out to see where he was and remind him about supper. He hoped it wouldn’t be Dottie: she would panic. If it were George or Bertha maybe he could shout a warning and they could get help. But what would Adam do? Would he start shooting? The more he thought about it the more he knew that it was almost certain that someone was going to end up being shot. Adam would fire, he was certain of it.
It began to get quite cold and Henry shivered. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Adam with another of his strange laughs. ‘Getting nervous?’
Before Henry could reply they all heard the sound of running feet. Small feet. Light feet. A voice called, ‘Daddy.’ It was Peter. Henry’s heart almost stopped. What to do? How could he keep Peter away from the stable? But he couldn’t think. He sat there struck dumb, immobile.
Then from beside him Pat suddenly screamed, ‘Go away, Peter. Go away. Go back to the house.’
But of course Peter didn’t go away. He was too young and innocent to think of danger. He thought it was a game. ‘Found you,’ he called, laughing as he ran through the doorway.
Then there was a frightened cry, and Adam said, ‘Got you. You stay with me until your daddy comes to get you.’ He laughed. ‘You will come now, won’t you, Henry.’
‘Daddy,’ whimpered Peter. ‘Daddy, I’m hurting.’
After that everything happened quickly. Megan arrived. She had on soft linen shoes and no one heard her footsteps. The moment she arrived she screamed, Henry heard the shotgun and felt a hot blast. His brain swirled in terror. ‘Peter,’ he shouted. There was another shot, and another. He felt someone push him to one side and he lunged forward to where he thought Adam was. He could hear Peter and Megan both screaming, then he felt as if someone had hit him with a heavy fist, right in the middle of his chest. The table was knocked over and fell with a clatter of cups and saucers, and at the same time he felt himself falling down on to the cobbles. He tried to get up, but had no strength in his arms to push himself up, and the cobbles were warm and slippery. He could smell the metallic odour of blood, and tried to shout. But no sound came. ‘Peter,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘Peter. Is he all right?’
He felt Megan’s hands holding him, she was weeping. Weeping as he’d never heard her weep before. ‘Peter’s all right,’ she was saying, over and over again. ‘Peter’s all right. He’s all right.’
Henry relaxed in her arms. There was something he had to say before it was too late. What was it? Everything was blurred in his mind. It was urgent. What was it? �
�I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t know how to love you. I wish, I wish …’ The words died on his lips as he sighed, a long slow, sigh, then was still.
Megan bent over him sobbing.
It wasn’t until George and Bertha came rushing in that Megan was aware of the terrible carnage. Pat was standing by the far wall holding Peter, turning his head away so that he couldn’t see the awful sight. Megan realized that she was on her knees cradling Henry’s head in her lap, although she had no recollection of how she came to be there. His eyes were closed, and a trail of dark red blood trickled from the side of his mouth. There was a gaping hole in the middle of his chest from which bright red blood was still gushing. Vaguely she thought she ought to stop the bleeding, and looked around for something to staunch the flow.
‘I need a bandage,’ she whispered.
Werner had the other shotgun in his hand and was standing looking dazed. He came over to Megan, and crouching down beside her put his hand to Henry’s throat, feeling for a pulse. ‘There’s no need for a bandage,’ he said softly. ‘He’s beyond our help now.’
Megan looked around her. She could see Adam lying in a twisted position against the wall by the door, one of the shotguns still clasped in his lifeless fingers. His eyes were wide open, but the side of his head was missing, just a bloody mess where the skull should have been.
Hans was lying near by in a pool of blood, clutching his arm and groaning.
Megan began to weep again. ‘Oh my God, oh my God. What shall we do?’
Bertha took charge. ‘George,’ she said calmly, ‘take Pat and baby Peter into the house and get Dottie to start giving them supper. Then telephone the police and tell them there has been a terrible accident. Pat, don’t tell Rosie what has happened, and don’t let her come anywhere near the stable. Then make sure there’s some nice cheerful music on the radio while Dottie’s getting the supper, and then, if you could start putting Rosie and Peter to bed …
Both George and Pat said ‘yes’, and hurried off with Peter as fast as their legs would carry them.
‘Now,’ said Bertha gently to Megan, ‘let’s get you up.’ Firmly she put her strong, plump arms beneath Megan’s shoulders and lifted her into a standing position. Megan stood, unable to think or speak, conscious only of Henry and Adam both lying dead before her.
Werner put his gun down in the manger near the door and went across to Hans who was still moaning and clutching his arm. After examining him briefly he said. ‘Where shall I take him? I don’t want the children to see the blood.’
Bertha thought for a moment. ‘Take him to the outhouse at the back of the kitchen. Wait there a moment and I’ll bring out hot water and bandages, meanwhile get George to send for Dr Crozier to dress his arm properly.’
Afterwards Megan couldn’t remember getting back to the house, but Lavinia told her that Bertha had taken her back through the gold room windows, and then Lavinia had taken over and helped Megan undress and take a hot bath. Dr Crozier came upstairs when he’d finished dressing the wound on Hans’s arm, which luckily was a superficial flesh wound. He gave Megan a sleeping draught.
When she awoke next morning the bodies of Henry and Adam had been taken away and, once the police had finished, Silas and a couple of casual labourers from East End farm had come over and thoroughly cleaned out the old stables. Now it was clean and tidy, and when Megan next entered the following evening it was difficult to believe what had happened there the previous night.
Silently she sat on the chair Henry had been sitting on when she’d first rushed in, and tried to think. What had happened then? The police had already asked her, but she couldn’t remember. Now, although she was in the stable she still couldn’t remember. It was just a confused mess of noise, shrieks and blood. Blood everywhere; she still had the smell of blood in her nostrils.
She shivered at the memory. It was Adam’s fault. She had known when she’d first met him long, long ago, before she had even married Henry, that he was dangerous, that he had some kind of malevolent hold over Henry. But Henry had not realized it until too late. What was it Henry had said last night? I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to love you. His whispered words echoed again around the room and Megan found herself whispering back. ‘But I didn’t know how to love you either, Henry.’
It was only now that she realized that they had both stumbled through life confused and unhappy, unable to help themselves or each other. But I am the lucky one, she thought. I did find love with Jim, albeit briefly, and I have Peter to remind me. Yes, I am the lucky one.
Pat had told her that Adam had said to Henry, I’m not going anywhere without taking you with me. And it had come true: he had taken Henry. But she was not alone. She was a woman with a son and an adopted daughter, and Peter would inherit Folly House. Her task now was to keep it for him until he reached twenty-one years of age.
Sitting there alone in the deserted stable she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin determinedly. She would turn around the fortunes of Folly House and East End Farm, and she would do it not only for Peter, but for Henry as well. The Lockwood name would be something for Peter to be proud of, no matter that not one drop of Lockwood blood ran through his veins.
Of course the newspapers splashed the news of the double shooting across their front pages for the next few days, and several reporters made their way to Folly House. But after the inquest all went quiet. The coroner’s verdict was that Adam’s balance of mind was disturbed; he had shot Henry and then turned the gun on himself. Werner had not fired a single shot; he’d told the police that he had every intention of firing but was afraid of hitting baby Peter and Pat, and by the time he was able to get a direct line of fire, Adam had turned the gun on himself.
The Jones and Moon families formed a protective shield around Megan and all at Folly House. She appreciated their loyalty and felt safe, and knew that Rosie and Peter were safe too. Then she sat down and started to make plans for the future.
Food was still in short supply, so there was a ready market for everything they produced. It seemed strange to be so short of food now that the war was over, but Megan knew food was in even shorter supply in war-ravaged Europe. Until the agricultural land in Europe was cleared of mines, bombs and the debris of war nothing much could be grown. Britain exported and Megan concentrated on food that could be grown quickly, packed and sold abroad, even though both Silas and George objected.
‘Charity begins at home,’ said Silas, when she wanted to plant a whole field of white cabbages.
‘I’ve got a ready market for these,’ Megan told him. ‘In Germany they use them for sauerkraut. I can’t afford to grow stuff just for the home market now.’
As the payment for the exports began to swell her bank balance Megan started to make other plans. Folly House could offer people bed and breakfast for people wanting to take a holiday in the beautiful New Forest. Lavinia was horrified. ‘The Lockwoods have never done that sort of thing. And anyway, I was thinking that perhaps I could come back and live here now that Arthur and Marcus have gone. The dower douse is lonely.’
Megan thought about it. True, Lavinia was becoming frailer, but what to do with the dower house. Bertha suggested a solution. ‘Why not let people rent the rooms and eat here, or even let the whole little house for holidays? That’s what the Truscott family who own Merrymead are doing; they haven’t got a bean to their name since young Mr Truscott was killed in the war. My sister works there. This year they let out rooms all summer and my sister Amy says they’ve done quite well.’
Megan knew the Truscotts slightly, and knew how hard up they were. If Cynthia Truscott, whom Megan had always secretly thought rather useless, could make money from letting rooms, then so could she. So Lavinia moved back to Folly House and had the small bedroom at the back of the house near to Rosie, and the dower house was given a lick of paint inside, ready for the coming spring and summer.
Megan worked hard and enjoyed her spare time with Peter and Rosie. It was only at night
sometimes, sitting and looking out into the garden down towards the Folly and the sea that she felt lonely, and wondered whether Jim was still alive. Common sense told her that he must be dead; otherwise he would have got in touch with her. She was sure of it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Megan missed Henry, but Rosie and Peter were heartbroken. Megan found it difficult to explain why Adam had shot Henry. They didn’t understand that Adam had been insane. But Lavinia became a tower of strength, and began taking the children to church every Sunday morning; afterwards they laid flowers on Henry’s grave and when they got back to Folly House Bertha would let them into the kitchen, where they had a slice of bread dipped in the gravy from the roast meat to eat before lunch. It was a small ritual they looked forward to and in a strange way it helped to ease their pain.
But there was no such relief for Megan and she coped in the only way she knew how: filling her days with work and plans for the future of Folly House. She decided it would be no ordinary guest house, not like the Truscotts; it would be so fine and beautiful that people would queue up to spend a night at Folly House. This meant the house had to be renovated and the gardens and seashore landscaped. To this end she studied books showing formal gardens of chateaux and palazzi in France and Italy. Her dreams knew no bounds.
In the late autumn of 1946 she set to work intending to do as much landscaping as possible before the winter set in. Apart from a couple of temporary labourers she did all the work herself. Raking and mulching the huge lawns, pruning the tamarisk bushes on the seashore, but her ambition of creating a sheltered bower with sea views of the Solent and the distant Isle of Wight was eventually realized, even if her hands did end up raw and bleeding in the process.
Lavinia watched and worried, and confessed her concerns to Bertha. She often sought her out in the kitchen now that Rosie was at school and baby Peter was playing out in the garden with Dottie, overseen by Megan. She was not trusted to look after Peter on her own now, as she was developing cataracts and her sight was poor. ‘It’s not right that a lady should be doing all that manual work,’ she said to Bertha. ‘Megan’s hands are now as rough as any workman, and her nails are never really clean.’