Winthrop Manor

by Mary Christian Payne

  That night found Win on the left flank of a British attack at a small village in France. His division had met with stubbornness on the part of the enemy and resulted in heavy losses. He had started over-the-top under heavy fire and had reached the first German trench, jumping in. There had been seven Allied soldiers there, and Win was the highest-ranking, incapacitating and killing the Germans who were in his sight. He had led the way along the trench. Suddenly, a Hun came ‘round the corner, but for some reason, he had chosen not to shoot Win, for he surely could have. Instead, he’d lowered his rifle. Win felt enormous relief, when out of the blue, the German soldier thrust his bayonet into Win’s foot. The pain had been nearly unbearable, and Win had fleetingly wondered if he was about to be killed with the bayonet instead of a gun. Apparently, the answer was no, for he had then been told, in broken but understandable English, that he was being taken prisoner.

  In less than one minute, his freedom was lost. It was the last thing he’d considered. He’d assumed he would either be killed or would retain his freedom until the beastly war had reached its conclusion. At that moment, he wished he might have died alongside Andrew. Win knew that intelligence gathered by capture was the reason behind such an act, but he had no intelligence to share and would not have done so, anyway.

  Blood was seeping from his foot. It throbbed like the devil. Under no circumstances would it have been possible for Win to walk any distance. The Hun reached inside of his tunic. Removing a roll of gauze, along with adhesive tape, he wrapped Win’s foot, taping the medical dressing into place. Win was surprised that an enemy would do such a thing. It was apparent that Win was going to be marched to a POW destination. Perhaps the German didn’t want to waste valuable time while Win stumbled along as a wounded prisoner. It confused him as to why he had been bayoneted at all if there had been no intention to finish him off. The only rational explanation was that the German soldier had wanted his superiors to believe he had made an attempt to kill him but chose not to when capture was so readily at hand. After all, Win was a British officer. Officers were much more likely to have important information for the enemy. Win’s instructions had always been to try to capture enemy officers, rather than kill them. Apparently, the enemy had received similar instructions.

  Captured soldiers from both sides were interred all over Europe. The Netherlands, one of the few countries which remained neutral during the war, was filled with prisoner-of-war camps, which were scattered all over the countryside. That is where Win found himself after his dreadful capture. While men interred in his particular camp were supposed to be only those who’d been picked up while crossing the border into Holland, the Germans were known to take men they seized to the Dutch camp, too. Internment camps were becoming so terribly crowded with prisoners that it mattered little which destination the Germans chose for incarceration.

  Win was not allowed to send or receive letters, so he had no way to convey his whereabouts to Josephine. The regulations regarding such a practice varied from camp to camp. Prisoners were supposed to be able to receive and send letters, but the practice was not allowed during the time Win was in the Dutch camp. Dutch officials opened and inspected every large parcel received through the Red Cross, but they did ignore small packages. The Red Cross did inspect the camp, but because it was in Holland, it tended to be forgotten much of the time. Had they remembered Win’s camp on a regular basis, he might have been able to communicate with Josephine, but such a miracle never occurred. There was even one Red Cross nurse who refused to accept letters, if an English prisoner requested one to be sent to a loved one, because she was German. If an English prisoner asked her to send such a letter, she would answer, “Nein,” and that was the end of any hope for a link to a loved one.

  A fellow British prisoner, William Shore, had become quite friendly with a local girl, who visited the camp on a regular basis. Naturally, she wasn’t able to actually enter the premises, but she stood on one side of the fence while William stood on the inside. The top of the barricade was strung with barbed wire, so there was no possibility of escape. William and Win had struck up quite a good friendship. As time passed, the two began to devise a scheme, which, if it was successful, would free them from the confines of the internment camp. The chances of being set free by the Germans were just about impossible, so they would have to improvise their own means of escape.

  They were undoubtedly fortunate to be in a Dutch camp, for a variety of reason. In some of the other camps, rigid rules would have been adhered to, and the possibility of escape was truly non-existent.

  One of the good things about being interred at the Dutch camp was the fact that prisoners had money to buy various things. The captured men were paid a certain amount by the Dutch authorities for tasks they performed. Local tradesmen brought goods to the camp in barrows. They sold fruit, cigarettes, chocolate, and other items, of which few prison camps had access. Of course, it was still a prisoner-of-war camp, and hoards of local people would come on Sundays to visit, as though they were visiting a zoo. The men behind the wire felt like caged animals. The men in the Dutch camp had to admit, however, that the treatment they received was undoubtedly somewhat better than what they would be subjected to at other camps within Germany.

  Win longed to be free. Every officer had been instructed, during training in England, that his first and foremost objective, if captured, was to make an attempt to escape. It was a frightening goal. If a prisoner was captured, while trying to flee, the chances were great that he would be shot or hanged. Nonetheless, nothing on Earth could have stopped Win from making an effort to see Josephine. He was well aware that he was undoubtedly a father. The wish to see his child was overwhelming. He decided to bide his time, allow his foot some time to heal, and wait for the right opportunity, and then he and his new friend would make their move…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Josephine and her son Andrew were still in her beloved cottage, awaiting news about her precious husband. It was December, 1915. Josephine had not heard from Win since before Andrew’s birth. Andrew was now nearly seven months old. Christmas was approaching, but Josephine had no intention of celebrating the holiday without her husband. Uncle Roderick had suggested a nice dinner, but she had said she didn’t feel like doing anything without Win. It seemed as though he had vanished into thin air. Everyone who could possibly be of assistance had been contacted, but there hadn’t been one iota of positive news. Josephine refused to give up hope until she had definitive proof that Win was dead. Something deep inside her stubbornly believed that he was still alive. She was absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she would know if her husband had died. Elisabeth continued to stay with her parents. As a result, Josephine saw little of her dear sister-in-law, but they did speak frequently by telephone, and Elisabeth came to play with her nephew now and then.

  Baby Andrew kept Josephine exceptionally busy, but there were still many lonely hours. He was as active as one would expect him to be at his age. He was able to crawl well on his hands and knees and was even attempting to creep up the stairway; he sat confidently and walked while holding on to furniture. He was no longer a helpless infant and had even begun to imitate words. As a result, if Josephine hoped to accomplish anything without having to worry about her son hurting himself, she sometimes placed him in a playpen, sometimes referred to as a play-box, which was simply a wooden-slatted enclosure that protected him from harm yet allowed him to be nearby wherever she happened to be.

  Josephine found that she needed some sort of hobby to pass the hours—something to take her mind off missing Win so desperately. Long ago, a governess had complimented Josephine on her skill as an artist. She’d never seen herself as talented, but she truly did enjoy painting. The memory popped into her head one day while the baby was napping. Why not buy the essentials needed to try her hand at painting? She asked Uncle Roderick to buy the necessary items for her to give it a go. The next time he was in Winthrop-on-Hart, he bought an easel, some blank can
vases, and a complete set of oil paints. He also added a sketch book and grease pencils. She’d found pleasure in dabbing the paint on canvas and was surprised that the finished products weren’t horrendous. She didn’t expect to become a Monet or Da Vinci. Her primary goal was to keep busy, rather than continuing her unrelenting concentration upon Win’s disappearance.

  On a warm day in December, Josephine placed baby Andrew in his playpen under the large elm tree in the back of her cottage and began working on a painting. The weather was unusually warm, and Josephine was so weary of endless days, during which she and Andrew were confined to the cottage. A day outside in the fresh air and sunshine sounded like heaven. She’d brought her easel from the interior of the house and set it up a few yards from Andrew’s pen. She’d already completed a sketch of the pretty stream flowing a few yards from the house, alongside the old elm tree. The remains of flowers could still be seen, where she’d planted a garden nearby. The next step involved transferring the sketch to canvas. It would be the most intricate painting she’d attempted thus far. Up until that time, she’d focused upon still-life scenes of vases filled with flowers spilling over the sides.

  When everything was properly prepared, she suddenly realised she’d left her artist’s smock in the cottage. Glancing 'round to make certain there was no one to be seen for miles, she decided it would be safe to leave Andrew for a tick. She ran into the cottage, searched about in various locales, and finally spotted it, hanging on a hook inside the pantry door.

  Upon her return, she covered the day-dress she was wearing with the smock and began to mix paint colours. Her plan was to begin by painting the stream with the willow trees bending over it. Working carefully, Josephine was pleased with the result. After nearly an hour had hour passed, she put her brush down and stretched her back.

  Then she strolled to Andrew’s playpen, just to make certain he was still sleeping soundly, as he had been the last time she’d checked on him. When she peeked at the structure, it was empty. Empty. Vacant. Void. Her beloved son was nowhere to be seen. He was far too young to have crawled out of the play-pen. The only possible way it could be empty was if someone had stealthily crept up and stolen the baby while she was immersed in her painting, or maybe even when she’d run into the house to retrieve her smock, though she doubted it. In any event, her adored son was gone. Precious Andrew was missing. For a moment, Josephine stood stock still, in shock. She had placed him into the pen, hadn’t she? Her memory was blank. She turned, ran into the cottage, and up the stairway. Perhaps he was still in his cot. That had to be the explanation. How could she have been so foolish as to leave him alone in the nursery? She berated herself for being so utterly stupid. She would never paint again. Obviously, her obsession with painting had caused her to focus too intemperately upon the senseless hobby.

  When she entered his nursery, which Uncle Roderick had painted a lovely pale blue, she ran to his cot, which sat underneath a window. It, too, was unoccupied. She began hysterically screaming and crying. Where was Andrew? Someone had taken her baby. She dissolved into a panic. Running back down the stairs to the telephone, she lifted the receiver, terribly agitated. The operator enquired about the number with which she wished to be connected. Josephine screamed, saying she needed the police authorities immediately. The operator must have realised that the situation was serious, because she connected Josephine at once with the Winthrop-on-Hart constable's station. A man’s voice came on the line. She was still sobbing and shrieking uncontrollably.

  “Calm down, madam. I’m unable to understand what you’re saying,” the man implored.

  Josephine took a deep breath. There were still tears flowing from her eyes. “Please—please send someone immediately. My infant has been stolen.”

  “Your child has been stolen? Tell me, where was the child?”

  “He was in his playpen, outside, under a large elm tree, while I was working on an oil painting. He wasn’t five feet from me. I’d been painting for about an hour. I stopped to check on him. The playpen I had him in was empty. It’s empty.”

  “Have you searched the house? Are you certain the child was put into his playpen?”

  “Yes, yes. Please, hurry. I’m telling you, my little son is gone. I live in the country. There are no other houses for miles. I see no possible way anyone could have taken him, but he is gone. Gone. If anything has happened to him, I shall die.

  “His father is an officer in the army, and he’s missing. I’ve not heard from him for over six months. God Almighty, please come.”

  “Give me your name and directions to your home,” the constable requested.

  “My name is Josephine Winthrop. My husband is Lord Win—Winterdale, the Lord Winthrop’s son. But we don’t make our home at Winthrop Manor." Josephine rattled off the fastest route to the cottage from the village.

  The constable promised that he and his partner would be there as quickly as possible. He added that he wanted her to try to remain as calm as manageable.

  “My God, I cannot be calm until my baby is found,” she shouted.

  “We’re on our way, Lady Winterdale,” he answered.

  She hung up the telephone. She wanted to call her uncle, but he still had no telephone. Should she call Elisabeth at Winthrop Manor? She hated to alert Win’s parents, but she needed all the help she could garner. So, she picked the telephone back up and told the operator to connect her with Winthrop Manor. Radcliffe answered the ring.

  “Radcliffe, this is Josephine. Something horrible has happened.”

  Before she could explain her dilemma, Radcliffe interrupted and asked if Lord Win was dead.

  “No, no. Not that, thank God. But nearly that bad. Andrew—baby Andrew is missing. Can you please let me speak to the Lord Winthrop?”

  She hadn’t meant to ask for Win’s father, but since he was an older gentleman, she thought perhaps he might be the person who could help. It was only a few moments before his voice came on the line.

  “Josephine? What’s this I hear about Andrew missing? Have you contacted the authorities?”

  “Yes. They’re on their way. I was outside painting. I’d placed him in his playpen and set it under the elm tree in the back of the cottage. He was tucked in safely, not more than five feet from me. He was only left alone for a tick, when I ran back into the house because I’d forgotten my painting smock. It was just inside the door. Then I worked with the oils for approximately an hour. I stopped to stretch my back and flex my fingers, and also to check on the baby. When I looked into the playpen, he wasn’t there.”

  “How could he possibly not have been there? That doesn't make a whit of sense.”

  “I’m telling you, my lord, he was not there, and he is not there. I’ve searched the house. I never heard an auto or a horse approach my property. There are no cottages nearby—not for miles. Yet, he is gone. Gone. Oh, God. What am I to do?”

  “You say the authorities are on their way? They’ll find him. Still, I’m going to have David drive me over to your cottage immediately.”

  “Will you please bring Elisabeth, too?” Josephine asked.

  “Elisabeth isn’t here. She’s gone with Oliver to run a few errands. They’ve been gone quite some time. You don’t want me to wait until she returns, do you?”

  “No. Of course not. However, I would like you to stop and collect my uncle. He has no telephone line. I want him with me.”

  “I shall do so. I’m leaving here right now. It shouldn’t take me a long time. Don’t worry. We’ll find him. Perhaps someone is playing a game.”

  “This is no game, my lord. There is nothing amusing about it. My precious son is gone. Please hurry.”

  After speaking to the Lord Winthrop, Josephine went back out to the playpen. She looked carefully at the toys and coverlet, which she’d tucked on the bottom. He’d been clad in a small, one-piece baby suit with feet. It was light blue with white stripes. She had also put a bonnet on his head, since, though it was a warm day, she didn’t want him to
become cold, should a wind pop up. She’d given him his bottle before he’d fallen asleep in the playpen. The bottle was still there. Who would do such a thing? What sort of person would steal a mother’s baby? She stood by the playpen, alone and helpless, crying her heart out. In between sobs, she whispered his name over and over. “Andrew. Andrew. My darling baby. Where are you? What’s happened to you?”

  ***

  Josephine was beyond frantic. It seemed as though the authorities would never arrive. Finally, she heard a police siren in the distance. She looked up and saw the constable’s auto come to a stop in front of the cottage. She ran to the car, shouting for the officers to come ‘round the back, where the empty playpen sat. The men followed her lead, and moments later, everyone was gathered under the old elm.

  The detectives immediately blocked the area with yellow crime scene tape. They took what seemed like hundreds of photographs of the empty carriage. With their hands covered with rubber gloves, they carefully crawled around the area to determine whether there were any footprints to be seen. One of the officers called to the other to bring a torch over. He thought he’d discovered some prints. Sure enough, there was the outline of shoes next to the side of the playpen where Josephine had not stood. They were rather large shoe prints but might have been worn by a man or a woman. Josephine stood outside the yellow tape, observing the men’s every move. When the shoe prints were discovered, she screamed.

  “How on God’s green Earth could someone have sneaked up and stolen my baby without my hearing him? That’s impossible. I wasn’t that far away. Wouldn’t a kidnapper have had an automobile? Wouldn’t I have heard it?”