The Thornthwaite Betrayal

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘We promised our uncle we would look after her until he’s back,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Your uncle? What’s your uncle got to do with anything?’ asked Sergeant Putnam.

  ‘He’s the one who brought her here,’ said Ovid.

  ‘Did he indeed? Then maybe I should speak to him.’

  ‘He only did it to save her,’ said Lorelli. ‘He says she won’t survive in the wild.’

  ‘In the wild?’

  ‘Africa or wherever they take her to release her.’

  ‘Why would they take Mrs Bagshaw to Africa?’

  ‘Mrs Bagshaw?’ said the twins.

  Escape From the Manor

  As soon as Hazel saw the police car pull up outside, she knew why it was there. Mrs Bagshaw had not been let out of prison because of her soup. She had escaped. Hazel ran to the kitchen immediately and found her peeling potatoes.

  ‘Hello, Hazel, my love. Grab a peeler, would you? I’m making my industrial pie. You know, the one that’s like cottage pie only much bigger. I’m going to need a lot of spuds.’

  ‘Mum, you have to go. Sergeant Putnam is here.’

  ‘Not to worry, dear. There’s plenty for everyone.’ Mrs Bagshaw sped up her peeling. ‘Although you’re right – he does have a big appetite. Yes, we’ll definitely need more spuds. Come on now, roll up your sleeves and lend a hand.’

  ‘Mum, stop.’ Hazel grabbed her wrist. Mrs Bagshaw was gripping the peeler so tightly her knuckles were white. There was nothing left of the potato, and the blade of the peeler had nipped the palm of her hand. A drop of blood fell into the pan of water.

  ‘Look what you’ve made me do now,’ said Mrs Bagshaw. ‘We’d better wash those.’

  ‘We have to go,’ said Hazel. ‘He’ll take you back.’

  ‘Back?’ A look of horror crossed Mrs Bagshaw’s face. ‘I don’t want to go back, Hazel. You won’t let him take me back there, will you? It’s an awful place. I’d much rather not go back.’

  ‘Then you need to come with me now.’

  Mrs Bagshaw dropped the peeler and grabbed her coat.

  ‘No. No coat,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Now, I know it’s warm in the sun today but it’s chilly in the shade. I’m not going out without a coat. On the run or not.’

  ‘They’ll be looking for that one,’ said Hazel. ‘I will find you something else.’

  They stepped out of the back door, then Hazel walked briskly around the rose bushes with Mrs Bagshaw behind her, trying to keep up. When they reached the driveway, Hazel paused to check no one was around before dashing to the stables. Mrs Bagshaw waited behind a bush until Hazel returned with one of Tom’s black riding jackets.

  ‘I’m not putting that on,’ said Mrs Bagshaw. ‘It’s filthy.’

  ‘Please,’ said Hazel.

  Hazel could see the conflict in her mum’s eyes. She couldn’t tell if she was more scared of being caught or of admitting that she was scared. Mrs Bagshaw had always put on a brave face by avoiding the truth. It was all she knew.

  ‘They’ll be looking for you,’ said Hazel. ‘Please. For me.’

  Mrs Bagshaw embraced her briefly, then put the jacket on. ‘It will do for now,’ she said. ‘Let’s be off.’

  Hazel led her through the woods, down to the main road. On the way, Mrs Bagshaw complained a lot about her legs, but Hazel kept her moving. At the road, they waited for ten minutes before a bus turned up. Hazel flagged it down and they got on.

  ‘Why, if it ain’t Hilda Bagshaw,’ said the driver.

  She stared at him blankly.

  ‘Dickie,’ said the bus driver. ‘Surely you remember me.’

  ‘Oh yes, hello,’ said Mrs Bagshaw.

  ‘Back working at the manor, are you?’ said the driver.

  ‘Please can we get moving?’ Hazel glanced anxiously over her shoulder.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Dickie.

  ‘The bus,’ said Hazel. ‘Please can we get moving? We’re in a hurry.’

  Dickie closed the door and set off. ‘I can only go as fast as the timetable allows,’ he said.

  Hazel was grateful they were the only ones on the bus, but she kept glancing behind her, looking for the police car.

  ‘I say, do you still make that bread and butter pudding?’ asked Dickie.

  Mrs Bagshaw smiled for the first time since they’d left the kitchen. ‘I haven’t changed my recipe in twenty-five years. How do you know about that then?’

  ‘You made it for Lord and Lady Thornthwaite’s wedding all them years ago, but I can still remember it.’

  Mrs Bagshaw giggled. ‘Oh, you always were a charmer. Yes, I made it for Lord and Lady Thornthwaite’s wedding breakfast.’

  ‘I remember it like it were yesterday. I was eating it when we were called on to remove Lady Thornthwaite’s brother.’

  Hazel wasn’t listening. A car was approaching. Even in the distance, she could see that it was Sergeant Putnam’s police car. ‘Mum, get down,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Mrs Bagshaw.

  ‘Duck.’ Hazel had no choice but to push Mrs Bagshaw’s head down just in time to hide her from view as the police car overtook.

  ‘You two all right back there?’ said Dickie.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ said Hazel. ‘I dropped something but I’ve found it now.’

  ‘And where are you two off on this fine day?’

  ‘The train station,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Off on a day trip, is it?’ asked Dickie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bagshaw. ‘It’s just nice to get away from it all sometimes, isn’t it?’

  A Traditional Family Stew

  The twins sat at the dining table in the room with one wall. Dragos had hung tarpaulin around the missing walls. It flapped noisily. A naked bulb hung over them where the chandelier had been. Ovid looked up at it. It flickered, buzzed and swung in the breeze. ‘So Mrs Bagshaw is on the run, Hazel’s gone with her, Beaufort’s left, Uncle Harry is still in hospital and I haven’t seen Nurse Griddle or Tom since this morning.’

  ‘What’s your point?’ asked Lorelli.

  ‘Who’s going to cook dinner?’ said Ovid.

  ‘That’s what you’re worried about?’

  ‘It is when I’m hungry,’ said Ovid. ‘I’ll find Nurse Griddle.’

  ‘This is our problem,’ Lorelli stated angrily. ‘We rely on everyone else. We shouldn’t have servants running around after us. We need to be able to look after ourselves.’

  ‘Running around? We’ve got two left and they’re hardly ever here. I’ve never seen them run.’

  ‘Two is more servants than most children have. This life isn’t normal.’

  Ovid smirked. ‘Is that what you want to be? Normal?’

  ‘What’s wrong with wanting to be normal?’

  ‘It’s unrealistic for us.’

  ‘How many times do we need to almost die before you believe that Felicia is trying to kill me?’

  ‘A couple more times, I think.’

  ‘Do you know what I think?’

  ‘No. Do tell me, my dear sister.’

  ‘I think she wants you to help her get rid of me.’

  Ovid laughed. ‘Oh come on. I suppose she’s waiting behind that door, ready to step out, reveal her evil plot and then murder us.’

  Dragos pushed aside a roll of tarpaulin and stepped into the room, holding a tray with a large bowl. He placed it down on the table.

  ‘You are growing children. You must eat,’ he announced.

  ‘What is it?’ Ovid lent over to smell the dish.

  ‘Traditional Romanian meal. Kind of stew.’ Dragos lifted off the lid and used a ladle to serve out two portions into bowls, which he placed in front of the twins.

  ‘This is very kind of you,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘The old lady’s children are my family. Now, eat. It is an old family recipe. I will be insulted if the bowl is not licked clean.’

  Ovid handed Lorelli a spoon.

  ‘You first,’ he s
aid.

  ‘Certainly,’ she replied, taking the spoon and trying it.

  ‘It is tasty, yes?’ said Dragos, pouring himself a bowl and tucking in.

  ‘It’s delicious,’ said Lorelli.

  Ovid tasted it. It was good. ‘How come everyone in this house is a better cook than our actual cook?’ he asked.

  ‘Just the right amount of salt, yes?’ said Dragos. ‘On his deathbed, my father’s final words were, Dragos, don’t forget the salt.’

  ‘This is the father who worked for our grandfather, is it?’ asked Ovid.

  Dragos blew on his spoon to cool the stew. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ovid. ‘Tom told us your father was a miner. I saw you walking up there earlier on. What were you looking for?’

  ‘Only to make it safe. My father was no miner. He was gold prospector. At least, that is what he called himself. He was the one who suggested Silas dig a mine in the first place.’

  ‘A prospector? But I thought no gold was found,’ said Lorelli.

  ‘This is true, but to his dying day my father believed that there was gold down there. Dragos, the old lady lies on top of a great fortune, he would say. This is what Tom wanted to stop you from learning. He feared you would think that was why I came here.’

  ‘Is that why you came here?’ said Ovid. ‘Are you here to find your father’s gold?’

  ‘No. My father was not a good prospector. He was not good at much of anything. Except this stew. He never found any gold his whole life. All that mine contains is danger and death.’

  ‘Why did you come here if not for the gold?’ asked Ovid.

  ‘I have told you many times the reason. The old lady called out to me. I am here to nurse her back to health. Now, finish your stew or you will cause great offence to my family.’

  Everything Except Murder

  Sitting in her room rereading Alfred Crutcher’s book, Lorelli wondered if Uncle Harry was right about these stories being too dark for children. Strangely, it had never been the stories of death and murder that worried her. It was the repeated failure of her ancestors. No Lord Thornthwaite ever lived to reach his potential. In the eighteenth century, Allegro had a passion for music, but his symphonies died with him after his wife laced their pages with deadly poison. In the nineteenth century, Lord Christof’s dreams of being a great architect crumbled and he threw himself off the top of his own wonky tower. In the twentieth century, their grandfather loved gold so much he invested in a mine that brought nothing but death. Generation after generation, Thornthwaites had failed at everything they tried.

  Everything except murder.

  She shut the book and lay back on the bed with her hands behind her head. She closed her eyes and brought to mind Beaufort’s meal. The memory of its flavours lingered on her tongue. The interruption of Uncle Harry’s heart attack had left her with a feeling of unease, as though she had been reading a novel only to find the final few pages torn out. She thought about trying to write about the Russian dressmaker, but all she could see in her mind’s eye were the oppressive corridors of Thornthwaite Manor. She reached for her copy of The Seven Dances of Franciska Tˇoth. She didn’t need to open the book. She knew every word. It was a comfort simply to hold it. Franciska’s life was tragic, but it was perfect in its tragedy.

  Lorelli rolled off the bed and went to the window, where she looked out at the darkening sky. She could see Dragos’s outline on the sloping tower as he made the most of the last rays of the daylight.

  She imagined Lord Christof climbing up and leaping off. The towers looked like devil horns against the night sky. Lorelli caught her own reflection in the window. She saw her face imprinted on the imposing backdrop. Staring into her own eyes, she understood with absolute certainty what she had to do.

  Dragos worried that the old lady was dying, but the truth was that Lorelli and Ovid had been moving around inside a corpse since birth. Thornthwaite Manor was a prison. It was a dead weight. It was a death trap.

  Beaufort’s story needed an ending and Lorelli understood what that was now. Escape. Lorelli had to leave the only place she had ever known. It was the only way to break out of her old self and be the person she wanted to be. It was the only hope she had of ever being normal.

  It was time to start afresh.

  Escape by Train

  Hazel had no previous experience of helping a wanted criminal evade the law, but she knew they had to move quickly. The train station was the next place Sergeant Putnam would check. She told Mrs Bagshaw to hide in a phone box while she bought two train tickets, then they stepped out onto the platform. There was only one other person waiting for the train. A man stood with a tattered suitcase and a small bowler hat.

  He turned to look at them and spoke.

  ‘’Azel,’ said Beaufort. ‘You are ’ere to beg me not to go, but I made a promise to your mother.’

  ‘I am her mother,’ said Mrs Bagshaw.

  ‘I was talking about ’er other mother,’ said Beaufort.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Apparently that is a matter of opinion,’ he replied.

  ‘This is my father,’ said Hazel.

  ‘This is Artie Newly?’ Mrs Bagshaw scrutinised him intently. ‘Oh yes, there is a resemblance now you mention it. Well I never. Artie Newly.’

  ‘You need to help us,’ said Hazel. ‘We can’t let them catch my mum.’

  ‘You are on the run?’ said Beaufort.

  ‘I am no such thing,’ said Mrs Bagshaw. ‘There’s just been a bit of a misunderstanding. That’s all. Suffice it to say, turnips.’

  ‘Turnips?’

  ‘Please,’ said Hazel. ‘She needs your help. I need your help.’

  ‘It is impossible.’

  ‘But you’ve done it before,’ said Hazel. ‘You’ve changed who you are. You can help us get away.’

  ‘That is different. I was not on the run. No, I cannot,’ protested Beaufort.

  ‘Please. For me,’ begged Hazel.

  An automatic announcement said, ‘The next train on platform one will arrive in two minutes …’

  ‘This is why I ran away in the first place,’ said Beaufort. ‘I realise I am a selfish man. I have made my peace with that. I sacrificed life for the sake of my art, but since finding you, ’Azel, I ’ave been overcome with a most alarming and unnatural feeling. It is as though none of it matters.’

  ‘None of what matters?’ said Mrs Bagshaw. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  Beaufort did not shift his gaze from Hazel. ‘All of my creations are nothing compared to my most magnificent creation. You, ’Azel. I am talking about you. The true burden of parenthood is the understanding that our children are worth all sacrifices. I tried to avoid that truth, but fate brought us together and now I feel a pitiful compulsion to ’elp you.’

  Hazel threw her arms around Beaufort. Beaufort embraced her.

  ‘The train is now approaching platform one,’ said the automated voice. ‘Please stand away from the edge of the platform.’

  ‘You’ll help us hide?’ said Hazel.

  ‘No,’ said Beaufort. ‘I will help Mrs Bagshaw hide. You must remain at Thornthwaite Manor.’

  ‘What? But no. I must come with you … with her. You can’t leave me behind.’

  Beaufort took Hazel’s hands in his. ‘That is the biggest and most painful sacrifice I must make. We cannot take you with us.’

  ‘Why?’ Hazel could hear the clattering of the approaching train as though it was rattling through the arteries of her heart.

  ‘I promised Eileen,’ said Beaufort. ‘I promised I would not take you away.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘He’s right, dear,’ said Mrs Bagshaw. ‘Nurse Griddle would fall to pieces if you disappeared. You must stay and look after her, my dear girl. You must look after each other. Don’t burn bridges because of my silly mistakes.’

  The train’s brakes squealed as it came to a standstill. Hazel felt a tear roll down her cheek. �
��But Nurse Griddle is so cold.’

  ‘Then you must warm ’er up, ’Azel.’

  Mrs Bagshaw wiped the tear away. ‘She does love you in her own way. She just isn’t sure how to show it. You need to teach her, my dear girl, and I believe you can.’

  ‘It is the only way, ’Azel.’

  Beaufort opened the train door and placed his suitcase inside. He held out a hand for Mrs Bagshaw, but Hazel was clinging onto her. Her hugs had been the thing she had missed most while she was away, because they had always made her feel safe.

  ‘I want to go with you,’ she sobbed.

  ‘My dear girl …’ Mrs Bagshaw released her and held her firmly by the shoulders. ‘I wish I could take you, but you would have to spend your life in hiding. You deserve more than that.’

  ‘We must leave,’ said Beaufort. ‘’Azel, I’m sorry.’ He took Mrs Bagshaw’s hand and helped her onto the train.

  ‘I want to create art like you do,’ sobbed Hazel.

  Beaufort smiled. ‘I ’ave only ever created fleeting sensations. You must create something that lasts longer with your mother. She needs you more than you realise.’

  ‘The train at platform one is now ready to depart,’ said the automatic announcement.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ said Hazel.

  ‘When it is safe, I will send for you,’ said Beaufort. ‘Until then, please understand, I do this out of love. Do you understand?’

  Through her tears, Hazel could only manage two words. ‘Oui, chef.’

  Beaufort shut the door and the train pulled away.

  A New Game

  Lorelli was jolted awake by a loud noise. In her confused half-asleep state it had sounded like an explosion, but she ran to the window and saw that Ovid was on the croquet pitch, lining up his mallet. He took aim and whacked the ball. The sound echoed off the walls, startling a flock of birds resting in a nearby tree. Lorelli quickly dressed and went down to join him.

  As she stepped out onto the lawn, Ovid was lining up another shot. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Playing croquet. What does it look like? Do you want to join me or would that not be normal enough for you?’