Authors: Wendy Percival
23
Mrs Roberts was ‘as well as to be expected’, according to the matron, when Esme telephoned to ask after her. Mrs Roberts had spent much of the past two days in her room, Mrs Rowcliffe explained, but was venturing out into the lounge for an hour or two that afternoon. Esme said that she would drop by for a short time so as not to tire her. She felt a twinge of guilt as she replaced the phone. Pleased though she was that the old lady was feeling better, Esme knew full well that her visit was not simply a courtesy call but had an ulterior motive and it could well undo all the good that her restorative treatment had afforded her. But time was running out. If Polly was well enough to receive visitors, it wouldn’t be long before Mary turned up again. Esme must speak to Polly before then.
What would the old lady’s reaction be to the fact that Esme had realised that Catherine and Daisy were the same person? Impatient though she was to unravel the truth, Esme was nervous about the consequences of confronting the old lady with her discoveries. But if they were to make any progress at all it was better that Esme should challenge Polly with an unpalatable truth than that some unscrupulous partnership of Mary and her accomplice, strongly suspected by Lucy to be Leonard Nicholson, should be free to indulge in blackmail and extortion.
Before she’d left yesterday Lucy had elicited a promise from Esme that she would tell the police about Leonard, regardless of whether Polly co-operated or not.
‘If you’d read the newspaper reports in full like I have,’ Lucy said, ‘you’d know that Leonard Nicholson isn’t a person to cross. By all means give Polly the chance to come clean but if she chooses to rebuff you, you can’t afford to turn your back on what you know.’
Esme smiled at the show of protection. ‘You sound like my mother before my first date.’
‘Esme, you’re not taking this seriously. We’re talking threats and blackmail here, for goodness’ sake.’
Esme put up her hands, surrender fashion. ‘OK, OK, I get the message.’
Lucy continued to look stern. ‘I’m not sure you do.’
Esme looked into her friend’s worried face. The thought sobered her. She reached out and laid her hand on Lucy’s arm. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant. I understand your concern and I accept what you’re saying.’
Lucy looked at her warily, as if she wasn’t completely convinced, but then nodded. They hugged as Lucy left, as though it was to be months before they saw one another again.
Being a Sunday the visitors’ lounge at Wisteria House was busy with faces unfamiliar to Esme, as relatives took time out of their weekends to make their duty calls. One or two looked as though the experience caused them physical discomfort but others were deeply engaged in convivial conversation.
Polly looked better than Esme had expected, though her face was pale and she looked tired. Had Mary been for her final visit or had Mrs Rowcliffe managed to waylay her again? Esme tried to assess whether Polly appeared as though a weight had been lifted from her mind, or as though she had a further obstacle yet to overcome. She didn’t reach any conclusion, one way or the other.
Esme greeted the old lady and asked her how she was feeling. Polly shrugged and said she couldn’t grumble. She glanced around the room, which was getting crowded.
‘There’s too many people in here,’ she said, in an irritated tone. She went to get up. Esme stepped forward to help her.
‘We’ll go up to my room,’ said the old lady. ‘I’ve something to show you.’
They left the buzz of the visitors’ lounge and made their way to the first floor where Polly’s room, at the rear of the building, overlooked the garden and grounds. The room was spacious, furnished with a heavy sideboard, dressing-table and wardrobe. The bed Esme recognised as a smaller sibling of the one she’d seen in Keeper’s Cottage. The large sliding sash window overlooked the grounds. Long drapes of heavy tapestry-like fabric hung on either side.
Polly went over to the sideboard and took out a small photograph from a drawer. She shuffled over to an armchair beside the window, positioned to take in the view across the lawn. She sat down, telling Esme to fetch the stool from the dressing-table for herself.
When Esme was seated Polly passed over the photograph. There were three women in the picture, standing in a row with smiling faces. It must have been the photograph from which Elizabeth had taken the miniatures for her locket. Elizabeth was in the middle. The woman on the left was Polly so the remaining figure must have been Elizabeth’s mother, Daisy. Or should that be Catherine? She studied her for a while in the same way as she had looked at Polly when she’d first met her, looking for signs of similarity to Elizabeth.
‘Taken the week before she died,’ said the old lady.
‘It’s here, isn’t it?’ Esme could make out the front entrance of the building on the right hand side of the shot.
‘Yes, before I moved in. She wanted me to come and see the place. She knew it was a matter of time, you see. She wanted to know I’d like it here. Then she was going to put everything in place for me to move here when she…wasn’t there any more.’ She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and looked out of the window. Esme sensed that emotions were close to the surface.
They sat in silence, Esme churning over in her mind as to when was going to be the best time to confess that she knew about Catherine. She was concerned for Polly’s state of mind. What would her reaction be? Distress? Resignation? And would the disclosure lead Esme to what she needed to know? That it was this that Mary was using against her?
Esme looked again at the photograph. The face of Elizabeth seemed to alter as she stared at it. One moment it was familiar, the next it appeared to be of someone completely different, the way faces do change sometimes if you stare at them long enough.
She looked up at Polly who was still gazing out of the window.
‘It’s nice to put a face to her name.’ She handed it back but the old lady was still lost in her own thoughts. ‘I’ll put it away for you, shall I?’ Polly gave a brief nod.
Esme went over to the sideboard. There was one small framed photograph on display which she hadn’t seen when she came in. It was of Daisy. Now she could detect something of Elizabeth in her. It was in the eyes and the line of her nose. It was strange to make the first visual acquaintance, at least, of the lady who was so significant in her enquiries, even if it was from such a distance.
She opened the drawer from where Polly had retrieved the picture and put it inside. A small white booklet caught her eye. It was the order of service for Daisy’s funeral. She picked it up and read the cover. Daisy Roberts, born 8 February 1939. She knew that date. It was the same date as was on the birth certificate she’d received of Catherine Monkleigh. That confirmed it then. Daisy was Catherine. As she replaced it on the pile of papers she noticed the date of Daisy’s death, 1 December. Why was that date significant? She’d seen it recently or someone had mentioned it.
She closed the drawer and turned back to Polly. Having now confirmed that Daisy and Catherine had the same birth date, Esme knew she couldn’t avoid the issue any longer.
She went back over to the stool and sat down in front of the old lady.
‘I’ve found out something about your cottage,’ she began. Polly turned away from her musings through the window and focused on Esme.
‘Were you aware of the value of the land?’ Esme continued.
Polly looked puzzled. ‘What are you trying to say, dear?’ she said.
‘The land next to your cottage. Have you ever had it valued?’ Esme briefly summarised what she had learnt from Andy.
Polly shrugged and showed minimal interest. ‘No concern of mine. Not now.’
Esme was alarmed. ‘You mean you’ve already signed the contract?’
Polly leant across and patted Esme on the arm. ‘Don’t fret, my dear. It’ll all be sorted out presently.’
‘But you’re being exploited,’ exclaimed Esme, in an exasperated voice.
Polly sat up straight in her chair and regarded Esme with an expression of outrage. ‘May I remind you, dear, that as that Mr Evans so rightly pointed out in his letter, the decision is up to me.’
Esme bit her lip. Here she was alienating the old lady, and they hadn’t even begun to discuss the contentious issues yet.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, but I’m worried about what’s going on.’ Esme thought she saw a flicker of something in the Polly’s face. Panic? Irritation? It was too fleeting to be sure.
When she spoke it seemed that Polly might have regretted her outburst. ‘Esme, I know that you feel that you somehow have to take on Elizabeth’s responsibilities while she is ill, but I can’t let you do that. It wouldn’t be right.’
Wouldn’t be right? Was this just another excuse to prevent Esme from getting too close, or did she seriously think Esme was stepping over the mark? Probably both.
Esme made a decision. ‘There’s something I need to tell you, Mrs Roberts,’ she said. Polly looked sternly at her, as though defying her to exceed the line she had just defined. Esme refused to be deterred. She looked into Polly’s face and spoke as gently as she could.
‘I know that Daisy was Catherine Monkleigh.’
The shock in the old lady’s face was unmistakable. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded. Now she looked frightened. She pulled at her handkerchief until Esme thought it was going to dissolve into shreds.
‘Is it what Mary knows, that Daisy was really Catherine Monkleigh?’ asked Esme with urgency. ‘Is that what she’s using against you? Is that how she’s getting you to part with your cottage in some sort of crooked scheme?’
Polly sank back into the chair, being almost absorbed into the depths of the upholstery. She shook her head, slowly, as if the last reserve of her energy was spent and she could no longer resist an inevitable outcome.
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know,’ she murmured.
Esme tried to grasp the implications of her words. She seemed to be saying that she had allowed herself to be compromised on the grounds that Mary
might
know something about her past?
‘You never challenged her?’ she asked.
‘I couldn’t take the risk.’
Suddenly Esme thought she understood Polly’s anguish. The thought of Mary Watts spelling out what she knew with malevolent pleasure would have been too harrowing for Polly to cope with. As long as it was never spoken of, Polly could convince herself that Mary didn’t know. She never need suffer Mary’s gloating.
What she still didn’t understand, however, was why that particular piece of knowledge could possibly be grounds for blackmail.
Polly slowly turned her head and focused intensely on Esme. She was shaking. Esme leant over and put her hands over the old lady’s.
‘What is it? I’m here to help but I can’t unless you tell me what’s upsetting you?’
Polly seemed to come to a decision.
‘I thought if she got what she wanted she’d go away and leave me alone.’ She sighed. ‘But if she does know,’ she added in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘Then she’ll have guessed everything.’
24
‘Matron wondered if Mrs Roberts wanted a cup of tea,’ said Abigail. She looked beyond Esme’s shoulder into Polly’s room as if she suspected Esme was holding the old lady against her will. Esme opened her mouth to answer but Polly had apparently recovered her composure in the time Esme had taken to walk across the room and answer the knock at the door.
‘That would be lovely, dear,’ Polly called out from her chair. She smiled at the young woman. ‘It was a bit busy down there,’ she added. ‘We came up for a bit of peace and quiet.’
Abigail appeared to relax. ‘Of course. You don’t need to wear yourself out, do you? I’ll pop back with a tray, then.’
She turned away and Esme left the door ajar for her return. She hovered uncertainly in the middle of the room, frustrated at the interruption. Polly had been on the brink of explaining exactly what she meant by Mary ‘knowing everything’, Esme was sure of it. Now she might use being disturbed as an opportunity to change the subject.
Esme paced the room, rehearsing in her head how she might word a question and revisit the issue. There was no point in saying anything until Abigail returned with the tea tray or there would be a further halt. She walked back and forth, hoping that in the silence Polly would be reflecting upon what she’d been about to say. Esme said nothing, having no wish to break the spell by diverting her in trival conversation while they waited.
Esme heard Abigail’s approach along the landing and met her at the door.
‘Thanks very much,’ she said taking the tray from her. ‘I’ll bring it down when I go. I won’t be long.’ She backed into the room, dismissing the young woman with a smile, and pushing the door closed with her foot. She set the tray on a side table near the window and returned to her stool.
‘What makes you think that Mary knows everything?’ asked Esme.
‘They never loved her you know,’ said Polly.
‘Loved who?’ Whom did she mean?
Polly seemed for the moment to be unaware of Esme’s presence but her next words answered Esme’s question. ‘Her mother was too busy socialising and her father was too wrapped up in his London work. He even thought that Catherine wasn’t his.’
‘Was he right?’ Perhaps Lucy had guessed correctly after all, that Catherine’s mother had an affair.
Polly was shaking her head. ‘No, the mistress made that quite plain to me but she had this “little game”, as she would call it, of teasing him about her admirers. She used to laugh at his furious reaction.’ She shook her head slowly and pursed her lips in disapproval.
‘Rather cruel,’ remarked Esme but Polly had moved on. Her eyes brightened as she remembered.
‘She was a bonny little thing, always laughing. A lovely baby. Poor little Daisy. I called her that, even then, on account of her middle name.’ Her mouth formed a line of censure. ‘They didn’t deserve her and that’s a fact.’
‘It couldn’t have been long afterwards that you left?’ Albert had said that Catherine had only been a few months old.
Polly turned her head and stared out blankly into the garden. ‘I thought she’d keep me on as Daisy’s nursemaid.’
Esme was confused. Hadn’t Polly been retained as Daisy’s nurse? Her words suggested the contrary. Perhaps Albert had got it wrong after all, and it
had
been Polly who was dismissed that day.
‘She’d always defended me, see,’ continued Polly, ‘when Sir Charles ever talked about employing a professional. Stupid man. Catherine was a baby. She needed love and affection and she already got that from me. Professional, indeed.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, she was all excited about her latest beau. She said he would take her away from all this, you know, the usual Hollywood drivel. Then I began to realise that she was talking about a world that didn’t have a place for babies.’
A question stirred something in Esme’s subconscious as Polly continued.
‘She came and said she was leaving and I dared to ask what was to happen to me.’ Polly turned her head to look back into the room, focusing on the wall behind Esme, as though she was viewing the past event as a silent movie.
‘I can see her now. She just laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous Polly,” she said. “I can hardly achieve my freedom with a baby on my hands.” She was pulling on a pair of gloves and I remember staring at them, thinking she’d put her thumb through the kid leather, she was being so rough. “He can take her on,” she said. “He wanted an heir. Well, he got a girl and he can take responsibility.”’
‘She planned to leave Catherine behind?’ asked Esme, bewildered. She tried to remember what Albert had told her, that Mother and baby had both left. How had Polly persuaded her to change her mind?
Polly continued as though Esme hadn’t spoken. ‘It dawned on me then, what she’d said about Daisy’s father. It wasn’t just his work that kept him out of the nursery, he thought a daughter a poor substitute for the boy he’d expected.’ The old lady sighed and shook her head. ‘I got worried then. With his wife no longer there to defend me I knew it would be only a matter of time before Sir Charles replaced me with the professional employee he was always threatening.’ She looked imploringly at Esme. ‘Don’t you see? I was going to lose Daisy.’
Esme couldn’t see, not completely. There was obviously something she wasn’t fully grasping.
‘But what happened to change her plan to leave Catherine behind? Why didn’t she go through with it?’
Polly tossed her head, wisps of white hair escaping from the neat pleat at the back of her head. ‘Oh she went through with it all right,’ she said bitterly. ‘Poor little mite. I told you. They didn’t care about her, either of them.’
Her eyes looked up at Esme, pleading with her. ‘What else could I do? No one cared. It was as though she had no parents.’ She pointed agitatedly at herself. ‘She only had me. I was like her mother.’
Then suddenly Esme realised what Polly was trying to tell her. There she had been, a young girl facing the loss of a baby she loved and had protected as her own. The mother was about to walk out and the father, emotionally detached from his daughter, was interested only in procedure, and so was a threat to Polly’s future with a baby who needed her. To Polly, what she had done must have seemed the only course of action open to her.
‘You left and took Catherine with you,’ Esme said slowly, watching Polly, daring her to contradict. But Polly said nothing. She sat looking down at her hands, rolling the wretched handkerchief into a ball.
Hundreds of questions hurtled around Esme’s head, the most obvious one was how she had got away with it.
‘I didn’t think of it straight away,’ Polly was saying. ‘Why would I? It was after she’d gone and I read the letter she’d left for Catherine’s father. She gave it to me to pass on to him, you see. She thought the staff would steam it open and read it before he got hold of it.’ Polly gave a short laugh. ‘If she hadn’t said that I’d have never have thought of reading it myself. But I did, then. I was curious to know if she’d mentioned me. As I read it, the idea just came to me. It was perfect.’
‘Why, what did the letter say?’
‘She was teasing him even then. She talked about “we”. “We’re going abroad”, she wrote. She was deliberately omitting to give a name, see, so he wouldn’t know who she was going off with, I assume so that he would find it more difficult to follow her. Not that he did, as it turned out. Follow her, that is. But her mockery was a godsend for me. I reasoned that he would assume she’d taken Daisy, as no doubt any father would, and so I had the perfect cover. He’d think “we” was her and her daughter.’
‘And she would assume Daisy was with her father, where she’d left her?’
Polly nodded.
Esme grappled with the enormity of the decision Polly had taken. Had she thought it through? Did she have a plan? Did she really believe that it would be as simple as she’d imagined?
‘But what did you do? Where did you go?’ she asked, fascinated.
Polly sighed and leant her head against the back of the chair. The confession seemed to have drained her.
‘I had this mad idea that my sister would welcome me with open arms. She had a brood of six. One more wouldn’t make much difference, I thought. Our parents were dead. She was my only family. I used to go there for my days off. I used to help out with the little ones. I loved it. It seemed such a lovely thing to have a family. Perhaps that’s why when I saw my chance with Daisy, I took it. I wanted something of what she had.’
‘But you were only young. There was plenty of time for you to marry and have your own children.’
‘But to my way of thinking, Daisy was my own. I’d looked after her from the day she was born. Don’t you see?’
Esme could understand how she could have felt it that way, particularly considering the apparent indifference of both the child’s parents.
‘So you went to your sister’s?’
‘She was horrified when I told her. I should have invented a story but I was too honest. I thought she’d understand what neglect I would be subjecting Daisy to if I left her with her father. She said it wasn’t my place to judge. She let me stay a week and then we were to go.’
‘What did you do?’
Polly looked wistful. ‘It was September 1939. War had just been declared and children were being evacuated across the country. People were getting out of London. I joined in the chaos. Then when my sister kicked me out, I took the next train and surrendered to fate. I didn’t know where it was going. Somewhere up North. But we never got that far. I got talking to another passenger, an elderly lady. We got quite friendly during the journey. She said she was looking for a live-in housekeeper, here in the Midlands, so I took the job. Like lots of people, she assumed my husband had gone away to war and I had chosen to get out of London for the safety of the baby.’
‘She must have wondered, though, when your non-existent husband didn’t materialise.’
Polly looked at Esme and smiled sadly. ‘I had plenty of time to work on my story.’
Esme tried to picture Polly in her quandary, deciding which way to turn. Then, having acted and settled, wondering whether someone was going to turn up on the doorstep one day, to arrest her for abduction and take Daisy away. The pressure must have been intolerable.
‘Did you ever think of going back?’
Polly shook her head. ‘Not really. At least, never seriously. I’d lose Daisy, wouldn’t I? I wasn’t going do that unless they came for me. And the longer time went on, the more I was convinced that my double deception had worked. Each parent thought she was with the other.’
‘I can’t believe Sir Charles didn’t go after his wife and discover Catherine wasn’t with her.’
‘You don’t know his family. They were set against the wedding from the start, so they say. He was mesmerised by Rosalind when they first met and went against their wishes in marrying her. By the time he saw her true colours it was too late. The family probably breathed a collective sigh of relief when she left.’
‘But his daughter?’
‘What use was a daughter? He wanted a son and heir. He probably thought Catherine would grow up like her mother.’
Esme looked at the tea tray. She had forgotten all about it. She felt the pot.
‘Do you want some tea? It’s gone a bit cold, I’m afraid.’
Polly nodded. Esme poured her a cup and passed it to her.
‘I still don’t understand why Mary would guess the circumstances. She left about the same time as you did.’
Polly sipped the tea and then replaced the cup on the saucer on her lap.
‘We bumped into one another years later, when Daisy was seventeen.’ She pointed to the small cupboard beside the bed. ‘Go and fetch something for me, would you? It’s right at the bottom. You’ll recognise it when you see it.’
Esme placed her cup on the tray and went and looked in the cupboard Polly indicated. On the bottom shelf she found the silver frame with the cracked glass which she had discovered in the cottage. She brought it over to the old lady.
‘Is this Daisy?’ Esme had asked her that once before and Polly had said not. Had she been lying to protect her? But again Polly shook her head.
‘That’s Rosalind, Catherine’s mother.’ Polly gestured to the sideboard. ‘Go and put it next to the one of Daisy.’
Esme took the photograph across the room and compared the two images. Although the ages of the two women were different, the likeness was unmistakable.
‘Mary would have known Lady Monkleigh,’ said Esme, realising Polly’s dilemma. ‘She would have seen the similarity in Daisy. But it would be a huge leap to conclude that she was Catherine, surely?’
‘Possibly. As I said, Daisy was only seventeen, when we met Mary. The likeness then wasn’t strong but I could see it becoming more marked as she grew older. But there was something else.’ Polly clutched the handle of her cup, as though bracing herself. ‘On the day I went, she saw me leave. After I’d manhandled the perambulator out of the front door on to the pavement, I turned and saw her watching me from the cellar steps.’ Polly looked over to Esme. ‘She wouldn’t have made anything of it at the time. After all, I was Catherine’s nursemaid. I took her out all the time.’
‘So why…?’ began Esme.
‘I took a piece of jewellery, a brooch with a timepiece in the centre. Well, I needed some security, didn’t I? I didn’t have much money of my own. It was insurance. It would be Catherine’s anyway when she grew up. I was just keeping it safe.’
Esme was saddened by the huge burden that Polly had put upon herself as a young girl for the love of a baby who wasn’t hers. A moment’s decision and a lifetime of dealing with the consequences.
‘Mary was accused of stealing it,’ Polly said.
‘And that’s why she got the sack.’ Now it made sense at last. ‘But how did she know it was you who had taken it?’
‘When we came across each other years later, it was because she’d met Daisy. And one day, unbeknown to me, Daisy had worn the brooch.’
‘And she recognised it?’
Polly nodded.
Too many coincidences. Esme could see why Polly was convinced that Mary had worked out the truth.
The question now was, knowing the full story herself, could Esme have any influence over Mary and persuade her she no longer had a case for blackmail?