Away in a Manger (24 page)

“It's not entirely a social call,” I said. “I heard something last night that she should know. Something about her goddaughter's intended.”

“Spreading gossip is not wise or healthy.” She scooped the cabbage stalks into the waste bucket.

“It's more than gossip, I'm afraid. It's criminal behavior and she needs to be told about it before it's too late.”

She stood in front of me, her hands on her hips. “Why you have to concern yourself with other people's lives is something I'll never understand,” she said. “Is your son going to grow up getting a brief glimpse of you occasionally? I thought you agreed to give up this ridiculous detective work when you married, but it seems to me you're carrying on with it more than ever.”

“I'm really not,” I said, fighting to keep a pleasant expression on my face. “All of this has to do with Tig and Emmy. You'd like to see them reunited with their family, wouldn't you? And the man who killed their mother brought to justice?”

“You think you can do that?”

“I hope so,” I said.

“Well, you'd better get going then,” she said. I kissed my son, my husband, and Bridie, and off I went. Gramercy Park lay sleeping under a snowy blanket. A couple of carriages stood at the curb, their horses and drivers looking sorry for themselves in the bitter cold. I knocked at Miss Van Woekem's door and was admitted by a surprised maid.

“She doesn't normally accept callers at this hour,” the maid said, and ushered me into the smaller back parlor, where the old lady sat with a shawl around her shoulders, reading the morning newspaper.

I apologized for my visit, but told her she'd realize why I had to come straight away. Then I related the whole story—everything I knew and everything I suspected. She was a good listener and said not a word, her head on one side like an attentive sparrow, as I talked.

“Some of this I can prove,” I said. “Some I can't. Until we know what was in that powder that is being tested I can't go to the police. But I do know that he took the children's locket and then denied it to my face. And I do know that he frequents a club for homosexuals. And that he intercepted a letter to Mr. Montague from his daughter. And dismissed the housekeeper right afterward.”

She picked up a little bell on the table and rang it fiercely. I thought I was about to be thrown out, that I had crossed a line by besmirching the name of Julia's intended, but when her maid came in the old lady said, “Help me up, girl. Fetch my coat and hat. And tell Sims to bring round the carriage.”

“You're going out, ma'am?” the maid asked.

“That should be quite obvious. Now get a move on, girl. We haven't all day to waste.”

“Where are you going, Miss Van Woekem?” I asked.

She looked surprised that I didn't know. “We're going to see that justice is served,” she said.

 

Twenty-five

An ancient but impressive carriage pulled up in front of the house. Miss Van Woekem arranged her fur around her shoulders and was helped inside. I climbed in beside her and tucked the rug over her knees.

“And where do we find these children?” she asked me. “We'll need to take them with us. Mr. Everett will not have the nerve to turn me away.”

So we went first to Patchin Place. Tig and Emmy were bundled up and wrapped in rugs, then we set off for the longer ride across the East River by one of the bridges in the north of Manhattan, then through the borough of Queens, and finally out into the bleak countryside of Long Island. It was like entering another world—a land of snow and silence.

“Where are we going?” Emmy asked nervously. “Are we going back to England?”

“You need a boat for that, silly,” Tig said.

“We are going to meet your grandfather,” Miss Van Woekem said. “Make sure you are on your best behavior.”

“Will our mummy be there?” Emmy asked.

I glanced at Miss Van Woekem, both of us unsure how to answer this.

“I'm afraid not,” I said.

We were cold, stiff, and tired from the jolting by the time we entered the gates and arrived at Fairview. Julia had spotted the carriage and came out to meet us.

“Aunt Olivia, what a lovely surprise,” she said, her face alight with joy. “So you changed your mind and decided to join us for Christmas after all?”

“I have come on a mission,” the old lady said as she was helped down from the carriage. “I have brought these children to see their grandfather.”

“Their grandfather?” Julia looked confused.

“They are Margaret Montague's children, recently arrived from England,” Miss Van Woekem said. “And this is my dear friend, Mrs. Sullivan, who was gracious enough to accompany me.”

Julia looked at me, puzzled, then gave a tinkling laugh. “So you were here on a secret mission when last we met. You brought the present from Godmother, didn't you?”

I smiled and didn't deny it.

We stepped into the delightful warmth of the house. There was now an enormous Christmas tree in the foyer and the children gazed at it in wonder. Servants helped us off with coats and hats. If one of them recognized me from my previous visit, they were too well trained to say so.

“First you must have a hot drink,” Julia said. “Your hands are freezing. Pratchett, tell cook to make us all hot chocolate. And bring some cookies for the children.”

She led us through to the morning room, where a huge fire blazed in the hearth. I perched on the edge of my chair, so tense I felt I might snap at any moment. Miss Van Woekem seemed so confident, but she had not seen how wily and dangerous Eustace Everett could be. The hot chocolate had just arrived when we heard the clatter of boots down the tiled hall and Eustace himself came in.

He looked at us with surprise. “Aunt Olivia, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, then frowned as he turned his gaze to myself and the children.

“I have brought some friends with me,” Miss Van Woekem said. “I believe you have met Mrs. Sullivan, but not your young cousins. This is Thomas and this is Megan. Your cousin Margaret's children, who have come to see their grandfather.”

Eustace's face flushed beet red. “What absolute nonsense is this?” He turned on me. “This is your doing, isn't it?” he bellowed. Then he swung back to her. “You stupid old woman—you've allowed yourself to be fooled by a confidence trickster. These are not my cousin's children. They are urchins she's dragged from the streets.”

“And if I have been given proof of their identity?” Miss Van Woekem asked calmly.

“There is no proof of that at all. Margaret Montague ran off to England years ago and hasn't been heard from since. No proof she ever came back to America.”

“Ah, but there is,” I said.

“What proof?” he shouted.

“I plan to show that to her father,” I said. “Now if you will stand aside, we are going to take the children up to see him.”

“You're certainly not going up there.” Eustace gave a menacing step toward me. “In fact you'd better leave now, before I summon the police.”

“Eustace!” Julia exclaimed. “That's no way to talk to my godmother's friend.”

“I take it that Mr. Montague is still alive?” I asked.

“He is, but while he is incapacitated I am master of this house and I absolutely forbid it. Now you will please leave if you know what is good for you.” Eustace was glaring at me with hatred in his eyes.

“I think it would be up to Mr. Montague to make up his mind whether these are his grandchildren or not,” I said.

Eustace was still standing blocking the doorway. “He is not up to visitors. In fact he is close to death—he may not even make it to Christmas.”

“All the more reason that he should make his peace with his grandchildren now,” Miss Van Woekem said. “Come, children. Take my hands.”

And she walked toward the door. Eustace stood there, uncertain how to react. Obviously he didn't want to stop his fiancée's godmother by force.

“What makes you think he will even want to see those children?” he demanded. “He told Margaret she was no longer his daughter when she ran off with that Welsh peasant. He hasn't even mentioned her name ever since. She is dead to him.”

“We'll have to see, won't we?” Miss Van Woekem said evenly. “If he doesn't want to acknowledge them, so be it.” She turned to a footman who was standing in the doorway. “Please escort us to Mr. Montague's room.”

The footman shot a frightened glance at Eustace.

“I'll show you,” Julia said. “Come on, my precious.” And she took Emmy's hand.

As I passed Eustace I drew him aside. “I have but one word to say to you, Mr. Everett,” I said. “Stallion.” And I gave him a knowing nod.

I was delighted by the instant reaction this produced as I followed the others up the stairs. I could sense him standing there, watching me, probably trying to decide what to do next. Mr. Montague was still on the third floor in a room off that Spartan hallway. Julia and I arrived before Miss Van Woekem, who was taking the two flights of stairs slowly. Mr. Montague's door was half open and I heard a female voice saying, “Time for your hot milk, Mr. Montague. Let me help you to sit up.”

I surged ahead of the others and snatched the milk away as the nurse was putting it to his lips. “Don't drink it, Mr. Montague,” I said. “You're being drugged.”

“What are you doing? Who do you think you are?” the nurse demanded as I wrestled the cup away. Hot liquid spilled across the bed and floor. The nurse gave a cry of anger, grabbed a towel, and tried to mop it up. “Now look what you've done. Are you out of your mind?”

The old man looked up, trying to focus on me. “Who are you?”

“Someone who cares enough to save you,” I said. “And I've brought some special people to see you.”

Julia had entered the room with Tig and Emmy. She pushed them forward as I beckoned. The old man sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“Meggie?” he said in a quavering voice. “Is that my Meggie come back to me? It can't be. She's gone. I'm so confused.” He passed a hand over his face.

“Not your daughter, Mr. Montague, but your grandchild. Margaret's children,” I said. “This is Thomas and this is Megan.”

A frown crossed his face. “My daughter is gone. She has not been in touch with me once in almost ten years. You're trying to tell me she's come back home?”

“I'm afraid your daughter is dead, Mr. Montague,” I said, and heard a gasp from the children. I realized instantly I should have handled this better and broken the news to them gently at an appropriate time.

“Mummy is dead?” Emmy asked, turning big eyes toward me.

“I thought so,” Tig said solemnly. “Otherwise she'd never have left us in that horrible place.”

“How do you know my daughter is dead?” Mr. Montague demanded, now sitting up and more alert.

I really didn't want to go on with this in front of the children. Knowing their mother was dead was bad enough, but hearing that she was murdered was something no child should ever hear. But I also had this one chance to convince their grandfather that they belonged to him.

“Tig, you two go and look out of the window and see if it's snowing again,” I said. He glanced at me as if he understood and took Emmy's hand. When they were sufficiently far away, I opened my purse. “I have a picture of her.” I handed it to him.

He took the photograph in trembling hands and nodded. “Yes, this is my daughter. But where was it taken?”

“Her body was photographed at the morgue after she was found in the East River. I'm afraid she was murdered.”

“My daughter was murdered?” He took a moment to collect himself then looked up at me. “If she had come back to America, why didn't she come home? Why didn't she try to contact me?”

“She wrote to you, at least once,” I said. “But Mrs. Braithwaite said that she saw your nephew intercept the letter. She recognized the handwriting and was about to take it up to you when your nephew took it and stuffed it into his pocket.”

“Where is Mrs. Braithwaite?” Mr. Montague looked around, bewildered. “I haven't seen her lately.”

“Eustace dismissed her immediately after that incident. Who knows how many letters he had prevented you from seeing?”

“Eustace did this? Where is he?” Mr. Montague demanded. “What does he have to say for himself?”

“I'll go and find him,” Julia said. “I'm sure Eustace couldn't have done these horrible things. There must be an explanation.”

Mr. Montague, his face as thin, drawn, and gray as a skeleton's, lay propped against his pillows, studying the children.

Eustace himself came into the room. “I tried to stop them from bothering you, Uncle. I know how sick you are, but these women insisted on your seeing these children. But I have to tell you there is no proof at all that they are Margaret's children. From what I've discovered they were begging on the street until this woman rescued them for her own devices. No doubt she hopes to make money out of this.”

“Fiddlesticks,” Miss Van Woekem said, coming closer to Mr. Montague. “I have known Mrs. Sullivan for years and I can attest that she is as straight as a die. And what's more, her husband is a distinguished member of the New York police department, as was his father before him.”

“And if you want proof, Mr. Montague, you can ask the children to describe an item of jewelry their mother always wore,” I said.

I glanced across at Tig, who had been staring in wide-eyed fear. He stepped forward. “She wore a locket all the time. She never took it off.”

“That's right.” Mr. Montague nodded. “Her mother wore it until she died and after her death Margaret started to wear it, to remember her mother by. What did this locket look like?”

Tig smiled at the memory. “It had pearls all around the edge and her initials on it and inside there were two locks of hair, and they look like Emmy's but Mummy said that one was hers and one was her brother's.”