Chapter Seventeen
'They are all turning against me,' Ruth muttered to herself as she put down the phone. 'That horrible man Andrew Stewart will be here tomorrow afternoon to question and pry and lie and accuse me.' The walls were closing in on her and nobody was here to support her.
'Edward!' she called as she ran up the stairs. 'Where are you?' She flung open his bedroom door. He was not there, but his suitcase was open on the bed, half packed. She ran to it, turned it upside down and scattered the contents on the floor. 'You will not leave it all to me,' she said to the empty room. 'I did it for you. Do you hear! Don't you dare turn against me.' She had seen the cold look in his eyes once too often.
It was all Robert's doing, of course. The two of them had had their heads together all day; changing the subject when she came near. Then she'd interrupted Robert as he'd tried to ring the doctor. They were going to try to convince the doctor that she had gone mad. They'd need two doctors for that. She knew the law. She'd signed enough warrants to certify and lock up mad people. They would not do this to her. She slammed Edward's door then went to her own room.. 'My God!' she exclaimed. 'Ingratitude!' she raged and went to the mirror. She looked wild. Static electricity was making her hair stand up on top and lie flat to her temples. She changed out of her black dress, pulled on her jodhpurs over her bare skin and stuffed her arms into a clean white blouse which she fastened hastily. She would ride. She’d make Mike Hamilton ride with her. 'He won't get away with ignoring me!' she swore as she pulled on her boots.
She left the house, clattering noisily down the steps, making for the barn where he would be. 'How dare he ignore me?' He had barely spoken to her since the night they had viewed Gordon's body. She'd been surprised to find how squeamish he was -running outside to be violently sick in the police yard.
She reached the barn and found him moving bales from one side to the other. She went up to him. 'You have to do something for me,' she said loudly, not caring any longer about discretion.
He looked at her, his black eyes narrow and gleaming. 'What?' he said coldly. 'I told you, it's over, Ruth. I love my wife. I have promised Lucy - and Phoebe.'
'Damn Phoebe! Damn Lucy! You threaten me?'
He stood in front of her, holding her arms fast. 'I said, I'll have no more of it.’
'Mike -please -Mike. You have to!' She was all but screaming now, and he loosened his hold while she said, 'One last thing ...'
'What is it?'
'They are coming tomorrow. To question me about Gordon.'
'Well?'
'He did it, you know. Not me. He must have put it in his brandy flask. I never touched his brandy flask!'
'What the hell are you on about?'
'Will you tell him? Andrew Stewart. Tell him Gordon came to you and asked you for it?'
'Asked for what, woman?' His voice was high and loud now. She had seen him before like this -close to losing control completely.
'Rat poison.'
He stared at her with eyes hot and wild, but what she saw was hatred as well as rage. She backed away but he came towards her, spittle oozing out of the corners of his mouth, his voice gritty. 'Gordon died from strychnine poisoning?'
'It wasn't me.'
'Gordon died like a rat?' He hit her. She fell back but managed to stay on her feet. The side of her face was numb but would soon be excruciating pain.
He came after her again. 'Gordon was poisoned by you? The man I respected and loved?’ he yelled, hitting her again, this time on the left side of her head.
She stumbled again, regained her balance and darted away from him, between the towering bales of hay. He'd left spaces, made steps, and now she climbed, chattering and crying, to the top as he came after her, snorting like an old horse.
She fell, dropping from sight behind the last row of bales, then looked up and saw his fierce face. He was going to pull down the bales to reach her. Already the top bale had gone.
His hairy arms were reaching down for her. One more row and he'd have her cornered like a rat.
Feverishly she felt in her pocket - surely it must be there. Her fingers closed about the petrol lighter. She slid it out of her pocket, put her hand behind her so he would not see it and laughed out loud. Click, it went. Click. Click.
'What the ... ' he yelled as a sheet of crackling flames shot right up the wall of the bales, spitting and rasping. 'Ruth! Get out!'
'How dare you threaten me?' She would not get out.
The last she saw of him was his hands, those hairy-backed hands, frantically tearing at the flaming bales, throwing them out of the way, only to have them spread their fire.
Andrew had spent a night of fitful sleep; dreaming first that he found Flora and his son and then, secondly, that he found them only to be spurned. Not since the war had he been so edgy and watchful; afraid even to sleep lest he missed some vital clue as to why Flora had run away. Last night, Ma had said, 'Be prepared. She may not want to know you now.' And, wistfully, 'I hope she does let me meet my grandson some day.'
This morning she had remonstrated with him as if he too were a young man; ticking him off because he didn't want breakfast.
He dressed carefully in a dark suit for his return to Ingersley with a detective sergeant and a constable, and as he did so he tried to anticipate his interview with Nanny Taylor. His heart beat faster. She held the answer to everything. He would insist on knowing every last detail. He would talk to the old woman while Lady Campbell would be brought to the station for questioning and, possibly, charging.
He went into the office early - an hour before the night shift left. It was they who reported to him that the fire brigade had been called to a fire in the barn at Ingersley.
'The hay.' He did not have any suspicion at this point but was concerned that this might delay his discovering the truth about Flora and her -no, his -son. And again came the tingling down his arms and the thrilling thought that he was a father. It was difficult to put it to the back of his mind while he dealt with unrelated police work.
He looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. 'I'll be in my office,' he said, 'in about ten minutes.'
His stomach felt hollow, so he went out, bought a newspaper and a couple of morning rolls with bacon and returned to the office. He ran up the stairs, entered the room and found four recorded messages waiting for him. He turned on the machine and heard the first one. It was from Robert. 'I have to speak to Detective Chief Inspector Stewart.' There was the sound of the call being transferred to his machine, then Robert's anxious voice. 'Andrew! Mother is dead!' There was a break in his voice. 'Mike Hamilton too. They have just found the bodies and a cigarette lighter. It looks as if Mother had gone to the bam first ... ' His voice thickened, 'Can I talk to you today? This afternoon?'
Andrew switched off the machine. 'She beat me to it,' he whispered. She'd have known she was done for - but taking Hamilton with her ...? He could not go to Ingersley today, after this. It could be too much for the old woman. He dialled Ingersley. A maid answered and told him that Robert was at the Hamiltons. Andrew rang there and was soon reassuring Robert, 'It will be all right. Come and see me this afternoon.
He switched the machine back on. The next two messages were unimportant reminders of scheduled meetings. He made notes and waited for the final message.
The voice came clear, deep and resonant with a rich Canadian accent. 'My name is Alexander Macdonald. I'd like to talk to whoever is in charge of the "death by drowning" case of Sir Gordon Campbell.' Andrew felt the blood leaving his face as the voice continued, 'I'll call by this morning, at eleven o'clock. Thank you.'
It was his son. Andrew did not know how many shocks a person could take before his heart failed. His hands were shaking violently as he played the message again and again. He found it hard to believe his ears. The boy plainly did not know who Andrew was. He tried to pour himself a coffee from the dispensing machine outside in the hallway but spilled the hot liquid and then burnt his mouth.
What wo
uld he say to Alexander - his son? How, to put it? How not to? He silently rehearsed several lines, 'Now, sit down, Alex. I have to tell you before we go any further. I am your father.' No. 'Has your mother ever mentioned my name to you?' No. 'Son. I have found you. ' No.
Oh God, it will come to me, he thought. I wonder if he looks like me, or Flora. Would I have recognised him if I'd passed him in the street?
He rang down to the desk. 'When an Alexander Macdonald arrives, please send him straight up. No! I'll come down!' Then he worked furiously for the next hour on the Campbell report to the procurator fiscal, wrapping the thing up, hoping they would be satisfied that there was now no murderer to charge, praying that it could be brought to, at least, a private end. He did not want Robert and Edward to suffer more than was necessary.
It was ten-forty-five when the call came. As quick as lightning he picked up the extension phone. 'Detective Chief Inspector? Your visitor, Alexander Macdonald, is in the hall.'
'I'll be down.' Andrew took a deep breath, flattened his hair, pulled in his stomach and went down the stairs to find Robert, dressed in jeans and checked shirt, waiting for him.
He was about to say, 'Robert, I wasn't expecting you yet .. .' when the young man put his hand out and said in a deep Canadian voice, 'I'm Alexander Macdonald. I wonder if you can help me. I'm over here to find my twin brother, Robert Campbell.'
Andrew closed his eyes as his hand was squeezed in a firm shake. 'Your twin brother?' he said, in a voice that had become high and hesitant.
'You all right, sir?' the duty sergeant said. 'You're very white.'
'I'm all right.' Andrew inclined his head towards the desk. Robert's twin? But of course - it explained everything. Andrew opened his eyes, closed and opened them again, to be sure. His legs, hands, even his voice didn't seem right. 'I - I'll take you out, Alexander: he said. And finally, 'I have a great deal to tell you.'
He turned to the desk where the sergeant, who had heard every word and seen everything, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Andrew said quietly to him, 'Sergeant, by the time I return, you will have an even bigger smile on your face. If Robert Campbell does come, will you please ask him to wait in my office, and say nothing.' Then to Alex, 'Ready? I'll take you to the Caledonian Hotel for lunch. But first, to the American Bar. We are going to need a large Scotch or two.'
And there, in the American Bar, over a couple of drams to ease the tension, they talked.Once Alexander knew that the Detective Chief Inspector knew Robert he relaxed, and when questioned, began to tell Andrew briefly, all about his childhood.
Andrew watched and listened carefully, drinking in the sound and sight of his own son. It was astonishing to him that, brought up separately as Alexander and Robert had been, they had identical mannerisms; the traits that Andrew believed were learned behaviour; the laugh was identical as was the quick blink of the eyes before opening wide, then the resting position of their hands - even their choice of words. Andrew had had many a heart-to-heart with Robert. It was uncanny.
But he was going to tell Alex the truth and he must do it before they met Robert. Alex was saying, 'My wonderful Mom has been riven with guilt all these years for allowing her babies to be separated at birth. She has never gotten over it.'
'She wouldn't get over it,' Andrew remarked before asking the question that could destroy his dreams for ever. 'Has your mother re-married?'
'No.' Alex made the familiar blink before he opened his eyes wider and added, 'I don't think she has ever stopped loving our father.'
'Did she tell you anything about your father?' Andrew asked and his stomach heaved. 'Did she ever say anything about him?'
'He was a sailor. He deserted her.'
'No! He didn't.' Andrew's voice was gruff as he fought both tears and anger. 'It was she who deserted him. She took her baby and fled to Canada.'
'No. Lady Campbell's price for taking care of her, seeing her through the birth, was that she handed over the baby. Lady Campbell never knew that there were two of us. Nanny would never tell her. And it was Nanny who got Mom away, to Canada, to her sister ... and told Mom that she must never again speak about my father, nor try to contact him. It was best for Robert, you see.'
Andrew put his head in his hands, there in the crowded American Bar where he had already nodded to several people he knew. He was beyond caring if anyone saw him in distress now.
Alex put a hand on his arm. 'You all right, sir?'
Andrew looked at him and unsprung tears were clouding his vision. 'It is me,' he said. 'I am Andrew Stewart. Your father ...' and then in answer to Alex's bewilderment, 'Come on! Let's get out of here. We have a lot of catching up to do – you, Robert and I.'
It was the last performance of The Mikado in Hasting's Community Hall. Flora should have got over her nerves by now. The show had been running for a week, playing to packed houses. Tonight, though, she was on edge as never before. There had been no word from Alex. Nothing at all. She had tried to contact Nanny but the phone rang and rang with no answer.
Tonight, her make-up done and her kimono fastened, she pulled on the black wig that was ready styled and adorned with what Alex laughingly called knitting needles. The other two Little Maids were chatting and laughing at their dressing tables. It was a big changing room so there was plenty of space if you wanted to think not talk, as she did.
She may have lost both her sons now. Why hadn't Alex phoned?
The intercom was on and she heard the orchestra tuning up - heard the footsteps and muffled talk of the audience as the hall filled. She took a sip of water then blotted her lips on a tissue.
Something was going on in the family, too. They were hiding things from her. She knew it. And their faces ... so serious. Yet they had taken the news well that she was the mother of Nanny's darling Robert. They had been dumbfounded at first. Then Aunt Dorothy had said, 'Alexander is right. He must find his twin.'
'I have always known him, you know,' Alex had said. 'He won't be a stranger to me.' He had gone, and he had not come back - and it was a month since she had last seen him.
The family were trying to make up for it. Tonight, Peter's wife Valerie, Aunt Dorothy and Uncle John would be here, sitting in the seats she had booked for them - centre seats, three rows back. Later they were having a party at the house. It was to be open house and the whole cast were coming.
Nerves and worry were her constant companions. Somehow she couldn't stop shaking. Where was Alex? 'Overture and beginners, please,' was coming over the tannoy.
Pitti-Sing, her friend Maggie, said, 'Ready, Flora?'
'Yes.'
The three of them went backstage and stood in the wings, trying to get a glimpse of the hall before the lights went down. Then the overture began and then it was all excitement and dashing on-and off-stage, although there were no changes of costume for the three sisters whose songs came one after the other towards the end of Act One.
'I couldn't see a thing out there,' said Peep-Bo, coming from the wings at the interval. 'But they are enjoying it.'
'Not even my lot?' asked Flora plaintively, then laughed at herself for sounding so petty. It was the first time ever that Alex had missed her show. She so longed to set eyes on Alex.
Flora's second song, in Act Two, 'The sun, whose rays are all ablaze ...' brought the house down. But someone, somewhere in the darkened hall would not stop applauding. The rest joined in and she had to do an encore. She came off-stage, eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing through the white mask of her makeup.
'Wonderful!' breathed Jack as he passed her to go on-stage. Jack's character Nanki Poo was in love with Yum Yum -and Jack himself was half in love with Flora. Then the four of them sang, 'Brightly Dawns our Wedding Day' and again the audience called for an encore.
The mood of the audience was catching and the songs were lovely; and, silly as it was, some of the corniest made a lump come into Flora's throat, so that when Ko Ko sang, 'On a tree by a river, a little Tom-tit, sang willow, tit willow, tit willow ...' Flora could
cry a little tear for Alex and not be teased.
Then it was the last chorus and they were all on stage and singing lustily, 'For ... he's going to marry Yum Yum, Yum Yum ...' and the rafters were ringing with joyful song.
The curtain fell. The applause was deafening. The curtain rose and fell and still they went on applauding. The cast went off-stage. The lights went up. The chorus went out and took their bows, stepped back and parted for the cast to come forward in reverse order of importance.
And suddenly it was her turn. Flora went to centre stage, lifted her hands in acknowledgement and quickly cast her eyes towards the centre of the third row.
Her knees gave way and she had to make an effort to stand. Her skin prickled. Her eyes went swimmingly out of focus then back. They were there: Andrew, her Andrew, with, one either side, Alexander and Robert. She stepped back, but could not take her eyes off them, her sons, with their father. The Mikado took three curtain calls. Then the whole ensemble took three more.
The curtain was lowered and lifted for the last time, They were still there, still clapping, and now, slowly the applause ceased and the bouquets and little speeches of thanks began.
'To our producer ...' A bouquet was presented.
'The conductor…' another bouquet.
'The Mikado…' another.
Then the stage manager came forward to say, 'And tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we have some special guests with us. All the way from Scotland to see our own Yum Yum -Flora Macdonald ...' He nodded to the third row, '... and to present her with a very special bouquet.'
And she was laughing and crying as Andrew climbed the stairs to the stage, Alex and Robert behind him.
He stood before her, a huge bouquet of roses in his arms, but it was the look in his eyes that told her more than flowers ever could.
She bobbed a little Japanese curtsey, and whispered through the hard, tight knot in her throat, 'Thank you! Oh, thank you Andrew!' and all to wild applause.
The Weeping Tree Page 35
