The Flight of Swallows (44 page)

‘God, how I love you,’ he murmured, his lips still to her hand, his silver-grey eyes soft as velvet.

The servants were not surprised when three large, unsmiling men appeared at the kitchen door a few days later, each carrying a gun broken across his arm. The master had told the servants to expect them and here they were. They had ridden up on the horses Mr Armstrong had supplied them with and they were to ride the perimeter of his land, through his woodland, across his bit of moorland, patrolling the paths and gardens and even the farmlands, though they had been given instructions that they were not to interfere with the farm tenants. At the back of each man stood a dog, not big, nor ferocious, even allowing the stable lads to pat them but they were alert, their ears pricked and it was clear they would be the first to sense any danger lurking in the undergrowth.

‘How about a hot drink, lads?’ Mrs Groves asked nervously.

‘Ta, that’d be grand, misshiss, but us’ve got ter get ter work, so quick as tha’ like.’

The maids eyed the men appreciatively, for though they were tough-looking characters they were also extremely polite, young and not bad-looking. Arch and Percy, who had come from the stable block to inspect these chaps, worried they might upset their own animals, approved of the steady way they held their horses and kept their dogs in check.

While the men, identified as Denton, Mitchell, or Mitch, he said, and Hooper, drank their enormous mugs of strong, sweet tea, the way all the servants, especially the men, liked it, standing just outside the kitchen door, Percy and Arch did their best to question them. Denton, who was obviously the spokesman, told them briefly, and with a note in his voice that said he was unwilling to be interrogated, that Mr Armstrong had given instructions to
their
employer who ran an agency in town, that this property and all its occupants were to be guarded.

‘Anyone what can’t hidentify ’imself, or ’oo doesn’t work on one of farms ’ere is ter be ’eld until Mr Armstrong can vouch fer ’im. Right, lads, let’s go.’ He swung himself on to his horse, called to his dog who went by the name of Gypsy or Gyp and set off smartly out of the yard. He was followed by Mitch and Hooper with their animals. They could hear him giving instruction to the other two and, splitting up, they went off in different directions.

‘Well, I must say that’s made me feel right safe wi’ them three about,’ Katie, the laundry-maid informed the others. ‘Every time I were peggin’ out I allus felt I were bein’ watched.’

The weeks went by and Hetty’s child was born, called Albert after the first son of the King. She had wanted to call him Thomas after her pa who was the one who had raped her in the first place and Charlotte and Kizzie marvelled at the minds of these girls who could name a child after such a wicked man. Megan, who could not be expected to manage six babies, some of them toddlers, was given a helper in the shape of another of her sisters, their Peggy. Jenny, now recovered from the birth of Edward, was back at work in the shop in the Bull Ring and all was running smoothly in the Dower House, the workshop and the big house and with Denton, Mitch and Hooper quietly protecting his property Brooke resumed his own rounds of the farms.

While Max plodded slowly along the lane that led to Jack Emmerson’s farm Brooke ruminated on the conversation he had had with Wallace Chapman on the subject of Arthur Drummond. Wallace had been plainly shocked.

‘Are you telling me that for years Drummond beat his children with a cane and, I can hardly believe it, forced Charlotte to . . . to bare herself and struck her naked skin in what was a perverted—’

‘I am and they were all terrified of him. I know, though it has turned out well – you can see how Charlotte and I are – that is why she married me. To get her brothers away from him. You have no idea how the youngest was when he first came to us. A pathetic, frightened little boy who would not let Charlotte out of his sight. They have done well but eighteen months ago, just after Charlotte started her scheme, one of the girls you brought to the Dower House was tempted by Drummond to his place and . . . well, she thought he was genuine and when he turned her away she drowned herself and her baby.’

‘Maudie?’

‘I believe that was her name,’ Brooke replied grimly, then was ashamed of himself for not remembering what the poor child had been called.

‘And the attack on Drummond?’

‘I’m not certain but I think . . . you will not speak of this to anyone, you must promise me.’

‘Of course.’

‘It was three of Kizzie’s brothers. They did not hurt him enough to cripple him for good but they thought that he would give up and leave us alone. He threatens to take Ellie, his daughter, from us and we cannot, naturally, allow that. Not after what he did to his other children.’

‘Indeed, and now he is—’

‘He says he will take her as I suppose he legally can, unless Charlotte . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Acts as his whore.’

He remembered Wallace’s face when he said this. It drained of all colour and his mouth fell open in horror. They had been in Brooke’s study where Brooke had asked the doctor to call, drinking coffee and talking of this and that until it was clear from Wallace’s expression that he was a busy man and would be glad if Brooke said what he had to say.

‘I just cannot believe that a man could treat . . .’

‘Wallace, you of all people know what men can do to their children. We have some of them in our care at the Dower House. Maudie was one and though he did not kill her with his own hands he drove her to her death. He waylaid Charlotte in the wood and threatened her and but for the fact he was still walking with a stick and is not yet nimble enough to catch her I believe he might have attacked her there and then. He calls it
punishment,
though only God knows why! The girls Charlotte employs are also in danger and that is why I have three men with guns protecting the womenfolk on my property. And the children, of course. We are quite a large household and have men who would give their lives to keep the women and children safe, but they are only gardeners and grooms and not men versed in fisticuffs. So, you see, you have put Drummond back on his feet and though, of course, you are not to blame for this I am hoping you might be able to help me. Shall I go to the police or would they think me mad? I know I have influence but then so has he and who would believe that a man in his position, who surely has access to women by the score, willing women, wants his own daughter! I believe he is insane, perverted, deranged, his mind twisted and in my opinion should be put away. But I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about it. It needs a medical man, someone expert in the field of – what do doctors call it? – psychiatry to examine him.’

He remembered Wallace’s measured reply.

‘Brooke, there is nothing I would like more than to help you but I’m afraid it needs more than your word, or even Charlotte’s. You and she say he has threatened you but are there any witnesses? He would deny everything and I can only say that while I was attending him he was perfectly normal, or appeared so. He swore he had no idea who had attacked him, or why. He was not robbed and seemed totally rational, perplexed, and said he could only presume that someone had a grudge of some sort against him though he could not think of one.’

‘The servants at the Mount would say he beat his children.’

‘Yes, but a man cannot be arrested for that.’

‘And Kizzie who has been with Charlotte since Charlotte’s mother died knows.’

‘Only because Charlotte told her. Dear God, Brooke, I would give anything to help you out of this awful predicament.’

‘You believe me?’

‘Of course. Why would you or Charlotte make up such a tale? I did not know Drummond before his accident so I have nothing with which to compare him and he seemed . . . appeared to be merely a victim of an attack.’

‘So there is nothing you can do?’

‘Well, I can consult a colleague and ask his opinion but I hold out no hope. I’m sorry, Brooke. He sounds abnormal, perverted and, naturally, should he attack Charlotte it would be a different case altogether.’

‘So we have to wait until he attacks her before he can be . . . and then there is the question of Ellie. He could drive up here tomorrow and take her out of the nursery.’

Wallace had reiterated his promise to talk to the doctor in charge of the lunatic asylum in Wakefield, leaving Brooke totally dissatisfied.

He nodded at one of the men who were patrolling his grounds before entering Jack Emmerson’s yard where he dismounted and rapped on the door with his riding crop.

He was out in the top field, his wife told Brooke, bobbing an awkward curtsey but if Mr Armstrong would come in she would pour him a glass of ale and how was Mrs Armstrong and those lovely bairns and she was sorry she hadn’t seen them about lately. But then all the tenants knew of the threat that hung over the Armstrong family though none of them was awfully sure what or who it was that threatened them. No wonder they kept the children close to the house.

He politely refused the glass of ale, touched the peak of his cap with his riding whip and, getting back on his horse, continued his rounds of his tenants. Cec Eveleigh with the help of his eldest son was ploughing in farmyard manure in readiness for his crop of turnips and swedes and though he stopped for a chat with his landlord he kept his eye on his lad who was not as adept with the plough as he was. It was evident he was keen to get back to the work in hand. Davy Nicholson of Bluebell Farm was lifting an enormous bag of seeds on to a cart in preparation for sowing.

‘Seen them chaps on ’orses ridin’ about, Mr Armstrong. Guns an’ all . . .’ obviously longing to know what that was all about, since it must be serious if his landlord engaged them. ‘Keen they be an’ mekk sure as tha’ ’ave a right ter be there. Frightened the life outer my missus first time. Is it foxes, sir?’

But Brooke merely smiled and shook his head, touching Max’s side and riding on.

‘Summat very fishy goin’ on,’ Davy told his missus that night as he tucked in to the tasty stew she put before him. ‘An’ I’d like ter know what the ’ell it is.’

‘Well, it’s nowt ter do wi us, Davy Nicholson, so get them vittles inside tha’. I’ve some parkin fer afters and I’ve opened a jar o’ me plums.’

Jeff Killen at Foxworth, which was a pretty, half-timbered farm with a small orchard between it and the lane, and whose wife had a reputation for the best cheese, butter and eggs in Yorkshire, was drinking a mug of tea, leaning against his stable yard wall and surveying the load of turnips that was to go into a great slatted rack at the back of an empty stable.

‘Mornin’ sir,’ he remarked, ‘an’ a good ’un it is too.’

‘You look busy, Jeff.’

‘Aye, sir, I’m mekkin sure come next winter I’ve feed fer me beasts. Hay yield looks good but tha’ can never be sure.’

‘Good thinking, Jeff. It’s best to look ahead,’ wishing he could look ahead to the months that were to come and that bastard recovering daily from the beating he had received. Denton, one of the men who patrolled his estate, had reported to him that he had seen a man walking the lane that led up beside the kitchen garden. Not on Brooke’s property, of course, so Denton could not order him off or threaten him with his rifle and he was doing nothing but walk steadily towards Birks Wood where he vanished under the trees.

‘A gentleman, Denton, or a working man off to a job?’

‘I’d say a gentleman, sir, by the clothes ’e wore an’ ’e’d good boots on ’is feet.’

So he was still there, the man who was in the back of everybody’s mind but whom no one talked about, pretending that the problem – what a weak word for this fear that hung over them – had gone away.

Nothing else demanded his immediate attention. His tenants knew they could come to him if in need or for advice. Not that he was a farmer. Soldiering had been his career but since his father died and he had resigned his commission he had found he took a growing interest in what had been left in his hands.

He cantered into the stable yard, leaping from his horse in a way that gave him a great deal of satisfaction. He had once thought he would never be the same again after that damn bull gored him but thanks to Wallace and Charlotte, firmly believing that she had been the pivotal point of his recovery, he was himself again.

Percy ran to take Max from him. Brooke heard a great deal of laughter and barking over the roof of the house and with a smile he walked round to the front where the children were rolling about on the lawn with the dogs, even old Dottie doing her best to take part in the fun. Aisling and Rosie watched them indulgently and at the end of the garden where the woodland began, so did John Dudley and Ned Phelps, leaning on their hoes and smiling. Lucy and Ellie were both almost two and a half now and Toby fifteen months and walking, or rather running about steadily doing his best to keep up with the two little girls. They were well guarded, he knew that, but this couldn’t go on for ever. How many months, years even, before Drummond struck at his family? For Ellie was as much Brooke’s daughter now as Lucy. He loved them all equally and his wife was the most precious thing in his life. She was in Wakefield now at her shop. She would be smiling at her customers, the number growing with every passing month, for her carpets were unique and her rugs much sought after. She had a knack of . . . well, he could only call it
dressing
her windows so that they tempted ladies to come inside and then come back with their husbands. Of course, they were all wealthy but those with less money in their pockets could buy exactly the same rugs made in the warehouse across the yard from the Dower House, on the market stalls she rented at Hudderfield, Wakefield and Dewsbury and the designs, brought forth by Jenny with ingenuity and flair, which, she said herself, she hadn’t even known she possessed, sold out by the end of the day. Jenny and Charlotte were to be seen with their heads together discussing the possibility of selling carpets on the stalls and if he knew his Charlotte, which he did by now, the idea would be made to work!

Charlotte at that moment was in the workroom at the Carpet Shop leaning over the enormous table on which Jenny’s designs were spread out. When the weather was frosty at the beginning of the year Jenny had braved the weather and, sitting in the porch of the big house, had drawn and painted in the most delicate strokes, the silver, white and black world of the ice-coated garden. There were touches of brown and maroon where the sun lit a patch of frozen soil, a shadow of a bush, an icicle hanging from the branch of a tree and with her usual dexterity with a hook had created a rag rug from the painting. She painted poppies now, hyacinths, crocus, wild flowers as they sprang into life, watercolours with the paints Charlotte provided. She then sketched out her design on to hessian, including colours to be used, with a soft pencil. The hessian was folded into quarters to find the central point, fixed to a frame and the hooking began, using rags in dozens of colours. These carpets were becoming a ‘must-have’ among the ladies who were Charlotte’s customers.