Poppy (23 page)

And so they returned to the uproar of Central London, where the newsboys howled the headlines about Poppy to the home-going crowds.

After the news reached the South of France the duchess wrote to her son, begging him to keep the family name out of the newspapers. The duke’s reply to this was to offer a reward of two thousand pounds sterling to anyone who could supply him with information that would lead to the discovery of Mrs. Plummett, and he had the reward advertised in all the London newspapers.

He hired a team of secretaries to sift through the mail and pass on any likely clues to the police. He hired private detectives, who made the life of Lewis’s Theater hideous. It seemed as if the cast could hardly get on the stage at night without tripping over some detective or policeman.

The singer who stood in for Poppy was very good. But she was not Poppy. Bookings were canceled, and seven days after Poppy’s abduction
The Beggar Princess
closed.

The duke had been so sure that he could find Poppy. But all his efforts, all the efforts of Scotland Yard, could not raise one clue. He called often at St. John’s Wood to talk to Josie and Emily and to tell them that it was all some sort of theatrical joke; that their sister would soon be found. Miss Villiers was asked to act as substitute sister until Poppy could be found. But two long, weary, and exhausting weeks passed, and he began to give up hope. It looked as if it might have been the work of a madman.

As if to mock his fears, spring blossomed into a warm and early summer with long, clear, sunny days and starry nights.

And then Freda von Dierksen called. He would not have seen her. In fact, he had told Stammers to send her away, but Stammers returned with Freda’s card, and on the back of it she had written “Poppy.”

“Send her in,” he ordered Stammers, trying not to feel any hope, since hope had become too painful an emotion.

Freda strolled in, wearing a chic tailored suit with one of the new narrow skirts that allowed the wearer the minimum of movement.

“Hugo, darling!” she cried, trying to kiss him, but he backed away and said abruptly, “I hope you have news of Poppy. Otherwise I would not have seen you.”

“Oh, I have news of Poppy,” said Freda casually, pulling forward a chair and sinking into it with exquisite grace.

“Who did this to her!” demanded the duke. “Who took her away?”

“I did,” said Freda, poking the carpet with her parasol.

“I shall call the Yard,” he said in a flat voice.

“No, you won’t, Hugo, or you will never see dear, vulgar Poppy again. Dear me! How dramatic that sounds! I feel quite the villainess. Sit down, Hugo, and hear my terms.”

He sat down, staring at her as if she were some species of snake.

“I took dear Poppy away,” said Freda, still in that maddenly casual voice, “and hid her. I hid her very well. She is not at all comfortable at present, but she is at least alive.”

“How much?” said the duke harshly. “In God’s name.
How much?
”

Freda had just seen a very thrilling play with a really wicked villainess, and was now playing the part to the hilt.

She gave what she hoped was a killing laugh and said, “I want you, Hugo. Not money. Marriage.”

“
Marry you?
I shall call the police, dear girl, and they’ll make you sweat out the whereabouts of Poppy.”

“If I am arrested, my… er… associates will kill Poppy, and since I’ll hang anyway, it doesn’t really matter, you see. You’re trapped, my darling. Marry me, or she’s as dead as mutton.”

Poppy was alive, but far from well. All she could remember of her abduction was peering into the carriage outside her home, expecting to see the duke, and seeing instead a burly-looking individual. And before she could escape, a blow struck her on the head.

She had recovered consciousness, lying on the floor of the carriage, her wrists and ankles tied and a gag in her mouth.

After what had seemed like hours of jolting, the carriage had stopped, a bag was put over her head, and she felt herself being carried out into the open air, and then up flights of stairs.

When her mask had been removed she had found herself in the room where she was to spend her remaining days.

As far as she could make out it was at the top of some house in the country and had probably been the nursery, for the windows were barred.

She could only guess she was in the country, because although she was no longer bound, the windows were painted over, but the absence of any noise of traffic outside led her to believe she was far from London.

A German woman who spoke no English and who looked like a wardress brought her food three times a day. She was flanked on either side by two husky looking men, in case Poppy had any ideas of trying to escape.

Once her initial, terrible fear had died away, Poppy had then begun to suffer all the pains of solitary confinement. She had begged her uncaring wardress for books, newspapers, sewing, housework,
anything
to relieve the monotony—but to no avail. The woman did not appear to understand her, and the bodyguards did not seem to wish to.

Poppy had also begged to be allowed to wash, but this luxury was denied her. A large chamberpot was placed under her bed, but apart from that, she had no other bathroom facilities.

She looked back on the days when she had never troubled overmuch about bathing and wondered how she could have borne it. Her skin itched, her scalp itched, and she felt dirty all over. She had no change of clothes.

She worried and worried over Emily and Josie. What could they be thinking? Who had taken her prisoner, and why? What was happening at the theater, and why on earth hadn’t the police done anything? Poppy had a touching faith in the all-powerful arm of the law. And the duke? Oh, how she thought of him and dreamed of him and longed for him. He would surely rescue her.

But the weary days passed, and he did not come. But the one thought that he
would
somehow find her was what made her able to bear the monotony of her days.

She gathered that there was some sort of thoroughfare near the house, and one day she actually heard voices—the soft burr of country voices, a man and a woman. She had flung herself against the windows, beating against the painted glass and shouting “
Help!
” for all she was worth.

Trembling with hope, she heard the voices become anxious and questioning, and then a few moments later the front doorbell sounded through the house.

She listened hard, although it seemed the beating of her heart would drown out every other sound. And then like a knell, a woman’s voice sounded loud and clear from below the window. “Mad, is she? There’s a shame. The poor thing. Sorry to have troubled you, mister,” and then she heard the slow sound of retreating footsteps crunching across gravel.

“I’m not mad!” she screamed. “Help me!” The footsteps hesitated and then went on. Went away… and took hope with them.

That was the first day she broke down and cried.

The second time she cried was for a much worse reason.

One evening her wardress entered as usual with the meager evening meal and placed it on the table. Poppy noticed with excitement that a newspaper had been folded and placed beside her plate.

She waited anxiously until the woman and her bodyguards had left, and then seized the paper. She raced over the headlines until she saw her name. It was only a small news item, saying the police had given up hope of finding her.
Does no one care?
thought Poppy, hurt and bewildered, not knowing she had been front-page headlines for weeks, that His Majesty himself had urged the police force to put out their best efforts. She did not know that her little sisters and her servants now wore black, or that the whole of Cutler’s Fields had gone into mourning.

Well
, she thought grimly, determined to make the best of things,
at least I have something to read, and let’s hope it’s got a crossword
. So she carefully began to read the newspaper from beginning to end. It was unfortunate that she should have reached the social page before the advertisements, for the advertising page still carried the Duke of Guildham’s offer of reward.

But the social page carried the announcement of the engagement between Freda von Dierksen and the Duke of Guildham.

Poppy sat very still, staring at the untasted food on her plate, slowly dropping the newspaper to the floor.

So he had not meant a word he had said! And following that came the one dreadful thought: Was
he
responsible for her abduction? And all at once she thought he was. His precious name! She had sullied it or smeared it or whatever it was one did with respectable names, and so he had simply had her removed.

She threw herself on the bed and cried and cried until she could cry no more—she, who had sworn so bravely, so long ago, that the aristocracy would never make her cry again.

She lay on the bed, hardly moving, her face turned to the wall, for the next five days. Once she heard one of the bodyguards say crossly, “What if she dies? Mistress won’t like that.” From the depths of her misery, Poppy took the reference to the “mistress” to mean her wardress.

At the end of her five days of despair the woman brought Poppy’s meals on her own, considering her too far gone to make any effort of escape.

The white paint across the windows threw up moving shadows of the trees outside, and then on the fifth day, she heard the faint, shrill sounds of children playing, coming from a long distance away.

Suddenly she sat bolt upright—and then clutched her head, for she was faint from lack of food, having barely touched what they had brought her.

Emily and Josie! What was happening to them? How could she have given up? Who would care for them now? Almost feverishly she began to pace up and down the room. She must get away! But her legs trembled, and she felt so weak. She tottered back to the bed and lay down.

The German woman arrived with her lunch, and Poppy noticed for the first time that her jailer was alone.

They must think I’m past it!
she thought with a rush of angry exultation.
Well, I’ll show them all. I’ll get back to Emily and Josie if I have to kill the lot of ’em
.

For the next two days she rested and ate carefully, always making sure that she was lying quietly with her face turned to the wall.

Slowly she began to feel stronger. She put everything out of her mind but the determination to escape. They had left her her reticule, but there was nothing in it she could use as a weapon. They had left her her money, so if—no,
when
, always when—she escaped, she could pay for some means of transport.

Then on a hot afternoon, when the sun shining through the white painted windows turned the room into a furnace, she heard the clatter of hooves and the sound of men’s voices.

It’s no use me shouting, she thought bitterly. They’ll just tell those men I’m mad
.

But it seemed awful just to let them ride by without making some effort.

All at once Poppy began to sing. She sang one of her most famous songs from
The Beggar Princess
, her voice cracking at first with disuse, but gradually growing stronger and stronger.

Boodles Hunter and Sniffy Vere-Smythe reined in their horses and turned to their host, Boofie Posthwaite-Hans-Bellamy. “I say,” said Boodles plaintively. “That sounds just like Poppy Plummett.”

“Garn!” said Sniffy in his mock cockney. “That ain’t her. She’s dead.”

“Isn’t that the gel who’s missing?” asked Boofie. “Lovely voice.”

“Pity about her, isn’t it?” said Sniffy. All three stopped to listen as the song soared out from the top windows of a rundown country house with a weedy garden, set in the middle of the Essex marshes.

When the voice had died away Boodles gave a superstitious shudder. “I say, you don’t think it’s her ghost, do you?”

“Don’t be barmy,” said Boofie cheerfully. “Those phonograph things are absolutely marvelous.”

“Of course,” said Boodles, his stupid face clearing to its normal expression of complete inanity. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an utter ass,” said Sniffy. “I could do with a snifter. Where are we?”

“Dunno,” said Boofie. “Want to ask at the house?”

“No,” said Sniffy. “Gives me the creeps. Bound to be chockablock with strange people.”

“Righty-ho! We’ll just ride along till we meet someone!”

With that they all broke into a canter and clattered off. No one had heard their conversation, not even Poppy, for although she could hear the sound of voices, they were too far away to make out the words. And so there were no witnesses to their stupidity. No surly Bolshevist or Socialist to sneer and point out again that the upper classes were a useless lot and were inbred to the point of imbecility.

Some three days later the Duke of Guildham sat in his club in St. James’s Street and stared unseeingly at the newspaper. He could not believe he had allowed himself to be trapped into this marriage. Freda must know how much he now hated and detested her. But while she held Poppy, there was nothing he could do. He had had Freda followed every time she had left her house, but her expeditions had always proved to be innocent.

He was roused from his worries by the arrival of Mr. MacDonald, who acted as repulsively cheerful as ever.

“Ah, there you are, Your Grace,” he cried, squeezing his fat form into the armchair opposite.

“I’ve been trying to track you down. There’s all this expense on secretaries and advertising and private inquiry agents. How long do you wish it to go on?”

“Until I tell you to stop, and not before,” said the duke coldly. “And now if that is all…”

“Oh, no. There’s another wee matter,” said the uncrushable MacDonald. “The Plummett girls. Do you mean to keep paying that allowance?”

“Dammit!” said the duke. “You’ll pay that bloody allowance until the end of time, and don’t dare to say another word about it.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Macdonald hurriedly. “Just so. I can see Your Grace is not in the mood for a chat. It’s a pity. A pity. There’s a nice bit of property going that I was anxious to discuss, but, ah well, another time, another time.”