Evacuation
"Operation Pied Piper!" Josie Eberle exclaimed with a derisive laugh. "I wonder what brilliant bureaucrat thought up that name."
"What's wrong with it?" her friend, Myra, asked. "I think it's kind of cute."
"As I remember the story from my childhood, the Pied Piper lures the children away from Hamlin with his magic flute, and their parents never see them again. I can't bear the thought of sending Robby away! Who knows how long this war will go on?"
"What choice do you have?"
"None, I'm afraid. The government has called for the evacuation of children to the safety of the countryside."
"When will he leave?"
"The day after tomorrow," Josie replied, valiantly trying to hold back her tears.
"How is he taking it?"
"He doesn't know yet. I thought I'd break the news to him tomorrow night. First, I want to spend the whole day with him tomorrow. We'll go to the park and then have tea together."
The worried mother could no longer hold her emotions in check. She put her head in her hands and sobbed.
"I don't know what I'll do once Robby's gone! It's bad enough my husband is off fighting, but now my son .... If I wasn't doing work valuable to the war effort, I'd take him away myself."
"Don't fret!" Myra said, putting her arms around her distraught friend in a gesture of compassion. "I'm sure Robby will be better off in the countryside than he is here in London."
"I hope so."
Two days later Josie rode with her son in a cab to Waterloo Station. Robby's clothes and a few personal belongings were packed in her husband's old portmanteau, which, when filled, weighed nearly as much as the five-year-old himself. The station was teeming with children, teachers and parents, mostly mothers, who were putting on brave faces in front of their sons and daughters. A number of teachers led groups of children in sing-alongs, treating those in their care as though they were about to go on holiday or embark and an adventure.
As Josie stood looking helpless amidst the mass exodus, Etta Ponsonby, one of the teachers who would later accompany the children on their journey, approached her.
"The child's name?" she asked, taking an oversized identification tag out of her valise.
"Robert Eberle, Jr."
As the teacher filled out the tag, Josie's tear-filled eyes looked away and focused on a number of expectant mothers who were saying goodbye to their husbands and families.
Poor dears, she thought. They're going off to have their babies amidst strangers while their homes are being bombed.
In addition to the children and pregnant women, persons with certain physical impairments were being evacuated as well. The blind were being led to the train cars, and others were being carried on stretchers or transported in wheelchairs.
"You're all set!" Etta announced after tying the nametag onto the little boy's jacket.
Josie looked down at her son. She had difficulty swallowing as though a lump were wedged in her throat.
I might never see him again! she realized. Even if he manages to stay safe wherever they're taking him, I'll be here in London. What if something should happen to me or to Robert or—God forbid!—both of us? Who would look after him?
"You have a good time in the country, and be sure to behave yourself," Etta told Robby as she removed more tags from her supply and moved on to another bewildered looking mother.
Now was the moment of truth. Josie walked her son to the train, stooped down and picked him up, cradling him in her arms as she kissed his face.
"I'll write to you as often as I can, and I'll come see you as soon as I'm able to!" she sobbed. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Mummy," he replied, eager to board the train and begin his adventure.
As the locomotive slowly inched out of the station, Josie found some comfort in the arms of another mother standing beside her. Although strangers, the two women now shared a common bond: they were both being parted from the children they loved and forced to face alone the uncertainties of war they lay ahead.
* * *
Although excited at first by the change of scenery, Robby Eberle soon grew bored with the train ride. As the hours passed, the rolling green hills and quaint English villages no longer interested him. He drifted off to sleep and had to be woken up when the train finally pulled into the station.
"Everybody get ready to leave the train," an adult voice of authority commanded. "Make sure you take everything with you. You don't want to leave anything behind."
"Where are we?" Robby asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Baron's Woods. It's your new home until such time the government decides it's safe for you to return to London."
Once the trains were emptied of passengers, the children were split into two groups. One went to the church and the other to the town hall. At each location they were lined up for inspection by local residents who agreed to provide them with room and board for the duration of Operation Pied Piper. The older children were snapped up first since they were of an age where they could be counted on to perform chores for their keep.
At only five years old, Robby Eberle could hardly be expected to plow or harvest a farmer's crop. Thus, nearly half the children in the town hall were already taken away when Pamela Wetherington entered the room, looking for a suitable child to take into her home. Originally she had decided on choosing a girl; however, when she saw Robby standing beside his large suitcase, bravely fighting back his tears, her heart went out to him.
"Hello," she said gently, stooping down to address the child at his own level. "What is your name?"
"Robby," he replied, identifying himself with only his first name.
Pamela referred to the large tag still fastened to the boy's shirt.
"Robert Eberle, Jr. That's a nice name. Would you like to come stay with me, Master Robert?"
The boy silently nodded his head up and down several times.
"Then come along," the well-dressed woman said, taking the boy by the hand. "Don't worry about your bag. I'll have someone bring it to my home."
The woman—older than his mother but not as old as Mrs. Ponsonby who oversaw the assignment of the children to their temporary families—led the boy to a chauffeur-driven car. Robby was too young to infer from her wardrobe and her means of transportation that Pamela Wetherington descended from one of the area's most affluent families. It was not until the car pulled up in front of Highgate Manor, a magnificent Georgian manor house, that he had any inclination of the lifestyle he was about to enjoy.
"This is a big house!" he observed. "How many people live here?"
"There are a number of servants that work here, but they're local people who live in the village. The butler has a room on the third floor. But only I—and now you—officially reside here."
A house the size of Highgate Manor for only two people seemed wasteful even to a five-year-old who was used to living in the crowded conditions of London.
"This must be as big as Buckingham Palace. I'll bet the king and queen would feel right at home here."
Pamela looked down and smiled at the child, pleased with her decision to open up her home to him.
I should have taken in a needy child long ago, she thought wistfully. After all, a woman needs to nurture her maternal instincts.
As for maternal instincts, with her son in Baron's Woods, Josie Eberle remained in London battling hers. Never had she and Robby been parted for longer than several hours. The small flat where they lived seemed cold and eerily silent with his absence.
The first night after the boy's departure, she curled up on his bed and cried herself to sleep, hugging one of his stuffed toys to her chest. The following days were not much better. Josie woke, dressed, ate breakfast and went to work as though in a stupor. The customary smile on her face, the lightness in her step and the laughter in her heart were all gone. Not even the letters she received from her husband could temper the grief and longing she felt for Robby.
At the end of the week she received unofficial correspondence from Etta Ponsonby, the efficient-looking, middle-aged woman who had accompanied the children on the train from London. She wrote to inform Josie that Robby had arrived safely in Baron's Woods. (Josie had to refer to a map to learn where the sparsely populated hamlet was located.)
You need not worry about your little boy, Mrs. Ponsonby wrote. Robby was taken in by the wealthiest woman in the village, a widow who lives in a grand manor house on the outskirts of town. He will be quite safe and comfortable in her care. There are horses for him to ride, a pond he can swim in and a creek where he can fish. It will be like a holiday for him. I am sure Mrs. Wetherington will not mind if you want to correspond directly with your son. I have enclosed her address should you want to get in touch with her.
Etta had hoped to ease Mrs. Eberle's mind over the wellbeing of her child. Sadly, it gave Josie something else to worry about. If the war went on for any length of time, Robby might not want to return to London. Perhaps he would forget about her altogether and want to remain in the grand house with Pamela Wetherington.
* * *
Although Robby missed being with his mother, he managed to make the best of his stay at Highgate Manor. Mrs. Wetherington made sure there was always something fun for him to do. Only when inclement weather kept him indoors did the little boy experience homesickness. One day heavy rains forced the cancellation of a picnic beside the pond, and Pamela took the opportunity to catch up with her personal correspondence.
"I won't be too long," she told Robby. "When I'm finished we can play a game. In the meantime, you can go down to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Tandy to bake a batch of cookies for you."
As the mistress of the house sat at her desk writing, the little boy headed downstairs toward the kitchen. On a whim, he decided to explore some of the other rooms in the house. He wandered into the library that had more books than he had ever seen outside a bookstore. In addition to the intimate dining room where he and Pamela took their meals, there was a larger, formal banquet hall with a great table that could seat fifty people. After peeking into a dozen or so rooms on the ground floor, he went back upstairs. He was trying to keep an accurate count of the number of bedrooms in Highgate Manor when he opened a door at the end of the hall and discovered what was once a young child's playroom and nursery.
Look at all these toys! he thought with amazement as he entered the room. I wonder who they belong to.
In addition to children's books, paint sets, jigsaw puzzles, building blocks and stuffed animals, there were toy soldiers, a train set, a pair of roller skates, a hobby horse and a tricycle. Since his mother had taught him never to touch people's personal belongings without their permission, he stared at the toys and fought the desire to play with them. Reluctantly, he left the room and closed the door behind him.
Tired of exploring, he went back down to the kitchen where Mrs. Tandy was taking freshly baked scones out of the oven.
"How would you like a glass of milk to go with that?" the cook asked the boy after handing him one topped with Devonshire cream and strawberry jam.
"Yes, thank you."
"There you are!" Pamela exclaimed when she met him coming out of the kitchen. "Would you like to play a game of cards? Or maybe you would prefer checkers?"
"Did you know there's a room upstairs that contains all sorts of toys?" Robby asked excitedly.
The color drained from Pamela's face, and tears formed in her hazel eyes.
"That door is kept shut for a reason," she declared.
Robby sensed he had done something wrong, but he did not know exactly what.
"I didn't touch anything," he said defensively. "Honest."
The woman's smile could not mask the pain in her eyes. Yet, despite her sorrow, she placed her hand on the boy's back in a gesture of affection.
"I'm sure you didn't. You're a good little boy."
After several agonizing minutes of indecision, Pamela took Robby's hand and led him up the stairs.
"I don't see why you shouldn't play with the toys," she announced as she opened the door to the nursery. "Someone ought to."
"Were these your toys when you were a little girl?" the boy asked as he examined the miniature toy soldiers.
"No. They belonged to my son."
"You have a son? Is he away at school? Will he be coming home for the holidays?"
Robby was delighted at the possibility of getting a playmate.
"No," Pamela tearfully replied, her face suddenly transformed by grief. "He died."
"I'm sorry," Robby said, having often heard his mother apologize to people who had lost loved ones.
After wiping the tears from her eyes with a monogrammed lace handkerchief, the grieving woman picked up a conch shell her son had gotten during a holiday at Brighton when he was three.
"It was many years ago. He died in a boating accident with his father. I lost both my son and husband at the same time."
"My mother lost her son and husband, too. My father is off fighting the Germans, and I was sent here."
"I'm sure she misses you both terribly, but it's not quite the same thing. You and your father are still alive. Once the war is over, you can both go home to her."
"It will be nice to be with my mother again, but I'll miss you. And I'll miss Highgate."
The sincerity of Robby's declaration wrenched Pamela's heart. Suddenly, the thought of him returning to London was unbearable. It would be like losing another son.
* * *
Josie kept a careful eye on the post, anxiously awaiting a reply to the letters she had sent to her son in Baron's Woods. As the weeks passed, however, there was no word from either him or from the woman who had taken him in. Finally, in desperation, she wrote to Etta Ponsonby, asking for news of Robby.
The teacher's reply brought some comfort to the worried mother. According to Etta, Robby was being well taken care of, receiving a proper diet, enough sleep for a child his age and plenty of fresh air and exercise. Etta, herself, had seen the boy on numerous occasions in the company of Mrs. Wetherington when the two came into town. Most importantly, there were no bombings. In the quiet village of Baron's Woods, it was often hard to imagine England was at war. The teacher further suggested that Josie might come for a visit with her son, as long as she made arrangements with Pamela beforehand.
Robby's birthday is only three weeks away, she thought, smiling for the first time since her son left London. I'll write to Mrs. Wetherington at once. I'm sure she'll have no objection to my visiting him to bring him a present.
Two weeks later, however, when Josie was anticipating a reply from Pamela, she received instead the tragic news of her husband's death. All thoughts of her son's birthday were pushed from her mind. The devastating loss turned her world upside down. Despite the bombing raids that terrorized the population, London was her home, her only remaining anchor to sanity. Desperate for any semblance of her "normal" life, she could not leave it now, not even to visit her boy.
Months passed before the widow slowly emerged from her cocoon of grief. During that time, she still had not received any word from Baron's Woods. Of course, she had not written herself.
Robby doesn't know his father is dead. Should I tell him? she wondered.
He had been uprooted from his home and sent to live among strangers. How would he handle the news? After several sleepless nights, tossing and turning, debating with herself the advisability of telling her son of his father's death, she finally made the decision to spare him further heartbreak until after the war was over. Furthermore, she renewed her resolution to go to Baron's Woods and visit Robby.
The two of us have only each other now. The war has taken away a husband and a father, but I won't let it drive a mother and son further apart.
* * *
As was his custom, Mrs. Wetherington's butler handed the mail to his employer when she sat down to afternoon tea. She quickly scanned the envelopes and frowned when she saw the one with the London postmark.
Doesn't that woman ever get tired of writing? she wondered.
This time the mistress of Highgate Manor did not even bother reading Josie Eberle's letter. She simply tossed the unopened envelope into the dining room fireplace where it was consumed by the flames moments later.
Hungry from playing outdoors all morning, Robby raced into the dining room and took a seat at the table next to his hostess. His eyes immediately went to the selection of delicious-looking cakes, fruit tarts, scones and tea sandwiches.
"You forgot to wash your hands, Edward," Pamela said absentmindedly.
The little boy giggled.
"What's so funny?"
"My name is Robby, but you called me Edward," he explained.
"Did I?"
She was clearly not amused by her slip of the tongue. Ever since the boy had wandered into her son's playroom, she had begun to confuse the two in her mind. This was, however, the first time she actually called Robby by her son's name.
He's not my child! she firmly told herself as she watched the boy head toward the powder room to wash his hands. My Edward is dead and gone, lying in his grave for more than a decade, and Robby belongs to someone else: that awful woman who keeps writing to me from London.
There was no logical reason for Pamela Wetherington to feel any animosity toward Josie Eberle. After all, she had never met the mother from London, never even spoken to her. As a woman who lost a child herself, she ought to have felt more compassion and a sense of shared loss with the Londoner. For reasons she could not understand, however, Pamela deeply resented the child's mother. The last thing she wanted was for Josie to come visit and destroy the close bond that she had formed with Robby.
She can't have Edward! she thought, in a slip of her mind, not her tongue. He's mine. I won't lose him a second time.
"Is this okay?" Robby asked when he returned from the bathroom, showing her his clean palms.
"Yes, dear. I'm sure Nanny stressed to you the importance of good hygiene."
The boy giggled again and declared, "I don't have a nanny."
* * *
To Robby, the falling snow was the first indication that Christmas was on its way. The second was the greenery that appeared in Highgate Manor. A six-foot-high fir tree, cut down in the nearby forest, was placed in the parlor, and fragrant pine boughs decorated the fireplace mantel.
"How would you like to help me decorate the tree?" Pamela asked.
"I'd love to!" the little boy replied eagerly.
Boxes of decorations were taken out of storage. Delicate glass ornaments, many imported from Germany, were hung from the branches.
"Here's Father Christmas," Pamela said, careful to securely fasten it to the limb so that it would not fall off the tree and shatter.
A frown darkened Robby's usually cheerful countenance.
"What's wrong?"
"What if Father Christmas doesn't know how to find me? What if he thinks I'm still living in London? Will he leave my presents there?"
"What is all this foolish talk about London? You live here in Baron's Woods."
"I do now, but after the war is over ...."
"War or no war, you'll always live here with your mother."
"But my mother lives in London."
"Enough, Edward! I'm your mother!"
Robby was too young to understand the complexities of mental illness, but he did realize that something was not quite right with Pamela. She was not playacting; she honestly believed he was her deceased son.
And what about my real mother? he wondered, with a growing sense of foreboding. How come she hasn't written or come to visit me like she promised she would?
He tried to push the painful thoughts from his mind but with little success. What if something had happened to his mother? What if she was dead? Although he had grown to like Mrs. Wetherington, he did not love her as he did his true parent. Missing his mother and worried for her safety, Robby lost all interest in the tree and the upcoming holiday.
"Why aren't you helping me with the tree?" Pamela asked when she noticed the boy quietly staring out the window.
"I don't feel like it anymore."
"Perhaps you're coming down with something. You always seem to catch cold when the winter comes. I should have Nanny put you to bed."
Robby was going to remind the woman that he did not have a nanny, but he doubted it would do much good. She seemed to exist in a world infused with memories where reality had little meaning.
* * *
It was three days until Christmas, and Highgate Manor was filled with the sights, sounds and smells of the holiday. The scent of baking gingerbread from the kitchen blended with that of the fresh pine wreaths on the windows and the bayberry candles on the dining room table. In the parlor, Pamela turned the key of her mahogany Swiss music box to play her favorite Christmas tune, "Silent Night." Before the mechanism wound down, necessitating another winding, there was a knock on the door.
I wonder who that can be.
Normally, she would wait for the butler to answer, but an inner voice told her to do it herself. She walked out into the foyer, laying the heavy wooden music box on the table beside the door where once visitors to the manor left their calling cards. When the mistress of the house saw the young woman standing outside in the cold December weather, she tensed with apprehension.
"Are you Mrs. Wetherington?" the stranger asked.
"Yes. What do you want?"
"My name is Josie Eberle."
She waited for a sign of recognition, but there was none.
"I'm Robby's mother."
"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
"I was told you took my son in. He was evacuated here from London."
"I'm sorry but your information is incorrect. There's no child here."
"But I received a letter from Etta Ponsonby. She told me Robby was staying here with you at Highgate Manor."
"Are you calling me a liar?" Pamela asked haughtily.
"No. I just want to find my son, and this is the only address I was given."
"Well, I suggest you look elsewhere. I don't have him."
Josie stood open-mouthed with surprise as the door was closed in her face. Shivering from the cold, she walked back to town. Not sure where she could find Mrs. Ponsonby, she stopped at the village post office.
"I'm looking for Etta Ponsonby," she told the postal clerk. "She was in charge of the evacuees from London."
"Oh, yes, I remember her," the clerk said after several minutes of sorting through her memories. "She moved to Bristol a couple of months ago. Said she was going to take care of an invalid relative there."
"By chance, do you know who took over her responsibilities here?"
"No, but you might try talking to the headmaster of the school. Perhaps he can help you."
It was a short walk to the school, but in a dress, Josie's legs were exposed to the cold winds that blew. She would gladly have traded her stockings for a pair of warm trousers.
When she arrived at her destination, she quickly explained her situation to Mr. Stover, the headmaster.
"Technically, I suppose I'm in charge of the evacuations now that Etta has left," he said, "but there's nothing that needed to be done. The kids have already been placed, and we're just waiting for word when to send them back home."
"I'd like to know where my son is staying. The information I have is incorrect."
"I would assume yours is not the only such case. It was quite hectic down here when the trains arrived from London. I don't know how Etta managed to sort everything out. But I have all her records here in the storage room. I can search through them and hopefully straighten this mess out. What did you say your son's name was?"
"Robert Eberle, Jr."
"All right," Stover said, writing the name on a piece of paper. "Give me a day or two to look through the paperwork, and I'll let you know what I come up with. Where can I reach you?"
"I'd better get back to you. I have to find a place to stay."
"Here in Baron's Woods?"
"Yes. I'm certainly not going back to London until I learn what became of my son."
Late the following afternoon, the headmaster paid a call to Josie at the local inn.
"Did you find out where Robby is?" she asked anxiously.
"According to Etta Ponsonby's records, he's with Mrs. Pamela Wetherington at Highgate Manor."
"I went there and spoke to her. She swears he's not there, that she never took in any child from London."
"As I told you yesterday, Mrs. Eberle, things were hectic here when your son arrived. Mistakes were probably made in the records. Apparently your son was ... misplaced."
"Isn't there any way you can find out where he went?"
"I suppose I can question the people that live in and around Baron's Woods, but that will take some time. Maybe if you write to Mrs. Ponsonby, she might remember something that could help us find him sooner," the headmaster suggested.
"I can't wait for the post. I'll take a train to Bristol and speak to her in person."
* * *
Etta Ponsonby attended church services on Christmas Eve, praying, as most people in Britain did, for a speedy end to the war. As she walked back to her elderly aunt's house, her mind conjured up more pleasant images. A lover of Dickens, she imagined Bob Cratchit hurrying through the streets of London with Tiny Tim on his shoulder, crying "God bless us, everyone!" to the people they passed. Then she closed her eyes and imagined a Victorian Christmas with roasting chestnuts, plum pudding and rum punch. When she opened her eyes again, she saw a vaguely familiar figure a few yards ahead of her, opening her aunt's garden gate.
"Can I help you?" Etta asked as she caught up with the young woman at the front door.
"Mrs. Ponsonby. I don't know if you remember me. We met in London, at Waterloo Station."
"You're one of the mothers."
"Yes. My son is Robert Eberle."
"Of course! I thought you looked familiar. Why don't you come inside? You look like you're freezing to death."
Over a cup of hot tea, Josie explained her mission.
"I was hoping you might remember something that could help me find my son," she concluded.
"There was no mistake in the records. Pamela Wetherington came to the town hall, selected your son from the available children and took him home to Highgate Manor. When I left Baron's Woods, he was still living there with her."
"Why would she lie to me?"
Etta took a sip of her tea, unsure how to answer the anxious mother's question.
"What is it you're not telling me?" Josie asked, instinctively sensing something was amiss.
"Some years ago, Mrs. Wetherington lost her own son. He was about the same age as your boy is now."
"What happened to him?"
"He died in a boating accident, along with his father. At first, under the circumstances, I was hesitant to allow her take an evacuee home, but there were so many children that needed a place to stay! She was kind to your boy, gave him a good home. I didn't see any danger ...."
"What possible danger is Robby in?"
"I don't normally listen to gossip. People in small villages can come up with such ridiculous stories. Anyway, talk in Baron's Woods was that Pamela's husband had become romantically involved with his son's nanny, a pretty girl, quite a few years younger. Naturally, his wife was jealous. Again, this is all just speculation. There are no facts to support the story."
"Please go on."
"It's been hinted that Pamela caused the accident that took her husband's life."
"Deliberately killing her son as well?"
"No. Edward—that was his name—was supposed to be at home that day with the nanny. He went on the boat with his father without his mother's knowledge. I don't know for certain if Pamela had anything to do with her husband's death, but I do know she adored her little boy and would never knowingly have done anything to hurt him."
"Whether she intended to or not, she killed him. And now she has my son!"
Josie did not even take the time to finish her tea. She thanked Etta as she was putting on her coat and then ran from the house. Fortunately, the train station was only a few blocks away.
* * *
Pamela Wetherington kissed Robby goodnight and tucked him into bed.
"When you wake up, it will be Christmas morning. I can't wait to see what Father Christmas will bring you, Edward."
Once the light was turned out, tears came to the little boy's eyes as he thought about his mother. Was she looking down on him from heaven? Did she have a pair of gold wings, and was she dressed in a long, flowing white gown like the angel ornament on top of the Christmas tree?
Two hours later Pamela prepared for bed herself. She was humming "Silent Night" as she removed the heavy quilt and draped it over the rack. She was just about to climb into bed when she was suddenly startled by someone pounding on her front door. There was no need for her to wonder who the caller was; she already knew.
"Damn her!" she swore beneath her breath. "Damn, damn, damn!"
She grabbed her robe and was putting her arms through the sleeves as she headed down the stairs toward the foyer.
"I'll get it, Ma'am," the butler said.
"Go to bed; I'll see to her myself!" she ordered, not bothering to speak to her servant courteously.
"I demand to see my son!" Josie Eberle exclaimed when the door was opened.
"I already told you, he's not ...."
The irate mother pushed past Pamela, calling out her child's name.
"Robby! Where are you? It's me: Mummy."
"How dare you?" Pamela shouted. "Do you think you can come into my home and destroy my family?"
"I want my son!"
As Josie took her first steps toward the grand staircase that led to the upstairs bedrooms, Pamela Wetherington spied the Swiss music box still on the hallway table. In a fit of insane rage, she picked it up and brought the heavy wooden box down on the other woman's head, viciously raining blows until Josie Eberle's skull was crushed.
* * *
The early morning sun shining through his window woke up Robby Eberle.
It's Christmas, he thought, but the realization brought him little joy.
"If you're up there, Mummy," he said, his eyes gazing at the ceiling, "have a Merry Christmas."
After dressing, he went downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Tandy, the cook, had not prepared breakfast. He assumed it being a holiday that she was given the day off.
"Is that you, Edward?" Pamela called from the parlor.
Robby did not answer.
"Come and open your presents."
Curious, he walked into the parlor. His eyes went first to the wrapped packages beneath the decorated Christmas tree. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that someone was sitting in a chair behind him. He turned and saw his mother. As he had feared, she was dead, but she was not dressed as an angel. Instead, she wore a navy blue uniform that once belonged to Edward's nanny. Across the room, placed on the sofa, was the butler, also murdered, who was dressed in his former master's clothes.
"Isn't this nice, Edward?" Pamela Wetherington asked shrilly, the madness having completely overtaken her. "The whole family is going to celebrate Christmas together, just like we used to."
Robby Eberle was too young to appreciate the cruel irony that he had been evacuated from London for his safety, yet the danger that existed in Baron's Woods presented more of a threat to him than the German bombing raids. A madwoman had taken his mother's life and hoped to hold him prisoner in her clutches in the mistaken belief that she was acting out of maternal love rather than insanity and possessiveness.
Okay. I admit it. Back in '39, I tried to send Salem away during Operation Pied Piper. Unfortunately, when I got back to Massachusetts from London, he was waiting at the saltbox with his suitcase!
