An Incomplete Revenge

IN HER FIFTH OUTING, MAISIE DOBBS, THE EXTRAORDINARY PSYCHOLOGIST AND INVESTIGATOR, DELVES INTO A STRANGE SERIES OF CRIMES IN A SMALL RURAL COMMUNITY.

With the country in the grip of economic malaise, and worried about her business, Maisie Dobbs is relieved to accept an apparently straightforward assignment from an old friend to investigate certain matters concerning a potential land purchase. Her inquiries take her to a picturesque village in Kent during the hop-picking season, but beneath its pastoral surface she finds evidence that something is amiss. Mysterious fires erupt in the village with alarming regularity, and a series of petty crimes suggests a darker criminal element at work. As Maisie discovers, the villagers are bitterly prejudiced against outsiders who flock to Kent at harvesttime—even more troubling, they seem possessed by the legacy of a wartime Zeppelin raid. Maisie grows increasingly suspicious of a peculiar secrecy that shrouds the village, and ultimately she must draw on all her finely honed skills of detection to solve one of her most intriguing cases.

Rich with Jacqueline Winspear’s trade-mark period detail, this latest installment of the bestselling series is gripping, atmospheric, and utterly enthralling.

Also by Jacqueline Winspear

Maisie Dobbs

Birds of a Feather

Pardonable Lies

Messenger of Truth

AN INCOMPLETE REVENGE

AN INCOMPLETE REVENGE

A Maisie Dobbs Novel

JACQUELINE WINSPEAR

Henry Holt and Company, LLC

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of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

Copyright © 2008 by Jacqueline Winspear

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Distributed in Canada by H. B. Fenn and Company Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Winspear, Jacqueline, 1955-

An incomplete revenge : a Maisie Dobbs novel / Jacqueline Winspear.—1st ed. p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-8050-8215-9

ISBN-10: 0-8050-8215-8

1. Dobbs, Maisie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—England—London—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—George V, 1910-1936—Fiction. 4. Kent (England)—Fiction. 5. City and town life—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6123.1575153 2008

823’92—dc22 2007040639

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First Edition 2008

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Dedicated to my parents,

Albert and Joyce Winspear

With All My Love

“Of all the gifts that people can give to one another,

the most meaningful and long lasting are

strong but simple love and the gift of story.”

Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D., The Gift of Story:

A Wise Tale About What Is Enough

If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.

—Niccolò Machiavelli (1469-1527)

There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness.

—Josh Billings, US. humorist (1818-1885)

AN INCOMPLETE REVENGE

PROLOGUE

Early September 1931

The old woman rested on the steps of her home, a caravan set apart from those of the rest of her family, her tribe. She pulled a clay pipe from her pocket, inspected the dregs of tobacco in the small barrel, shrugged, and struck a match against the rim of a water butt tied to the side of her traveling home. She lit the pipe with ease, clamping her ridged lips around the end of the long stem to draw vigor from the almost-spent contents. A lurcher lay at the foot of the steps, seeming at first to be asleep, though the old woman knew that one ear was cocked to the wind, one eye open and watching her every move.

Aunt Beulah Webb—that was the name she was known by, for an older gypsy woman was always known as aunt to those younger—sucked on her pipe and squinted as she surveyed the nearby fields, then cast her eyes to the hop-gardens beyond. The hops would be hanging heavy on the bine by now, rows upon rows of dark-green, spice-aroma’d swags, waiting to be harvested, picked by the nimble hands of men, women and children alike, most of whom came from London for a working late-summer holiday. Others were gypsies like herself, and the rest were gorja from the surrounding villages. Gorja. More house dwellers, more who were not gypsies.

Her people kept themselves to themselves, went about their business without inviting trouble. Aunt Beulah hoped the diddakoi families kept away from the farm this year. A Roma would trust anyone before a diddakoi—before the half-bred people who were born of gypsy and gorja. As far as she was concerned, they looked for trouble, expected it. They were forgetting the old ways, and there were those among them who left the dregs of their life behind them when they moved on, their caravans towed by bone-shaker lorries, not horses. The woman looked across at the caravan of the one she herself simply called Webb. Her son. Of course, her son’s baby daughter, Boosul, was a diddakoi, by rights, though with her shock of ebony hair and pebble-black eyes, she favored Roma through and through.

About her business in the morning, Beulah brought four tin bowls from underneath the caravan—underneath the vardo in the gypsy tongue. One bowl was used to wash tools used in the business of eating, one for the laundering of clothes, one for water that touched her body, and another for the cleaning of her vardo. It was only when she had completed those tasks, fetching dead wood from the forest for the fire to heat the water, that she finally placed an enamel kettle among the glowing embers and waited for it to boil for tea. Uneasy unless working, Beulah bound bunches of Michaelmas daisies to sell door to door, then set them in a basket and climbed back into her vardo.

She knew the village gorja, those out about their errands, would turn their backs when they saw her on the street, would glance away from her black eyes and dark skin now rippled with age. They would look aside so as not to stare at her gold hoop earrings, the scarf around her head, and the wide gathered skirt of thread-bare deep-purple wool that marked her as a gypsy. Sometimes children would taunt.

“Where are you going, pikey? Can’t you hear, you old gyppo woman?’

But she would only have to stare, perhaps point a charcoal-blackened finger, and utter words in dialect that came from deep in the throat, a low grumble of language that could strike fear into the bravest bully—and they would be gone.

Women were the first to turn away, though there were always a few—enough to make it worth her while—who would come to the door at her knock, press a penny into her outstretched hand, and take a bunch of the daisies with speed lest their fingers touch her skin. Beulah smiled. She would see them again soon enough. When dusk fell, a twig would snap underfoot as a visitor approached her vardo with care. The lurcher would look up, a bottomless growl rumbling in her gullet. Beulah would reach down and place her hand on the dog’s head, whispering, “Shhhh,jook” She would wait until the steps were closer, until she could hold the lurcher no longer, and then would call out, “Who’s there?” And, after a second or two, a voice, perhaps timid, would reply, “I’ve come for my fortune.”

Beulah would smile as she uncovered the glass sphere she’d brought out and set on the table at eventide, waiting.

Not that a ball made of a bit of glass had anything to do with it, yet that was what was expected. The gypsy might not have been an educated woman, but she knew what sold. She didn’t need glass, or crystal, a bit of amethyst, a cup of still-wet tea leaves, or a rabbit’s foot to see, either. No, those knickknacks were for the customers, for those who needed to witness her using something solid, because the thought of her seeing pictures of what was to come in thin air would be enough to send them running. And you never scared away money.

Beulah heard a squeal from the tent that leaned against her son’s vardo, little Boosul waking from sleep. Her people were stirring, coming out to light fires, to make ready for the day. True gypsies never slept in their spotless vardos, with shining brass and wafer-thin china hanging from the walls. Like Beulah, they lived in tents, hardy canvas tied across a frame of birch or ash. The vardos were kept for best. Beulah looked up to the rising sun, then again at the fields as the steamy mist of warming dew rose to greet the day. She didn’t care for the people of this village, Heronsdene. She saw the dark shadow that enveloped each man and woman and trailed along, weighing them down as they went about their daily round. There were ghosts in this village—ghosts who would allow the neighbors no rest.

AS SHE REACHED down to pour scalding water into the teapot, the old woman’s face concertina’d as a throbbing pain and bright light bore down upon her with no warning, a sensation with which she was well familiar. She dropped the kettle back into the embers and pressed her bony knuckles hard against her skull, squeezing her eyes shut against flames that licked up behind her closed eyelids. Fire. Again. She fought for breath, the heat rising up around her feet to her waist, making her old legs sweat, her hands clammy. And once more she came to Beulah, walking out from the very heart of the inferno, the younger woman she had not yet met but knew would soon come. It would not be long now; the time approached—of that she was sure. The woman was tall and well dressed, with black hair—not long hair, but not as short as she’d seen on some of the gorja womenfolk in recent years. Beulah leaned against the vardo, the lurcher coming to stand at her mistress’s side as if to offer her lean body as buttress. This woman, who walked amid the flames of Beulah’s imagination, had known sadness, had lived with death. And though she now stepped forward alone, the grief was lifting—Beulah could see it ascending like the morning cloud, rising up to leave her in peace. She was strong, this woman of her dreams, and . . . Beulah shook her head. The vision was fading; the woman had turned away from her, back into the flames, and was gone.

The gypsy matriarch held one hand against her forehead, still leaning against her vardo. She opened her eyes with care and looked about her. Only seconds had passed, yet she had seen enough to know that a time of great trouble was almost upon her. She believed the woman—the woman for whom she waited—would be her ally, though she could not be sure. She was sure of three things, though—that the end of her days drew ever closer, that before she breathed her last, a woman she had never seen in her life would come to her, and that this woman, even though she might think of herself as ordinary, of little account in the wider world, still followed Death as he made his rounds. That was her calling, her work, what she was descended of gorja and gypsy to do. And Beulah Webb knew that here, in this place called Heronsdene, Death would walk among them soon enough, and there was nothing she could do to prevent such fate. She could only do her best to protect her people.

The sun was higher in the sky now. The gypsy folk would bide their time for three more days, then move to a clearing at the edge of the farm, setting their vardos and pitching their tents away from Londoners, who came for the picking to live in whitewashed hopper huts and sing their bawdy songs around the fire at night. And though she would go about her business, Beulah would be waiting—waiting for the woman with her modern clothes and her tidy hair. Waiting for the woman whose sight, she knew, was as powerful as her own.

ONE

Marta Jones surveyed her students, casting her eyes around the studio, with its high ceilings and skeins upon skeins of colored yarn hanging from laundry racks raised up with pulleys and secured on the wall, and the six wooden looms pressed against one another, for space was at a premium. Her desk—a battered oak table set next to the door—was covered in papers, books and drawings, and to her right, as she faced her class, an ancient chaise longue was draped with an old red velvet counterpane to hide darnings and tears in the upholstery. Several spinning wheels were set against the wall to the left of the room, alongside a box where she kept wool collected on Sunday excursions into the country. Of course, she ordered untreated wool directly from her suppliers, but she liked to collect tufts from the hedgerows, where sheep had pressed against hawthorn or bramble to ease an itch and left behind a goodly pull of their coats.

She had taken on students with some reluctance. Even though the rent on her studio close to the Albert Hall was cheap enough due to an ancient land law that provided for artists, her commissions had diminished and she was forced to look for additional income. So she had placed one small advertisement in the newspaper, and written to those who had purchased her works in the past, to let them know that she was taking in a “small number of students to learn the art and craft of traditional tapestry.” In general, her students were a motley group and definitely better off; the working classes could barely afford to eat, let alone spend money on frivolities. There were two ladies from Belgravia who thought it might be “rather fun” to spend a Saturday afternoon or evening here each week, chatting as they worked their shuttles back and forth, following the sketched cartoon image that lay beneath the lines of warp and weft.

Another two friends, well-funded students from the Slade seeking a class beyond their regular curriculum, had joined, as had a poet who thought that work in color would enhance the rhythm and pulse of his language. Then there was the woman who spoke little but who had come to Marta’s studio after seeing the advertisement. Watching her now, the artist was fascinated by this particular student, drawn to the changes she had observed since class began. The woman had explained that she had recently been exposed to the world of art—she said it as if it were an unfamiliar country—and that she wanted to do “something artistic,” as her work was far removed from such indulgence. She had smiled and gone on to say that she had never produced a proper painting, even as a child, and she thought she could not sketch at all, but she was drawn to tapestry, attracted to the weaving of color and texture, to a medium that did not present an immediate image but, when one stood back to regard the day’s endeavor, a picture began to take form. “It’s rather like my work,” she had said. And when Marta asked about the woman’s profession, she paused for a moment and then drew out a card, which she offered to the artist. It said, simply:

MAISIE DOBBS

PSYCHOLOGIST AND INVESTIGATOR

Marta thought that this one evening each week was the woman’s only recreation, but with each class, something about her seemed to change almost imperceptibly, though the artist found the effect to be quite extraordinary. Her clothes had become more colorful, her artistry more bold as she gained confidence. On the evening when they had experimented with dyeing, taking the yarns they had spun during the previous week, pressing them down into buckets of dye, and then pulling them out to hang first over sinks in the studio’s own scullery before looping them over laundry racks to dry, she had rolled up her sleeves and simply laughed when color splashed across her face. The Belgravia matrons had frowned and the poet appeared shy, but soon this woman, who had appeared so reticent at first, so slow and measured in her interactions with fellow students, had come to be the lynchpin in the class—without saying much at all. And, Marta thought, she was very good at drawing out stories. Why, only today, while Maisie worked at her loom, her fingers nimble as she wove threads of purple, magenta and yellow, she had asked the teacher but two questions and soon knew the entire story of the woman’s coming to England from Poland as a child. In fact, as she answered the questions that Maisie Dobbs put to her, the whole class knew in short order that Marta’s father had insisted that his children learn only English, so that they would fit in and not be marked as foreigners. And her mother had ensured the family dressed in a way that did not set them apart from their new friends, who knew them as the Jones family—that most British of names, adopted as they disembarked from their ship once it had docked at Southampton.

Marta smiled, as she watched Maisie Dobbs work at her loom, and picked up her card again, PSYCHOLOGIST AND INVESTIGATOR. Yes, she must be very good at her trade, this woman who had, without any effort at all, encouraged six people to tell her far more about themselves than they would ever imagine recounting—and all without revealing much about herself, except that she was newly drawn to color.

JAMES COMPTON WALKED at a brisk pace past the Albert Hall, taking advantage of the warm September evening. As his right-hand man in Toronto would have said, he had a head of steam on him, frustration with a land purchase that had proved to be fraught with problems. He did not even care to be in London again, though the thought of returning had at first seemed filled with promise. But the Compton family mansion at Ebury Place had been mothballed, and staying at his father’s club and spending each evening with crusty old men languishing amid tales of doom regarding the economy and reminiscences that began with “In my day . . .” was not his idea of fun.

Of course, life in the city of Toronto was not all beer and skittles—after all, he had a corporation with diversified interests to run—but there was sailing on the lake and skiing in Vermont, across the border, to look forward to. And the cold was different—it didn’t seep into his war wounds the way it did here. He thought of men he’d seen at the labor exchanges, or soup kitchens, or simply walking miles across London each day in search of work, many of them limping, wounds nagging their memories each day, like scabs being picked raw.

But Toronto might have to wait for him a bit longer. Lord Julian Compton, his father, wanted to relinquish more responsibility and was already talking of having James step up to replace him as chairman of the Compton Corporation. And that wasn’t all that was bothering him, as he glanced at the scrap of paper upon which he had scribbled the address given to him by Maisie Dobbs during their conversation this morning. His mother, Maisie’s former employer and longtime supporter, had always encouraged her husband and son to direct any suitable business in Maisie’s direction if possible, so she was the first person he’d thought to telephone when a property transaction began showing signs that it might become troublesome.

“Goddammit!” said James, as he thought of his father’s office in the City once again.

“James!”

James Compton looked up, frowning, then smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he saw Maisie waving from the other side of the road. He crumpled the paper and pushed it into his jacket pocket as he walked across to greet her. “Maisie Dobbs! I was so lost in thought I almost walked straight past!” He paused as she offered him her hand. “Maisie, what on earth have you been doing?”

Maisie regarded her hands, then reached into her shoulder bag and brought out her gloves. “It’s dye. I couldn’t get it out of my hands and should have put on my gloves immediately—but I can’t do much about the splashes on my cheek until I get home.” She looked into the eyes of her former employer’s son, then reached out to touch his arm. “How are you, James?”

He shrugged. “Well, the engagement’s off, that’s the first bit of news for you. And as you know, I’m here in England on business—duty calls at the Compton Corporation’s London office.” James consulted his watch. “Look, Maisie, I know I said this wouldn’t take much more time than it would to drink a cup of tea, but I am starving, and I wonder—do you have time for a spot of supper? I’ve been wrangling—”

“Wrangling?”

“Excuse me, I forgot where I was. Let me start again. I’ve been considering—worrying about, to tell you the truth—this business transaction I mentioned, and I’ve not eaten a thing all day.”

“Well, we’d better do something about that, hadn’t we? I’m rather hungry myself.”

James turned and signaled a taxi-cab. “Come on, let’s go to a charming little Italian dining room I know—just around the corner from Exhibition Row.”

“YOU LOOK DIFFERENT, Maisie.” James Compton reached for a bread roll, pulled it apart, and spread one quarter with a thick layer of butter.

“The dye has that effect.” Maisie grinned, looking up from the menu. “You haven’t changed a bit, James.”

“Well, the blond hair has a bit of gray at the sides, but thank heavens it doesn’t show much. If I can still walk as upright as my father when I reach his age, I will be more than grateful.” He poured a glass of Chianti and leaned back. “You seem more . . . I don’t know, sort of . . . lighter.”

“I assure you I am not.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. It’s your demeanor. You seem lighter within yourself, as our Mrs. Crawford would have said.” He looked at Maisie, her black hair, cut just above the shoulders to run parallel with the line of her chin, her fringe brushing against black eyebrows that seemed to deepen her violet-blue eyes. She wore a mid-calf-length wool barathea skirt in a rich purple hue, with a red blouse and blue coat—clearly old but well maintained—that draped to mid-thigh. Her shoes, with a single strap buttoned at the side, were of plain black leather. A silver nurse’s watch was pinned to her lapel.

“Oh, Mrs. Crawford. What will you do for gingersnaps, James, now that your favorite cook has retired?”

James laughed, and for some minutes they spoke of the past, neither shying from the loss of Enid, Maisie’s fellow servant at the Compton household so many years past, a young woman who had been in love with James and whom he had loved in return. Enid died in an explosion at the munitions factory where she worked, in 1915.

“So, tell me how I can help you.” Maisie glanced at her watch as she directed the conversation to the reason for their meeting. She did not want to make a late return to her flat in Pimlico, for her day’s work was not yet done.

As they ate supper, James described the business transaction that was giving him so much trouble and for which he had seen an opportunity to seek her help.

“There’s a large estate down in Kent that I want to buy, on the outskirts of a village called Heronsdene. It’s about ten or so miles from Tunbridge Wells—and not that far from Chelstone, actually. The estate is pretty similar to many of its kind in Kent—you know what I mean: a large manor house, Georgian in this case, tenant farmers to manage the land, hunting privileges. But this property has something I’m particularly interested in—a brickworks. It’s a small concern. Produces the sort of bricks used in those pseudo-posh neo-Tudor affairs they’re building in the new London suburbia. And they manufacture old-fashioned peg tiles for repair of the older buildings you see all over Kent and Sussex.”

Maisie set down her knife and fork, reaching for her table napkin. “And you’re interested in the brickworks because there’s a building boom despite all indications that the economy isn’t showing signs of improvement.”

“That’s right. Now is the time to buy, ready to make a mint when we’re on an even keel, even sooner if output can be improved.” James pulled a silver cigarette case from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Mind?’

Maisie shook her head.

James continued. “So, despite Ramsay MacDonald being pressed to form a National Government to get us through this mess, and well-founded talk of Britain going off the gold standard any day now, there’s still room for optimism—and I want to move ahead soon.”

“So what’s stopping you, and how can I help?” Maisie waved a hand in front of her face as diplomatically as possible to ward off smoke from James’s cigarette.

“I have my doubts about the landowner, a man called Alfred Sandermere. He’s the younger son but became heir to the estate when his brother, Henry, was killed in the war. I knew Henry, by the way—good chap, excellent man—but the brother has done nothing but draw funds from the estate, leaving it on the verge of bankruptcy—which of course means I get value for my money. It’s essentially a fire sale.”

“And?”

James Compton extinguished his cigarette, pressing it into a glass ashtray which he then set to one side, away from Maisie. “There’s been some funny business going on down there, and if there is one thing the Compton Corporation likes, it’s a clean transaction. We may move fast in circumstances such as these, but we don’t get our hands dirty.”

“What’s been going on?”

“Mainly what appears to be petty crime. There’s been vandalism at the house and at the brickworks. The farmers haven’t reported anything amiss, and the villagers—many of whom are employed at the brickworks—are keeping quiet about it.”

Maisie frowned. “That’s not unusual. You are talking about rural Kent, after all.”

“No, this is different. The locals have been almost silent, no one hurrying to point the finger. And you know how unusual that is, especially when there are diddakoi in the area.”

“Diddakoi or Roma? They’re different, James.”

“Alright, people who travel with caravans. Doesn’t matter what they are, the locals are always pretty quick to blame them for all manner of ills—either them or the Londoners.”

Maisie nodded, understanding. “Hop-pickers?”

“Last year, yes. Of course, the police from Tunbridge Wells couldn’t do much; they tend to let the villages just get on with it. And it’s not as if there was any lasting damage. But I don’t like these reports, Maisie. If we move on this, I have to ensure that the brickworks is at maximum output from the first day of ownership. We’ll expand from there. And given the dependence upon local labor, goodwill and no vandalism are of the essence. Of course, the tenant farmers will remain as such, no plans to change that arrangement.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to look into matters, find out if there’s anything amiss locally that would affect our purchase of the Sandermere estate. You have three weeks—perhaps a month—to compile your report. That’s all the time I have now, and it’s not much where property of this kind is concerned.” He poured more wine for himself, setting the bottle back on the table when Maisie shook her head and rested her hand to cover the top of her glass. “I know it’s not the sort of case you’re used to,” he continued, “but you were the first person I thought to call.”

Maisie nodded, lifting her glass of Chianti to her lips. She sipped the wine, then put down her glass with one hand as she reached for her shoulder bag and took out a small writing pad with the other. She made several notations, then circled a number before tearing off the sheet and passing it to her supper companion. “I assume my fee is acceptable to you.” It was a statement, not a question.

James Compton smiled. “There’s another thing that’s changed, Miss Maisie Dobbs. I do believe you’ve become a canny business proprietor.”

Maisie inclined her head, as James took a checkbook from his pocket. “An advance against expenses.” He scribbled across the check and passed it to Maisie. “You’ll have your work cut out for you. Hop-picking’s about to start, and the place will be teeming with outsiders.”

The investigator nodded. “Then it’s the perfect time, James, the perfect time. We’ll have your report ready in a month—at the latest.”

LATER, AT HER flat in Pimlico, as Maisie sat in her favorite armchair looking at the check, she breathed a sigh of relief. Business was still ticking along but wasn’t as brisk as it had been. The summer had been slow, and she was grateful that her assistant, Billy Beale, was planning to take two weeks’ holiday to go hop-picking himself—it was, after all, a tradition among East Enders. She wouldn’t have to pay his wages for those weeks, and at least he’d be earning money and taking a break from the Smoke—the streets of London—and getting his wife and boys away to the country. They needed it, for the family was still grieving for young Lizzie Beale, who had been lost to diphtheria at the beginning of the year. Yes, James had come along at the right moment, the answer to a prayer. In fact, one of the reasons she had indulged in Marta Jones’s class, was to do something different and not fret about a certain lack of custom for her business. To balance the expenditure, she’d even minimized use of her MG, understanding the importance of frugality in uncertain times. And she could never forget she had the mortgage on her flat to consider.

Yet, despite the pressures of being a sole proprietor, Maisie knew that the curtain of darkness from her past was lifting. Not that she forgot, not that she didn’t still have nightmares or close her eyes and see images from the war in stark relief. But it was as if she were on firmer ground, and not at the mercy of memory’s quicksand.

She checked her watch, marked the file of notes that now rested on her lap, and made ready to go to bed. As she reached for the cord to close the blinds, she remembered a dream she’d had twice this week. Dreams that came more than once demanded attention, and even though this was not a fearful dream, she reflected on it and wondered what it might mean. She had been walking through a forest and came upon a clearing bathed in shards of light splintering through the trees. As she walked into the clearing, she saw the still-enflamed embers of a fire, yet there was no one there, no traveler or tramp claiming a home for the night. There was only a loosely tied bunch of Michaelmas daisies set aside upon a fallen tree.

TWO

Maisie Dobbs sat alongside Billy Beale at the table in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the one-room office in Fitzroy Square. There had been a pause in their conversation, during which documents were passed back and forth, along with a page of notes sent by messenger from the office of James Compton.

“So, what you want me to do, Miss, is to recce this village to get the lay of the land and let you know what’s going on.”

“Yes, in the first instance. You’ll fit in nicely, being one of the London hoppers, down for the picking.”

“Well, that’s all very well, but we’ve been taken on by a farmer a few miles away, not this one. You can’t just up and get work at any old farm, not for the ’oppin’; it don’t work like that.”

Maisie turned to Billy. “Oh, dear. Would you explain to me how it works, then?”

Billy leaned forward and began to scribble a diagram onto a length of wallpaper pinned to the table. These offcuts, from a painter and decorator friend of Billy’s, were reversed to form a background for each new assignment’s case map, a diagram created with colored pencils upon which Maisie and Billy set down hunches, clues, information and any other points that might help them usher an investigation to its close. Thus far this length of paper had remained untouched.

“You register with a farmer, one who knows you, usually at the end of pickin’ the year before. My family’s been goin’ down ’oppin’ since before my grandfather was a boy. The farmer knows which families ’e wants back, the good workers. Then, in spring or thereabouts, you get your brown envelope, with a letter telling you to come on such and such a date for the ’oppin’ and that you’ll get your hut to live in. So when you get on the train, with all your family and everything from yer sheets down to the tin kettle, you know you’ve got work and a roof over yer ’ead.”

Maisie was silent for a moment. “Do you know anyone going to”—she paused to consult her notes—”Dickon’s Farm on the Sandermere Estate? Couldn’t you sort of swap with another family?”

Billy shook his head. “No, I don’t know anyone goin’ to Dickon’s Farm, not off the top of me noddle.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “But you know what I’ll do, I’ll ’ave a word with a few blokes I know, see if it can be done. It ain’t normal, though. The farmers don’t like messin’ about with their allocations.”

“Good man.” Maisie smiled and reached for a file. “Look at this, just like the number twelve bus—none for ages, then three, one after the other. It never rains but it pours, and about time too!”

“More work comin’ in?”

“Yes. I came back to the office yesterday evening and there were two postcards and a telegram, all with jobs for us. I’ve set appointments with the new clients already. There’s nothing huge, but it’s a good sign and means that, along with my private clients, the business will go along nicely for us, probably right up to Christmas.”

“You were worried there for a bit, weren’t you, Miss?”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, just a bit.” She flipped open the Compton file again. “Billy, I’m anxious to have my planning for this case settled, so here’s what I’d like you to do today—after you’ve completed the notes on the Jacobsen case so I can send our report and issue an invoice. I want you to find out if you can get onto the Sandermere estate as soon as you can.” She paused. “I won’t have this case eat into your holiday time, and I’ll obviously pay you for the work you do while you’re down there, so keep a good record of your hours. I just want you to give me initial impressions, based on James Compton’s concerns. Then I really want an in for myself—you might find me picking hops with the Beales, if I have to.”

Billy laughed. “Miss, I can’t get over it—you a Londoner and never been down to Kent pickin’ ’ops.”

Once Maisie might have nipped such informality in the bud and not encouraged frivolous repartee on a working morning, but since she had known Billy, they had seen much together—not least during their first brief meeting, when he was brought into the casualty clearing station in France where she was working as a nurse in 1916. Her first love, a young army doctor, Simon Lynch, had saved Billy’s life, and the man who was now her assistant had never forgotten either of them. Billy’s life intersected with Maisie’s again when she rented an office on Warren Street where he was caretaker—he had recognized her immediately. After he’d helped her on a significant case, she asked him to become her assistant, a role he gratefully accepted. Now there was an ease in their relationship, though the occasional joke on Billy’s part never slipped into overfamiliarity.

“No, I never went down ’oppin’, Billy, though my father picked hops when he was a boy. Of course, I’ve seen them growing, seen the men out stringing for the bines to grow up and the women banding-in and training the shoots along the strings in late spring. But I know nothing about the actual business of hop-picking.” She paused, remembering. “Instead, we used to spend a week in the summer with my mother’s parents, when they lived near Marlow. Granddad was a lockkeeper. He’d been a lighterman on the Thames for years, but my grandmother yearned to be out of the city, and because they both wanted to be near the water he went to work on the waterways eventually—you couldn’t keep him away from that river, even when he should have been retired.”

“And your grannie? A Londoner, was she?”

Maisie shook her head. “Oh, no, she was a different kettle of fish altogether.” She changed the subject, taking up a sheet of paper. “Now then, after a bit of a lull, thank heavens we’ve some real work to do.”

BILLY AND HIS family left London at the weekend, on one of the trains known as a Hoppers’ Special. He had managed to effect an exchange of farm employment with another man and his family and, following a swift back-and-forth of postcards and telegrams between the men and the farmers concerned, the Beales were now ensconced in a one-room hopper hut on Dickon’s Farm. For her part, Maisie turned to assessing the case in greater detail.

James Compton’s notes included a map of the estate, a significant acreage set amid the swath of land known as the Weald of Kent. Heronsdene neighbored the estate at its southern edge, where the village met the perimeter of Dickon’s Farm, which Tom Dickon had inherited from his father, and his father before him. And so it went, down through the centuries. Thanks to long leases that were all but untouchable, the farmer considered the land his own, to be kept in the family.

The brickworks was to the east of Dickon’s Farm and, as James had said, was doing well. More information on Alfred Sandermere was included, together with a photograph. Not very flattering, thought Maisie, as she sized up a man of perhaps thirty or thirty-one. He seemed quite ordinary, though she did not care for his eyes, which were narrowed, bridged by thin eyebrows and swept-back hair with an overabundance of oil—the photograph revealed an unfortunate shine indicating as much. His lips drew back across his teeth as he smiled for the camera, and Maisie noticed that he held a half-smoked cigar in his hand. Nothing unusual there. However, she thought it unseemly, and there was something about his slouch that suggested arrogance and cynicism. She knew she would have to meet Sandermere at some point and did not look forward to making his acquaintance.

A list of crimes committed in the area during the past three years seemed somewhat long, especially those against the estate’s property. Broken windows at the brickworks, theft of tools, a fire in the stables—fortunately neither horses nor grooms were lost. Maisie noticed that a number of the incidents occurred in mid-September of each year, at the time when villagers were outnumbered by Londoners and, of course, a smaller number of gypsies. Mind you, that didn’t mean a thing. As James himself had noted, visitors were often a convenient scapegoat for locals with crime in mind.

A shorter note pointed to small fires that occurred in the village itself, again during September. There was no indication either of complaints by the villagers or of the source of such events. Billy had commented on the fires, saying, “Perhaps it’s all a coincidence, Miss,” to which they had then said, in unison, “Coincidence is a messenger sent by truth.”

The words of Maisie’s mentor and former employer, the noted psychologist, philosopher and expert in forensic science, Dr. Maurice Blanche, were quoted time and time again, though a serious rent in the fabric of the relationship between Maisie and her teacher was far from healed, despite their occasional brief conversations. It was just one year earlier, in France, that Maisie had come to understand the depth of Maurice’s covert activities during the war. She took his secretiveness, along with his seeming interference in a case, to be evidence of a lack of trust toward her, and a fierce row had taken place. Maisie had suffered a breakdown of sorts during her visit to France, a deep malaise brought on by unacknowledged shell shock. Though the chasm between Maurice and Maisie had caused her to become more independent of him, fashioning the business as she would have it rather than as she inherited it, there were times when she missed his counsel. But the events of last year remained unresolved.

Maisie wrote the word Fire on the case map. There was something about even the smallest fire that was more unsettling than other crimes of a similar caliber. The match idly thrown on tinder can become an all-consuming blaze, while sparks ignored can envelop a mansion if left unchecked. And flame ignited for the sake of malicious damage strikes at the very heart of individual and collective fear, for isn’t fire the place where the devil resides?

TO ADD TO a minor but growing unease concerning the case, Maisie wondered about the commission from James Compton. Was it his mother, Lady Rowan Compton, original supporter and sponsor of her education, who had suggested he contact her regarding this latest purchase of land? Fiercely independent, Maisie had long been both heartened and uncomfortable with the former suffragette’s patronage. Certainly the gulf between their respective stations contributed to her feelings, although people were generally pressed to place Maisie when it came to conversation, for she was more often taken for a clergyman’s daughter than for the offspring of a Lambeth costermonger. But Frankie Dobbs no longer sold vegetables from his horse-drawn barrow. Instead, he had lived at Chelstone since the war, when Lady Rowan’s grooms enlisted and he was brought in to tend the horses, a job that was still his, along with a tied cottage.

Maisie decided simply to get on with the work, rather than troubling herself with considerations of its origin. She pressed on with her notes, disturbed only when the black telephone on her desk began to ring. At first, she looked at the instrument without answering, wondering who might be calling; after all, most people still sent letters, postcards and telegrams with their news, requests and demands. She reached for the receiver.

“Fitzroy five—”

“Oh, Lord, Maisie, I don’t need you to recite the number, I’ve just bloody dialed the thing.”

“Priscilla! Where are you?” Maisie stood up to speak to her old friend.

“I’m in London, having finally settled—and I use that word loosely—my three toads into their new school. We thought long and hard about it, Maisie, and we’re still wondering if we’ve done the right thing—they’ve had such a wild sort of life in Biarritz. But they do need a bit of discipline, or heaven knows what sort of men they’ll become. And having just had a long meeting with the headmaster—my dear eldest has already been in a scrap, coming to the defense of his brother—I am sorely in need of a gin and tonic. Care to join me? I’m at the Dorchester.”

“The Dorchester?”

“Yes, it’s my new quest, to try each new London hotel in turn. This one has been open for six months and is quite spectacular—a telephone in every room, no less. I might well cease my exploration here and now. I’m quite enjoying this, a perfect way to end a day during which I’ve had to bang heads together. Not literally, you understand, though if I’d had five minutes with them on their own. . . .”

Maisie looked at her watch. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I just have to complete a couple of tasks here at the office, and I must nip home and change. Shall I see you at half-past six?”

“Lovely. You do that and I’ll go and complete the task of languishing in a hot bath to ward off the desire for a slug of mother’s ruin.”

“See you then.”

Maisie hurriedly finished her work and was about to leave the office when a postcard arrived via special delivery It was from Billy.Dear Miss,

You must come to thefarm. Urgent.

Telephone you Tuesday from the kiosk up the road. Eight.

Billy.

Maisie tapped the card against the palm of her left hand. It’s Tuesday today. She looked at her watch. An hour or so with Priscilla would be plenty of time for them to catch up with their news, so she could easily return to the office in time for the telephone call. She knew Billy well enough to understand that he would not be sending such a card unless the situation really was urgent. And according to the map supplied by James Compton, the telephone kiosk was a fair walk from the farm, closer to the next village, and could hardly be described as just up the road. Indeed, it would be a fair jaunt at the end of a hard working day.

WHENEVER MAISIE WENT anywhere to meet Priscilla, she only had to find a knot of people to locate her friend’s exact whereabouts. It wasn’t that Priscilla invited conversation, or even knew those around her, but people gravitated toward her, perhaps standing close while speaking with a colleague or waiting for a guest. This evening was no exception, with Priscilla seated in the bar sipping a cocktail and a clutch of guests close to her, each one stealing an occasional glance in her direction.

Priscilla was wearing evening dress, a garment possibly more suited to an al fresco dinner at her home in France. A cream tunic with a wide sash at the hip drew attention to her fashionably tanned skin, and wide navy blue silk trousers with turned-up cuffs enhanced a slender figure. She wore navy shoes of the softest leather and a long white scarf edged with navy around her neck. Though the late summer weather supported lighter clothing, Priscilla was the only guest who would have looked at home on a ship in tropical climes.

“Good Lord, Maisie, darling, you look like Christmas. I don’t think I have ever seen you in a color—well, not unless it’s something I’ve insisted you wear. A red dress? I must say, it rather suits you.” She was effusive in her affection for Maisie, whom she loved dearly, and was loved in return, though such regard did not prevent Priscilla from giving advice without her counsel being sought. “Now all you need is a black hat with a red band, some daring red shoes, and—if I were you—a black belt to enhance your waist. Waists, Maisie, are coming back in, despite what you see before you.”

Maisie rolled her eyes. “I suit myself, Pris. It’s so lovely to see you. Please don’t start trying to sort out my wardrobe.”

“What wardrobe? I don’t know how you manage with such a meager collection. By the way, did you dye that yourself?”

Maisie blushed. “Frankly, I couldn’t justify a new dress, so, yes, I simply dyed an old one—I’ve learned how to do it.”

“Hmmm, thought I’d seen that cut before. You’ve made a good job of it, you know.”

A waiter approached and Maisie requested a cream sherry, while Priscilla ordered another gin and tonic.

“Tell me about the boys. Which school did you settle on? In your last letter, you said it was St. Anselm’s—did you change your mind?”

“No, I didn’t change my mind, but I may yet. We’ll have to see how they get on.” She sipped her cocktail and shook her head as she placed her glass on the low table alongside them. “Three boys—triple trouble. Mind you, I’d take those toads over three girls any day. My parents had three boys, and one girl, and they always said I caused more angst than my brothers put together.”

Maisie smiled. There was a time when Priscilla could not speak of her brothers, for they were all lost to the Great War. Priscilla, like Maisie, had also served, though she had been an ambulance driver. That role, along with her loss, had marked her for years.

“As you know, we—Douglas and I both—dragged our feet when it came to the boys’ education. They’ve been so happy in Biarritz; you saw yourself. School in the morning and the beach in the afternoon. It made for all manner of adventures and more than a little freedom. Of course, they mind their manners and can be perfect gentlemen, but any academic or intellectual gifts they may be harboring are definitely still hidden.” She reached for her drink again, swirling a single cube of ice around in the cool liquid without lifting the glass to her lips. “Part of it was me wanting them to have the education and upbringing that my brothers had. You know, the rough-and-tumble world of little men, coming home to the country at weekends, lots of friends over for big old-fashioned bread-and-jam nursery teas. But since last week’s little fiasco—”

“What happened?”

Priscilla sighed. “They are very much the new boys. Plus, even though they live with two rather English parents and a Welsh nanny—yes, we still have Elinor, though she’s in Brecon with her family at the moment—they do have these quasi-French accents, and they are apt to speak in French when they’re telling each other secrets, as if they have their own exclusive club. Needless to say, this hasn’t gone down terribly well with the other boys, and there’s been more than a bit of bullying.” She paused to sip her drink. “Now, I’ll concede that having to chart the waters of ill feeling can be character building; however, there’s a limit. Tarquin Patrick was subjected to a pasting after shooting to the top of the class in French conversation. He was pushed, he ignored it, pushed again, ignored it, then once more, at which point he blacked the other boy’s eye—his left hook comes courtesy of some behind-the-scenes training from Elinor’s ex, a Basque stevedore and occasional pugilist. Three of the tykes had pounced on him, calling him a filthy frog, a yellow-bellied Frenchie, when along came Timothy Peter, who is equally gifted thanks to the Basque chappie. On the one hand, just as well—big brothers can be handy when you’re being beaten—on the other, three boys are now in the sick bay, one with a broken snout.”

Maisie nodded. She had come to know the boys well and was always so touched when she heard Priscilla call her boys by both their first and middle names, for each son was also named for one of her brothers. But she was alarmed at the nature of their exploits.

“What will you do?”

“I’m not sure yet. Douglas is in the process of closing the villa but will be coming back to Evernden Place as soon as he can—we’ve opened up the old house. I’ve been so terribly excited at the thought of seeing the boys romping across the meadows, building tree forts, and generally getting up to the sort of adventures that my brothers and I embarked upon that this has put a pall on my enthusiasm, and things aren’t looking terribly promising. How can children be so beastly?”

“People are often threatened by the unfamiliar, Priscilla, and children are no exception. As you said, they are little men. The fact that Tarquin did not immediately rush to defend himself—the expected response—inflamed the situation. Mind you, subsequent events might have elevated your sons’ position now. Fisticuffs are a universally accepted path to schoolroom power, I’m sorry to say.” Maisie was aware that she lacked experience in the bringing up of children, so her comments were drawn from an understanding of what it was to be different, treated with suspicion, and regarded with unease, due as much to her work as to her background.

Priscilla looked at Maisie again. “Actually, while I’m on the boil here, there’s something else I wanted to talk about too—and not to do with the boys. It’s to do with you.”

“Me? Whatever are you talking about?” Maisie noticed the change in her friend’s demeanor, a squaring of the shoulders, a slight leaning back, as if she was both preparing to break bad news and trying to draw herself apart from the outcome.

“I made a few telephone calls to various friends before coming down to the bar. One of those friends was Margaret Lynch.”

Maisie pressed her lips together and found herself mirroring Priscilla’s position. Yes, Priscilla needed to garner strength to broach the subject with me, thought Maisie, as much as I need backbone to hear what she has to say. The Honorable Margaret Lynch was the mother of her beloved Simon, who had been in a special clinic in Richmond since the war, his mind no more than an empty shell following an attack on the casualty clearing station where they had been working together. Maisie was wounded alongside him, though one of her scars was hidden by her hair. The others, no longer aching and livid, remained incarcerated in her soul.

“Mrs. Lynch?”

“She wants to see you. You’ve managed to avoid seeing her for years—and she you. It was all too much for you both to bear, wasn’t it? But I think it’s her age now, and . . .”

“And what?”

“Simon is failing. God only knows what’s kept him alive since the war. But now the doctors are seeing changes for the first time in eons, and they think it’s only a matter of time.”

“Oh . . . I . . . Priscilla, I only saw him two weeks ago. Nothing had changed; I looked at him carefully. I was a nurse. . . . I saw nothing to suggest—”

“That was two weeks ago.” She reached out and took her friend’s hands in her own. “I realize you think me light, Maisie, but hear what I have to say: You can’t hold on forever. Yes, I know you didn’t visit for a long, long time—Margaret understands completely—but you’ve gone to the hospital religiously for two years now, to see a man who neither recognizes you nor with whom you can have a conversation. A man who is not alive, except to breathe and take food—just.” She rubbed Maisie’s hands as she spoke. “See Margaret soon, Maisie. She doesn’t think ill of you, you know. I concede you are usually the clever one who understands what people are really thinking, but I’m not above the odd bit of empathy myself. She needs to know someone who loves her son as much as she loves him herself. You were the last person to speak to him before he was lost to us all. You are the connection between Simon then and now. Simply being in contact with you will help her—help you both—to weather his passing.”

“His passing? Priscilla, I—”

“Maisie. Look at me. He’s dying. There’s no clean or kind way to say it. Simon is dying. His father is dead; his mother is alone. You are the only other person who visits, and you have burned a torch for him since the evening you met, even though you have courted other men. And much as she might have wanted better—” Priscilla closed her eyes for just a second and then began to plead. “I . . . oh, God, I didn’t mean to say that, Maisie. I know how that must have sounded. What I meant was—”

But Maisie was already on her feet, her stance made more bold by the red dress and her dark eyes as she looked down at Priscilla, who remained seated. “She accepted me into her house because it was wartime. She was kind, courteous, but don’t you think I knew that at any other time my background would have been a point of contention in the family? What would have happened at war’s end, eh, Priscilla? I could never accept Simon’s proposal because I couldn’t see a future.” She took a breath. “Not only because I knew in my heart that something terrible would happen, but because I could feel her dissent, though her words indicated acceptance.” Maisie gathered up her coat. “I will write to Mrs. Lynch, Priscilla. And I will go to the hospital as soon as I can. But I am under no illusions as to what was said about me behind my back years ago.”

Maisie turned and left the hotel. Priscilla ordered another drink, holding the cool glass to the side of her forehead as she bit her lip and wished she had said nothing. It was unlike Maisie to be so hot-tempered, unlike her to reveal an emotion. She considered her friend’s outburst and thought that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing, though she hoped they would be reconciled soon. “Definitely touched a nerve there,” she said to herself, as she placed her glass on the table, gathered her clutch bag, and made her way to her room.

Later, wearing a long silk robe, she sat by the window looking out onto Park Lane, and it occurred to her that she should have known something had changed. After all, that red dress was a dead giveaway. And another thing: When Maisie said that she couldn’t see a future, that she knew something terrible would happen, she had lifted her hand but did not touch her eye, as one might expect if one were to predict a reflex action. Instead, Maisie touched the middle of her forehead.

UPON RETURNING TO the office, Maisie threw her coat across her desk, dragged a cushion from the one armchair, pulled her dress up above her knees, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Calm down, calm down, calm. . . . She repeated the mantra over and over again. She was appalled at herself, disgusted by her outburst. She might occasionally speak stridently where her work was concerned, and of course there was the argument with Maurice last year, but she had never, ever, taken a comment with such passion. Clearly Priscilla did not mean to insult her. Her friend’s confidence in their friendship allowed her to speak honestly, though she knew her error and apologized immediately. Why did she affect me so? Maisie breathed deeply, keen to compose herself before taking Billy’s telephone call.

As if on cue, the telephone rang. Maisie came to her feet, brushed down her dress, and reached for the receiver.

“Billy?”

“That you, Miss?” The line crackled.

“Of course it’s me.”

“Sorry, only you didn’t say the number—took me by surprise, it did.”

“What’s happening?”

“I wish I could tell you all of it, but the cat’s been put among the pigeons down ’ere, and if this goes on—”

“If what goes on?”

“Two lads from Shoreditch—’op pickers—’ave been nicked for burglary and vandalism up at the big house on the estate. They say they were just outside the gates trying to get at conkers to get a game going, but there were broken windows and some silver’s missing so they’ve been taken into custody. All the Londoners are up in arms about it, Mr. Dickon just wants the ’ops picked, and everyone reckons it was them bleedin’ gypsies what done it, which don’t make it easy for me and Doreen.”

“I’m not following you.”

“We’d not been ’ere five minutes when Doreen passes one of the gypsy women with a little girl, right little cracker, just like our Lizzie, apart from the fact she’s got curly black ’air. So, even though Doreen can barely understand a word the woman’s saying, she stops to pass the time of day when they go to the tap for water, and she takes ahold of the baby—Boosul’s ’er name; what kind of a name is that?—and so she’s looked upon kindly by the gypsies. Nothin’ wrong with that, but now me own kind are turning, callin’ us gypsy kin.”

“Boosul means beautiful. It’s a kind of slang, a derivation of the word over the years.”

“ ’ow do you know that, Miss?”

“I’ve heard it before. What else is going on?”

“The locals are a funny lot, make no mistake. And it’s not as if I’m a stranger to this sort of goings-on, but these people are another thing altogether. The ones out ’ere pickin’ are sayin’ they didn’t see anything, but are pointin’ the finger at us anyway and at the same time sayin’ they don’t want the filthy pikeys on the farm neither.”

“Sounds like rather a mess to me, and not helped by a lot of unrest among the warring tribes, so to speak.”

“You’d’ve thought we got over that when the Vikings left.” He paused. “And it’s worse than you think, Miss. These boys could be sent down for a year or more. That Sandermere bloke is askin’ for the maximum penalty—as an example, so ’e says. And the man also said there’ve been threats sent to ’im, so the police’ve been crawling all over the place. I think you should come down, Miss. There’s no one to look out for these lads—only youngsters they are, too young to weather bein’ put away. I know their families, they’re good people, and they put in a good day’s work every day for the sake of their own. You’ve got the right words, if you know what I mean. You can talk to solicitors and the police, help speak up for the lads—and you’re a Londoner. You’ll be trusted.”

Maisie sighed. She’d hoped the investigation for James Compton might be easier than this, but as it stood there were complications before the ink was dry on the contract. She reflected on the fact that, in her work, the seemingly straightforward cases were often anything but. “Alright, I’ll drive down tomorrow morning, straight to the farm. I can stay with my father at Chelstone for a few nights. It should only take me about three quarters of an hour to get there from Heronsdene.”

The call ended. Maisie replaced the receiver and returned to her cushion. She decided that, on her way out of London tomorrow morning, she would leave a note for Priscilla at the Dorchester’s reception desk, apologizing for her outburst. And she would also pen something to Margaret Lynch, though she would take care with the composing of such a letter. Having made her plans, she closed her eyes, and an image of her grandmother came to mind, as it had during the conversation with Billy. She remembered her mother laughing as her father lifted her from the horse-drawn cart that brought them from the station to her grandparents’ cottage alongside the lock. Her grandmother’s gray hair, which was once as jet as her own and her mother’s hair, was drawn back in a long braid. And though her clothes were much like those of other women of the time, she wore rings of gold in her ears, rings that Maisie’s fingers sought out as soon as she was swept into her grandmother’s arms, always to the same refrain: “Oh, my boosul girl, my boosul little girl, come to see the old old aunt.”

THREE

Maisie loved driving, loved the feel of the wind in her hair when the weather was sufficiently fine to draw back the MG’s roof, as it was today. There might be a nip of autumn on the breeze first thing in the morning, but the days were balmy, a pleasant warmth with a low sun in the sky that glinted across newly harvested fields as she made her way toward Heronsdene.

Taking the road from Tunbridge Wells to Lamberhurst, she turned at the sign for Heronsdene and slowed to a crawl when she came to the village, the road flanked by a variety of architecture, from medieval cottages to terraced houses built in Victoria’s reign. On her left, the beamed exterior of the local inn looked warm and inviting, and farther along to the right a Norman church stood buffeted by the wind as it whipped up the hill from Horsmonden. There was an assortment of small shops, a butcher, a general store, a hardware shop, and—in the middle of the street close to the church—a war memorial. The road had been divided and rerouted to accommodate this monument, erected to honor the men and boys of the village who lost their lives in the years 1914-1918.

To the left, there was a gap at the end of a row of detached buildings where Maisie might have expected to see another house, or even a shop, but the area was overgrown with weeds and a few clumps of Michaelmas daisies. The daisies were abundant at this time of year, growing along railway lines and on waste ground, and they brought color to an otherwise dull corner of the village. The road intersected here, with a sign to Dickon’s Farm indicating a turn to the left.

Maisie swung the car in the direction of the farm, passing freshly picked hop-gardens on her right. The overhead lines from which strings had been woven in spring, up and down, up and down, for the young hops to grow into fully fledged bines, were empty now, with perhaps a lone sprig of hops left high on the wire. Piles of spent bines lay in heaps, the pickers having moved on to the next hop-garden.

Pulling into the farm, Maisie parked the motor car off to the side of the rough road and went ahead on foot. The last thing she wanted was an expensive repair to the underbelly of her beloved MG. She’d prepared for such an outing, wearing a walking skirt of heavy linen with kick pleats front and back, a pair of stout shoes, and a cotton blouse the color of nutmeg. She carried a knapsack in which she’d packed sandwiches, a cardigan, a wedge of index cards tied with string, and a notebook and pen. She’d tucked a small drawstring pouch containing some tiny tools into the front compartment of her knapsack, and her Victorinox knife was nestled in the pocket of her skirt.

She walked on along the sandy farm road, stopping when she came to the oast house. A trailer of filled-to-the-brim hop-pokes was being unloaded, carried in one by one for the hops to be dried in the kiln before being packed in pokes once again and sent to the breweries. The “reek”—a pungent aroma of fresh and drying hops mixed with sulfur—filled the air, and Maisie watched for a few minutes before calling to one of the men.

“Excuse me, but can you direct me to the hop-gardens being picked now?”

The man stretched his back as he answered, taking off his flat cap and wiping his brow with a hop-stained handkerchief. “They’re in Railway and Folly—all the hop-gardens have names. Railway runs alongside the railway lines, as you might have thought. Follow this road on for another half a mile, walk through the unpicked garden on your left, and you’ll find it. Folly is on the other side of this road. Pass two hop-gardens on your right, and it’s the third one you come to.” He replaced his cap while taking her measure as he continued. “Looking for anyone in partic’lar?”

“Yes, I am, Mr. and Mrs. Beale and their family—Billy Beale.”

“Fair-headed going on ginger? Got a bit of a gammy leg?”

“That’s him.”

“Railway. He’s working there with some other Londoners at the top. Gyppos are at the bottom working their way up, so mind where you go.”

Maisie was about to speak but, reflecting upon yesterday’s meeting with Priscilla, thought better of it, adding, “I have nothing to fear—and thank you. I am sure I shall find Mr. and Mrs. Beale with no trouble at all.”

The man shrugged and shook his head as she walked on, raising her face to the sun to feel the soft warmth on her skin. The hop-garden named for the railway was easy to locate, helped, in this instance, by a train passing. Puffs of coal-laced steam bursting up through the trees provided a marker for Maisie to follow, and soon she was walking along a row of hop-pickers, whole families gathered around a stretcher-length bin made of wood and sacking that could be moved on as they picked. Normally, she would expect to hear laughter, the odd voice calling out, “What about this one?” and the sing-song that followed to pass the day.

She remembered her father’s stories of his boyhood, often told as they sat next to the cast-iron kitchen stove on her afternoon off from work, the warmth of both his voice and the coals soothing her. These were the stories he shared in the months following her mother’s death, and she wondered, now, if in speaking of his childhood he had been anchored in some way, or perhaps he wanted to draw out her own years of innocence, now that at the age of thirteen she was working long days below stairs at the Ebury Place mansion of Lord Julian Compton and his wife, Lady Rowan. Frankie Dobbs had told of the jokes shared while picking and laughed when recounting the way opinions on the way of the world were exchanged or a jocular back-and-forth interrupted when a wail signaling that a small child—put down to nap on a coat draped across a pile of old hop-bines—had woken from sleep.

Today, though, the temper of the folk picking hops was subdued. For several moments Maisie stood at the edge of the hop-garden, watching, wondering, gauging, for she felt their anger touch her as if their depression were solid, a rain cloud formed of concrete. She continued on; twice she stopped to ask for Billy, each time to be told she was nearly there, he was just along the row, and a hop-stained finger would be pointed in his direction.

Finally, she saw them: Billy and Doreen leaning over the bin picking hops with speed and dexterity, and Billy’s aging mother, her arthritis-gnarled fingers taking leaves off a sprig of hops, then using a hand to shuck the clean hops into the bin. The boys, Billy and Bobby, picked into an old laundry basket, which, when full, would be tipped into the bin. Every little bit helped, especially with piecework. Billy drew back his sleeve and checked his watch, then spoke to his wife, who looked around. As Maisie approached them, she heard a deep voice call across the hop-garden, “Get yer ’ops ready!” And each family picked with greater speed, the children being called to pull leaves from the bin, for the farmer wouldn’t accept hops that weren’t clean.

“Miss!” Billy looked up as Maisie approached. “Just give me a minute, the tallyman’s on ’is way and these boys’ve put in more leaves than they’ve taken out, I should say.”

“I’ll help,” said Maisie, setting down her knapsack and rolling up her sleeves. She greeted Doreen with a smile and rested a hand on her arm for a second, mindful of the bond formed between them when little Lizzie died. Then she set to work. There were six pairs of arms in the bin now, with hands seeking out the rough, prickly leaves for which the farmer would issue a reprimand.

With the tallyman only two bins away, Billy said, “Right, that’s it. I reckon we’ve got ’em all out,” and leaned away to look along the row, his lips silently following the counting. Maisie inspected her hands, already stained after only a few minutes, then watched the tallyman at work.

“And-a-one . . . and-a-two . . . and-a-three. . . .” He would plunge his measuring basket into the bin and out would come a frothy bushel of fresh green hops, which he slung into a hop poke held at the ready by another man; then in went the basket again. “And-a-four . . . and-a-five. . . .”

Maisie saw that as the tallyman approached it wasn’t just Billy—everyone was watching, counting along with the counting, making sure that no one was shorted, that the tallyman not only counted without favoring some with a less-than-full basket but that the correct number was entered in the picker’s book. And then he moved on. When he reached Billy’s bin, Maisie closed her eyes, the full peppery smell of hops enveloping her as the counting began, stirring up pollen and dust and almost banishing the mood that had seeped up under her skin when she walked into the hop-garden.

“Nice lot today, Mr. Beale. Nice picking indeed.” The tallyman handed Billy’s book back to him and moved on, parting the wave of workers as he approached the next bin. “And-a-one . . . and-a-two. . . .”

“Right, Miss, let’s go and brew up a cuppa. Got someone I want you to meet on the way.” He nodded to Doreen, who returned his gesture, and then moved on through the rows of pickers. Maisie followed, her knapsack across her shoulder. Billy stopped at a bin close to the edge of the hop-garden, calling across to the man of the family, “George, over ’ere. Come and ’ave a chat with Miss Dobbs, the lady I was tellin’ you about.”

George touched the peak of his cap. “Right you are.”

Maisie noticed the shadows under the man’s eyes, at a time when he should have seemed a little more carefree. He reminded her of her father, with his shirtsleeves rolled up above the elbow, a jaunty waistcoat, and a red kerchief tied at the neck. But his demeanor revealed concern, worry, and—-she hated to see such an emotion—a melancholy that suggested defeat.

Introductions were made, and the trio walked toward the hopper huts, where Billy started a paraffin stove and set a kettle on to boil. As she waited, seated outside on an old chair, Maisie looked into the hut. It comprised one small room, a bed at the far end and another along one side. She suspected that the younger boy, Bobby, slept with Billy and Doreen, and the elder with Billy’s mother. Opposite the second bed, a washstand held an enamel ewer and bowl, and in the middle a whitewashed table was set with an embroidered cloth and a vase of Michaelmas daisies. The inside of the hut was neat and clean, with the hopping furniture brought from the Beales’ cellar and painted each year before the family left London for Kent.

“George, you tell Miss Dobbs ’ere what went on with your Arthur and Joe.”

George placed his cap on one knee and reached for the tin cup filled with strong scalding tea that Billy passed to him. He blew across the top to cool the liquid, then set the mug on the ground at his feet. As Maisie watched him, she knew he was buying time, perhaps composing the story in such a way as to shed the light of innocence on his sons—she assumed the boys in question were his.

” ’appened Monday. Only been down ’ere three days, we ’ad. We finished pickin’ at four on the dot, after the last tally, then come back to wash and start a bit o’ grub going.” He pointed to a low brick building with a chimney at one end intersecting the hopper huts. “Me and the wife, Audrey, we was in the cook ’ouse—we’d both ’ad a bit of a sluice to get the dust off our ’ands and faces and left the boys to do the same. They’re good boys, but they’d been talking all day about the chestnut trees this side of the fence around the Sandermere place—you know what boys are when it comes to a game of conkers. All they want to do is find the biggest conker, polish it up, bake it ’ard, polish it again, and see ’ow many times it’ll last when it’s whacked by another lad’s conker.” He picked up his tea, blew across the rim of the mug again, and sipped. Then he drank several more gulps before turning to Maisie once more. “Me missus calls ’em for their tea. No answer. Then again. So out I went lookin’ for the little whatsits—they’re twelve and thirteen, out of school and workin’, but that don’t make no difference, they’re still young lads.” He sat upright, held out one hand, palm up for emphasis, and continued. “Next thing I know, I’m standin’ under a tree full of conkers, and there they are, in the old cuffs, off with two coppers who’re sayin’ they’re bein’ nicked for breakin’ and enterin’, theft and malicious damage. The poor little sods are in tears, but that don’t make no difference. And there’s that Sandermere, mister ’igh-and-bleedin’-mighty, sayin’ it’ll be a lesson to them, bein’ put away, goin’ down for a few years.” George pressed his chest before speaking again. “My Audrey took a turn, dropped to ’er knees when I broke the news. All we want is to go back to the Smoke now, get away from all this—but we need the money, and we can’t get away with the boys in clink.”

Maisie nodded, remaining silent for a moment, mainly to gather her thoughts but also to allow the man to say more, if he should need to. When she spoke, it was with a soft voice, measured and slow. “George, I must ask you this question, so please do not be offended, but what evidence do you have that it was not your sons and what evidence do the police have that it was?”

“I know my sons, miss!” The man stood up, dropping his tea as he came to his feet.

“Steady, George. Miss Dobbs’s got to ask, got to get the lay o’ the land, you know, to ’elp.” Billy took up the cup, replenishing it half full with tea.

The man settled himself again. “You’re right. Best to tell you everything. They’ve got some local bloke, a solicitor, brought in to speak for ’em, but the man don’t look like ’e cares tuppence.” He sat down, drank the tea straight back, then threw the dregs out across the sun-baked clay earth. “When the boys were caught, they were searched, and a silver paperweight was found in Joe’s pocket and a locket in Arthur’s.”

“What did the boys say?” Maisie inquired, taking her notebook from the knapsack and beginning to write.

“That they found the silver under the chestnut tree.”

“And the police?”

“They say the boys ’ad an accomplice on the other side of the wall, but they couldn’t resist keepin’ a bit o’ what they’d taken with them—and the business of lookin’ for conkers was made up when they saw they’d been nabbed.”

Maisie nodded. “I see.” She reached for the cup of tea she’d placed at her feet when she began to write. “And what do you think, George?”

“Me?” He looked at Maisie, then at Billy, who nodded. “I reckon it was them bleedin’ pikeys. Bloody vermin, they are.” He turned to Billy again, “And you should watch it, mate, what with your missus gettin’ in thick with that Webb woman.”

Billy reddened. “It’s only the baby, George. Reminds ’er of our little Lizzie. Breaks my ’eart, it does.” He looked away.

“It’s not as if we don’t all know what you’ve been through, but nothin’ good will come of that sort of goin’-on, I tell you.” George wagged a finger at Billy, then brought his attention back to Maisie, who had said nothing during the exchange between the two men. “I’ve seen ’im, the one what don’t ’ave no proper name—they just call ’im Webb. I’ve seen that gyppo over on the hill, looking down toward Sandermere’s mansion. Just stands there and watches. And I’ve seen ’im walkin’ around the place, alongside of the fencing. If you want to know who burgled the place, that’s where you want to look. Police reckon they’ve got no evidence, say they can’t nick Webb or move the gyppos on, that they ain’t doin’ anybody any ’arm.” He folded his arms and kicked his boot out toward a stone.

Maisie completed a note, nodding her head as she underlined a word, then looked up at the men. “The thing one has to be careful with, in such cases, is rushing in with all guns blazing, so to speak. It’s best to take care, though time is obviously of the essence. Where are the boys being held?”

“Maidstone nick—but they’re only boys, in with all them villains.”

“Don’t worry. I would imagine they will probably not be in with the prisoners, just in temporary cells. Not comfortable, but not as bad, either. And where are the gypsies encamped?”

Billy turned around and pointed. “You go back out of these hop-gardens to the farm road, past four more hop-gardens and a field of cows, and you’ll see their caravans up on the ’ill close to the wood. There’s a sort of clearing in the wood where they’ve got a big fire. They all sit around at night and ’ave a bit of a sing-song. That Webb plays the fiddle—so do a couple of the other blokes—and they make a right racket up there of a night.”

“And who’s the matriarch?”

“The what?” Billy and George spoke in unison.

“The eldest woman in the tribe. She’ll probably have a caravan set slightly apart from the others.”

“The older Webb woman, mother of that dirty thief? I’d watch that one if I was you. Wouldn’t go creepin’ over there.”

Maisie smiled and packed up her things. “I’ll go to Maidstone tomorrow, George. And I’ll visit the woman today. Do you know her name? Or have they just called her aunt?”

Billy and George looked at each other, then back at Maisie. Billy answered. “I can ask Doreen, but I don’t think she knows. The woman with the baby girl they call Boosul, that one’s name is Paishey—short for Patience, I reckon.”

“Yes, that sounds right.” She continued to speak as she stood, handing her cup to Billy. “Gypsies tend to have names that are almost biblical—you’ll hear Charity, Patience, Faith, that sort of thing.” She placed a hand on George’s shoulder. “I’ll also speak to Mr. Sandermere, though I am not yet sure how I might make his acquaintance. We’ll get to the bottom of this soon enough. And I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Billy—I’ll be out here early.”

The men watched as she walked away, stopped to get her bearings, then made her way toward the farm road.

“You sure she can do right by my boys, mate?”

Billy nodded. “Yeah, sure I’m sure. If anyone can find out what went on, Miss Dobbs can.” But he wasn’t sure that talking to a tribe of gypsies was the right way to go about the job.

MAISIE STOOD AT the bottom of a gentle hill looking up at the knob of trees spread over the brow. As clouds scudded across the sky casting shadows below, the woodland was at once in shade and then as brightly lit as if it were a prop on the London stage. The caravans were drawn close together; she counted five, each with a tent pitched next to it. Then, to the left, another caravan was set apart. Lower on the hill, six stocky cobs grazed on lush grass. Maisie raised her hand to shield her eyes and watched them amble a few yards to a fresh patch, then run together for no reason at all, kicking up their heels before coming back to graze once more. She remembered going with her father to buy a horse at Stow-on-the-Wold, during the gypsy horse fair. Her mother did not come, and later, as she came of age, Maisie realized it was a journey her father would probably have preferred to make alone, but the respite from their daughter’s childish energy provided rest for his wife, who was ill, and delight for a girl who had begun to understand that her mother was failing.

As they had walked along the rows and rows of horses and ponies, her father stopping to ask a question or reaching down to run his hands up and down the legs of a cob, she asked, “How do you know which one’s the right horse?” And he replied, “Well, we’re looking for a thick, strong, hairy leg at each corner and a twinkle in the eyes—and we’re waiting for one of ’em to choose us.” They came home with Persephone in the goods wagon of the train, then rode her from Paddington to her new home in a warm, cozy stable under the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge.

The horses looked up as Maisie passed, then went on with their grazing. She approached the gypsy camp, calling out, “Hello,” though she did not expect an answer, with everyone picking until at least four o’clock. She took care, as she walked past each caravan, and did not pry, for that was not her purpose—not in the way of picking through belongings while the owner was absent, anyway. To her right, just before she reached the caravan set apart, the one she knew belonged to the gypsy matriarch, a path led into the wood. She checked her watch—it was still barely past one o’clock—and walked along the path, emerging in a clearing, with sunlight glinting through tree fronds overhead. A single wisp of smoke snaked up from the ashes of this morning’s fire, and with each gentle murmur of breeze the embers radiated their red heat and then grew dim, as if breathing their last before finally crumbling to ash.

Logs had been cut and positioned around the fire, and a black pot with long iron utensils had been pulled to one side. Remembering her dream, Maisie was not moved, nor did she feel fear, remaining in place while she considered the case, which had now developed into more than a simple fact-finding exercise for James Compton. Were the gypsies guilty of breaking into the Sandermere estate? How was the crime linked to other events, as described to her by James and also detailed in his notes? And what of Heronsdene, this place where people were so tight-knit they did not report damage to their property by fire? Yes, she would have to find a way to broach that subject, while at the same time acquiring an understanding of the people. More than anything, she wanted to know why driving through the village had caused her to shiver and the hair on her neck to bristle. Could it simply be a mood of dissent between the landowner and the village, or was it caused by the incoming workers from London and the gypsies?

Maisie turned and shivered again, only this time she felt as if she were being watched. Looking around, she saw no one, so, throwing her knapsack over one shoulder, she moved without haste to the mouth of the clearing, to the sunlit field beyond the canopy of trees. As she stepped out, close to the single caravan set apart from the rest, she felt a clench around her free hand and looked down. A lurcher held Maisie in a viselike grip, yet the bitch had drawn her lips across her sharp teeth, as if she had chosen to do no harm, only to keep the interloper in place until her mistress returned. Maisie breathed in and out slowly, then spoke to the dog.

“There’s a good girl. I’ll be no trouble to you. But if you’re to hold me hostage, then I want to sit down.”

No growl issued from the dog, but her small, sharp, glistening eyes did not move from looking up, straight into the eyes of her catch. Maisie had recognized the dog to be a lurcher, the mongrel they called the dog of the gypsies, a first cross between a greyhound and a collie. It was a dog, they said, with the speed of the one and the canniness of the other. Lur, as she knew already, means thief in the ancient Romany language. And it was no good breeding two lurchers to get a litter either, for only that first cross produced the true lurcher—the gypsies knew their dogs and horses.

The dog allowed Maisie to edge toward the steps of the lone caravan, where she sat to wait, using her free hand to take out her sandwiches. Of course, she could have used her knife or taken tools from the small pouch with an intention to wound the animal, but she knew that, however fast her reflexes, the dog would be faster—and the animal meant her no harm as long as she did not try to move farther. There was no escape to be had, which was likely just as well. She thought she might be expected here, in any case. Leaning back against the caravan door, Maisie lifted the sandwich to her lips to eat, and felt a single wet stream of drool issue from the lurcher’s jaws to trickle across her captured hand.

IT MUST HAVE been when the dog released her grip that Maisie awoke. She did not start when her eyes met the eyes of the gypsy woman, standing with her long gray hair drawn back in a patterned scarf, hoop earrings, dark ridges of lines above and between her eyes, and ripples of skin where her cheeks had sagged with age. Instead, Maisie came to her feet and, looking down—for the woman just reached Maisie’s shoulder—she simply inclined her head and smiled.

“My name is Maisie Dobbs, and I have come to see you.”

The woman nodded and placed a wicker basket filled with freshly picked Michaelmas daisies on the ground. “They call me Beulah.” She looked Maisie up and down. “Get away from them steps so’s I can get to me vardo.” She turned to the other gypsy folk who had gathered around when they returned to find a gorja woman waiting.

“It’s kushti.” It’s good. “She’s alright. Now get on.” Her language was thick on her tongue, her words barely mumbled, yet her instruction resonated though she had not once raised her voice. Without looking at Maisie, she took her kettle out from under the caravan, along with the bowl for washing her hands.

“Carry this for the old auntie you’ve come all this way to see. You’d better come sit and talk.” And with that she whistled for the lurcher, who walked behind her into the clearing, moving from side to side so that Maisie remained in third place and could neither walk beside nor in front of the dog’s mistress.

FOUR

Maisie emerged from the clearing as the late-afternoon sun began to give way to a dusky early evening light, the mellow echo of horses nickering as she passed by on her way down the hill. Billy might have expected her to drop in to see the family before she left the farm, but though she could see hoppers gathered around the cookhouse, she was late already and did not want Frankie Dobbs to worry.

Easing the MG out onto the road, Maisie thought the village seemed quiet for a September evening, when folk might be expected to be walking along to the local inn for an ale to talk of the day, the weather, the harvest just in, or the hop-picking. It was the time of year for ease, as barley was cut to form sheaves across the sundrenched stubble that remained and hay was rolled into bales or set in stooks; for easy ambles along narrow country lanes and memories exchanged of years gone by. It was a time for bottling and drying vegetables for the winter table, and for rich summer pudding filled with berries to be set in a cold larder, the juices to mingle. But there seemed to be little of the season’s joy in Heronsdene, a mood, as she’d reflected earlier, that might be connected to the influx of outsiders.

Her thoughts turned to the gypsy encampment and her time spent with Beulah next to the fire. The woman had led her into the clearing and bade her sit on the log next to her. The lurcher nestled at the woman’s feet but kept Maisie in her line of vision, lifting her head if she moved even an inch. The animal had no name, and was called, simply, jook, the gypsy word for dog.

While Maisie and the woman spoke, heads drawn close so that conversation could be kept low, she knew the attention of the rest of the tribe was upon her, particularly that of the man she understood to be Webb, Beulah’s son. He was tall, with eyes of blue and long hair that was not as dark as the others. Maisie knew that many Roma had deep copper glints in their hair, and some were redheads, though most had rich black locks like Beulah or Paishey Webb’s wife. Indeed, they had hair like her own. Webb wore an old shirt and dark corduroy trousers, a waistcoat, and a blue scarf around his neck. A hat with a broad brim partially obscured his face, and he too wore earrings, though not as wide in circumference as those of Beulah or Paishey. Even baby Boosul wore tiny earrings.

From the way he moved, Maisie estimated Webb’s age to be about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, just a few years younger than herself, yet in the features she was able to discern he seemed much older. His wife was about nineteen, perhaps twenty. Webb glanced up at his mother every few minutes, as he stooped to light the fire, or when dragging over the heavy cast-iron pot for the women to make a stew of rabbit, with vegetables bought in the village and tasty greens from the forest that anyone other than a gypsy might ignore. Without making her interest obvious, Maisie could tell much about the man from his demeanor. Though she could not emulate his carriage from her seat on the log, she could see the feelings he carried within him, as if a weighted sack were tethered to his body. Webb was not only enraged, he was fearful. Maisie could see both emotions as plain as day. And when she turned to Beulah, she realized the old woman had been watching as the visitor took the measure of her son, and it was clear in her narrowed gypsy eyes that she had seen the conclusion the investigator had reached.

“You here about them gorja boys, from up there.” It was a statement put to Maisie with a wave of the hand in the broad direction of London.

Maisie nodded. “That’s one of the reasons, yes.”

“We di’n ’ave nothin’ t’do with it.” Beulah took a mouthful of tea and winced as she swallowed the scalding liquid.

“Do you think the London boys did it?”

Beulah looked into the fire. “Not my place t’say. What they do is their business, what we do is ours.”

“Your son was seen close to the house on the day of the burglary. Did he see anything?”

“Not my place.” She nodded toward Webb, who was splitting logs with an axe. Two other men with him sawed trees that the wind had blown down last winter, wood that would crackle and burn easily, seasoned by nature and a hot summer. “Talk to ’im if you like.”

Webb looked up from his work at just that moment, and Beulah beckoned to him. “The rawni—woman—wants to talk to you, Webb.”

Without first putting down the axe, and with just a few easy steps, Webb came to stand in front of Maisie. Instinct instructed her to come to her feet, for in height she was almost a match for the matriarch’s son and she would not be unsettled by him. Her own eyes of the deepest blue could flash a look as intimidating as any glance in her direction.

“Mr. Webb, I am looking into the burglary at the Sandermere house on behalf of the parents of the boys who stand accused of the crime. Though it appears there is more than enough evidence to charge them, I understand that you were in the area of the estate and might have seen what happened.”

The man did not move, either to shake his head or nod in accordance with her supposition. He stared for every second of one minute before responding. Maisie did not break connection with his stare, nor did she add any comment to encourage him to speak. Eventually, he chewed the inside of his lip, then began.

“I didn’t see anything. I was just walking along, with the dog.” His voice was unlike his mother’s, lacking the rough guttural low-gypsy dialect.

“He bin to school.” Beulah’s voice caused Maisie to turn, as the woman deflected her thoughts with an unsolicited explanation. “Learned your words, he did. And Webb can write. He does our letters, our doc’ments, and reads for us, so we ain’t ignorant of what’s said and what’s been writ.”

“A useful man to have in the tribe, eh, Aunt Beulah?” Maisie smiled, then turned back to Webb. “Do you think the boys did it? Do you think they broke into the house, stole the silver, and made off with it?”

Again Webb waited, steady with his reply. “Lads are from the streets of London. They’re not stupid, even if they are boys. If they did what the police said, they wouldn’t’ve been caught. Boys like that are light on their feet. I remember when I was that age. I was quick. Had to be.” Then he turned and walked back to his task—set a large log on top of another, raised the axe high above his head, and swung it down with force, so that the splitting of wood in one fell swoop echoed throughout the forest.

Beulah sipped her tea, elbows resting on knees set wide as she watched her son in silence. Then she turned to Maisie.

“You from up there?” Again she nodded in the broad direction of London.

“Born and bred.”

The woman smiled. “Born but not bred, girl.”

Maisie said nothing but looked into the fire, now a heap of blazing wood where there had been sleepy embers just this afternoon.

“Which side, your mother’s?”

Maisie nodded.

“But not your mother.”

“My grandmother. She was of the water folk. Her family had a narrow boat which, once, they brought into the Pool of London. My granddad was a lighterman, a youngish man, I think, though long out of boyhood. She was barely more than a girl. He asked for her hand, and her father eventually agreed. Her people said it would come to an end, because she was a strong-willed girl, my grandmother. But they were together for the rest of their lives and died within days of each other. I was eight years old.”

“And the daughter?”

“My mother died when I was twelve, going on thirteen.”

Beulah sipped her tea again, then bent to stroke her dog’s head. “Come tomorrow, as the sun goes down. A bit of tea will be here for you.”

DURING THE DRIVE to her father’s house, Maisie reflected upon her dismissal. She had been asked questions of her life with honesty, without guile, and she had answered in kind. The invitation for tea the following day was more than a request, it was a summons. She would be able to ask more questions, delve more deeply, during the second visit.

Reaching the village of Chelstone, Maisie slowed the motor car and turned left into the grounds of Chelstone Manor, where she turned left again down a small gravel thoroughfare that led to her father’s cottage. She had a plan for the following day in mind now: In the morning she would go to Maidstone, to the solicitors acting for the two boys. While there she would visit the local newspaper office, to check on old stories about the village. Then she would come back to Heronsdene, simply to walk along the High Street and gain a sense of the community—and perhaps gather a clue as to why such a dour mood prevailed. Much of what she planned to do revolved around legwork that Billy might have done if they were in London, but Maisie looked forward to getting back to some of the nuts and bolts of investigation that had so immersed her when she was an apprentice to Maurice Blanche.

She made a few notes on her pad before emerging from the MG, wondering, in particular, why Webb had been watching the Sandermere mansion with such interest, what it held for him, and what was at the root of his curiosity, if that’s what it was. She put her pencil and pad away and gathered up her knapsack; as she stepped from the motor car, her father was already walking toward her, ready to embrace the daughter he loved so dearly.

LATER, AFTER THEY had eaten a tea of corned beef, carrots and potatoes and had washed and put away the china and cutlery, the pair sat together in the small beamed sitting room.

“Soon be time to light a fire of an evening, won’t it, love?”

“Oh, let’s not rush the summer away, Dad. Winter’ll come before we know it.”

Frankie leaned back in his armchair and closed his eyes.

“Tired, Dad?”

“No, love. I was just thinking of your mother. She’s been dead—what, twenty-one years now, come April? Sometimes it feels like just yesterday that she was with us, eh?”

Maisie fidgeted. If it was Time’s task to diminish the yearning for one who has passed, then Time had done a poor job, for Maisie could still see the ache of loneliness for his wife’s company reflected in her father’s eyes. It was a sadness that caused her to think of Simon again, though she had been determined to push all thoughts of him to the back of her mind until she visited the hospital in Richmond, a journey she expected to make on Sunday. A brief sojourn away from Kent in the midst of her work would also allow her to reflect upon her findings thus far in what she had come to think of as the Compton case, an investigation that now extended beyond the brief given her by James Compton. During the drive she would also be able to consider evidence regarding the recent burglary at the Sandermere estate.

“Working hard, love? Got much coming in?” Frankie was sometimes uneasy when it came to sparking conversation with his daughter. He was never sure whether such a question might not be prying, or whether she could tell him what she was doing anyway. Sometimes he thought that everyone would have been better off altogether if she’d married and settled down or taken up an ordinary position, something he understood. But on the other hand, he loved Maisie for her individuality and was fiercely proud of her accomplishments.

“It was a bit touch and go over the summer, Dad, but now there’s work coming in at a more respectable clip. I’m working for James Compton, looking into matters for him over in Heronsdene. And a couple of other jobs have come in, which will keep us busy for a while.”

“Nothing dangerous, I hope.”

Maisie laughed. “No, in fact they’re all more than safe, so please don’t worry.” She paused, then added, “I have to say, though, Heronsdene’s a funny place. I have a sense that all is not as it should be in the village.”

“Can’t say as I’ve ever really been there, not to stop. No reason to go unless you know folk or you’re passing through, I’d say. It’s not like you’d go there to do a bit of shopping.”

“That’s what I thought. Ever heard of this man Sandermere?”

Frankie shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I know he hunts, because I’ve heard talk about him, and I remember hearing there’s folk who think the estate is going to rack and ruin since he inherited. Had some fancy ideas and spent money on expensive machinery that wasn’t needed at the brickworks and got on the wrong side of a couple of big customers—your big building firms. Not a businessman like they said his brother was, even as a young man.”

Maisie sighed and was about to ask Frankie about the horses in his care when he began speaking again.

“Of course, they had it rough in the war, a bit of a close shave, over in the village.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you wouldn’t’ve known about it, being as you were over in France, but there was a Zeppelin raid—I reckon the old Boche come over too low on their way to London and thought they’d have a bit of target practice. Anyway, they dropped a couple of bombs—three people killed, far as I know. You never heard much about it, though, not once it was done. Just that it’d happened, and then they just got on with it. I remember thinking it was a bit odd that there wasn’t more said at the time—you know how any news is big news in these villages—but I s’pose that was all they could do, really. Just get on with it.” Frankie shook his head. “First of all they thought the brickworks was the target—looks a bit like it could be some other sort of factory from the outside—but then, as I said, you didn’t hear much more about it.”

“When did it happen?”

Frankie shook his head. “Can’t say as I remember, rightly—though I think it was during the ’opping season, so probably September 1916.” He looked up and nodded. “Yes, it must’ve been about then, because there was one shot down over London just a week or two before that—you could see the fire for miles and miles—and this wasn’t so big, not by comparison.”

“I’m going to Maidstone tomorrow, so I’ll see what I can find out.”

Frankie nodded, and there was silence between them for a few moments.

“Dad, I’ve been thinking about Nana.”

“Your mother’s mother? Once seen, never forgotten, old Bekka.”

“Didn’t you like her? I’ve only a few memories of her, but they’ve stuck in my mind.”

“She scared the daylights out of me when I first met ’er.” He smiled and appeared to look into the distance, as if in squinting down Time’s shadowy tunnel he could pluck out memories. “But she loved your granddad, and he liked me, so we were alright, your mother and me, when it came to getting permission to be wed.” He laughed. “There she would be, hands on her hips, complaining about this or that, and your granddad would just grin, with a twinkle in his eye, and let her get on with it. Roma, she was, of the water gypsies. She loved your mother, and you were her favorite—even called you Little Bekka when you were a nipper, or Boosul, or one of them names.”

“Do you think she missed her people—you know, when she married Granddad?”

“Your mother would’ve been the one to answer that question, but I remember Granddad saying once that when the water gypsies came through the lock her eyes’d light up and she’d often take a ride with them to the next lock; she’d trail the horse on the tow-path behind the barge horse and ride him back home again.”

“Did they ever have people turn on them, because of her blood?”

“Oh, yes, according to your mother they did, though Bekka stopped wearing the old gypsy clobber and dressed more like one of us, if you know what I mean. She wouldn’t let go of them earrings, though. And your mother said that, when she was a girl, your gran would keep an eye on her all the time, in case she was set upon for her looks. Your mother did that for you, when you first went to school, on account of your hair and the way you might have been seen, but she made sure you spoke proper—she knew how a lady should speak. Mind you, it’s a wonder you weren’t tormented for that.”

“I know, Dad. But I also knew how to use the right tone and turn of phrase at the right time. Mum might have been disappointed, had she heard me at school.” Maisie paused. “Did Nana die of old age?”

Frankie shook his head. “No. I mean, she was getting on, but not as old as your granddad. When he went, it was as if there wasn’t anything to live for, so she just let go and died. And she was brokenhearted about your mother.” He turned to Maisie. “Your mother was poorly then. Old Bekka said she’d seen it coming, that’s why she didn’t want us to be wed at first. She reckoned it was all her fault, having a child up in the Smoke—as you know, when your granddad was a lighterman they lived in Rotherhithe, before she had her way and he got the job as a lock keeper and they went to live out in the country. She wanted to take your mother back to live with them when you were just a nipper, so she could be near the water and out in the fresh air, but your mother wouldn’t move. She took it all on herself, did Bekka, saying it was down to her your mother was ill and still so young. Of course, she didn’t say it in front of your mother, but she knew, I swear she knew, that her daughter was dying, even before the doctors said she was.”

Maisie’s eyes filled with tears, as thoughts of Simon—banished to the back of her mind following the difficult conversation with Priscilla—claimed her once again.

“What’s up, love? What’s pulling at you?”

Maisie bit her lip, then left her chair to kneel at her father’s feet. “Simon’s dying, Dad.”

Frankie enveloped her in his arms as if she were still a child.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER spoke long into the night, first of Simon, whose demise had been expected years before, in the weeks following his wounding in France. But with the passage of time, his half-life, an existence that saw him lingering between this world and the next, became something to which both his mother and Maisie had become accustomed. Then Frankie asked Maisie if she intended to see Maurice, who was at home in the Dower House at Chelstone Manor. In response, Maisie shook her head, and Frankie chose to let the matter rest, for now.

AT BREAKFAST, FRANKIE broached the subject again, after sliding an egg, two rashers of bacon, and a slice of fried bread onto Maisie’s plate, straight from the pan. He served himself, then sat down at the heavy wooden table across from Maisie, as she poured tea for them both.

“I reckon Dr. Blanche would like a visit from you before you leave.” He did not look up but cut into his bread and dipped it into a fresh golden-yolked fried egg.

“I’m busy—short on time, Dad.”

Frankie set his knife and fork on the plate in front of him. “Maisie, I’ll speak plain. You can be a stubborn one when you like, and—I’ll give you this—you know your mind and you’re usually right. But I don’t know about this business with Dr. Blanche.”

“Dad—”

Frankie raised a hand. “Hear me out, love. Hear me out.” He paused while Maisie fidgeted, cutting into her bacon, then leaving it on her plate as she settled back to listen. Frankie continued. “When you first started lessons with Dr. Blanche, all them years ago when you were in service, I’ve got to admit I wasn’t at all taken with it. I was grateful to ’im and Lady Rowan for giving you the opportunity, but I—”

He paused. A man of few words, Maisie’s father was unused to expressing himself with such candor.

“I was a bit put out, to tell you the truth. I wondered if that man wasn’t more of a father to you than me, what with all his education. But now I’ve come to know ’im, since I came down to work at Chelstone. And after my accident, when he made sure I was well looked after, I saw that what he had was respect for you, for what you’ve done, how far you’ve come. I don’t know what this argument is all about, but though I don’t have your learning under my belt, I’m not silly and I can work a thing or two out. All I can say is, if Dr. Blanche kept something from you, it wasn’t out of not trustin’ you. No, it was for reasons of protectin’ you, right or wrong.” He lifted up his knife and fork again. “And sometimes you’ve just got to say fain-ites—you’ve got to call a truce, with yourself as much as anyone else, and then get on with bein’ mates again.”

Maisie sighed and poked at her breakfast. “I—” she began, but realized that she was about to justify her actions, or lack thereof, again, and simply added, “Nothing. Let’s eat our breakfast before it gets cold.”

“Right you are. I just wanted to say my piece.”

“And I’m glad you did.” She looked up at her father, changing the subject. “I think I’ll try to stay in Heronsdene tonight, if I can get lodgings at the inn. I want to spend a bit of time closer to my work for a couple of days, but I’ll be back again on Friday night.”

Frankie nodded and stood up, taking his plate to the sink, where he set it in a bowl of water. He washed his hands, then came to Maisie and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be off to the stables now.” He turned to take his jacket from a hook behind the door. “Mind how you drive, round these little lanes. Not like some of them new big roads you’ve got used to.”

“Alright, Dad.”

MAISIE DID NOT leave the table for some time. Finally, she sighed and set about tidying the kitchen before she gathered her belongings ready to set off. It was not yet seven o’clock, so she pulled on a pair of Wellington boots and stepped out the back door and into the garden. Long and narrow, the garden was almost entirely given over to vegetables, yet roses grew along the fence on all three sides. The cultivation of roses was an interest Frankie and Maurice Blanche shared, so the men had become friends of a kind across the fence that divided their respective homes, though the Dower House, situated on an incline close to the boundary of Chelstone Manor, was decidedly more grand than the humble Groom’s Cottage it looked down upon.

Maisie went straight to the end of the garden, the heavy dew wet across her boots, and looked out at the fields and woodland beyond. She was eternally glad that her father had come to live at Chelstone in 1914 and would be allowed to remain in his cottage until the end of his days. She shuddered to think of such an event, for he was her only family, and he was past seventy.

As she turned to leave, she stopped to look at the Dower House, where she could just about see the roofline and, to the fore, the glass-paned conservatory where Maurice would be taking breakfast, dipping freshly baked bread—his one indulgence—into the strong French coffee he favored. And as she stood there, remembering times past, when they would speak together of a case in hushed tones, she saw movement just beyond the windows of the conservatory. Maurice Blanche was watching her, his newspaper under one arm. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the searing early morning sunlight that bathed the room, then waved, and after a lapse of some seconds Maisie waved in return. She knew he waited for her to unlatch the gate and walk along the path, across the lawn, and through the rose garden up to the conservatory. He may have already asked for an extra cup and saucer to be brought, just in case she came to join him. But she wouldn’t. Not today. She wasn’t ready for fain-ites yet.

FIVE

Maisie stopped on the outskirts of Maidstone as soon as she saw a red telephone kiosk alongside a row of shops. The directory inquiries operator found the firm of White, Bertrand and Spelton without much ado, giving Maisie their address as well as a telephone number, though Maisie declined to be connected.

Parking her motor close to the old Corn Exchange, Maisie soon found the solicitors’ offices on the High Street. She did not have an appointment and did not want to attempt to make one at short notice, either—such a move would have meant immediate refusal, she suspected. However, though she did not secure an audience with Mr. Spelton, who had been assigned to represent the two boys from Shoreditch, she was able to speak with his clerk, who informed her that the young men were being held on remand at a reformatory school for juvenile criminals and would stand trial for breaking and entering, malicious damage, and theft. With luck, they would serve a sentence of between three to six months, seeing as this was a first offense, though the victim was strongly protesting such a short incarceration. The clerk noted that it was lucky they were not yet of an age—sixteen—where they would be sent to borstal. “Then they’d know all about it,” he commented.

Maisie asked a few more questions, then left. As far as she understood, at a reformatory school the boys would not be subject to either a birching if they stepped out of line or a leather across the palm, though the punishment would not be a pleasant experience either. But no matter how seemingly lenient the sentence, her task was to prevent its being passed down.

Turning into Week Street, Maisie’s next stop was the offices of the local newspaper, which brought word of events in Kent, whether significant or trivial, to the broad population of the county. A woman receptionist proved helpful, and when Maisie asked if she could speak to one of the reporters who had been at the newspaper for, say, fifteen years or so, she was told that they rarely changed staff, so that would be anyone.

“I reckon the best thing, miss, is for you to speak to Beattie. She’s been here since the war and knows what’s gone on all over Kent.” She paused. “I’d say to speak to one of the men, but they’re all over at the King’s Arms at the moment.”

Maisie leafed through a newspaper while she waited for the reporter to come to the receptionist’s desk. She noticed that the burglary at the Sandermere estate had warranted several column inches, including a searing comment from Alfred Sandermere: “Since the war we seem to have been overrun with young ruffians, and they need to be taught a lesson! As if the gypsies aren’t enough for us to put up with!” There was another journalistic observation and then a final quote from Sandermere: “I’ll see that they are punished to the full extent of the law. Let this be a lesson to others bent on delinquency!”

“Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie turned to see a woman of average height standing before her, wearing a sensible two-piece costume of pale gray lightweight wool with a white blouse underneath. The gored skirt had fashionable kick pleats, and her black shoes demonstrated a choice based both on comfort and demand—she suspected the woman was on her feet for much of the day. Indeed, her clothing suggested nothing threatening and was simple in such a way as to extinguish any immediate rise to opinion on the part of someone she might wish to interview.

“Yes, indeed. Thank you for seeing me, Miss—”

“Just call me Beattie. My name is Beatrice Drummond and my middle name is Theresa. As much as I would have liked to be called Tricia for short instead of Beattie, the middle initial ensured my fate. Call me Beattie.” She looked up at a wooden clock that would seem more at home in a Victorian school than a newspaper office. “Would you like to step across the road for a cup of coffee? I can spare about fifteen minutes—then I have to dash.”

“Thank you for accommodating me, though I must confess at the outset that I do not have a news tip for you.”

Beattie grinned. “Oh, I am sure you do, Miss Dobbs. I am quite familiar with your work.”

Maisie maintained her smile, though the news was unwelcome. She had seldom been mentioned in newspapers and did not care for such recognition, despite the flurry of business that came in the wake of the spotlight’s glare. She would have to be doubly careful when questioning the reporter.

Open casement windows at the front of the coffee shop ensured a cool breeze to temper what promised to be a warm Indian summer day Maisie ordered two coffees, along with two fresh Eccles cakes, and joined Beattie by the window, where she had already claimed a seat.

“I’m glad to see you haven’t brought your official notepad.” Maisie was frank, though she couched the comment lightly, as she rested the corner of the tray on the table and placed the coffee and cakes at the already-set places.

Beattie reached for a cup of coffee and an Eccles cake.

“May I ask, before anything else, how you came to be a reporter, Beattie?”

Beattie smiled as she bit off a mouthful of the currant-filled pastry and wiped a crumb from the side of her mouth with her hand. Holding up one finger while she chewed, she swallowed. “I am absolutely starving. Not taken a moment for a cuppa all morning.” She reached for her coffee, sipped, and placed the cup back on its saucer. “I came to work at the newspaper in 1916—sixteen years old at the time. Most of the lads in the printing room had enlisted and they had to keep the presses running, so they took on women to do the job. Of course, the print room was run by the older men who were too long in the tooth to wield a rifle, and after a while I ended up as a compositor. I’d always loved books and writing, so I kept asking if I could work in the newsroom, which of course they laughed at, every single time. I even began looking for news, coming in with stories for them to print, but the editor just looked me in the eye and threw my words in the bin.”

“How dreadful.”

“Ah. I was not to be deterred. I applied for a copyediting assistant’s job when it came along, and again, due to staff shortages, got the position. But still they threw my news stories in the bin. Finally, one day when all the reporters were out—and a right old lot they are, they’ll be over in the pub until after closing today, I wouldn’t mind betting—I happened to find out about a young woman who had taken her life when she was told her husband had been killed at Passchendaele. I got the whole story in the bag before anyone even knew it had happened—and as you might imagine, this was when it wasn’t considered so very bad if you wrote something less than laudatory about the war. But I didn’t spend time on the actual war, just the man who had died and his very young wife.”

“So you got your break.”

“In a manner of speaking. They decided I was good at ’people’ stories, which meant I was in grave danger of being relegated to covering flower shows and jam-making contests, to say nothing of Pancake Day races, but I sidestepped a lot of that sort of thing and sniffed out meatier leads. When one of the old boys turns in a big story, they print his name, but they’ll only print my initials: B. T. Drummond. They haven’t quite grasped that the world has changed in the last ten years. No one cares if it’s a man or woman writing the news, just so long as it’s written.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you do.” Beattie squinted at Maisie through a wisp of steam curling up from the still-hot coffee. “Now then, you didn’t come to Maidstone to hear my life story, did you? What can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?” She reached for the remains of her Eccles cake without taking her eyes off the investigator.

“I’m interested in the village of Heronsdene. You’ve worked at the newspaper since the war, and it sounds as if you’ve kept your finger on the pulse of the county, so to speak. I know you can’t be everywhere, but I wondered if you’ve any”—Maisie considered her words with care—“if you’ve any thoughts about the village, any stories or leads that have come your way regarding events there, since about, say, 1916?”

Beattie licked her forefinger and tapped at the remaining crumbs on her plate, then brushed her tongue across her crumb-encrusted finger again before responding to Maisie’s question. “Are you working on a case?”

“In confidence, until I say otherwise?”

Beattie tapped again at her now-clean plate. “As long as I get first dibs on the story—if it’s a big one—before anyone else pips me to the post.”

“My, my, you’re anxious to move up.”

“Anxious to move out, Miss Dobbs. I want to work on one of the London rags, and I need a big story to open the door. Will I get word from you so I can scoop?”

Maisie nodded. “I’m not sure it will turn out to be anything of note, Beattie, but I assure you that whatever happens I will let you know in plenty of time.”

Beattie held out her hand, and the women shook on their agreement. “How can I help?”

“First of all, is it my imagination or is there something amiss about Heronsdene?”

The reporter blew out her cheeks. “Straight to the bull’s-eye with question one.” She sat up straight. “I would say that you’ve hit the nail on the head there. I do—despite my better judgment—report on local fairs and shindigs, so I know most of the villages across the Weald of Kent, and I would agree with you: There’s a different . . . a different . . .”

“Mood?”

“Yes, there’s a different mood in Heronsdene. Now, I can’t speak of what it was like before—I’m Kent born, by the way, in Headcorn—and I can’t think of any reason for it, but outsiders say the village hasn’t been the same since 1916.”

“The Zeppelin raid?”

“Ah, you have another source.”

“My father.”

“That’s alright then.” Beattie finished her coffee with one gulp. “Yes, if anything, the raid is the event that seems to have changed the people there, one way or another. I mean, other villages, other towns, had their cross to bear—all the boys lost on one day, families left without a breadwinner—but Heronsdene is different. If that village were a human being, you’d tell it to get on with it, snap out of the malaise. When I go there to report on the annual fete, I feel like an interrogator simply for asking who made the Victoria Sponge at the end of the cake-baking competition table.”

“Any idea why they have such a lack of trust?”

She looked thoughtful, for a moment gazing out of the window, watching passersby as if she were memorizing every detail of the scene. “Yes, it’s a lack of trust.” She turned back to Maisie. “It could be the petty crime that’s been going on there for some years now—probably ten years. And they’ve got a local landowner who thinks he’s the squire of all he surveys, but he’s a dreadful businessman—not good news at all when you think of how the village depends on the brickworks. I’m waiting in the wings to report on his financial ruin, to tell you the truth.”

“I know about the petty crime. But what about Sandermere? How much does he have to do with the village?”

“Ah—good question, but a better one would be: ’How much does he want to do with the village?’”

“What do you mean?”

“Being the landowner, he holds enormous power on a local level, despite what I said earlier. But the people really can’t stand him, just cannot abide him, and yet they’re careful not to do anything that might rub him up the wrong way. His ownership of the brickworks doesn’t explain the acquiescence, to be perfectly honest with you. Frankly, we all gave up trying to get a story about the crime there—especially the fires—because the villagers don’t report them to the police. Of course, Sandermere is always calling the police for this or that at the mansion, which doesn’t go down well with the Tunbridge Wells constabulary, but he’s the only one. You get the impression that the locals would prefer it if he showed half their stoicism when it comes to these acts of delinquency.”

“You can’t ignore crime, though.”

“They do, most of the time. Mind you, we’ve got a nice little story with those two London boys. The readers love that sort of thing, mainly because in every village they think the Londoners are better off up there in London—though they don’t mind the custom in the shops and the pubs. And at least they’re not gypsies. Nobody wants the gypsies, so any story where a pikey gets pulled by the boys in blue is worth a string or two.”

Maisie looked at her watch, as did the reporter. “One more question for you, Beattie. Do you know who was killed when the Zeppelin bombed Heronsdene?”

The woman squinted, as if looking at newspaper columns stretching back years. “It was a shopkeeper, if I’m not mistaken. I can check on the details for you.”

Maisie stood up. “Don’t worry I can look into it myself.”

Beattie laughed. “Yes, I am sure you can.” They walked out into the sunshine. “But if you’re at the inn, talk to Fred Yeoman, the landlord. Go easy with him, perhaps buy him a half of light and bitter, and he may just remember a thing or two.”

“Right you are. Thank you, Beattie.”

“Remember—I’ve got the scoop, alright?” She waved and turned, walking with an assured purpose back to her office. As she watched, Maisie saw the reporter take a small notebook from her pocket and begin to make notes. She was not concerned, though, as she made her way back to the MG, for she was sure that B. T. Drummond would not have gained the confidence of ordinary people across the county, or maintained her place on the newspaper’s roster of reporters, without some level of honesty, some degree of trustworthiness.

MAISIE REACHED HERONSDENE just after lunch, idling the MG as she drove through the village, where she parked opposite the inn. Last orders had not been called, though she guessed the inn would be open all day for residents to come and go, even if drinks were not served.

Opening the ancient oak door and dipping her head to avoid the low beam, Maisie entered where a sign read RESIDENTS, which led into a small, comfortable sitting room where an extension of the main bar allowed the landlord to respond to calls from both regular patrons and visiting guests alike. Leaning across the wooden counter, Maisie saw the landlord serving pints in the noisy public bar, where a group of men were playing darts. The air was thick with smoke, filtering into the saloon bar, situated between the residents’ sitting room and the public bar. The womenfolk who accompanied men to the inn would usually sit in the saloon bar. A sign behind the bar mirrored one that Maisie noticed outside: NO GYPSIES.

“Excuse me.” Maisie waved to the landlord, who nodded and smiled, to let her know that he had seen her waiting.

“Sorry to keep you . . . miss.” He wiped his hands on a towel and glanced at her ring finger. “They’re all trying to get a round in before last orders. Can I help you?”

“I’m touring the area and wondered if you might have a vacancy for two nights.”

He reached under the counter and took out a ledger. “Two guest rooms still vacant—not that we have that many, mind, just the four.”

“I’ll take one, if I may.”

“Right you are.” He reached for the pencil balanced behind his ear. “Lovely time of year to come down to Kent. From London, are you?”

“Yes, though I know the county well.”

“Just sign here, miss, and put in your details.” He continued speaking as she wrote. “See a lot of young women these days, touring like yourself. Specially since the government brought out them billboards telling everyone to get out into the fresh air and hike for health! Don’t see so many traveling alone, though.”

Maisie was not fond of using her past to gain an ally, but sometimes she found it was a valuable tool. “After I was in France, during the war, I thought that if I could face that trial I was up for anything in my own country. And what could there possibly be to cause me fear or harm in your delightful village?”

The innkeeper nodded, looking at Maisie with a regard he had not exhibited before. “Nurse, were you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Fred Yeoman, at your service.” He reached behind the bar for a key, which he dangled in front of him as he looked down at the register. “Best room in the house. Follow me please, Miss Dobbs.” Yeoman lifted the counter’s wooden flap, stepped through to the sitting room, and pointed toward another small door between the inglenook fireplace and the diamond-paned windows. He unlatched the door to reveal a narrow staircase snaking toward a landing lit by a shaft of light from a dormer window set into the roof.

Maisie followed and was shown into a room with windows looking out to the back of the inn.

“The bed’s soft but comfortable. You’ll find it might be noisy of an evening—the hoppers can get a bit rowdy at the end of the day—but it’s quiet by eleven. We’re not what you’d call a drinking pub, if you know what I mean, so we don’t attract the Londoners anyway.” He rested his hand on the door handle. “My wife serves a hot breakfast in the residents’ sitting room at eight, and if you want a supper put out for you, just let us know. She’ll pack up some sandwiches as well, if you want.”

“Thank you, Mr. Yeoman. I’ll be having a cooked tea later on, so I doubt I’ll be hungry. This is a lovely room.”

“My wife made the curtains and counterpane.” He surveyed the room with pride. “Now then, the WC is along the landing, to the right, so there’s no going outside to an earth closet in the middle of the night. Will you need towels?”

“I’ve brought my own, thank you, Mr. Yeoman.”

He passed the key to her. “Fred. You can call me Fred, miss.”

“Thank you, Fred.” Maisie smiled as Yeoman left the room, closing the door with barely a sound.

The room was neither small nor spacious, and the rug-covered wooden floorboards creaked under her footfall as she stepped toward the window. From the outside, she had dated the inn at around 1350, of typical medieval hall-house construction. The upper floors would originally have been simply a galleried landing where people slept; she suspected the division into rooms probably took place in the seventeenth century, with water closets and gaslights being added during Edward VII’s reign. Electricity would likely be next, and she thought Fred Yeoman might look to adding a bathroom for guests, so they weren’t completely dependent on a single washbasin in the room for their personal hygiene.

The window provided a perfect vista across the farmlands beyond, and in the distance Maisie could see the roofline of the Georgian manor house at the center of the Sandermere estate. If she craned her neck, she could also view the hop-gardens and even the train chugging toward Paddock Wood. The room, she thought, would be perfect for a couple of nights. She locked the door behind her as she left, slipping the key into her jacket pocket. Waving to Yeoman as she departed the inn, she decided to walk along the High Street to get her bearings.

To the right, as she walked, there was just one shop, a general store selling all manner of goods, from groceries to oil for lamps, from kitchen cutlery to baby clothes. A few houses followed, then a common where, she thought, cricket would be played in summer and the local fete set up on a sun-filled June day. She imagined Beattie Drummond walking back and forth, trying to get even the most mundane story from the locals, to no avail. Considering the villagers, she looked about her and realized that few people were out and about on such a fine afternoon. Early closing was yesterday, so perhaps the shopkeepers had only just opened again following their midday meal.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL was set at the far end of the common, and the muffled but high-pitched singing of a folk song signaled a music lesson in progress. Beyond the common, farther down the street, an old outbuilding with smoke belching from the chimney suggested a blacksmith at work, and as she walked closer she saw two draft horses waiting to be shod, flicking flies from their hefty rumps with their long tails or occasionally turning to nip an insect from their flanks. She watched for a while, then walked on. A strip of fallow land came next, with neither house nor sign of recent harvest, and there was no indication that it was used for grazing, which she thought strange, for country folk are not given to wasting land.

Maisie retraced her steps and reached the smithy just as the farrier came out to collect one of the drafts, reaching up and taking it by the halter.

“Excuse me,” Maisie called, taking advantage of the farrier’s being outside, away from the clanking bellows.

The man cupped his ear with his free hand as he looked around the horse to see who had spoken.

“Over here.” She walked toward him, gentling the horse with a hand to his neck as she approached. “Sorry to bother you while you’re working.”

“What can I do for you?” The man was not curt, but neither was he making an effort to be courteous.

“I’m visiting Heronsdene and wondered about the land next door to you. Does anyone own it?”

“Me. And I ain’t selling.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I was just curious, wondering why it wasn’t used.”

The man shook his head and turned toward the blackened inner sanctum of his smithy. “Not used since the war, since the Hun bombed out my barn. Lucky to save my business, I was, but everyone pulled together, everyone helped.”

“I’m terribly sorry, that must have been dreadful. Will you build another barn?”

“When I get the money, per’aps I will. Until then, I’ve left it fallow. Now then, miss, I’ve got to get on.” And with that he turned away from her, in such a way that, had she not stepped sideways with speed, the horse might have caught her foot with his own.

Maisie stood for a moment or two, watching the farrier as he maneuvered the horse into stocks and tied the lead rein to a ring on the wall. Though the horse turned his great head to look at her, the man did not speak again or cast his eyes in her direction. She crossed the road and went back through the village, passing her motor car and the inn as she walked in the direction of the church.

Three people were apparently killed in Heronsdene, but the smithy had not even mentioned the tragedy when he spoke of the Zeppelin. She considered this as she looked first at the Norman church, then at the ancient lych-gate and the graves beyond. She tried to ignore the war memorial close by but thought the people killed in the bombing might be listed among those from the village who were lost in the years 1914-1918. Maisie sighed and walked over to the memorial. She barely cast her eyes over the list of names, not wanting to inspire memories that came on with the same ferocity as a searing headache might be visited upon her by a too-bright light or a piercing sound. There was no mention of the three who perished here.

Maisie looked around and once more took account of the waste ground she had seen when she first arrived. She crossed the road to better look at the rectangular lot, set apart from other houses in the village, and stood for a while at the edge of the land, for she had realized she was reluctant to step forward onto the ground and was aware of a definite perimeter, even though it was overgrown and no margins of any building that might have been there remained. She closed her eyes as she felt a sudden shaft of cold air, even in the midst of a sun-filled September day with morning’s early chill long banished. It was not a cool breeze borne on the promise of autumn that made her shudder, but a sensation akin to an icy finger laid upon her skin, accompanied by a dark shadow that descended into her waking consciousness. Oh, my God, what happened here? What terrible thing happened here? Maisie staggered backward. The horn from a passing motor car blared as she almost tripped into the road, a sound that served to prevent her fall and caused her to stand upright and regain her balance.

This is where they died. Maisie knew in her deepest being that life had been lost in this place, that an act of aggression had touched the very earth across which she cast her gaze. She shivered, surveying the barren ground, a wasteland except for the Michaelmas daisies. It was then she remembered her grandmother again, remembered the gift of a bunch of the bright mauve blooms she’d gathered while walking with her father. “Ah, St. Michael’s flowers, brought to me by my boosul little angel herself,” said her grandmother. And she cupped Maisie’s cheek with her hand, liver-spotted and wrinkled, and bent forward to smell the musty aroma of Michaelmas daisies, flowers that always bloomed in time for the old festival of St. Michael, the warrior saint of all angels.

MAISIE TURNED TOWARD the church, the cold air diminishing as she made her way along the cobbled path to the entrance. It took both hands to wield the latch and gain entrance, and at once she felt at ease, comforted by the smells of ancient flagstones underfoot, of fresh blooms arranged by the village womenfolk, of damp foxed prayer books and worn woolen knee cushions. But she came not into the church seeking the tranquility offered amid the prayers of ages. She was looking for some sort of marker, some commemoration of the three who were lost when the Zeppelin released its deathly cargo. Names of villagers from earliest times were immortalized on the walls of the church, plaques placed following a timely donation by heirs centuries ago. But there was nothing, no honoring of the dead of a most terrible disaster. She emerged into the day once again, then began walking around the churchyard. Gravestones giving up the weight of years leaned toward one another, moss- and lichen-covered so that names could barely be read. A small contingent of stones in one far corner were those of prisoners of war from Napoleon’s time, given their due and buried with the blessing of God upon them.

Then she found a trio of small stones together under a yew tree, set apart from the rest. The stones were of more recent design and plain in appearance, the names not heralded with curls and loops. Three names, of the same family: Jacob Martin, Bettin Martin, Anna Martin. The date was half buried in weeds but indicated the three had met their fate in September 1916. An inscription followed:

Forgive them; for they know not what they do.

—Luke 23:34

SIX

The hop-pickers had moved on since Maisie last saw Billy and his family. Now the hop-garden where they had previously been picking was barren, a field of rusty spent bines and parched khaki soil. Holding her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes, Maisie squinted across the heat-drenched acres of clay to the hop-gardens beyond and located the pickers moving along abundant rows of hops. Making her way closer, she could see the Londoners at the top of the garden, separated from the gypsies at the bottom.

Once again she tramped along in the midst of a flurry of activity until she came to Billy and his family, snatching hops from bines freshly tugged down to lie across the bin. They were working silently, though Billy looked up and smiled at her approach.

“Miss, ’ow are you, then? Any luck findin’ out about George’s boys?”

Maisie noticed that Doreen had turned away from Billy, as he began to speak, and had her back to him now. She had only issued a brief smile upon greeting Maisie, yet her demeanor did not suggest she thought ill of her husband’s employer, rather that she was more than a little annoyed with her spouse.

“They’re being held on remand, currently at the boys’ reformatory school outside Maidstone. They will be charged with the theft of valuables from the Sandermere estate, malicious damage, and breaking and entering. At the moment, the fact that they have no ’previous’ will stand them in good stead—if you can call it that—and they will serve, if found guilty, only three to six months.”

Billy frowned and threw down the hop-bine that he’d been picking. “But I thought you could get them out!”

“Not so fast, Billy.” She held up her hand. “They stand accused of a crime for which there is evidence of their guilt, and though we believe there is cause for doubt, we have to prove them innocent, which takes time. I should add that they seem well represented, as far as it goes. We must, however, do all we can to locate the stolen goods and find out who might have conducted the burglary in the first place.”

Maisie looked at Doreen Beale, who was biting her bottom lip as she picked hops into the bin with short, sharp movements, ignoring both her sons, who were much too quiet, and her mother-in-law, with whom she had always enjoyed a warm companionship. It was clear that the couple had exchanged harsh words, though the discord might be the result of a minor squabble that had escalated in tone or some act or retort on behalf of one that was seen as more than a minor infraction by the other.

“Billy, I’d like to talk to the boys’ father again and, if your family can spare you, I’d like you to come.” Maisie smiled at Doreen, who looked back at Billy and nodded.

“He can do as he likes,” said Doreen, a bladelike edge to her reply.

Billy ignored the comment, passed his half-picked hop-bine to his sons, and motioned for Maisie to follow him. “Over ’ere, Miss. George is this way.”

They had walked only a few yards when Maisie whispered to her assistant, “Look, Billy, I know it’s none of my business, really, but may I ask—is Doreen upset about something?”

They passed the last cadre of pickers and walked on through untouched hop-bines draped like rich green curtains across the rows. Though no one could hear them, Billy kept his voice low. “I had to put me foot down, Miss. You know, about Doreen talkin’ to them gyppos.”

Maisie frowned, and though she understood the folly of coming between man and wife, she could hear her annoyance as she replied, “What did you do that for?”

Billy stopped and looked at her. “Not you too? What with me mum, and now you.” He plucked a single hop from an overhanging bine and crushed it between his fingers. “I was alright, like, when it came to Doreen stoppin’ to ’ave a chat with that woman, Paishey Webb, what with ’er ’avin’ the little girl. I was worried, mind, because I could see Doreen was sort of making their paths cross—she was always there when the woman went over to the tap or back up the road. And you never know when someone might turn, might reckon there’s somethin’ wrong with my Doreen.” He shook his head. “I know what it means to ’er, bein’ able to hold the litt’lun every now and again, but you never know what people might think.”

“You’re worried about other people?”

“Well, you’ve got to be, ’aven’t you? It’s all very well sayin’ what others think ain’t important, but you’ve got to get along, got to live with people. Them gyppos will be gone in a few weeks, off back to Wimbledon Common or wherever it is they go when there’s no more work down ’ere. But it turns out I know most of the people pickin’ around us after all, grew up with ’em; they come from round our way. And what with this business with George’s boys, and ’im reckonin’ it was really the gypsies—nah, ain’t worth it, puttin’ up with the talk.” He barely paused to take breath. “And what else you’ve got to consider is that them old pikeys might take a funny turn to it, you know, ’er stoppin’ to look at one of their babies. You never know what they might do to Doreen.”

Maisie sighed. “I do wish you wouldn’t call them gyppos and pikeys. They’re people, you know. They might look a bit different, dress a bit different, and sound nothing like you or I, but they’ve got their own codes of behavior, and it may interest you to know that by their standards we do things that are considered beyond the pale.”

“I don’t know about that, Miss.”

They had stopped walking by now and were conducting their conversation in the middle of the hop-garden.

“Well, I do. Take that enamel bowl in your hut. Use it for water to wash the boys in the evening, do you?”

“Yes, but—”

“And then you rinse it out and fill it with water to clean the plates after you’ve eaten?”

“Yes, but—”

“And I bet you fill that bowl again when there’s a bit of laundry to be done.”

“What’re you gettin’ at, Miss?”

“Gypsy folk think that’s disgusting beyond measure. They have a different bowl for each task, and they never mix them up. You’d never see a gypsy filling a bowl to have a shave and then use it later to wash some clothes.”

Billy looked at his feet. “That’s all very well, but there’s more.”

“Yes?”

“Doreen’s ’eard about that woman, the one they call Aunt Beulah. Says she wants to go to ’ave her fortune told, that the woman knows all about what’s going to ’appen—you know, in the future.”

“I see.” Maisie was calm now. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

“It can only end in tears, Miss. I don’t reckon that woman can see any farther than you or me, and I don’t want Doreen goin’ there for false hopes, wantin’ to know if we’ll ’ave another little girl, wantin’ to know if we’ll ever leave for Canada, wantin’ to know if we’ll ever . . . get over it.”

“Doreen is grieving, Billy. Your Lizzie hasn’t even been gone a year, and both of you have gone through hell. She’s looking for a light at the end of her tunnel, and the other women’s stories have given her a glimmer of hope, the possibility that there might be good news on the horizon.”

“I know that, Miss, but I don’t want ’er led up the garden path, neither.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked at a clod of earth. “What makes people think that gypsies can tell the future anyway? What do they know that we don’t?”

Maisie held out her hand to indicate that they should walk on. “I’m not sure they do know more than anyone else, though here’s the difference—they spend a lot of time out here in the country. Their ways are simpler. I know this might sound fey, but they are more inclined to pay attention to the thoughts and feelings that herald an event than we are—even if they don’t know they’re doing it. You could say they use that particular muscle a bit more than we might. That trust in what they perceive to be a mark of what is to come means they are more inclined to intuit events than you or I.”

Billy shrugged. “Well, more than me, anyway. You’re more like them, in that way, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.” He paused. “D’you reckon I should give Doreen me blessing, let ’er go?”

“That’s not for me to say, Billy.” She paused, thoughtful. “However, I do have two observations. First, you and Doreen have gone through too much for this discord to drive a wedge between you. And second, perhaps it would be a good idea for you to have a chat together, about whether you really want to know what might happen in the future.” Maisie waved to George in the distance, who had seen them walking in his direction; then she turned to Billy. “How much better it would be for you both, to sit down and talk about what you would like to see happen in your family and then go about discovering what might be done to point your ship in that direction, if you know what I mean.”

“All very well, if you’ve got the money.”

“It doesn’t take money to use imagination, Billy.”

“It does if you want to go to Canada.”

GEORGE WAS VISIBLY relieved when Maisie informed him that his sons were not being held at His Majesty’s pleasure in Maidstone Prison, though the thought of them in a boys’ reformatory kept him unsettled.

“So now all we’ve got to do is prove they didn’t do it.”

“That’s more or less what needs to be done. There must be a cache of stolen goods somewhere—the question is where?” Maisie turned to Billy. “Normally, I would refrain from the widespread search of a property—it can be time-consuming at a point when manpower might be better utilized elsewhere. However, in this case I think it’s better than nothing. Billy, the boys found the silver close to the chestnut tree where they were collecting conkers. If we make an assumption that whoever made off with the goods leaped over the wall and then dropped the locket and paperweight as he landed and ran, more items might have been lost or a trail might still exist.”

“I doubt that, Miss.”

“Any better ideas?”

Billy shook his head.

“Right, so you and George—not now, when the sun’s still high; wait for dusk—map out a trail from the chestnut tree, across the road, and then see if you can get a sense of which way the thief might have run.”

“Better than nothin’, eh, George?’

George seemed doubtful but nodded accordance. “Can’t do any harm.”

Maisie checked the watch pinned to her jacket lapel. “I’ve just enough time to try to see Alfred Sandermere. Then I have an appointment to join a friend for a nice cooked tea.” She paused before proffering a word of advice to Billy “Oh, and when you cross the road, try to suspend what you think for a moment and see if you can just go where you feel might be the right direction.”

“Alright, Miss.”

Maisie left the two men, who watched her walk away before speaking.

George frowned toward Billy. “What’s she mean, Bill?”

“Nothin’. Come on, let’s get back to work for an hour or two.”

MAISIE PROCEEDED OUT onto the farm road, then back toward the MG, parked at the entrance of Dickon’s Farm. Starting the motor without delay, she pulled out onto the main thoroughfare in the direction of the Sandermere manor house. She didn’t think Billy and George would have any luck today, but there was a lot to be said for keeping people busy when they might otherwise get in the way.

“MISS DOBBS, DELIGHTED to meet you. The solicitors acting for Viscount Compton informed me that you would be visiting, though I thought I might have a little more notice.” Alfred Sandermere descended the staircase and held out his hand toward Maisie as he walked across the black-and-white checkered tile hallway. As they stood facing each other, Maisie thought they must look rather like chessmen, each waiting for an opportune move. She was surprised not to be shown into a reception room to meet her host, but it seemed that Sandermere had responded to the news of her presence with speed, coming straight from his study on an upper floor to greet her.

Sandermere was dressed as if he had only just dismounted his horse. He was wearing beige jodhpurs, Viyella shirt, and waistcoat, with a rich tweed hacking jacket and a silk cravat at the neck. His hair had been flattened by a hat, the ridge along his forehead suggesting he wore a flat cap when out riding. His brown leather boots, clearly polished to a shine before the ride, were now dusty—she could not help but feel sorry for the maids who cleaned the house of a man who tramped dirt into the carpets, though such a habit could be attributed to many of his station. She wondered if James Compton was any different.

“I have been in the village for two days and thought I would drop by, on the off chance that you might be able to accommodate a meeting for a few moments. I am most grateful to you for seeing me.”

Sandermere looked Maisie up and down, rather as he might judge a hunter. “Let’s adjourn to the drawing room.” He turned to his butler. “Mason. Tea in the drawing room.” The instruction was punctuated with neither please nor thank you.

Maisie suspected the drawing room was exactly as it had been when Sandermere’s parents were still alive and may not have had even a lick of paint since the turn of the century. The room seemed cluttered, with a worn brown leather chesterfield and an assortment of armchairs drawn close to a fireplace, now hidden by a needlepoint screen. Long, musty red-velvet drapes obscured a calm green view from the windows out toward the farms, the woodlands, and, to the right in the distance, the village of Heronsdene. Maisie thought the brickworks was probably not visible from the part of the house it faced but was instead surrounded by trees so the gentry’s view would not be sullied by such a thing as a factory.

Sandermere sat down on the chesterfield with something of a sprawl, leaning back into the corner of the seat and putting his boot-clad feet up on the low table upon which the butler would doubtless place a tea tray. He inclined his head and held out his hand toward an armchair with worn covers. Maisie rested her black bag alongside the proffered chair and sat down.

She was about to speak when the butler entered, set a tray to the side of his employer’s feet, and poured tea for both Maisie and Sandermere. Maisie made a point of smiling broadly and thanking the butler but, again, Sandermere barely nodded toward him.

“Mr. Sandermere, first of all, I would like to clarify the reason for my visit. I am here at the request of Viscount Compton of the Compton Corporation to conduct certain inquiries that will support the company’s purchase of the estate, except, of course, your residence and the immediate gardens and land. I am not here to discuss the division of the land prior to sale or issues such as rights-of-way.”

Sandermere raised an eyebrow, sipping his tea with an audible slurp. Maisie bristled but continued. She already felt slighted by his manner and fought the pressure to descend into immediate mistrust.

“I am, however, interested in incidents of small-time crime that seem to have beset the estate, with particular acts of vandalism at the brickworks and in the stables here—I understand you were lucky not to lose your horses.” Maisie looked down at papers she had drawn from her black bag. “I take it, though, that you were recompensed by insurances.”

“Indeed, Miss Dobbs, without which I would not have been able to bring the brickworks back to full output or provide shelter for my horses.”

“And your insurers are Lloyds.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Now I also know something of the unfortunate burglary that took place last week.”

“Blasted Londoners! Lord, I know the farmers need them for the hop-picking, but what do you expect when a tribe of ruffians from the East End of London is set loose in the country? I’m amazed I didn’t lose more—but at least the two louts who broke in are in custody now.”

“Yes, that must be a weight off your mind, Mr. Sandermere.” Maisie paused. “Two small items were recovered—the culprits were caught with the goods on them—but I understand a significant haul is still missing.”

“Yes, all family heirlooms, not the easy-to-carry trinkets those London boys kept on them. A list has been submitted to the police and also to Lloyds.”

“It’s unfortunate that such family treasures cannot be replaced by money alone.”

“Yes, indeed. I am saddened beyond measure at their loss.”

Maisie reached for her tea, which she had set down when the interview began. She sipped; then, continuing to rest the saucer in her hand, she held the cup to her lips but did not drink. When she sipped again, she looked directly at Sandermere. “You do appear to have been victimized. I must ask if you have any idea, any thoughts as to who might have initiated the fires? The theft is more easily explained, as you have said yourself, a couple of London ne’er-do-wells. But what about the fires? There have been a number of fires in Heronsdene over the years. Do you think they are connected?”

“To be frank, I believe each fire in the village has an explanation. Perhaps a saucepan left on a stove for too long, or a chimney fire as a result of an overzealous villager loading up the logs—probably cut from my forests without permission! No, I’d be willing to bet those fires in the village are all coincidence, with nothing to draw them together at all. And the fires here?” Sandermere leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “To be honest with you, Miss Dobbs, I own everything you see when you stand at that window. In years gone by, my ancestors owned Heronsdene itself—owned every man, woman and child.” He leaned back, smiling, though it was not a warm smile of grace and inclusion, but one of arrogance. “Of course, feudalism died centuries ago, but most of the people who live in the village have their roots as intertwined with this house as with their own humble cottage. In fact, with a few exceptions, most of the villagers pay rent to me.”

“I see.” Maisie put down her cup and brought her attention back to her notes, then to Sandermere. “So what you are saying is that the fires on the estate are really the result of history’s follies seeping into the present. Bad blood from the past finding an outlet here, in 1931.”

“If you want to put it like that, yes.”

“Would you envisage that, should a sale go through, there would be no cause for the new owners to be concerned about continued delinquency?”

“No, no cause whatsoever. Once the act of retribution has had the desired result—for whatever the perceived infraction on the part of some long-lost ancestor—the need for more of the same is negated.”

Maisie pushed the clutch of papers into her black bag and stood up. “Thank you, I think that’s all for now, Mr. Sandermere.”

Sandermere came to his feet, pushed his hands in his jacket pockets, and walked to the door with her. “I suppose that when you’ve completed your reports, I will hear from Viscount Compton’s solicitors to move forward with the purchase.”

“I am not privy to the details of the purchase, Mr. Sandermere. As you have already been informed, my role is to complete a more informal report on the area and, indeed, to look at recent events in the vicinity of the estate and brickworks that might have an effect on the smooth takeover of a considerable acreage and a vital manufacturing asset.”

“Very good.” Sandermere nodded.

The butler stepped forward to escort Maisie to the door, and she bid good afternoon to Sandermere. She was about to cross the threshold but turned, calling to Sandermere, who had just set foot on the staircase. “Oh, Mr. Sandermere—one quick question.”

“Yes?”

“I’m curious—were you at all familiar with the Martin family, Jacob, Bettin and Anna?”

He shrugged. “I am familiar with them only because their lives were lost when the village was bombed by a Zeppelin during the war, Miss Dobbs. I was not in situ at the time, having returned to school.” He turned and continued walking up the stairs.

Maisie made her way back to the MG, settled into the driver’s seat, and shut the door. She chewed the inside of her cheek while surveying the mansion, then drove toward the main road, halting at a place she thought would not be visible from the house. Stepping from the motor car, she walked around the perimeter of the landscaped grounds toward the stable block. The stables, with stalls for seven horses, were quiet when she entered. There was no sign of the groom. Maisie suspected that he was probably in a tack room, applying saddle soap to deep brown leather or preparing buckets of bran mash for the horses—she’d counted three bay hunters and two gray carriage horses. One of the hunters glistened with sweat and smelled of liniment. She laid her hand to his flank and knew he had been galloped to the point of exhaustion. She could see that a groom had walked him cool, then covered him with a soft flannel sheet packed with dry hay to absorb the moisture that still ran from his body. The horse searched for a sweet treat in her hand as she touched his nose, and she whispered to him while reaching up to rub his ear, “He wouldn’t dare do that if Frankie Dobbs were his groom—he’d soon see who’s boss!”

She walked on until she came to the part of the structure damaged by fire, passing the tack room on the left. The groom was not there. A tarpaulin was drawn across a gaping hole in the roof and down the side of the building, where repairs had yet to be completed. She looked up into the rafters, then closely at the remains of a wooden stall, now charcoaled and splintered. The detritus left by fire was not something about which she claimed to be an expert. However, she did know when she’d been told a deliberate lie—or two.

SEVEN

Maisie walked up the hill toward the gypsy encampment and stopped, as she had before, to survey her surroundings. The horses were clustered in a corner of the field, and when she looked up, she saw clouds in the distance, moving in from the coast. The pickers would not be put off by rain but would soldier on through any downpour, sheltering under tarpaulins drawn capelike across their shoulders as they worked.

Gypsy vardos were not the gaily painted horse-drawn caravans of common fairy-tale mythology but more workmanlike in appearance, of deep and earthen colors. This tribe’s vardos, with their accompanying tents, were all maintained well, and even now, close to teatime—not the afternoon tea of ladies in well-to-do homes but the more common hearty after-work repast—the rom, gypsy men, were tinkering with wheels and repairing roofs.

Maisie came closer and saw the lurcher emerge from the clearing, sit back on her haunches, and stare in her direction, nose held up to a breeze that gave notice of the visitor. When she reached a boundary visible only to the lurcher, the dog stood up, moved forward, and, without giving voice, walked silently alongside Maisie as she entered the clearing.

The black rotund cooking pot had been drawn across a blazing fire. Paishey and a woman Maisie knew as Esther were adding greens gathered from the hedgerows, first leaning forward toward the pot and then turning back to plates that held different ingredients. Maisie thought Esther even more gypsy-like than Paishey or Beulah. Her ruddy skin was framed by hair that had been pulled back at the crown, then pushed forward with carved wooden combs, giving the impression that she was wearing a mantilla, with jet-black tresses piled on her head before cascading veil-like across her shoulders. Each woman wore a copious white apron covering her waist-gathered skirt. The apron, Maisie knew, was worn less to protect clothing from stains and splashes than to provide a barrier between the body of the cook and the food to be eaten. In gypsy lore, if food came in close proximity to a woman’s body, it was considered mokada—sullied—and not worth the eating.

Beulah was sitting on the same log as before, so Maisie stopped to wait for the old woman to become aware of her presence. The dog moved toward her mistress and nudged her elbow, and Beulah turned, beckoning Maisie to sit beside her. The lurcher settled at Beulah’s side, remaining ever watchful.

“Sit, rawni,” instructed Beulah. “Jook caught us a nice couple of shoshi.” She nodded toward the pot. “You’ll have a full belly tonight.”

“I’ll be glad of that,” said Maisie. She did not have a deep knowledge of the gypsy dialect but knew enough to understand that the dog had caught a brace of rabbit. Maisie waited to be spoken to again.

“So, you’ve been to see the sap up at the house.” Beulah nodded toward Sandermere’s mansion.

Sap: snake.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“What’n be your business?”

“I know a man who wants to buy the whole estate.” Maisie swept her hand around to indicate the breadth of the buying. “He wants it to be a clean chop” A clean sale. She knew this sale wouldn’t be sealed gypsy-fashion, with a banging together of knuckles to bind the agreement and barely a word spoken. Instead there would be offers and counteroffers, punctuated by pages of land law utilizing long-outdated vocabulary, and mazelike codicils to protect both parties. Indeed, if trust had been involved at all, she would not have a job.

Beulah reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of wood. She held it to her mouth and began to chew. She was quiet for a moment, then regarded Maisie, shaking her head. “The moosh is a dinlo.” The man is a fool. She stopped chewing and put the wood back in her pocket.

“Have you had dealings with him?” asked Maisie.

At that moment, Webb came into the clearing holding an armful of wood. He set the fuel alongside the fire and nodded to his wife, Paishey, and to Esther. The women took a couple of logs each and added them to the fire, holding their white aprons lest they be caught by sparks spitting out from the wood.

Beulah shook her head. “Not directly.” She pronounced it direckly, her eyes on Webb as she spoke.

Maisie turned and found that, once again, he was watching her, this time with eyes narrowed as a gust of wind pushed gray woodsmoke in his direction.

“Hello, Mr. Webb.” Maisie smiled, just enough, she hoped, to break the shell of ice that always seemed to envelop Beulah’s son.

He touched his hat in greeting and left the clearing, returning with more wood. She thought it might be better if she delayed the asking of questions until bellies were full and the warm fire had worked magic on aching backs. She had only picked for a short time, but already she felt the soreness in her hands and arms where rough hop-bines had scored the skin, leaving welts that stung when she washed. These people—men, women and children—had worked for days, and even after the picking was done the women had gathered flowers to bind into bunches, or made lilies of colored tissue paper to sell door-to-door, while the menfolk hunted or fashioned clothes pegs from wood to take to market.

Soon the rich aroma of a broth well simmered teased Maisie’s taste buds and caused her stomach to rumble. The women brought enamel plates from their respective vardos and gathered to dish up the meal. At the edge of the clearing, children lined up to be washed from bowls set aside for the purpose, and the men began to come in from their work.

Maisie followed the conversation, spoken in an English that was scoured of embellishment and peppered with dialect. For the most part, their stories mirrored those of the Londoners. They spoke of the hops in this garden or that, of the farmer, the tallyman, and how much they had earned. They talked of the clouds in the distance and were glad their tarpaulins were at the ready. Beulah complained of a toothache that had spread to her jaw, and one of the children squealed when a hot, wet flannel cloth was rubbed along his arms.

She heard Paishey telling Esther that the gorja-rawni—the woman who was not a gypsy—who had smiled upon her little Boosul, had turned her back today as they passed on the way to the tap. Esther put her hands on her hips and shook her head. She wagged a finger, telling Paishey that the woman wasn’t any different from all the rest of them and would probably cook her baby for tea if she had the chance, because she was—as likely as not—a beng, a devil. Maisie stared into the fire. Was it worth putting the story right? Should she tell them that the woman grieved for her own lost daughter, had felt warmed as the gypsy baby nestled in her arms, and was now shrouded in a chill of prejudice that enveloped her because her people didn’t trust the gypsies and were wary of them? No, probably not. She would keep her counsel. After all, the tribe suffered too, from the virulence of fear.

Paishey brought a plate of rabbit stew with a wedge of bread for Beulah, who pointed to Maisie and nodded, indicating that a plate should also be offered to their guest. A portion was brought for the outsider, and as steam wafted up from her food, Maisie’s mouth watered and she smiled at Paishey. “Thank you. This smells lovely.” Paishey said nothing, acknowledging the gratitude with a brief nod, and continued handing round enamel plates, with those of the men holding a good third of a measure more than the women.

There was little talk as the company devoured the awaited meal. Then the empty plates were cleared and slops from the pot taken to the edge of the clearing for the dogs, though Beulah’s jook was fed first, on account of her catching the tribe’s end-of-day meal.

Maisie made her move. “Why are the people in the village so afraid, Aunt Beulah?”

Beulah laughed, though it came out as a cackle, making her sound like a chovihanni, a witch. “Them’s too afraid of their own shadows. Them’s looking over their shoulders, waiting for the ghosts to see them.”

“What ghosts? What do you mean?”

Beulah shook her head. “Them ghosts that feed on all of us, the ghosts of them as we’ve done wrong by”

“But that could be anyone anywhere. There’s someone in every village who has done something wrong, but those places don’t feel like Heronsdene.”

Now the gypsy woman sighed, and Maisie, drawn to look over her shoulder, saw Webb walking toward them. Beulah turned to her and said, “It’s all a long time gone, but not what they hold of it.”

Webb leaned forward to whisper in Beulah’s ear, and Maisie watched as some of the gypsies, men and women, went to their tents, returning with fiddles and tambourines, wooden sticks and whistles. Paishey emerged from her vardo with a violin case in her arms, which she passed to Webb. Maisie noticed that the other rom carried their fiddles with much less care than Paishey and Webb had demonstrated. And even as Webb clicked open the case and lifted his violin from the faded golden velvet in which it was cocooned, it was with reverence, as if the instrument were a religious icon.

He lifted the violin to his ear, picked at the strings, tensioning them to tune, and then pressed it under his chin, to sound chords and test the notes. The other gypsies were creating a cacophony of sound, yet Webb had closed his eyes as if they did not exist, as if the world around him had receded like the tide, leaving only soft, untouched sand. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the company. Silence fell upon the group, as Webb lifted his bow to the strings and teased out notes that caused tears to form in Maisie’s eyes. So skilled was Webb that it was as if he had become, in an instant, one with the violin, its fine maple tinted with a reddish-gold varnish reflecting flames that leaped up between the musicians and their audience. He played a lament, and as she listened it was as if the whole forest had become silent, had stopped to listen to the gypsy and his violin. He quickened the pace, his foot now tapping out a faster beat, his head moving from side to side, as he sawed the bow across the strings. Then he looked up, nodding to his fellow fiddlers as the lament became a jig. They joined in with strings squealing as bows were pushed back and forth, back and forth, all of them keeping pace with Webb, like pilgrims following their master along a winding and leaping path.

Two gypsy women emerged into the clearing, their tambourines flying, their feet barely touching the ground as they leaped in dance. Children banged sticks together, or rattled stones in a can, and soon most of the company were yipping and pounding their feet to the rhythm set by Webb. There was no pause, no lingering between this tune and the next, just a glance from Webb to his band, who were now playing and dancing along. Only Beulah and Maisie remained seated, the old lady clapping her hands on her knees, while Maisie felt the beat seep up from the ground and into her soul. The music was raw and tumultuous, swollen with the rhythm of passion, the taut scream of exhilaration. Oh, how she wanted to dance, how she wanted to feel each note in every cell of her being as she stamped her feet and clapped her hands. How she wanted to belong to the moment, as the gypsies did with their dance.

She saw Webb meet his wife’s eyes with his own and, still dancing, Paishey made her way around the fire to Maisie. With leaping flames reflected in her eyes, she took Maisie’s hands and tried to pull her to her feet, into the group of gypsies. Maisie shook her head, protesting that she could not dance and was happy just to listen, to watch, but her words were drowned by the music. With the gypsy still grasping her hands, and on the verge of panic, she looked around to Beulah, who motioned with her hand that she should join the dance. She felt the barrier of fear paralysing her, fear of what might happen if she gave herself to the music, to the power of the gypsy dance.

Paishey pulled on Maisie’s hands again, this time drawing her into the throng. There was no going back without causing offense, nothing to do but allow all reticence to fall away. She felt the throbbing pulse of the music echo up from the forest floor into her bones, making its way straight to her heart as she danced a dance that was primitive and unreserved. This was no gentle fox-trot, no metered modern swing, and she gave herself to it. Time and again she danced, for even when the tempo changed, the music did not stall but went on and on, to the edge of night.

Later, when Beulah looked up to the stars and motioned to her son, the gaiety came to an end and it was time for Maisie to leave. Knowing they needed to rest now, Maisie insisted that she did not need a chaperone to accompany her to her motor car. Two gypsies would have had to leave the group, for they did not hold with a woman being alone with a man who was not her husband, nor with a gypsy woman returning to the tribe alone. Smiling and still a little breathless, Maisie thanked one and all, for her meal and for being included in the evening’s dancing, and then made to leave. As she turned, Beulah whistled and then pointed to the lurcher, who came to Maisie’s side. She raised her hand in acknowledgment and left the clearing, the dog at heel.

Across a field damp with evening dew, a sign of tomorrow’s looming showers, Maisie walked on, the lurcher’s paws soft on the ground, her cold nose reaching up to touch Maisie’s hand every few steps. Soon they reached the MG, the dog standing back as Maisie unlocked the door and took her place behind the steering wheel.

“Go on now, jook, go home.” Maisie pointed toward the field they had just crossed. The lurcher turned and slinked away into the night, though as Maisie drove to the road and glanced back, she could see the animal’s eyes, glistening like crystal beads in the darkness as she waited until Maisie was gone.

WAKING IN THE middle of the night from a deep and dreamless sleep, her eyes heavy, her heart slow, Maisie was sluggish in establishing her bearings, and it was some seconds before she remembered that she was in her room at the village inn. But what had woken her? She turned and then sat up, now wakeful and alert in her pitch-black room. She raised her nose to smell the air. Smoke. She drew back the covers and ran across to the window to see whether the smell might be lingering in her clothes, which had absorbed the aroma of the gypsies’ campfire. She’d washed her blouse and left it to hang by an open window, along with her skirt, hoping the night breeze would blow away all traces of wood smoke. Reaching for the fabrics, she pressed her nose to them—barely a memory of the evening lingered within the threads.

The acrid odor became stronger now, and as she leaned out of the window, she saw flames at the back of the inn. This was not a cozy campfire, controlled and alluring, but a ravaging conflagration borne of deliberate combustion. The coal shed was on fire, close to two outbuildings, including the one in which barrels of beer were stored. And in the distance, running from the inn’s long garden to the fields beyond, Maisie saw a man—or perhaps a woman.

Without wasting a moment, she grabbed her dressing gown and opened the door. “Fire! Fire! Wake up and get out! Fire!” There was not a moment to lose. Down the corridor she ran, banging on doors, and through another door that she supposed led to the quarters of the landlord and his family. “Fire! Fred—where are you? The inn’s on fire!”

There were voices behind her as she found the stairs by touch and made her way down. Light from the flames outside now illuminated her way, and she ran straight to the kitchen, then out to the scullery. A heavy mop bucket stood in the sink. Maisie twisted the tap and left it to run as she searched for another bucket. Fred was soon behind her, along with his wife.

“Get everyone out, Mary! Out to the front, and raise the alarm!”

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur, as she and the landlord, soon joined by villagers summoned by the tolling of the church bell, came to help, buckets in hand. Back and forth they ran, then, when enough people had gathered, a chain was formed, passing buckets of water to the flames. At first, it seemed as if the fire would never abate, as if Loki, the god of fire and mischief, were dancing among them, taunting and snickering, igniting the flames as soon as they were doused. Then they began to win, and the water chain was drenching the blackened smoking ruin.

Exhausted, spent, Maisie, the landlord and the villagers who had come to help stood in silence in front of the remains of the coal shed and an outbuilding. Waterlogged wood hissed and sizzled, and no one moved.

After first allowing the stillness to temper emotions that she knew would follow such an attack, Maisie touched the innkeeper on the arm. “Fred. We’d better not let this linger. It should be checked, then we should clean up.”

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.” He looked around, then up at the inn. “I would’ve lost the lot if it weren’t for you. I owe you everything.”

“You would have smelled the fire soon enough.”

“A fire can do a day’s work in a minute.” He pursed his lips. “No, you’ve got a calm head on your shoulders, and we owe you. The men will help now, you go on back indoors. Mary will get a bath out for you.” He gave a half laugh. “She’s banking up the stove for more hot water now. Better tell her to go easy with the logs, eh?”

Maisie was silent for a moment longer. Still no one moved. “Why wasn’t the fire brigade called?”

“Takes too long. No station here—they would have had to come over from Paddock Wood.”

“But that’s not far. Who has a telephone in the village? The damage should be inspected, to ensure all traces of fire are gone, and the police must be called so that the person who did this is caught.”

“You go in to Mary, miss. We’ll look after it all now. These things happen. I’ve been building up the path here at night, with ashes from the fireplaces inside the inn. Like as not, it’s my fault for not making sure the embers were dead. Only takes a spark to get a fire going, especially near a coal bunker.” He stood straighter and squared his shoulders. “No, I blame myself. I should have known better.”

“But I saw someone, running down to the end of your garden, then off across the field.”

The innkeeper shook his head. “No, miss, I doubt you did. There’s a vixen that comes a-hunting for food at night, around our dustbins at the back. She’s a right one, that fox-bitch, and what with this moon”—he pointed to the sky with the forefinger of his blackened right hand—“the shadows would’ve made her look like a person.”

“No, I don’t think—”

“You go on in now, miss. There’s Mary at the door, she’s got a nice hot bath waiting. We’re grateful to you, all of us. But we can do what needs to be done now.”

Maisie looked at the villagers standing by, men and women listening to the conversation. She nodded, acquiescing, and walked to the back entrance to the inn. Just as she dipped her head to avoid the low-beamed back door, she turned. The women were moving away but the men were clustered, looking at the waterlogged and smoking ruins, their heads drawn together as they spoke of the fire.

IN A ROOM next to the kitchen, decorated with floral wallpaper and white wainscoting, Mary had filled a tin bath with piping hot water and, on a chair next to the bath, set two white towels still infused with the memory of the warm breeze that had dried them on the washing line outside. The innkeeper’s wife had also left a freshly ironed flannel nightgown on a chest of drawers in the corner, along with a dressing gown. As she was about to remove her clothes, Maisie caught sight of herself in the oval mirror hanging from an olive-green picture rail. Her face was almost black, her hair was slicked against her cheek, and her eyes were red and stinging from soot and heat. She looked down at her pajamas and dressing gown and saw that they were fire-soiled beyond repair. Sighing, she undressed and eased herself into the bath, reaching for a brick of green Fairy household soap that Mary had placed upon the towels.

The fire had been ignited deliberately, of that she had no doubt. But why was her observation of the person running away across the field denied by the landlord? Why did he decline to summon the fire brigade? The church bells ringing in the middle of the night should at least have alerted people in the next village that there was something amiss. Why did no one come? There had been fires before, one a year for some years, according to James Compton’s report. Were the people of nearby villages immune to the call for help? Or did they offer help once, only to have it turned away?

Questions filled Maisie’s head as she soaped away the soot and sweat of the night. Her nails were broken and her knuckles grazed from filling the buckets with water, then running back and forth before the chain was formed. All those silent, ashen-faced people. Maisie closed her eyes and imagined their collective demeanor again, saw the message written in their eyes. There had been no surprise registered, no shock at a tragedy averted by a hair’s breadth of time. Instead, she had once again seen the emotion she was becoming familiar with in the course of her work in Heronsdene: fear. And something else: resignation, acceptance. As if the events of the evening were expected.

EIGHT

Breakfast was a quiet affair. The other guests had left as early as possible, their curiosity regarding the fire far outweighed by their desire to depart from the site of a troubled night. Maisie understood that, though they were not consciously aware of such a sensation, the mood of the village and the nature of the “accident” had driven them away. But she was hungry for the plate of eggs and bacon served by Mary, and relaxed as she tucked into toast and marmalade and poured another cup of tea. She was also waiting. Waiting to speak to Fred Yeoman again, to gauge, if it were possible, the depth of his silence on the matter of the fires. She heard him in the cellar, changing the barrels of beer and grumbling to himself as he made his way back to the bar, where he began preparing the inn for opening time.

“Hello, Fred,” Maisie called out, turning toward the bar.

Fred’s hobnail boots clattered on the stone floor as he came along to the bar in the residents’ sitting room.

“Morning, Miss Dobbs. You don’t look any the worse for wear. I hope we didn’t keep you awake with our clearing up out there.”

Maisie dabbed the corners of her mouth with a table napkin and shook her head. “That hot bath worked wonders. I slept like a log as soon as my head hit the pillow.” She paused. “How bad is the damage?”

“Not as bad as it would have been if you hadn’t raised the alarm. I won’t be charging you for your stay here, on account of that.”

She was about to shake her head and protest, then reconsidered. The innkeeper wished to thank her in a tangible way, and this was likely his only means of doing so. It would be foolish to decline the offer. “Thank you, Fred, that’s very kind of you.”

“Not at all.” He remained at the bar, wiping a cloth from left to right across varnished oak that centuries of beeswax polish had brought to a rich hazelnut-hued shine.

“Don’t mind me saying so,” said Maisie, as she reached for the teapot, “but even if they are accidents, you seem pretty unfortunate in Heronsdene when it comes to fires. Didn’t you say that Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s conservatory was destroyed last year?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Whyte. It was the Whytes,” he replied, as if looking into the flames once more. “And it was their summer house.” He looked up again, shaking the memory from his mind. “I wasn’t aware that we had more accidents here than anywhere else, and I didn’t know it was anything to talk about.”

Maisie shrugged. “I know there’s been at least one fire for each of the last ten years or so.” She lifted her teacup to her lips and let it remain there without sipping from the rim as she continued. “And always at this time of year.”

Fred rested his hands on the bar and shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind betting them Londoners—or the gypsies—have been up to some mischief over the years. I don’t allow the gyppos to come in here, shady buggers if you ask me. We let the Londoners in, but I don’t know—they’re just as bad, looking for trouble.” He paused, then continued running the cloth across the bar. “The truth is, no matter how much I don’t like them, this fire was down to me, and like I’ve said before the other fires have been on account of carelessness. It’s not as if there have been that many, not when you look at it, and certainly not every year, like you said.”

Maisie pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’d better get going now, or I’ll be late.” She walked to the bar. “Are you sure I can’t pay for last night?”

“Positive.”

“Well, thank you again. I’ll be seeing you next week, I daresay.” Maisie smiled, opening the door that led upstairs to her room, where she collected her belongings and walked out into a morning of showers. With one hand she pulled the collar of her tweed jacket up around her neck and held on to her hat as she ran across the road to the MG and stowed her bag. Lifting the bonnet, she went through the motions of starting the motor and took her seat behind the wheel. The innkeeper had not realized that in the midst of their conversation, when Maisie had mentioned last year’s fire, she had not known who had suffered a loss of property and had used the name Smith, because most villages have a family of that name. Without thinking, Fred had corrected her. She would find out where to find the Whyte family from someone else.

HER FIRST STOP this morning would be the hop-gardens, to tell Billy she was leaving for Maidstone, followed by Chelstone and London, and planned to be back on Tuesday. There was the visit to see Simon, and there were questions to put to James Compton. In the back of her mind, something about this assignment was bothering her. James claimed his reason for retaining her was to ensure a clean sale, that events in the village and the estate were investigated to reveal their importance or lack thereof. However, though she could see why a company accorded utmost respect in the world of commerce would want to do nothing to besmirch a fine reputation, it occurred to her that the very same events that might give rise to controversy in the city would reduce the value of the property On the one hand, an owner such as Alfred Sandermere would now be in a position to make repairs and improvements financed by insurance claims, but on the other hand, the mere fact of the fires and acts of delinquency could bring down the selling price—so the Compton Corporation would be positioned to make a pretty penny by purchasing property from a financially compromised owner and then selling at a later date.

She drove through the village toward the war memorial and was about to turn left toward Dickon’s Farm when a flash of color caught her eye. She wound down the window and looked across to the waste ground where the Zeppelin’s bomb had fallen. There, among the weeds, was a bouquet of flowers. She stopped the motor, reversed back to a safe parking place, then stepped out from the MG and crossed the road.

The shower was not cold but, instead, added to a sticky morning humidity. Yet once more Maisie felt chilled by her proximity to this piece of land. She closed her eyes and, as she had done many times before to ensure her protection in such circumstances, she imagined a white circle of light enveloping and protecting her from spiritual harm. Opening her eyes, she took a deep breath, stepped forward, and felt as if she had entered a house built with bricks of ice. Moving toward the bouquet, she knelt down to inspect the flowers, searching for a message, a sign, something to indicate who had left the blooms. Judging from softness in the stems, and limp petals, the collection of dahlias and chrysanthemums had been there for some time. Overnight, perhaps. There was no message. Maisie looked up and around; coming to her feet, she walked farther into the waste ground, stopping where the foundations and low remains of walls long fallen stood proud from the ground. She pulled back weeds and reached out to touch fire-blackened stone, the telling remains of the blaze that had taken the lives of a family.

Maisie turned to leave and realized she had an audience. Three children stood watching her, their eyes wide. There were two boys, each wearing short trousers with braces over cotton collarless shirts too big for them, battered leather lace-up boots, and flat caps that made them appear like old men. The girl wore a floral dress and old leather sandals that were a size too large, likely hand-me-downs from an older sibling. Her fair hair was tangled, as if she had been playing in the woods, and a long forelock had been pulled to the side and tied with a ribbon to keep it from her eyes. As Maisie made her way to the pavement, walking toward them, they screamed and ran, with the little girl almost left behind, squealing, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me. It’s a ghost, it’s a ghost. Pim’s come to haunt us, Pim’s come to haunt us.”

Maisie laughed to herself as the children ran, and even called out, “It’s alright, I’m a person, not a ghost!” Returning to the MG, she was sorry they had not stopped, for she was curious to know who Pim might be. An immortal of local legend, perhaps? A storybook character akin to Scrooge or Magwitch? Or perhaps a presence conjured up by parents trying to keep curious children away from dangerous waste ground, where a fall on debris might cause a deadly infection? Or was the ghostly Pim someone far more important?

MR. AND MRS. Whyte were not hard to find. They lived in a Georgian villa with a front garden accessible from the High Street. Maisie knocked at the door, which was answered by a housekeeper, and upon asking for the residents, the housekeeper informed her that they were out for the day.

“When might they be home, if I may inquire?”

The housekeeper paused before answering. “They will probably be back late tonight. They’ve gone down to the coast for the fresh air.” She nodded toward the inn. “They both went straight over to the inn last night, to see if they could help, and this morning, Mrs. Whyte said their constitutions needed a good old clean out and the sea air would do it.”

“Quite right.” Maisie frowned, showing concern. “It was terribly brave of them to lend a hand, especially after what happened to them last year.”

The woman crossed her arms and moved closer. “That’s what I thought. Takes a lot of gumption, that. Mind you, they know what it’s like, fire. And in a village like this, we all pull together.”

“Of course you do,” said Maisie, edging forward as if sharing in a conspiracy. “How did their fire happen?”

“Accident. Left a paraffin stove in the summer house on a chilly night, on account of the plants, and it caught one of them fancy blinds. Got too hot, it did, and then whoomph! The whole lot went up. Lucky I was upstairs and heard something go.”

“They’re lucky indeed. Same time of year, wasn’t it?”

The housekeeper nodded. “Same day.” Then she began to draw back. “Well, then, I must be getting on. Shall I say who called?”

Maisie shook her head. “Not to worry. I’ll come back another time, perhaps.” She paused, then moved forward once more. “May I ask you, Mrs.—”

“Marchant. Mrs. Marchant.”

“Mrs. Marchant, you must remember the Zeppelin raid, in the war.”

The woman pursed her lips. “Terrible, it was. That’s why we try to forget, here in the village. Terrible thing to have happened. Now then, like I said, I’d better be getting on.” She closed the door.

The same day. Maisie walked to her motor car, sat in the driver’s seat, and made a note to visit Beattie Drummond once more.

“WELL, WE DIDN’T find any stash of silver and valuables, Miss.” Billy looked up from picking hops. “And we didn’t find any sign of a new path beaten through the woods.” He raised one hand and tapped his temple. “We was usin’ a bit of nous while we was about it, and still we didn’t find anythin’.”

“It’ll be alright. The boys won’t come to any terrible harm while they’re in the reformatory. We’ll prove them innocent, don’t you worry.”

“You seem pretty sure, Miss.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy, Billy.”

Billy sighed. “Rotten luck, it is. Them boys’ve both got apprenticeships—and you know how ’ard it is to get a job these days. Mind you, they don’t ’ave to pay an apprentice much to do the job of a man, so it ain’t surprisin’—anymore than it’s surprisin’ that women are in jobs before men, on account of their wages bein’ lower.”

“And there are many women wanting for jobs too, Billy, a good number of them widows from the war with children to feed.”