An Incomplete Revenge

“I tell you, Miss. What kind of a country are we livin’ in, eh? Where there’s people feelin’ pain in their bellies where food should be, and widows left wantin’—and little children dyin’ for need of the hospital.”

Maisie saw Billy’s anger and pain from his daughter’s death rising again, along with his dissatisfaction with his lot. The grass is always greener, Billy. She was about to speak when he began again.

“And as for them down there, where did they all come from, anyway? They certainly ain’t from this country, and there they are, picking fruit and ’ops what we—we who come from ’ere—want to be picking.”

“I’m sure the people of Kent feel the same about Londoners, Billy.”

“Hmmph!” He looked down at his work again, without commenting.

“Well, I have to return to London tomorrow morning. I’m following some leads, Billy, so don’t lose heart.” She made to leave, then reached out to her assistant, placing her hand on his shoulder. “And don’t harden your heart, either, Billy. That heart is the finest part of you.”

IT WAS AS she left the hop-garden that Maisie reached for her old nurse’s watch. She usually pinned it to her jacket, and when she did not feel the cool silver at her touch, she realized it wasn’t there. She gasped. How could she not have noticed it missing? The watch had been a parting gift from her patroness, Lady Rowan Compton, before she left for nursing service on the battlefields of France in 1916. It had needed repair only once. She thought of it as her talisman, for it had remained with her even when she was wounded, when the casualty clearing station in which she was working was shelled. Simon was caught by the same shell, though his wounds had taken his mind, whereas hers had seared a welt into her scalp and a deeper scar into her soul.

She began to retrace her steps, walking an exact path back through the farm, searching around the area where she had parked the MG, and then, with a certain reticence, she picked her way across the waste ground again. Nothing.

Returning to the inn, Maisie entered via the residents’ door in time to hear raised voices in the public bar.

“Are you refusing to serve me?”

Maisie recognized the voice straightaway. It was Sandermere.

“I was just saying that you might have had a bit too much, that’s all. Now, if you’d like to take a seat, we’ll bring you a nice cup of tea.”

“I do not want a nice cup of tea, I want a double whisky. Either pour me my drink or I will come over there and get it.”

“Now, Mr. Sandermere—”

“Don’t ’now Mr. Sandermere’ me, you worm.” The man’s voice was thick, his language slurred. “I own this whole damn place, and I shall do as I please.” At the last word, there was the sound of breaking glass as a whisky tot hit the wall. “Now, get me my drink—and Whyte here will pay for it!”

She heard the drink being poured, then a few seconds elapsed, during which, she guessed, he had drunk the alcohol straight back. He cracked the glass down on the bar and left, saying, “That’s better. We’ve all got to stick together here in Heronsdene, in our loving little community, haven’t we? I’ll see myself out the back way—I’ll have a look at the remains of your sheds on the way.”

Maisie allowed a moment to pass, then went to the door, which she opened and shut again, before calling, “Hello! Anyone there?”

Fred came to the bar in the residents’ sitting room and greeted Maisie with cheer, though he seemed quite shaken, with ashen skin and trembling hands. His jaw was set, and his eyes were reddened.

“Ah, Miss Dobbs, I know exactly why you’re here.” He reached under the bar and brought out her watch.

“Oh, wonderful! I don’t know where I would be without that. I am so glad you found it.”

“It was where you left it, miss, on the side table in your room. Mary came down as soon as she found it, saying it looked important, not your ordinary watch.” His eyes met hers. “Been through a lot, has that, judging by the date on the back.”

Maisie nodded and reached for the watch, which she began to pin to her lapel. “Yes. It’s been with me since I was a nurse in France. I was at a casualty clearing station.”

“You saw enough, then.”

“Yes, I saw more than I want to see ever again.” She paused. “Bit like living through your Zeppelin raid for twenty-four hours each day.”

He sighed and shook his head.

“Are you alright, Fred?”

“Just thinking.” Another sigh, then he looked up at her. “How do you feel now? You know, about them—the Germans.”

Maisie paused. “We treated many of them in the clearing station. In fact, we had two German doctors working alongside us—prisoners of war. Doctors who were captured always went to work straightaway, just as our Allied doctors who were POWs went to work for the Germans.” She shrugged. “If your calling is to save life, it takes precedence over killing.” Another pause. “But here’s what I saw, Fred. I saw wounded soldiers who cried for their loved ones, wherever they were from. I held the hands of dying young men, whether they were British, Allies, or German. It’s war itself that I have an opinion about, not the origin of those who fight.”

“Even now, even with some of the business we’re hearing about, you know, going on over there? There’s them as says we’ll be at war again before this decade’s out.”

“Perhaps not if it were down to the ordinary people, Fred.” Maisie smiled. “Now then, I must be on my way. I have to go into Maidstone again today.”

“Right you are, miss. I daresay we’ll see you again next week, like you said.”

MAISIE LEFT THE village with two more pieces to add to her puzzle. That Mr. and Mrs. Whyte had not left for the coast today but were very much ensconced in Heronsdene. Secondly, she now understood that Sandermere wielded some leverage, some coin of influence, in his relations with the villagers. Of course, in a feudal system—and many small villages still resonated with the echoes of times past—he would be very much the country squire. “He who must be obeyed” seemed an apt description, and Maisie had already deliberated upon his aura of entitlement, of ownership, when it came to the town. But she sensed something deeper, a mutual connection that went beyond an imagined master-servant relationship. She sensed that whisper of fear once again, a dependence, perhaps, on a shared truth.

AS SHE CAME to the outskirts of the village, she passed a woodland that had been newly coppiced, the trees thinned and pruned, with the younger branches and twigs bound together and leaning in stooks, waiting to be gathered by the farmer. It was there she saw Beulah, walking with the lurcher, the dog stepping with care in her wake, for the woman was making her way deliberately, step by step, where only days ago men had worked with saws and axes. In her hands she held a forked branch, each hand holding an end, with the fork in the middle. Maisie slowed the MG, knowing Beulah could not see her, though the lurcher looked up in her direction, then back at the heels of her mistress. As she watched, the fork dipped, and Beulah stopped, bent over to squint at the ground, and then reached down to brush fallen leaves aside. She picked up something, perhaps a threepenny-bit, possibly a lost trinket, which she rubbed on her skirt and scrutinized, holding it sideways to better catch the light. Then she put it in her pocket and began again, dowsing for coins lost when a handkerchief was taken out, or a small treasure dropped as a forester bent over to gather up twigs.

Maisie watched for a moment more, then pressed the motor car into gear again and drove on her way. So Beulah was a practitioner of the ancient art of dowsing. She should have guessed. It was a skill worth knowing about.

BEATTIE DRUMMOND CAME as soon as she was summoned to the inquiries desk. “I’m the only one here—Friday afternoon, and the boys have gone home. You never know, that scoop I’ve been waiting for might come in. Got one for me?”

“Not yet, Beattie. I’m hoping you can help me again.”

“And you’ve nothing I can print?”

Maisie shook her head. “Nothing—yet. But I do have a question for you, that I think you may be able to answer, though it will probably take some time for you to go through your notes. I take it you keep all your notebooks.”

“Of course.”

“It’s about the fires in Heronsdene over the years. You said you could not write much of a story on them, given the less-than-helpful attitude of the villagers.”

“Yes?”

“Do you happen to have a list of names of those who suffered damage, and the dates? I have some general reports, but they do not give specific times.”

Beattie raised her eyebrows. “That’s about all I did manage to get on each of them, and it was like pulling teeth from a horse. But date, time and name doesn’t make much of a story without a comment here, an aside there, some real meaty background on Granny’s heirloom china lost or a portrait burned to a cinder.”

“I’d like those names and dates. The information I have from my client isn’t as full as I would like. Also, if it’s possible, can you find out anything more about the family who were lost in that Zeppelin raid in the war?”

Beattie nodded, making notes as she did so. “Anything else?”

“Not at the moment—oh, yes, one more thing. Is there a vicar in the village, do you know?”

“Ah, I can answer that one—already been down that road myself. The village can’t support a vicar of its own anymore; the diocese concluded it’s far too small, so there’s a sort of locum who does the rounds, comes in every Sunday morning and for the usual hatch, match and dispatch work. I should write about the state of English churchgoing, shouldn’t I? It’s not as if he can draw a crowd as soon as the bell tolls.”

“I thought so. Has he been there for a while?”

She shook her head. “No, not very long. Old Reverend Staples, the last vicar, moved on a few years ago, which was when this new chappie came in.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“I can find out for you.”

“Thank you.”

“As long as—”

Maisie interrupted the reporter. “Yes, I know. I won’t forget your scoop.”

SITTING BEHIND AN ancient oak desk in an office lined with shelves of law books, the solicitor’s clerk with whom Maisie had spoken previously, regarding the two London boys who stood accused of breaking into the Sandermere estate, had some promising news.

“It looks like the police might have a problem making the case stick, despite the fact that the boys are outsiders and the influence that the Sandermere name carries—or, I should say, once carried.”

“Alfred Sandermere?”

“Yes, brought the family’s reputation into disrepute.”

Maisie guessed the solicitor probably had as much, if not more, information as either Beattie Drummond or even James Compton when it came to Sandermere. “Bit of a ne’er-do-well, isn’t he?”

“Bit of one? That’s an understatement. He was never an angel, even as a boy, and now he’s become something of a boorish opportunist who appears to believe in an England that hasn’t existed for years.”

“Why are the police having trouble with their case?”

“There’s no other evidence to show the youngsters were ever in the house. They had the sense—the police—not to take the stolen goods in the Londoners’ possession at face value, and sent in the lab boys to gather fingerprints from the mansion, which they compared to the accuseds’ dabs taken when they were charged. We could get them out of custody within twenty-four hours, if we’re lucky. Mind you, they may have to remain in the area—they were still in possession of stolen goods, and the judge might not believe they thought it was manna from heaven.”

“That’s good news indeed. Sandermere will be beside himself if they’re released, though.”

The young man looked at Maisie over half-moon spectacles, an accessory, she suspected, worn to underline a certain gravitas. “Put it this way: I wouldn’t want to be on the estate when he blows his top. That temper’s been his downfall since he was a boy.”

“How do you know so much about him, if I may ask?”

The clerk smiled. “I was at the same school, though he was a few years older than me. Alfred Sandermere would have been at home in Tom Brown’s Schooldays—and not as one of the nice lads, either. He was eventually kicked out for good, expelled for bullying. He’d had numerous suspensions, and I believe—not exactly sure, because it was before my time—that he was once sent home, then got up to some mischief with a local lad. Of course, his father pulled strings, ensured the Sandermere name was kept above the mud, but the other boy carried the can, so to speak, all the way to a reformatory. I think he was too young for borstal.”

Maisie chewed the inside of her lip. “Where were you at school, if I may ask?”

“Smaller school, in London. St. Anselm’s. Excellent academic reputation, which is why parents send their boys there, along with their so-called emphasis on the arts as well as Oxbridge entrance.” He paused. “I suppose it all builds character.”

“You say that with an air of regret.”

The man shook his head. “It was alright, really. I just kept my head down and tried not to attract the attention of bullies—there are always bullies in a boarding school. Wonder what kind of men they become, don’t you? Look at Sandermere.” The man pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Now, Miss Dobbs, I know your questions are in the best interests of the boys concerned, however, I shouldn’t have revealed quite so much—though the papers will have it soon enough, especially with Beattie Drummond snooping around. I really must go now—work to do.”

“Thank you, you’ve been most kind.”

Maisie opened her umbrella as she left the solicitor’s office. She decided not to drive back to the farm to give George the news that his sons might be released as soon as tomorrow—it was always best not to tempt Providence. She was more keen, now, to be in touch with Priscilla. Though the revelation that Alfred Sandermere attended the very school now charged with educating Priscilla’s three boys was something of a surprise, it did not take her aback. There are only so many boarding schools to which the landed gentry, the men of commerce, the aristocracy, foreign diplomats, and reigning monarchs of Europe and Asia might send their sons to be educated, and if one preferred a smaller school, the list became shorter. It may not have been a startling coincidence, but it was a stroke of luck.

NINE

Frankie Dobbs was not at home when Maisie arrived at Chelstone, so, after settling her bag into her old room, she dressed in worn corduroy trousers, a pair of stout walking shoes, a white shirt that had seen better days, and carried an aging cardigan, along with her umbrella. Rain at this time of year tended not to be the cold drops that fell needle-like on the skin in winter but a warmer shower, what her father called a clearing rain to take the edge off an end-of-summer humidity.

Frankie was exactly where she thought he might be: in the stable yard, walking a mare and her foal back into their stall. The mare seemed to lean toward Frankie, while her foal followed, keen not to lose sight of his mother. Maisie loved to watch her father with his charges: the precision of his movements when he was working, the way he used different brushes, the flat of his hand, and a scarf-sized scrap of velvet to bring a gleam to the most mud-encrusted coat. Horses would lift their feet willingly to be picked clean, and Frankie rarely had to raise his voice, except perhaps to a mischievous colt feeling his oats. And that one reprimand was all that was needed when Frankie Dobbs laid down the law.

As soon as the mare was stabled, Maisie called out and walked toward her father. “Can I help?” She reached forward to kiss his stubbled cheek and looked around the yard. “Jester is still out. I take it James Compton is hacking.”

Frankie nodded. “Should be back any minute, if he knows what’s good for the horse. That sun goes down fast this time of the year, and what with all his time over there in Canada he forgets.” At that moment, the sound of a horse’s hooves, echoing like slow castanets, clattered across the cobblestones. “Talk of the devil.” Frankie winked at Maisie.

Unlike Sandermere’s horse, Jester had been given a cooling walk before being brought into the stable yard. Standing tall at the withers, the horse was a prize hunter, and James was ensuring the gelding’s fitness for the coming hunt season, for which he had decided he might remain in the country.

“Nice ride, sir?” Frankie took hold of the reins and, out of habit, held his hand to Jester’s nose, to feel his breathing, and then to his flank. “He’s doing well, this one. Stamina good?”

“Didn’t show any signs of fatigue, so I think you’ve got the feed just right, Dobbs. I’m amazed how he’s come along since I was last at Chelstone.” James dismounted and reached into his pocket for a sugar cube, which he held out on the flat of his hand for the horse to take. “Maisie, can’t say I’m surprised to see you here. Do you want to see me?”

“Yes, I do.” She paused, as Frankie led the horse away to his stall. “Would it suit you if I helped my father here for a while? Then we can speak when you’ve had a chance to change.”

James looked down at his hacking jacket, breeches and boots, all splattered with a dusty mud kicked up by fresh rain and sandlike topsoil. “Not a bad idea. Come over to the house at seven. I am sure my mother would like to see you.”

Maisie nodded accordance, while James turned and walked across the yard toward the manor house. Frankie was using a damp cloth to clean the horse, then brushes and a soft towel. Maisie picked up a cloth and worked on the opposite flank. The horse turned to nuzzle her while she worked, and she gave him a playful tap on the nose as she brushed.

“It still makes you feel a bit odd, me going up to the house, walking in the front door, and sitting down with the Comptons, doesn’t it, Dad?”

Frankie sighed. “Can’t say as it sits well. Makes me wonder about my station, though I should be used to it by now, what with all they’ve done for you and, on the other hand, what you’ve done for them. Thinks the world of you, does Her Ladyship.”

“And she’ll never forget that you saved her hunters in the war, Dad. Look how you’ve advised her on breeding racehorses. You’re not the head groom here so much as her racehorse expert, and she knows it.”

Frankie looked up from his work. “Well, like you said yourself, it still makes me feel a bit odd. I’m best when everyone knows where they stand. Reckon most folk are like that, even if you’re able to do things differently.”

Maisie said nothing, and soon her father stood back, rubbed his hand down the horse’s neck, and said, “Now then, mate, I’ll get your bucket and you’re done for the day.”

FRANKIE, LIKE MOST of those who work on the land, had his tea as soon as he could eat after the day’s work was done. And, like the gypsies and those who picked the hops, tea was a hearty meal with meat and vegetables, a repast cooked to replenish energy stores for another day of toil ahead. After sharing her father’s evening meal, Maisie walked across the lawns to the back entrance of Chelstone Manor. There was no reason why she could not use the front door, for her position as a professional woman had given her the confidence and leave to make her entrance in an appropriate fashion. However, she enjoyed seeing old friends and the place where she once worked herself—though that was in her salad days when she was green and young, like a sapling that can be bent and twisted to all manner of shapes. It had taken years to find a mold that was her own. Indeed, she felt as if she were bending and twisting again, finding some truth to who she was before the juice ran from the branch and she was finally formed.

Mrs. Crawford, who had been cook when Maisie first came to work for the Compton family, was now retired, but the butler, Carter, was still a prominent member of the household staff, though likely to leave his employer soon, for he was finally showing his age. The once-stalwart bearing now seemed burdened, the sergeant-major shoulders less able to fill his tailored jacket, and he had to lean forward and cup his hand to an ear when spoken to. Maisie knew Lady Rowan would never give him notice, for the woman who once would provoke an argument at a supper party, just to wake everyone up, had come to dislike change, feeling more comfortable with the status quo.

“Maisie Dobbs! The stranger returns!” Carter came toward her and took both her hands in his own.

“Mr. Carter, it’s lovely to see you. Sorry I’ve not been in to visit you, but each time I’ve come down to see my father, I’ve barely had the time.”

He shook his head. “I still look at you and see that young girl who almost cost me my job.” He turned to the new cook, a thin woman who had none of Mrs. Crawford’s ample welcoming folds that had comforted Maisie when she returned from war, wounded and spent. “Reading in the library at two in the morning, she was—and caught by Her Ladyship,” he continued, looking now at Maisie. “But it turned out alright, didn’t it?”

Maisie laughed and looked at her watch. “I’ve a few minutes before I have to go upstairs to see Master James, so I’ll have a cup of tea, if the kettle’s on.” James Compton was still known as Master James to the older staff at Chelstone Manor. The protocol appropriate for his position in childhood had been extended by his father when, years before and on the cusp of manhood, James had demonstrated particularly juvenile behavior. His father at once decreed that he should be known by his boyhood nomenclature until further notice. Maisie thought that James Compton, though wounded in the war, and now an accomplished businessman, still earned the title Master on occasion.

The cook nodded to Carter and turned to the stove, and in the meantime staff came through the kitchen to greet Maisie. When the tea was ready, Carter invited her to join him in his office—a small room adjacent to his quarters—where the tea tray was set between them, and Maisie poured.

“I still can’t get over how well you’ve done, Maisie. I suppose I should call you Miss Dobbs and be very proper.”

“No, you shouldn’t, Mr. Carter.” She handed him a cup of tea, then thought to ask a question. “Mr. Carter, I wonder, do you know anything about Heronsdene? You’ve lived here for years now, and even before that, before the household moved to Kent, you were here on and off throughout the year, weren’t you?”

“I should say that Mrs. Crawford would have been the one to answer that question. She knew more about the village. I was completely taken up with the estate and with the comings and goings of the house, generally overseeing—well, you know my job. But Mrs. Crawford knew who was who on account of having to order food for the estate. She only wanted the best suppliers, the ones who delivered when they said they would, with prices you couldn’t beat if you tried, and who could come up with a miracle if Her Ladyship suddenly decided to invite the Prime Minister for supper—which as you know, she does when she wants to have one of her political arguments, with everyone talking at odds across the table and all thinking they’re the only one who’s right.”

Maisie frowned. “I’m just curious about the village, and I thought you might know something about it.”

Carter shrugged. He’d been leaning forward to hear Maisie, but not having quite caught her words, he continued on. “She swore by the bakery there. Swore by it. Couldn’t say enough about Mr. Martin and his breads and pastries. Remember that cake, the one we had here for your leaving party when you went up to Cambridge? Mrs. Crawford ordered it ’specially. She said she couldn’t do any better herself, that the prices were good, and he never let her down.”

“Jacob Martin?”

“Yes.” He paused, stirring his still-untouched tea. “Then of course there was the tragedy, the Zeppelin—you would have been in France when it happened—and they were all gone.” Carter lifted his cup to his lips, then set it down, continuing to speak before Maisie could ask another question. “Terrible thing to say, but I reckon it was just as well the son was killed too, over there in France. Imagine having to come back and find all your family gone. Terrible. Terrible.”

“There was a son?”

Carter nodded. “Yes, he used to talk about his children to Mrs. Crawford, did Mr. Martin. Can’t say as I knew much myself.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, which then opened to reveal James Compton. “Apologies for intruding on your domain, Carter, but I thought I would find Miss Dobbs here.” He looked at Maisie. “I’ve booked a telephone connection to Canada for half-past seven, so perhaps we can have that chat now. If I’m going to get my directors to talk to me, I had better be on time—Toronto’s a few hours behind us here in England, you know.”

Maisie stood up. “Of course.” She turned to Carter. “Thank you very much for the tea, Mr. Carter. It was lovely to see you.”

Leaving Carter’s belowstairs fiefdom, Maisie smiled when she heard the new cook complain. “I’ve never worked in such a house, where no one knows their place. First there’s a maid who’s come up in the world, with such a fine idea of herself she thinks she can just walk in here and march upstairs. Then there’s the Viscount, coming down here and looking for gingersnaps—gingersnaps! Coming into my kitchen without a by-your-leave and saying Mrs. Crawford always made them for him. Well, I’m not Mrs. Crawford and I don’t know if I can stick this. I like a position where people know their station and stay there.”

Carter’s reply was simple. “Beg your pardon, Cook, didn’t quite hear you.”

MAISIE FOLLOWED JAMES into the library a less grand room than the library at the now-mothballed London home of the Compton family at number 15 Ebury Place. The ceilings were lower, and the room had a warmer, more welcoming sense to it, though the tomes held within were no less impressive, especially as many had been transferred from the London home.

James motioned to a chair adjacent to a mahogany secretaire, while he sat down in front of the pulled-down writing surface that was laden with full-to-overflowing folders. “Sorry about this.” He waved his hand across the pile of work, tipped in the chair, and balanced it on its two back legs. As he spoke to Maisie, he tilted forward to grab a manila folder, then teetered back again.

The motion interested Maisie, for it suggested a familiarity with imbalance, a comfort when the status quo was just out of reach, or a propensity to create such a lack of stability. She had come across such a trait before in men of commerce and thought it akin to generating a constant wager, wherein the thrill of the chase, the tumult of a less than smooth business deal, was more compelling than an effortless negotiation.

He spoke again, interrupting Maisie’s thoughts. “I am anxious to close this deal in about ten days. Perhaps you can bring me up to date with your progress—and I take it you have some questions for me.”

Maisie recounted details of her investigation into the issues of vandalism and crime in Heronsdene and suggested that indications as to the source of the troubling acts were both close at hand and, at the same time, hidden from view. She added that she was confident that she would get to the root of the problem in the time allotted.

“However,” added Maisie, “as you said, I do have some questions for you.”

“Go on.” James tilted the chair back and forth within a narrow margin of error, outside of which the chair would most certainly have crashed backward or fallen forward.

“The first is an issue of insurance. Sandermere is insured, as one might expect, by Lloyds, but looking at the stables, it would seem to me that repairs to the standard required by the terms of a compensatory payment have not been met. Are you aware of this?”

James held the edge of the desk, then reached for a file, coming back to his teetering position while he flicked through a few pages. “When our surveyors visited the estate, Sandermere’s insurers had already given him permission to begin repairs, which were expected to commence within a couple of days. They should have been completed by now.”

“I have yet to visit the brickworks,” said Maisie, “but as far as the stable block is concerned, virtually nothing has been done and there are tarpaulins spread to keep out the rain. Fortunately, there has been little in the way of inclement weather in the past month or so, but I would imagine that’s about to change.”

James nodded. “Of course, the stables will remain in Sander-mere’s possession. The boundary of sale, as I explained before, extends from the immediate gardens and what we would call domestic outbuildings, to the perimeter of the mapped estate.”

“But surely you do not want any ambiguity in the final transaction, which may occur if questions remain regarding the integrity of Sandermere’s dealings with his insurers.”

James reached for a pen. “Good point.”

“Also, James, I have another question that is outside the purview of my work with you but about which I would like to have some clarity in any case.”

“Yes?”

“I completely understand the need for, as you said, a clean sale. Yet is it not also true that the estate’s compromised reputation, along with that of the village, renders the selling price even more negotiable than before?” She inclined her head. “Don’t you have more bargaining power, in consideration of events at the Sandermere estate and in Heronsdene?”

James tilted his chair forward, almost but not quite to the floor. “Yes, that’s true, to a point. But it’s not something we would set out to do.”

Maisie deliberately relaxed her shoulders and allowed her hands to rest in her lap, crossing one leg over the other as she did so. “No, I wasn’t suggesting you would. I have undertaken work for the Compton Corporation before, and understand the integrity inherent in your procedures. However, you will negotiate a lower selling price, won’t you?”

James paused. “Of course. I’m a businessman, and even though we will not court controversy, there is an opportunity here for a revised deal to be brokered.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, I thought so.”

“Does your question pertain directly to the brief?”

Maisie leaned forward. “In a way it does. If I am to reach any conclusions, or present a comprehensive report, I must understand the nature of the relationship between the Compton Corporation, your representatives, and the Sandermere estate. Your answers have simply raised more questions in my mind about Sander-mere’s actions.”

“What do you mean?”

Maisie sighed. “In military terms, James, I have a sense that he is in the process of shooting himself in the foot.”

“Good for us!”

Maisie stood up. “Ah, not if you want that clean sale, it isn’t—and certainly not in the period of time you’d like.” She held out her hand to James. “I will be in touch. In the meantime, it’s a bit late to see Lady Rowan now, I expect she’s with Lord Julian in the drawing room, sipping sherry.” She stepped forward, placing her hand on the back of James Compton’s chair. “You know, you really must be careful, James, you’ll come a cropper if you keep teetering back and forth.” She smiled. “Don’t summon Carter. I’ll see myself out.”

DEEP IN THOUGHT, Maisie meandered slowly back to the Groom’s Cottage, her father’s home. Carter’s knowledge of the dead Martin family in Heronsdene had piqued her interest, not least because of the tragic consequences the war had laid upon them. An entire family wiped out by conflict, three at home, one overseas. Yes, perhaps it was a blessing the son was lost. She imagined how it might have been had she returned from France, with her wounds as they were, only to find herself orphaned. Just the thought brought tears to her eyes, and she ran to the cottage, colliding with her father, who had just walked out into the night to collect wood for the fire.

“What’s all this, what’s all this, Maisie?” asked Frankie, as she enveloped herself in her father’s embrace. “What’s happened to upset you so, love?”

“Nothing, Dad. I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Well, you’re home now, so you can stop that—I never did hold with too much thinking. Now then, help me with some wood. The nights are beginning to blow up a bit chilly, ’specially with this rain coming out of nowhere. A nice fire will set you right, you’ll see.”

TEN

Maisie remained at Chelstone until Sunday morning, when she left early to be in Richmond by eleven o’clock. Morning visiting hours ended at noon at the convalescent hospital where Simon had been cared for since the war. She would have one hour to be with a man who could not respond to her conversation, who did not see her, and who was not aware of her presence.

As was her habit when she visited, she parked the car close to an ancient oak tree at the far end of the graveled turning circle close to the former mansion that was now a place of retirement and care for those soldiers, sailors and airmen who had lost their minds to war. Most of the patients had been infantrymen, many of them officers, as the clinic was a private concern for those with families who could afford such attention.

Maisie made her way along the gravel and, as always, walked across the lawns to a stone wall overlooking the Thames, from which the mansion, built on a hill, commanded a panoramic view. She rested her hands on the wall, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. Maisie had been well tutored in the stilling of the mind, in the practice of drawing strength of spirit in quiet contemplation. Now she sought to dampen the stirring of doubt, the sense that she could no longer face the young man she had loved at a time when life was slipping from him. She leaned forward and rested her head on her hands. But we are neither of us young anymore. Though she knew very well that the years were drawn on Simon’s face, when she thought of him, it was that boyish man she saw, the newly minted military doctor with whom she had fallen in love, and he with her. And when she slipped into the chair alongside his bed, closed her hand around his, and whispered the words, It’s me, Maisie, I’ve come to see you, she would lean over and kiss his forehead at the very place where fragments of shell had burrowed into his skull and he had been lost to her forever.

A breeze blew up from the river, and Maisie moved away from the wall, took one more deep breath, then turned and made her way back to the main door of the clinic.

“Good morning, Miss Dobbs. Not very nice out, is it? Sign here, please, and I’ll call staff nurse. The captain’s been moved; he’s in another ward now.” The receptionist enunciated every word in her singsong voice, framed by lips coated liberally with cherry-red lipstick, which, as always, matched the long nails that clicked on the telephone dial as Maisie completed the visitors’ book.

Maisie signed her name and pushed the book back to the receptionist. “Thank you. I see I’m the only visitor today so far.”

“Yes, though his mother does try to get in every other day.”

Maisie nodded, then turned, as she was greeted by the staff nurse. “Good morning, Miss Dobbs. Follow me, and I’ll take you to Captain Lynch.”

They walked along corridors with polished wood floors, bouquets of flowers set in white jardinieres, and a fragrance free of the usual hospital hallmarks—the odor of human wastes masked by disinfectant and bleach. Passing the entrance to the hospital conservatory, formerly the winter garden where the ladies of the house would take a turn when frozen weather forced them to remain indoors, Maisie thought back to other times and past visits, when she would sit with Simon close to the fountain, or perhaps alongside an open window. With his pale blue pajamas and navy dressing gown, and a rich tartan blanket across his knees, he was a silent partner to her conversation. She would speak of her cases, knowing the confidence would be kept, and tell him about her father, and perhaps even speak in lowered tones of a man she had dined with, or accompanied to the theater. And always she spoke of those years when she did not come, when her fears and reticence following her own convalescence caused her to stay away. At the heart of her angst had been the shell shock she suffered. Like a dragon, leashed and sleeping, it threatened to rear up at any time, to take her by the throat in its enflamed jaws and crush every part of her with memories of what had gone before.

It was just one year ago, in the midst of a case, when the dragon began to emerge from the hibernation of her control, that she had sunk into the very depths of an abyss from which her emergence had been fragile for months afterward. But she now understood that to control the dragon, she had to look into his eyes and back at her past. Only then would she begin to be free.

Simon lay in a bed in a private ward in which he was the only patient. His breathing was labored, sustenance delivered to his body via a single tube inserted into his arm. Such equipment was unknown in the hospital where Maisie had trained as a nurse, but wartime had brought new tools to medicine.

The staff nurse took Simon’s limp right hand and counted his pulse, then felt his forehead. His breathing would be regular for some seconds, followed by several labored gasps before becoming even again. “I’ll be honest with you, Miss Dobbs, I don’t know what’s kept him going all these years. Amazing what the body can do, isn’t it?”

Maisie nodded and, as the staff nurse moved aside, sat in the chair for visitors set by the bed. She reached for Simon’s hand.

“Only fifteen minutes today, not your usual hour, Miss Dobbs.”

“Yes. Of course.” As the nurse turned to leave, Maisie called after her. “Staff nurse, I wonder—can you tell me, how long do you . . .” Her words faltered.

The nurse shrugged and blew out her cheeks. “To tell you the truth, if you had asked me last week, I would have said a day, perhaps two. Now he’s still here, I wouldn’t like to say, but—” She paused, pursing her lips for a second and shaking her head. “It won’t be long now. I would say he’ll be gone before the week’s out.”

Maisie had become used to the honesty with which the nurses spoke to her, as if, by having been a nurse herself, she was admitted into a confidence of plain speaking, a forthright response where, with family, such opinions and observations were administered only by doctors.

“Thank you, staff nurse, I appreciate your candor.”

The nurse stepped back into the room for a moment and pressed Maisie’s shoulder with her fingers, a gesture Maisie returned by squeezing the woman’s hand before she left the ward.

Maisie sighed and reached toward Simon once more. “I think I ought to say my farewell today, Simon, just in case. I might not be here when—” And she looked down at their joined hands.

SHE LEFT THE clinic fifteen minutes later and walked directly to her motor car. She took her place in the driver’s seat and grasped the steering wheel, resting her head on her hands and closing her eyes. Several moments passed. Then there was a sharp rap at the window.

“Priscilla! What are you doing here?” Maisie opened the door and stepped out of the MG to embrace her friend.

Priscilla held Maisie to her, then pulled away to look into her eyes. “This must be wretched for you, darling. I mean, it’s bad for all of us who knew Simon—I’ve known him since I was a child—but you loved him.”

Maisie shook her head, reaching for a handkerchief in the pocket of her mackintosh. “I’m alright, Pris. But what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you, actually. I knew you’d be here, you usually come on a Sunday, so I caught a taxi-cab knowing I’d find you. And there you were, in your minuscule MG. Let’s go down into Richmond for a bite to eat.”

“Aren’t you going to see Simon?”

Priscilla shook her head. “No. I can’t. The Simon I knew died in 1917.” She walked around to the passenger door, opened it, sat down, and turned to Maisie. “Now, then, let’s get going, squashed as I’ll be in your little motor car.”

PRISCILLA DIRECTED MAISIE to a hotel lower down the hill and closer to the river, where the grill room offered diners a calm vista across the water. A waiter showed them to a table for two set in a corner offering two outlooks.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic—and please, don’t drown the gin.” Priscilla pulled off her gloves, fingertip by fingertip, as she ordered.

“And a ginger ale for me, please,” added Maisie.

The women consulted the menu and, having made their selections, sat back.

“You should have had a drink.”

Maisie shook her head. “No, not me. The last thing I want to do is drown my sorrow.”

“It’ll take the edge off.”

“I need that edge, Pris.” Maisie thanked the waiter, who had just set their drinks on the table. Priscilla waited for him to leave after taking their luncheon order, then reached into her handbag for her silver cigarette case and lighter.

“Here we go. Let’s upset the matrons, shall we?”

“I don’t know if anyone gets upset about a woman smoking anymore.”

“More’s the pity.”

“So, how are the boys?” Maisie inquired.

Priscilla rolled her eyes. “I’m off to the school again tomorrow, on the verge of pulling them out.”

“More bullying?”

“Yes. And it’s made even worse by the fact that all three of them don’t want to be seen as cowards with Mummy and Daddy running to the rescue.”

“How serious is it?”

“Frankly, it sounds dreadful, according to the letters I’ve received. I know a lot of parents would probably say that it will pass, it builds character, and if we take them out now they will never learn how to weather life’s storms. But as I see it—and so does Douglas, only he’s still in France—there’s plenty of time to learn men’s lessons when they’re men.” She shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know, perhaps it’s me. In the war, I helped collect the bodies of boys only a few years older than Timothy Peter is now, so to see my sons fighting and hurt touches a rather raw nerve.” Priscilla blew a smoke ring and flicked ash from her cigarette into a crystal ashtray. “I mean, make no mistake, those three could quite cheerfully kill each other in their rooms at home; however, there’s something rather wicked about being set upon for being different, don’t you think?”

Maisie nodded, then put a question to Priscilla. “May I come with you, to the school?”

“Whatever do you want to do that for? Believe me, if you want to experience motherhood by proxy, this is not a route I would recommend.”

“No, it’s to do with a case—and you know I can’t say too much about it, so please don’t press me. But I need to ask some questions about a former pupil of St. Anselm’s—and I’m going back a few years; you won’t know him—so an introduction to the headmaster by a parent might help oil the wheels of discovery.”

Priscilla pressed her cigarette into the ashtray as a trolley with two plates topped with silver covers was wheeled to their table. “The trouble with that plan is that the parent in question might be persona non grata after five minutes with the headmaster.” She leaned back to allow the waiter to serve lunch. “However,” she added, “I could say that I want to see my sons before our meeting, to allow you time to have a chat. The headmaster’s name is Dr. Cottingham and he’s been at the school for at least twenty-five years. He came as a young teacher before the war, and he’s definitely the sort to remember every single old boy, especially the bad ones.”

“Thank you, Pris.” Maisie paused to thank the waiter once more; then, when they were alone again, she lowered her voice. “Do you know if Mrs. Lynch will visit Simon today?”

“I’m sure she will. She’s there as often as possible these days, and it’s troublesome for her, with her rheumatism. I told you she wants to see you. Would you like to go back up to the clinic after lunch, during afternoon visiting hours?”

Maisie shook her head. “No, that’s alright, not today.”

“There might not be too many more ’todays’ for Simon.”

“I know.”

Priscilla nodded. “Just don’t leave it too long, will you?” She smiled, reached out and squeezed Maisie’s hand, then picked up her knife and fork. “Well, better tuck in before it gets cold. By the way, I’d love a lift back into town, if you don’t mind—I’m looking at a house today, a base for us in London, in Mayfair.”

Maisie began to eat, her mind on neither her case nor Priscilla’s house, but the prospect of seeing Margaret Lynch after so long.

FOLLOWING LUNCH, MAISIE drove Priscilla first to an estate agency in Mayfair, the principal of which had agreed to see his new client on a day of rest, in anticipation of a lucrative outcome for his trouble. From there, Maisie returned her friend to the Dorchester before going to her office. There was some post to attend to, but otherwise there seemed little to do on a Sunday, except return to her flat in Pimlico. She attended to a few outstanding matters, finally unpinning the almost-blank case map that she and Billy had started before he left for Kent. She would work on it at home this evening.

The flat was cool when she entered, and she found that she missed the company of Sandra, a former maid at the Comptons’ Ebury Place home who had lodged with Maisie for several months earlier in the year. She had chosen to leave the Comptons’ employ and remain in London when Lady Rowan decided that the mansion was not used enough to keep it running, so it was closed until such a time as James Compton made his home in England once more. Most of the staff left to work at Chelstone Manor, but Sandra was engaged to be married and was looking for suitable accommodation until then, so Maisie offered her the box room. Though the women were separated by age and education, Maisie enjoyed Sandra’s presence and found the companionship comforting. But Sandra was married now and living in a one-room cold-water flat above the garage where her new husband worked.

She rested her bag on the dining table which, along with four chairs, had been found at a sale of secondhand furniture by Sandra, who knew a thing or two about driving down the asking price on anything from food to clothing. The case map, rolled and carried under her arm, was unfurled and set in place with books at each corner, and Maisie took out the colored pencils she had brought from the office. She went into the small kitchen, put on the kettle for a pot of tea, and returned to the case map. Only then did she remove her mackintosh and hat. She set to work.

In truth, Maisie did not know what she was searching for and felt a shiver of excitement as she set about her business. This was the challenge she loved, the myriad paths ahead that might lead to an answer to her question—in this case, what exactly was happening in Heronsdene? What truths were being hidden from view? Who was at the heart of the crimes and the fires? She knew that, like a river with many tributaries, there was one source, one spring from which the flood came. Who or what was the spring? As she mapped out the information gathered thus far, she knew one path would come to the fore—but would it be the right one? Or would her feelings, her observations, and her own preconceived notions of right and wrong—her prejudices, perhaps—color and cloud her vision?

Maisie went to bed early and, after leaning back and listening to the silence of her flat, she slept. The bell connected to the outside door began to ring just after midnight. Like a cat woken by a predator, Maisie was alert, running to the door while pulling on her dressing gown. She left the door on the latch and made her way with more caution toward the glass outer doors, standing behind a wall to view the visitor summoning her at such an hour. It was Priscilla.

Maisie opened the door. “Whatever is wrong?” she asked of her friend, her stomach knotted for fear of the answer.

“Get dressed, Maisie, there is no time to lose. There’s a taxi waiting to take us to Richmond.” Priscilla continued to talk while Maisie pulled on her walking skirt, a white blouse, warm tweed jacket, and a pair of brown walking shoes. “I received a telephone call from Margaret Lynch. Simon is not expected to last the night.”

Maisie nodded, feeling the tears prick her eyes. There was nothing to be done except follow Priscilla. She would think later, in the morning, when it was over. When it was finally over.

At the late hour traffic was light, ensuring an easy and swift drive to Richmond. Priscilla had linked her arm through Maisie’s as they sat, silent, in the back of the taxi. Maisie felt as if her journey were not through west London but instead through time, the veils of years past being drawn back, one by one, for her to look, to take some account of who she was, who she had been, and how she had come to this place now, a woman approaching her middle years who had kept the light of love alive—a love ignited when she was just eighteen—even though others had come to claim her heart. Who would she be without Simon, without the scar on her soul? What would have happened had they both returned from war, unscathed except by experience? Would there have been a fairy-tale ending, the glass shoe fitting perfectly? Or would the disparity in their stations have come between them? She drew her hand across the window, clearing it of condensation, and caught her reflection in the glass. She was her own woman now, not a girl in love. With his passing, Simon was setting her free, in his way. How might she be changed by his death, an event that had not come and gone, taking its place in her history, but had lingered alongside her like a weary shadow?

The taxi scrunched to a halt on the gravel, and Priscilla put her arm around Maisie as they entered the hospital. A night watchman, sitting at the reception desk, looked up from his newspaper.

“Can I help—”

“Mrs. Priscilla Partridge and Miss Maisie Dobbs, to see Captain Lynch. We’re expected.” Priscilla waved her free hand to indicate she knew the way, and together she and Maisie began to run down the corridor. They stopped outside Simon’s room.

“Alright, deep breath. Now, go in.” Priscilla pulled out her cigarette case and pointed toward the door. “I’ll be outside.”

Color from the exertion of running drained from Maisie’s face. She nodded, pulled at the hem of her jacket, ran her fingers across her hair, and opened the door.

Margaret Lynch looked up from her place, sitting next to her son’s bed. The staff nurse acknowledged Maisie with a brief nod and a watered-down smile, then left the room without speaking. Maisie remembered meeting Margaret Lynch for the first time, when Priscilla had taken her to a party Simon’s parents had thrown for him, on the eve of his departure for France. She was a woman of bearing, of understated elegance, with her aubergine gown and her hair drawn back in a chignon. She had greeted Maisie with such grace, as a friend of Priscilla Evernden. It was as she stood with Priscilla to watch the dancing that Maisie had looked across at her hostess and saw her gazing at her only son, saw her raise her hand to her mouth, her face filled with dread. Now, years later, her hair, still styled in the chignon, was gray, and she wore a woolen dress of pale blue which seemed to reflect the prominent veins at her temples. Her eyes were red rimmed, and a handkerchief was crumpled in one hand.

“I am so glad you’re here, Maisie. So glad you came.” She stood up and held out her hands toward Maisie, and Maisie leaned down to kiss her cheek, as if she were indeed the daughter-in-law she might have become, had the fates not ruled otherwise.

Maisie nodded, grasped Margaret’s hand, and walked to the bed. Simon’s breathing was even more labored than it had been earlier in the day. She helped his mother to the chair, then reached across to lay her fingers on his forehead. His eyes were closed but seemed to flutter as she touched him, though as she drew her hand away, there was no movement, no indication that he had felt her touch. She walked to the end of the bed and looked at the clipboard with notes attached. There was no reason to think he was uncomfortable while death made ready to claim him.

The staff nurse returned with another chair, and Maisie drew it close to Margaret. They sat for a while, both watching Simon, the rise and fall of his chest, listening to the breath catching in his throat, the sound reverberating into his lungs, before echoing back like a slow rattle.

“You’ve been good to come these past two years, Maisie.”

Maisie bit her bottom lip, once more at a loss to explain her earlier absence. “I—”

“It’s alright, my dear. I know, I understand. You were both so very young, you saw so much. I might have not been able to comprehend your not visiting when he first came home, but time has tempered me, has given me leave to appreciate how the war touched you, too.” She turned to look at Maisie, her eyes watery with age but her vision still acute. “I don’t know how I would have dealt with such a blow, had it been me. So, yes, I am glad you have come.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lynch.”

“Things are very different than they were in my day,” she continued in a whisper, with respect to the hour and Simon. “And I confess, Simon’s father and I, though we thought you delightful, were rather worried—I shall be frank with you, Maisie, I am too old now to do otherwise—that you would not be suited to marriage with Simon. But it was wartime, and we loved our son, so we sought to do nothing until he was home again.” She shook her head. “Now, of course, I wouldn’t care whom he married, what he did, if only he were here and not like this.” She raised her handkerchief to her mouth.

Without giving a thought to protocol, Maisie placed an arm around the woman’s shoulder and allowed her to lean against her. “I know, I understand. We neither of us know what might have happened, but we are both here now, and we are here for Simon, for your son.”

Simon’s breathing became louder, his eyes at once wide open, as his body automatically responded to the pressure of his failing lungs. His chest raised up, twisting his spine, and he convulsed. Maisie stood up and held his shoulders down, spoke gently, though he could not hear, as Margaret Lynch wept aloud. “Simon. My son, my son . . .”

He became calm, and though he continued to breathe, in troubled raspy breaths that sounded like a barber sweeping a blunt blade slowly back and forth across the strop, he looked not at Maisie or his mother but at a place above and in front of him, staring wide at a vision only he could see. Then all movement ceased and there was nothing. No more abrasive breaths, no life in his eyes, just the shell of a man lost to war in 1917.

Maisie reached over and drew her fingers across his eyelids, then took his hands and rested them on his chest, as if to protect his heart. She turned to his mother. “Stay with him, Margaret, while I go to the staff nurse. And . . . don’t be afraid to talk to him, to say your final farewell.”

“What about you, Maisie?”

Maisie looked back at Simon. “I said my farewell this morning.” Her voice was low as she turned to face the bed where Simon lay. “It’s alright—we’ve said our goodbye.” She squeezed his cooling hand and left the room.

ELEVEN

Maisie and Priscilla remained with Margaret Lynch while formalities concerning Simon’s death were completed before accompanying her back to her London home in a taxi-cab. They saw that she was comfortable and her household alerted to her loss before taking their leave. Margaret Lynch had bid farewell to Maisie with an affection laced with melancholy, holding her hands as if she were unwilling to release this young woman who had known and loved her son. Maisie accepted an invitation to visit. She knew that, for the first time, Margaret Lynch would ask her to describe the tragedy that had led to both Simon’s wounds and her own and that, in telling the story, there might be healing for them both. Priscilla insisted on escorting Maisie to her flat, and as soon as she left, Maisie went straight to bed and descended at once into a deep and dreamless sleep.

ARRIVING AT THE Dorchester in something of a rush later that morning, for she had overslept, Maisie saw Priscilla waiting for her outside the hotel. She was dressed in black, as was Maisie. A doorman opened the MG’s passenger door, and Priscilla waved him off quickly with a tip so they could continue on to St. Anselm’s in haste.

“For goodness’ sake, Maisie, when will you have a telephone connected in your flat?” Priscilla wound down the window and lit a cigarette.

“I have one at the office, and that’s an extravagance, Pris.”

“We might have been late.”

“But we’re not. We’ll be at the school on time. What’s wrong with you? Too many bad memories of being called up in front of the Head for a strapping?”

Priscilla laughed and waved a plume of smoke out of the window. “I suspect you’re right. I detest this sort of thing, makes me wonder whether we ought to just leave London for the estate and take on a tutor for the boys—but that rather defeats the object, doesn’t it? So much for my vision of a houseful of boys down for the weekend, games of tennis, and building forts of branches and leaves in the forest. Looks like my three will be outsiders forever if I don’t sort something out.”

“Does it have to be boarding school?”

Priscilla shook her head. “We’ll see. I’ll have to talk to Douglas after I meet Cottingham this morning. And speaking of my absent spouse, thank heavens he’ll be in London next week. We miss him terribly”

“Here we are.” Maisie maneuvered the motor car through the gates of the school, parking alongside one other motor car in the semicircular carriage sweep. “And with five minutes to spare.”

“Look, you wait in the entrance hall, and I’ll go in to see Cottingham. I’ll tell him you’d like to meet him, then suggest that I see my boys while you are in conference, which will give me a chance to find out what they’ve been up to and assess the damage. Let’s hope he’s in an acquiescent mood.” Priscilla stepped from the MG, and as the women made their way to the entrance, Maisie handed her a calling card. The plan went smoothly, and Maisie was called in to see Dr. Cottingham, while Priscilla was escorted to a room where she would be able to see her boys, who would be brought from their classes to join her.

“Dr. Cottingham, how very kind of you to see me this morning, and without prior notice.” Maisie extended her hand to greet the headmaster. She was surprised to find him quite young for such a post, and calculated that he must be in the region of forty-five. She had envisioned a rather crusty professorial character, with a balding pate and eyes narrowed by constant vigilance for the less-than-sterling behavior of his charges. Instead, Cottingham wore a tailored pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt, and silk tie. His shoes were polished to a shine, and his gunmetal-gray hair was swept back. The gown that a master usually wore had been draped across a chair, ready to be donned should a boy be brought to him for punishment or, less likely, praise. Clearly he had no need of such accoutrements to impress or intimidate parents. Yet he gave the immediate impression of being a fair man, which inspired Maisie to wonder how bullying could survive in any environment in which he worked. Or perhaps that first impression was a blind.

“It’s no trouble at all, Miss Dobbs.” Cottingham took her hand and smiled, then returned to his chair behind the polished oak desk. “Please, be seated.” He paused. “Now then, how might I assist you? I understand that you are”—he reached forward to take up her card from the desk—“a private investigator and a psychologist. Very impressive, if I might say so. Where did you study?”

“At Girton and at the University of Edinburgh’s Department of Legal Medicine.”

“Well, well, well.” He set the card back on the desk. “Please, go on.”

“Our conversation must be in confidence.”

“Of course.”

“I would like to ask some questions about a former pupil—and you will have to cast your memory back a few years, I’m afraid.”

“Who?”

“Alfred Sandermere.”

“Oh, lord!” Cottingham rolled his eyes. “Once seen, never forgotten. If I were to pick three or four boys from my days here who might attract the attention of either the police or a private investigator, Sandermere might be at the top of the list.”

“Really, why?”

“Dreadful boy, such a chip on his shoulder. Typical second-son behavior, but multiplied by ten. Possibly because his older brother was definitely a top-drawer scholar, with first-class performance on the sports field—multiplied by ten!” He looked at his watch. “If you will excuse me, I’ll have his file brought up.”

Cottingham left the room, leaving Maisie on her own. It was the first opportunity she’d had to be in wakeful solitude since Simon died, less than twelve hours earlier. She stood up and paced to the window, which overlooked a quadrangle where boys congregated between classes. To the right a stone wall marked the perimeter of the headmaster’s house, beyond which, she suspected, a walled garden gave the impression of being in the country, rather than in west London. Had Simon attended such a school? She frowned. It occurred to her that she had little knowledge of his life before they met, except, perhaps, the snippets shared by Priscilla, for he had been a family friend and a cohort of her three brothers. Maisie’s entire knowledge of him was, more or less, limited to their time together and to life since then, a life spent grieving for a man not yet dead but lost to war all the same. And now he was dead, except that the true mourning had already been done, and there was little more to do now, except respectfully wear black until after the funeral. How would she fill the place he’d occupied? How would she use such freedom, now that it was hers? It was as if she were a seeding ground that had lain fallow for years and had now been freshly tilled. How, then, might she grow, now that he was gone?

“Ah, we’re in luck. My secretary found Sandermere, A.’s records with the greatest of ease. Terribly efficient, our Miss Larkin. Now then, let me see.” He resumed his place without questioning the fact that he had entered his study to find Maisie at the window. She sat opposite him once again.

“Not a terribly impressive academic record. Good at sports, but not what you would call a sportsman—he was a bad loser. Never could make him captain of the cricket or rugger teams, though he certainly had the physical accomplishment.” He turned a few pages.

“Can you tell me, specifically, about his suspensions?”

“That I can.” Cottingham reached for a sheaf of papers clipped separately into the folder. “I have the exact dates of suspensions, until, of course, his final expulsion from the school.” He unclipped the list in question and passed it to Maisie. “You may make a note of those dates. We released him to his father. As I understand it, he languished at his parents’ estate in Kent to consider his wrongdoings.”

“Bullying?”

“I wish it were as simple as that. It was intimidation, really. Rather sophisticated, even for a boy like Sandermere. There wasn’t much I would put past him. Mostly it was to do with money—it’s not as if he needed it—but he would find out what other boys had been getting up to, you know, their petty little infractions, and demand money.” He looked at Maisie. “Yes, with menaces, as they say in police parlance.”

“Did he harm anyone?”

“That’s what a menace such as Sandermere does. Hard if you fight back, hard if you don’t.” Cottingham looked at his watch. “Can I help you with anything else, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie gathered her notebook and placed it, along with her pen, into her black leather document case. “No, you’ve been most kind.”

Cottingham walked her toward the door and held out his hand, which she took, asking a question at the same time. “What about the Partridge boys? They’re being bullied here, and understandably they’re fighting back. How will you deal with that?”

“I think bullying might be too strong a term for the Partridges’ teething problems here at St. Anselm’s. If we give it time, they’ll deal with the occasional ribbing themselves, Miss Dobbs. Staff step in if it looks as if the damage will really hurt someone. But every boy gets a black eye or a split lip now and again. Do bear in mind, the rugger field is a far more dangerous place than the dormitory.” He frowned. “The thing is, they’re different. When they fit in a bit more, the teasing will stop—they’ll be part of the pack. You see, they can be whoever they want to be at home, or back in France, but here in school it’s like an army. Everyone has to march to the same drum.”

“Thank you, once again, Dr. Cottingham.” Maisie left the office and shivered.

“GOOD HEAVENS, WHAT’S happened here?” Maisie looked at Priscilla, who raised an eyebrow and shook her head, then looked again at the three boys seated beside their mother outside the Head’s office. The eldest, Timothy, was sporting a black eye, the middle son, Thomas, a nasty graze to the cheek, and the youngest, Tarquin, was running his tongue back and forth through the gap where four front teeth used to be.

“At least they were his milk teeth, Maisie. Can you imagine what I would do trying to find a dentist to make a plate for a boy who had just lost his adult teeth? I really don’t know whether to bang their heads together or just pull them out of here.”

“But, Maman—”

“Not a word, Tarquin, not one word.” Priscilla held up her index finger as she spoke.

The youngest slumped in his chair. “Wasn’t my fault, Tante Maisie. That boy picked on me first.” He continued his explanation in English peppered with French, as if he had no conception of the point at which one language ended and the other began.

“Yes, but you didn’t have to slug him back, did you?” Priscilla raised an eyebrow as she looked sideways at her son.

Maisie smiled and whispered, “Yes, he did, Pris.”

“Don’t encourage them, Maisie, unless you want to come and live with us and teach them instead of being an investigator.”

Maisie winked at Tarquin, then smiled at Priscilla. “I think I’ll have a walk around, while you’re in with Dr. Cottingham.”

“Probably for the best. Then you won’t have to listen to a screaming mother on the other side of the door.”

Maisie stepped away. When she looked back, she saw Priscilla draw her glove from her hand, lick her fingers, and try to slick down each boy’s unruly fringe. She heard the door open and close behind her, and suspected the meeting might only be a short one. Nevertheless, she walked around the entrance hall, stopping to look at various plaques commemorating the school’s achievements.

One huge marble engraving held the names of each headmaster since the school’s founding in 1640, and another a roster of sporting achievements since the century began. Then another, with a single red poppy placed on top, a list of boys from the school who had given their lives in the Great War—boys who had left school to join Kitchener’s army and had, most likely, lied about their age. She ran her finger down the list of names until she came to the one she wanted: First Lieutenant Henry Arthur Crispin Sandermere, V.C., July 1916.

“WELL, THEN, THAT’S that.” Priscilla marched toward Maisie, her face flushed, her arms outstretched around her boys, like a mother hen shielding her young with her wings. “We’re off to the Dorchester now. The boys will not be coming back to St. Anselm’s. I’ll send a driver for their trunks and tuck boxes later.” She feigned a glare at her sons. “Not one giggle, one comment. This is only the end of this school, not of your education. Come along, let’s go to Tante Maisie’s motor car.”

Maisie walked briskly alongside Priscilla. “Pris, it’s a two-seater. I don’t think I can fit—”

“Nonsense. These two can squeeze behind the seats, and this one will sit on my lap. Somehow, we will all get into your MG.”

Not wanting to contradict her friend, Maisie acquiesced, rolling back the roof to better accommodate her passengers. Fortunately, the sun was shining as they drove along, slowly, so as not to lose a boy. The two older boys were seated precariously on the collapsed roof, while Tarquin Patrick sat on Priscilla’s lap, still poking his tongue through the gap in his teeth. Not being able to stop herself, Maisie began to laugh.

“Don’t laugh, you’ll start them off,” said Priscilla, the corners of her mouth twitching as she endeavored to counter the urge to giggle. It was a battle lost within seconds.

Maisie delivered the Partridge family to the Dorchester and went on her way, smiling. She was glad the boys were no longer at St. Anselm’s. She didn’t like a place where prejudice was tolerated, and violence between boys, who would one day be men, explained away as the result of not hearing the drumbeat of one’s peers.

CHECKING HER WATCH as she entered her flat, Maisie decided to add a few notes to the case map before collecting her bags and setting off for Kent. Once more she would stay with Frankie this evening, and then at the inn until the end of the week, by which time, she hoped, her work would be done and some sort of explanatory report could be submitted to James Compton.

She logged the dates of Alfred Sandermere’s boyhood suspensions from school alongside a list of dates germane to the case, then read through the notes taken shortly after her visit to meet him. He had made a point of informing her that he was away at the time of the Zeppelin raid on Heronsdene, yet according to the tally of dates, he was very much at home, as Cottingham had said, “languishing at his parents’ estate” soon after the term had begun. She wondered what a boy of fifteen, almost sixteen, might do with time on his hands in a place where there was little to amuse him. Some boys were joining up at this age, and even younger, though it appeared that Sandermere, A. was not one of them.

Maisie worked for a short while longer, making plans to meet more of the villagers in the days to come, taking into account that she was waiting for additional information from Beattie Drummond. The reporter was an interesting woman, thought Maisie, someone who searched high and low for news and who worked ten times harder than her fellow newspapermen to get the story. And of course Beattie wanted the big story, the scoop that would jettison her to The Daily Express or even The Times. As she packed up the case map and gathered her belongings for the trip, Maisie wondered to what lengths B. T. Drummond might go to get what she wanted.

She was about to leave, when she set down her bags and went again to the dining table at which she’d been working. She drew a box of fine vellum and matching envelopes toward her and took out her fountain pen, tapping the end of the barrel on the blotting paper as she mentally composed her letter. Once satisfied she had the words in her mind—though she would eventually compose and discard several versions of the letter—she began: Dear Margaret . . .

IT WAS AGAIN suppertime when Maisie arrived at her father’s cottage at Chelstone Manor and, as before, Frankie had prepared a hearty repast for his daughter. Maisie remained concerned about her father’s health, though his recovery from an accident some eighteen months earlier had been considered excellent by the local doctor. But he was getting on in years. It had often occurred to Maisie that, with the exception of Priscilla, those closest to her were in their twilight years, and she dreaded the losses that might come in quick succession. Her attempts to broaden the scope of her friendships were, in part, due to such fears.

Frankie dished up dinner almost as soon as Maisie walked in the door.

“Been a man here asking for you.” He ladled a hearty helping of stew into the broad-lipped soup bowls, while Maisie cut and buttered bread in the thick slices her father favored.

“Me?” She held the knife suspended above the bread.

Frankie nodded. “Not what I would call a nice chap, either. What was that man’s name? S . . . Son . . . San—”

“Sandermere?”

Frankie pointed the ladle at her. “That’s it. Sandermere. The one you asked about the other day, and I said I’d heard of him. Well, he came here on a big bay hunter. Fair sweating it was. I offered to walk the horse around, cool it down while he had a cup of tea—don’t like to see a horse in a state like that—but he just went off again, cantering down the road like a highwayman. I thought to myself, Who does he think he is? Coming in here like he’s Dick Turpin, all steamed up and having had a few, if I’m not mistaken.”

Maisie frowned. “I wonder how he knew where you lived. And that I might be here.” She began to cut the bread again. “More to the point, I wonder what he wanted.”

“Well, I didn’t like the man. A fella who treats an animal like that is a man to keep clear of, as far as I’m concerned.” He lifted up his knife and fork. “And Dr. Blanche didn’t take to him either.”

“Maurice?” Maisie sat down, picked up her spoon, and began to sip the broth before starting on the thick wedges of brisket.

“He was walking back from the manor when that bloke turned up. I saw him, just watching, taking it all in. Then, when he rode off on that poor horse of his, Dr. Blanche came over and asked me about him.”

“Did he say anything else?”

Frankie reached for a slice of bread and looked at Maisie directly. “As a matter of fact, he did. Said that, if you’ve time, he’d like to see you. Seemed very . . . concerned, I think is the word. Yes. Didn’t like what he saw. And to tell you plain, neither did I.”

Maisie looked at the big round clock on the wall and then back toward her father. “If it’s alright with you, Dad, I think I might wander over to see him after we’ve had supper.”

“Don’t mind me, love. In fact, if you’ve to deal with the likes of that man who came today, and Dr. Blanche can give you a spot of advice, I reckon you should go and see what he has to say”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, I’ll do that.” She smiled. “The stew’s lovely, Dad.”

WHEN FATHER AND daughter had cleaned the kitchen following their meal, and Frankie was seated by a fire with his newspaper, Maisie pulled on her jacket and walked toward Maurice’s house via the garden entrance. She made her way up to the house and saw Maurice silhouetted against the windows of the conservatory. He would have seen the torch she carried.

The main door was already open by the time she arrived at the front of the house, and Maurice himself was waiting for her on the threshold.

“Ah, Maisie, I am so glad you have come.” He reached out to her with both hands, which she took in her own.

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it, Maurice?”

“Come, let us go to the drawing room—a fire’s just been lit. We’ll have an after-dinner drink together, and we can talk.” He turned to her as he walked, “Like old times.”

Even as they walked the few steps from the door to the drawing room, Maisie knew that Maurice Blanche was gauging her emotional well-being, was mirroring her pace, her stance, her demeanor, to ascertain—what? Her stability? Her strength? She knew he would want to know exactly how she was feeling, as that information would dictate how he opened their conversation. Only this time she would be the one to begin speaking.

“I have some news, Maurice.” She sat down as he pulled a cord to summon his housekeeper. “Some sad news.”

“Yes, I know. You carry the weight of bereavement, of loss.”

She nodded. Though she had also carried, for almost a year now, a resentment regarding Maurice, this animosity was rendered weak under the weight of her desire to speak of the events of last night. “Simon is dead, Maurice. He’s gone.”

Maurice handed her a glass of port and sat opposite her in his favorite wingback chair. He set a crystal glass with two fingers’ worth of single-malt whisky onto a small table at his side and reached for his pipe, which he tapped against the brick of the fireplace before taking up his tobacco pouch. Then he responded to her announcement. “It was past his time, the poor man.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, it was.” She spoke quietly. “I don’t know how I feel, Maurice.”

Her former employer and mentor regarded her, then turned to his pipe, pressing the bowl against the tobacco in the pouch and filling it so as not to waste even a strand. “Do not expect to know how to feel, Maisie. You buried your grieving for years, not only for Simon but for your own lost innocence. And the death you saw as a girl in France—that is the most terrible loss of innocence.” He paused while he held a match to his pipe and drew against the flame. Then he looked at Maisie. “Last year was a watershed for you, your collapse in France reflecting a weight of emotion, of remembrance, that could not be borne any longer. Do not try to second-guess your responses. Otherwise you will encounter guilt if you have reason to embrace laughter, or you will draw away from those things that bring you joy, because you will be trying to feel a certain way, a way expected by a broader society.”

“I was with Priscilla today, and we were laughing at her boys. When it came time to write to Margaret Lynch, I found I was taking myself to task for those moments of lightness.”

“The challenge with death is that it can lift a burden, and we feel those two sensations—the lightness you speak of, along with melancholy, of loss. You have already suffered one, Maisie, so do not be taken aback when there is only one remaining and it is the one that brings with it moments of levity.” He paused, as if taking care to look for stepping-stones as he negotiated difficult terrain. “Cast your mind back to the time when you were seeing Andrew Dene.” Maisie sat straighter in her chair, as if to brace herself, but Maurice continued. “Though you had happy times, and he certainly could make you laugh, you always carried the obligation you felt toward Simon. Of course, I understand that there were other difficulties, but do not underestimate your feelings, and don’t draw back from doors that open, now that the one closed for years has locked forever. Simon’s spirit is at peace. Allow yours to be free as you live.”

Maisie sighed. She would consider Maurice’s words later, in her room in her father’s house. For now, though she had opened the subject, she wanted to deflect the conversation away from Simon, for his death was ground upon which she, too, stepped with care. “My father said you saw the man who came looking for me today.”

Cradling the pipe by its bowl in one hand, Maurice reached again for his single malt. “Not a particularly nice character, if I may say so.”

“Far from it, I’d say. I wonder how he might have known my father lives at Chelstone.”

“You’re working for James Compton, I take it?”

“Yes, but—”

“That man came here to see James. He came to the front of the house. I had been visiting Lady Rowan and was about to leave when he arrived, looking for James. When informed the Viscount was out on his hunter, the man mounted his horse and made for the back of the house. I can only assume one of the groundsmen confirmed that James was out and, when asked when he’d left, said ’Mr. Dobbs would know’ Then the horseman of course realized that there was some connection between the Dobbs who was the groom and the Dobbs who had been breathing down his neck.”

“I wouldn’t say that I was breathing down—”

“The man kept running his fingers around his collar, which was not tight. It suggested an outward demonstration of his state of mind.” Maurice sipped the malt and placed the glass back on the table. “Can you tell me more about the case? Would you like to discuss your findings?”

Maisie saw that Maurice was again treading with care lest he cause offense. She had claimed a measure of independence since last year, and knew her mentor anticipated that she would not be willing to concede significant ground. However, she valued a dialogue that would help marshal her thoughts on the case.

“James is about to purchase a large estate in Heronsdene, about ten or so miles from here.”

“Yes, I know.”

“He’s really interested in the brickworks, to take advantage of the increase in building, despite the slump. The only parts of the estate that will remain in the owner’s hands—and that was him who came to Chelstone today, a man called Alfred Sandermere—are the house and the immediate gardens, plus the stables. James is concerned about instances of petty crime that have been plaguing the area for years, especially a spate of fires set deliberately.”

“Fires?”

“Yes. And there’s a mood in the village, a sort of scar formed following a tragedy that happened in the war. Three people were killed in a Zeppelin raid, and that event, as much as the loss of their young men, seems to have been a catalyst—for a change of heart, if you like. Of course, one expects such a thing to leave a mark, to lead to different behaviors, but that was fourteen years ago.”

“The heart does not know chronos time, Maisie.”

“Yes, I understand.” She paused. “I don’t trust Sandermere, even though I know I should refrain from such conclusions. I believe he’s embezzling his insurers, and I have a sense that he’s trying to pull a fast one on this deal with James. Perhaps with more bad publicity, the news of a likely lower price on the estate will bring in more potential buyers, which will drive up the price again. It’s counter to what one might otherwise believe, but we both know that once people are bent on acquisition, they continue, even if it comes close to breaking them.”

“Yes, indeed. Tell me more about the villagers and what you’ve sensed.”

“It’s hard to get a clear reading at this time of year. The hop-picking brings in the Londoners, plus a tribe of gypsies, so there’s no cohesive community, just different camps all filled with mistrust. The locals hate the incomers, but they don’t mind the extra business, while the Londoners think the villagers are all turnip bashers who get up to goodness knows what and put the blame on them. And then there are the gypsies, who keep to themselves and who are actually not bad people, though no one wants to pick near them. The women go out, selling flowers and clothes pegs door-to-door, and the villagers buy goods from them, then turn their backs—but there’s a few who go find the old matriarch to have their fortunes told.”

Maurice’s laugh was short, and he shook his head. “The double standard.”

“Yes.” Maisie sipped her port, set down the glass, then went on.

“And the land where the bomb killed three people has no marker. It’s overgrown, and—cold.”

“Oh, dear.”

Maisie nodded. “Michaelmas daisies grow wild there. As far as I can tell, it’s the source of supply for the gypsy women who make bouquets for sale.”

“Purple flowers, the color of mourning.”

“Yes, but these are wild. No one planted them.”

“Not that you know of.”

“Indeed, not that I know of.”

There was silence between them. Maisie knew that Maurice did not want to offer advice that might be unwelcome and was cradling their reunion gently, like sand in cupped hands, in case she left, offended, not to return for some months. Thinking again of those she loved who would be taken from her by time’s passage, and how close she had once been to her mentor, Maisie began to soften, though she was not yet ready to relinquish the feeling of being slighted.

“What will you do next, if I may ask, Maisie?”

She inclined her head and stared into the fire. “I will keep the counsel of our earlier years together, Maurice. I will ask questions and more questions, for as you’ve always maintained, the power is in the inquiry, not necessarily in the answer.”

“Good.”

Maisie set down the glass of port. “You’ve a heavy hand with the decanter this evening, Maurice. I can’t finish my drink.”

“No matter.” He stood to see her to the door. “You will contact me if . . .”

“Of course.”

“And you will visit again?”

Maisie allowed him to take her hands in his, as she had when she entered the house. “Yes, I will.”

As Maurice was about to close the door, Maisie called to him. “Maurice?”

He opened the door and squinted, to better see her in the dark. “Do you happen to know anyone who is knowledgeable about violins?”

“Actually, I do. He’s in London, has a small music shop in Denmark Street. He’s an expert on stringed instruments and has a particular interest in violins. I’ll send my housekeeper around with his name and address tomorrow morning, if you wish.”

“Thank you. I am much obliged to you.”

Maurice watched as Maisie switched on her torch and made her way back to the Groom’s Cottage. He knew he was not quite forgiven.

TWELVE

Maisie left Chelstone soon after Maurice’s housekeeper came to the cottage bearing an envelope for her, with a note from Maurice and the name of the luthier in Denmark Street who would, she hoped, be able to tell her more about the violin she had witnessed Webb playing with great skill.

The showers had abated, and morning once more held the pepper-and-herb fragrance that seemed to be ingrained in the breeze at hop-picking time. Verges alongside the road were still full of hogweed, showing off cream-colored fronds of tiny petals, interspersed with the delicate shepherd’s purse, its fragile heart-shaped leaves shimmering as the motor approached, as if to hide behind the last of summer’s pink common mallow. She had the road to herself, which offered an opportunity to plan her visit to Sandermere’s brickworks, her first stop.

According to James Compton’s notes, the foreman was Pete Bracegirdle, who had been employed at the works since he was twelve, starting as an apprentice. He was a master craftsman who could fashion any type of brick or tile and, before he became foreman, could turn out peg tiles—used in the repair of the many cottages built in medieval times—at a fair clip and with fewer breaks or seconds than any other artisan, making him a valuable worker. In addition to Bracegirdle, the brickworks employed some twenty-four men, a few of them apprentices.

Maisie drew the MG to a halt just inside the main gate to the works. In appearance, the factory itself looked more like a farm, with timber-framed outbuildings with tiled roofing, but minus the many smells and sounds of a farm. The entrance itself was not grand, a simple wooden five-bar gate of the type that might be found at the opening to a field of sheep or cattle. To the left, a sign, crooked and misspelled, pointed the way to the “Ofice.”

The door was open, and two men stood behind a dust- and paper-laden desk, poring over an order. At first they did not see her.

“They definitely said they wanted the bricks by the end of October, so if we get them to Paddock Wood by—”

“Good morning.”

Both men looked up, simultaneously wiping their hands on their mustard-colored workmanlike heavy cotton coats.

“I’m looking for Mr. Bracegirdle.”

The shorter worker thumbed toward the man holding the order, who tucked a pencil behind his right ear and set down the sheet on top of a pile of papers. “I’m Mr. Bracegirdle.” He was about to hold out his hand to greet her when he noticed the dirt ingrained in his palm. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Maisie shook her head. “That’s alright. Do you think you might be able to spare me ten or fifteen minutes of your time?”

Without inquiring as to the purpose of her visit, the foreman looked at his deputy, who touched his flat cap. “Right you are, Pete. I’ll get the boys working on that order.”

“I’ll come out to the kilns as soon as I’ve had a word with this lady, Bert.” He turned to Maisie, then came around to the other side of the desk, removed a pile of papers from a chair, flapped the papers back and forth across the seat to remove the dust, and held out his hand. “Take a seat, miss.”

Maisie was grateful that she’d worn her heavy linen skirt, which, being khaki, would not show any dust lingering on the chair.

“What can I do for you?” Bracegirdle leaned back against the table and folded his arms. “You haven’t come here for bricks or tiles, I’m sure.”

“You’re right. I’m working for the Compton Corporation, who are—as you’ve probably heard—in the process of finalizing arrangements to buy the business side of the Sandermere estate.”

“Yes, we were all told when the works and the land went up for sale. Bit worrying, in these times. You never know whether you’ll still have a job.”

“I think I can say with a relative degree of confidence that, should the sale progress to completion, the Compton Corporation wishes to expand the works here, develop the range of bricks and tiles, and make a significant well-considered investment in new equipment and practices.”

“Well, we’ll wait and see. That all sounds very nice, but you do hear about these—what do they call them?” He rubbed his chin.

“Asset strippers?”

“That’s it. They take a business, sell it lock, stock and barrel, and then everyone’s out of a job.”

“Not a brickworks, and not when there’s so much building going on.”

“We can hardly keep up with the orders.”

“Which is good news, for you and for buyers.”

“Well, it’s not all good news. We need investment to make sure we meet those orders. In fact, we’ve needed the right investment for a long time.”

Maisie frowned. “I understood that Mr. Sandermere put a lot into the brickworks, more than could comfortably be afforded.”

Bracegirdle pulled a cloth from his pocket and began rubbing his hands. “Not for me to speak out of turn, but to be honest with you, there are people who buy something new just for the sake of it. And half of what he paid good money for isn’t what we wanted. I told him, I said, ’Here’s what we need.’ But he went for the goods the fast talkers pushed—with more than a dose of toadying up to him, I shouldn’t wonder—which is why he bought, feeling like the big businessman. Lot of what we really want, you can get secondhand. I hope I manage to have a serious word with whoever buys the place so we can get what we need—and a bit more in the wage packets wouldn’t go amiss, either.”

“Quite.” Maisie paused. “Mr. Bracegirdle, wasn’t some of the expenditure on the works to replace equipment damaged in a recent spate of malicious destruction at the estate?”

“No, the spending came before the shop was got at. We’ve managed to repair a fair bit, and of course we lost a lot of inventory, but I got the boys working round the clock and we were able to fill our orders. Of course, Mr. Sandermere said he’d ordered some new parts, but I’ve yet to see them. We make do and mend when we have to, don’t we?”

“Of course.” Maisie shifted on the seat. “Have the insurers come to view the works?”

“Mr. Sandermere had them in straightaway, and of course they were interested, being as the stables went up in flames as well. They insisted a police report be made. Mr. Sandermere hadn’t called the police, saying it was probably some local lads out on the beer and the police couldn’t do anything anyway. And he wasn’t wrong there—they came, had a sniff around, took a few measurements, paced back and forth from the door to make it look like they knew what they were about, and then off they went.”

“I see.”

“ ’Course, it would have been different if his brother was the boss.”

“I understand he was a different kettle of fish altogether.”

“Very fair. Knew the business. I remember him coming in here when he was just a lad, wanting to learn how to make bricks. Took him round myself, I did. And he knew the farmers, made it his business to know about farming. We have a bookkeeper from the village, a Mr. Soames, who comes in of a Friday.” He laughed. “I have to do a bit of tidying up on Thursday night, so he don’t get upset on account of the mess we’ve made.” He smiled. “Anyway, Mr. Henry came every Friday, even when he was back from his school in the summer, to sit with Mr. Soames and make sure he understood what went on here.”

“And Alfred’s not the same.”

Bracegirdle gave a half laugh that came out as a derogatory snort. “Oh, he’s interested in the bottom line, alright—because he likes to spend anything that isn’t spoken for.”

Maisie nodded. “Have there been any other incidences of vandalism?”

“We get the odd nipper from the village with a pot of paint who reckons himself an artist with a bit of a flair for walls, but other than that, no, just that one.”

“But when you add it to the vandalism in the village and the fires, it all mounts up.”

Bracegirdle moved around to the other side of the desk. Maisie watched, curious, for his move had placed a substantial piece of furniture between them at the mention of the problems in the village.

“Don’t know much about the village, not specifically.”

“Oh? I assumed you lived in the village, Mr. Bracegirdle.”

“I do, yes, but I don’t know much about the fires.” He shrugged. “Mind you, there was the accident at Fred Yeoman’s the other night—silly bugger threw out the ashes and started it himself.”

Maisie knew there was little to be gained from the conversation, though she wanted to press the foreman just a little more. “Do you remember the Zeppelin raid?”

“Don’t forget a thing like that.”

“No, I shouldn’t wonder. I understand the local baker and his family were killed when a bomb hit their shop, for of course they lived upstairs.”

“That’s right.”

“And no one has ever built on the land. Or even put up a memorial.”

He shrugged again. “Best left as it is. They’re buried in the churchyard.”

“I know, but I thought—”

Bracegirdle looked at the clock on the wall behind him. “Well, I haven’t got the time to sit about, got work to do. If that’s all, miss—”

“Of course.” Maisie stood up, brushing her hand across the fabric at the back of her skirt to remove dust. “Thank you for seeing me.”

He nodded and turned to leave, via the door leading into the works.

MAISIE HAD NOW confirmed the impression she had of Sandermere, a spendthrift who was likely entranced by the thrill of expenditure and the attention that accompanies the impression of having considerable wealth. He liked spending money. He liked being a man of commerce, of land, but he had no aptitude for either and no wise counsel to direct him—if he had cared to listen. She was in no doubt, now, that her suspicion—as put to James Compton—that Sandermere was embezzling his insurers was correct. He had probably received compensation for both the stable fire and for the damage to the brickworks. And what of the items lost when the mansion was burgled? Had he claimed already for that loss? There was a police report, though the suspects were probably released by now, so there might be a lapse of time before he received those funds. How desperate was he? Maisie suspected that the man’s weakness was akin to those who are unaware of their limits with alcohol, except his addiction was to money and, more particularly, to the thrill of profligacy and to the attention such behavior garnered. If he had nothing, he would be like the addict deprived of his drug—what, then, might he do next? Would his craving for attention, which she thought might be the root of his character deficiencies, lead him to set fires, to pyromania? Or would other aspects of his life suffer a descent, due to lack of control?

She brushed off the back of her skirt again, before she took her seat in the MG, and drove out of the brickworks and across to the farm where Billy and his family were working. Taking her knapsack, in which she’d placed a flask of hot tea, she locked the motor car and began walking toward the hop-gardens, following the sound of voices in the distance, like a dog nosing a scent. The hop-gardens already picked seemed desolate. Where there had been a full, rich, green crop, a hundred or so pickers hard at work, and the noise of talk, laughter and singing filling the air, the land now seemed bereft, with only the ghostly remains of a verdant harvest. There was a shallow incline on the path ahead, on the other side of which, set to one side, was a tap where people came throughout the day to fill a bottle or a kettle or to wash the knee of a child who had fallen while playing. She was surprised to come across Sandermere’s horse, grazing on the verge, and thought that perhaps the landowner had stopped to quench his thirst. But as she came over the hill, she heard a scream and was just in time to see Sandermere take Paishey Webb by the arm and pull her to him. At first, Maisie could hardly believe the scene before her or what the man was thinking to do such a thing. Each movement seemed to be in slow motion, but barely a second passed before the gypsy shrieked again and again, trying to escape Sandermere’s grasp. She kicked out at him, her scarf pulling back as he took hold of her hair, then put his finger to her hooped earring, and dragged it through the skin of her lobe. She cried out in pain and kicked again, desperate to save herself.

Maisie lost no time in running toward the pair, shouting, “Leave her alone! Stop!” And then, louder, “Help! Help!”

But Sandermere did not stop, pulling Paishey to him as if to press his lips to her neck, even as blood ran from her torn ear to his mouth. Another voice, stronger and louder, joined Maisie’s. Billy Beale had just walked up the hill from the hop-garden toward the tap. Dropping the kettle he had brought to fill, he launched himself at Sandermere and dragged him away. Though he was not the stronger man, Billy was faster and drew back his fist before Sandermere could even curl his fingers. The punch struck home, smashing Sandermere’s nose so that blood sprayed across his shirt and down his face.

“You nasty git, you bleedin’ nasty piece of work. I don’t care who you are, you bugger off out of ’ere before I kill you! So ’elp me, I’ll kill you, you bastard!”

As Sandermere staggered away, pulled himself onto his horse, and galloped off along the farm road, Maisie took Paishey in her arms. More people, locals and gypsies alike, came running from the hop-garden, drawn by the screams and shouting. Webb was in the crowd, pushing others aside when he saw Maisie and Billy with his wife.

“You, gorja! What—”

“He saved my honor, Webb,” said Paishey. “Leave’n him and her alone.” She wiped her hand across her face, smearing the profusion of blood.

Maisie pulled a handkerchief from her knapsack, ran cold water onto it from the tap, and held the cloth to Paishey’s ear. “Come sit on the verge, and let me have a look.”

Paishey allowed Maisie to lead her, while Billy explained to Webb what had happened. Maisie saw Webb turn as if to go after Sandermere, but Billy braced himself against the gypsy. “I know how you feel, mate, but calm down. He’ll have the law on you like a ton of bricks if you go after him now. You can’t win—you’ll end up inside for the rest of your life. Then where will your little nipper be, or your missus?”

Webb raised his hands to either side of the crown of his hat and then let them slump at his sides. He turned away from the crowd and screamed as if to a god who could not hear. It was a loud, impassioned cry that came not from the throat but from deep inside his body, and it was enough to begin to disperse the onlookers. Paishey ran to her husband and Webb held her to him, his fingernails white with the pressure of his grip. Then she pulled away, taking his hand, below which a scar crossed the inside of his wrist, and she held her own wrist, her own scar, to it, so that the place where their blood had run together on the day of their marriage was joined once more.

Billy shook his head. “I’d scream too, if I was ’im. Fine ’ow-do-you-do, this, ain’t it? Probably won’t ’ave a job come morning, me or ’im.”

As she rinsed blood from her handkerchief, ready to hand it to Paishey once again, Maisie realized she was shaking. “I can’t believe what I just saw. That a man would act in such a way is unconscionable—and in broad daylight!”

“I better not see that bloke again, that’s all I can say.”

“I’m so glad you were here, Billy. Are you alright?”

Billy nodded. “I knew ’e could punch me into the ground with one good one, drunk as ’e was, so I ’ad to get in quick with the old one-two. I ’aven’t got enough go in the old legs to get into a bout with someone like that.” He rubbed his knuckles where they had connected with Sandermere’s nose. “Lucky I came along when I did. Doreen ’ad seen the gypsy walking to the tap and picked up the kettle to go over there. I knew what she was thinking, that she’d ’ave a word, explain why she ’adn’t been passin’ the time of day or makin’ a fuss of the baby, and thought I’d better go myself. Not as if you can explain a thing like that, but I didn’t want any trouble.” Billy shook his head. “Found trouble alright, though, didn’t I?”

Webb and Paishey walked across to them and Webb held out his hand to Billy. “You saved my wife’s honor. I am in your debt.”

“No, you’re not, mate. You would’ve done the same, anybody would.”

Webb shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t.” He looked at his wife, then back at Billy. “Sometimes it’s like the morning hate when we come out to work.”

Billy frowned, pausing before saying more and with his head to one side, as if considering the man’s words. Then he changed his expression and reached out to grip Webb’s shoulder. “Just promise me you won’t go after ’im.” His smile was one of irony. “Not unless you take me with you, anyway.”

Webb nodded, and Maisie reached out to help Paishey clean more blood from her face and neck.

“Aunt Beulah will doctor me now. She’ll mend my ear.”

Maisie drew back, respectful of the gypsy ways, but she was curious to know what events had unfolded just before she came upon Sandermere attacking Paishey. She rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder so that she might not pull back, fearful, when asked about the attack. “What happened, Paishey? What did Sandermere say before he went for you?’

The woman looked at the ground as she spoke. “I’n came for water, and the rye-moosh—the boss man—came up to the tap while I was filling the kettle. He’n told me to move, to let him in, and I told him my kettle was nearly filled and I’d soon be done. I said sir out of respect.” Maisie saw a flash of the gypsy’s independence as she spoke. “Then he’n lifted his stick and went to thrash me, and he’n was saying I was nothing, that he would have us all sacked for our trouble, and the whole farm was his, all the hop-gardens and the tap and all the water what comes from it. Then he’n went for me, just as you come along. Said everything was his, me an’ all, and he’n be takin’ what he wanted.”

“And there was a stink on ’is breath, couldn’t miss it,” added Billy. “ ’e’d been at the bottle, no doubt about it. It’s a wonder ’e could get up on that ’orse.”

Maisie nodded and said they’d probably all better be getting on, and Beulah should look at Paishey’s ear. Together they walked back to the hop-garden, where Webb and Paishey joined their people, before gathering up their daughter and leaving the workers. Maisie knew they were returning to the clearing, which, although temporary, represented the lair that any animal would escape to when harmed or threatened.

BILLY PAUSED BEFORE walking along the rows to join his family. “What d’ye think that was all about, Miss, Sandermere actin’ like a lunatic?”

Maisie thought for some moments before speaking. “The man is losing the very underpinning of his life—the land that has been in his family for centuries—and it’s all his fault. The estate has given him a certain status to bolster him, and now it’s slipping through his fingers, so he’s clutching at whatever he can. And the drink is keeping his anger well oiled.” She paused. “There’s a sadness to him, as despicable as he is. A man who acts in such a destructive manner is himself harmed.”

Billy shrugged. “Well, ’e’ll be ’armed a lot more if I see ’im tryin’ on that sort of thing again, make no mistake. Like I said, I reckon we’ll be lucky to still be in work tomorrow. I don’t expect to be seein’ that ugly dial again as long as I live—and I’m glad of it.”

They continued in silence for a while. Then, as she walked alongside Billy, back to the bin where his family worked together, Maisie broke the news of Simon’s death. Simon had saved Billy’s life in the war, a memory forever fresh in Billy’s mind. He shook his head.

“After all this time. Gaw, blimey, Miss, I kept wishin’ it was the other way round, that ’e’d come back to what ’e was, before the shell got ’im.” He looked at her. “You alright, Miss?”

Maisie felt her eyes moisten. She nodded. “Yes. I don’t know whether I’m shocked or not. It was as if his very life had been playing wolf with us, so that when the time came for him to . . . to go, I couldn’t quite believe it. It’s as if we’ve been tricked by hope ever since he was wounded.”

Having stopped to talk, Billy walked on and Maisie kept pace, her head lowered. “You’ll feel better after the funeral, Miss. When that’s done there’s nothing more than to get used to it. Once our little Lizzie was laid to rest, we could only remember her and try to—you know—just go on, day by day, one foot in front of the other.” He paused again, unused to speaking of his feelings. “Sometimes I feel as if, when you throw that big clod of earth onto the coffin, you’re not just startin’ to fill the ’ole in the ground but the big gapin’ one that’s been blown in your life.”

As they reached the bin, with the tallyman close at hand, her thoughts were deflected by the rush to clean the hops of leaves. She had wanted to ask Billy why he had looked at Webb so intently when they were speaking after the encounter with Sandermere, as if something had taken him aback, just for a second. Instead, she steeped her hands into the hops and began to pull out leaves.

Once the tallying was finished, they spoke of the London boys just released from police custody. As soon as they had returned to the hop-garden, George and his family had packed up their belongings and gone home to Shoreditch. “Shame,” said Billy. “They needed the money, and the farmer’s not duty-bound to pay you your wages unless you see out the picking to the end. Pity they couldn’t find it in them to stay.” When they began speaking of Sandermere’s attack on Paishey Webb, Maisie debated whether to visit the gypsies again today. She had planned to but now wondered if her presence would be unwelcome at such a time. But it struck her that the risk of retaliation by Sandermere, owner of the land where they had made camp, might encourage them to move on, and she wanted to see Beulah again. So she chatted briefly with the Beale family and took her leave, once again carrying her knapsack over one shoulder as she walked at a brisk pace toward the hill and the clearing. If she was not welcome, she would leave with haste.

THE LURCHER CAME down the hill, walked with her until they reached the vardos, and then ran across the clearing to Beulah. Maisie waved as she came into the shade, her eyes seeing only outlines as they adjusted from the day’s bright light. Beulah raised one hand and beckoned Maisie to her.

“I wanted to find out how Paishey is.” Maisie took her place, seated on a fallen tree next to Beulah.

“She’n be better when we leave, now. Only another week, then we’ll go.”

“Where to?”

“Up’n there.” She thumbed to the north, meaning London. “We’ll go to the Common for the winter. No more work on the land afore year’s end, not for us anyway.”

Maisie nodded. “What about her ear, where the ring was taken from her?”

Beulah called to Paishey, who was sitting on her haunches, chopping vegetables into a bowl. She set the task to one side and, light of foot, approached the matriarch. “Show’n her.” Beulah pointed to the younger woman’s ear.

Paishey drew back her black hair to reveal the lower half of her left ear, encrusted with a deep green paste molded to her flesh. Beulah motioned for her to lean forward and, as she came close, reached up with her vein-strapped hands and picked at the paste until it fell away. The lobe was no longer livid and swollen, and there was no division in the flesh, just a single line of no more than a hair’s breadth where the earring had been dragged free.

“She’n be wearing gold again, come morning.”

Maisie smiled at Paishey, taking her hand. “And your heart?”

The young woman nodded accord, to say she was well. “I’ve my Boosul and my Webb. If’n I let my heart break over an old sot, Webb’d go after ’im, and I don’t want that. We’n be good people, don’t want trouble.” She waved as she returned to her bowl of vegetables.

“I saw you out in the woods last week,” said Maisie, turning to Beulah. “You were dowsing, with a forked hazel twig.”

Beulah cackled. “Least you knew it were hazel.”

“Can you teach me?”

“No. Can’t be taught. I can tell you how, but I can’t teach you to feel, to listen to the rod.”

“I want to try.”

Beulah placed her hands on her knees and levered herself to standing position. Maisie stood up, too, and thought the old woman might rest her hand in the crook of her arm. Instead she walked upright, not stooped, toward her vardo, motioning for Maisie to follow her. She reached underneath the vardo to pull out a wooden fork cut from a hazel branch and cleared of leaves, then walked toward the field where the horses grazed. She stopped and looked out across the land, breathing in the late-afternoon air, as the sun traveled down toward the horizon, bathing the stubble in a pale orange-red shimmer. Beulah handed the fork to Maisie. Then, placing her hands on top of her pupil’s, she gave weight to the rustic divining tool.

“This’n be how it’ll feel, when it’s pulling.”

“How does it know what I’m looking for?”

Beulah shook her head. “You’n know the answer, girl. You does it all the time. You hold it here.” She tapped Maisie’s head. “If’n you want coins, you hold coins. If’n you want water, you see water. And if’n you want silver, you think silver.” And when she said the word silver a second time, with a movement as sudden as lightning, she removed the watch from Maisie’s jacket lapel and threw it into the field.

Maisie clutched her lapel. “Oh, no! Why did you take that? We could have used something else. Why my watch?” She looked down, clutched the fork’s handles, and moved forward.

“Slow, girl, slow. Let’n the fork tell you how to step.”

Maisie felt the woman’s hand, light, on her arm. She had not seen where the watch was thrown but listened with her fingers to the rod’s counsel and held the watch in her mind’s eye. Taking one carefully gauged step after another, she made her way across the grass. Without looking up, she knew the horses had stopped grazing and were ambling in her direction. Beulah walked behind her, along with the lurcher. She offered no words of advice, no instructions, only her presence as witness.

She turned once, the weight between her fingers pulling her to the left and then in a straight line. The horses were closer now—she could hear them nickering behind her. She wondered why Beulah did not chivvy them away, then thought it was to test her resilience to distraction. Never, since her apprenticeship with Maurice, had a lesson been so keen.

The rod pulled again, the weight trying her balance. Her watch was close. Then, as the rod pointed downward, the heaviness in her hands diminished. She knelt down, pushed the stubble aside, and claimed the watch.

“Thank God!” She held it to her chest, closing her eyes, then stood up, turning to Beulah.

The woman regarded Maisie in silence, with the horses leaning close together behind her and the dog at her side. “Now’n you know. Now’n you can dowse.”

“It was a sudden lesson, Aunt Beulah.”

Beulah was frowning and came to Maisie, taking the watch from her. She held it in her hand, as if to feel its weight. “Get rid of it.”

“What do you mean?” Maisie stepped back, as she might if threatened.

“That watch has been too close to death. That watch holds too much pain to be worn so close to your heart. Its time is done now. Get rid of it.”

“But it was a gift, from someone dear to me. I can’t just—” She took back the watch.

Beulah stared. “Yes’n you can. Hold on to time, like that”—she pointed at the watch—“and you stay in time.” She turned and walked back up the hill, stretching out her arms to send the horses away, while the lurcher followed, stopping only once to look back at Maisie.

LATER, MAISIE RETURNED to the inn, where she was shown to the same room she’d occupied before. She ached for a hot bath and, when she inquired, found that the Yeomans could not do enough for her. Once again she steeped herself in a tin bath filled with hot water, leaning back to rest her head as the steam filtrated into every pore.

A letter had awaited her arrival at the inn, a brief note from Beattie Drummond written in a matter-of-fact manner to let her know she would be coming down on the train from Paddock Wood the next morning, arriving at Heronsdene station at nine o’clock. She asked if Maisie would pick her up, as she had information of interest regarding the case. The case. She thought Beattie’s tone somewhat proprietorial, as if she was claiming part of the case as her own. Maisie had encountered such behavior in the past, in other instances where the interest shown by a source of information crossed a line. The reporter’s enthusiasm was a direct result of her hunger for some acclaim in her field, but Maisie could not allow it to stall her progress, which she felt was already hampered enough—by herself.

Later, as she lay back in bed before allowing sleep to claim her, Maisie replayed the day in her mind, watching as certain events and encounters came to the fore. There was Sandermere’s drink-inspired frenzy, his lack of control. Then Beulah, taking her watch, the talisman that had gone to war with her, and throwing it away. And her warning: That watch holds too much pain to be worn close to your heart.

She cleared her mind so she could rest. The last thing she saw before she fell asleep was a vision of Simon, sitting in his wheelchair at the convalescent hospital. She remembered, once, leaning over him, her arm around his shoulder, his head pulled into the crook of her neck. There was a point at which the edge of her scar met his.

THIRTEEN

Beattie Drummond stepped down from the train, once more wearing businesslike attire, a blue-gray skirt with a white blouse and, on her feet, black shoes smart enough for the street yet stout enough to wear out to a farm, should it be necessary. She carried a jacket to match the skirt, and a brown briefcase with both buckles broken, so the flap lived up to its name. She moved the jacket and briefcase to her left hand when she saw Maisie and held out her right hand in greeting.

“How are you, Miss Dobbs?”

“Very well, thank you, and you?”

After shaking hands, they walked to the MG, where the reporter squinted into the sun as she waited for Maisie to open the passenger door. “Might I call you Maisie, seeing as we’re working on the same case?”

Maisie waited until Beattie was seated and then turned to face her. “Of course you may But look, Beattie—” It was time to set a boundary between her work and the newspaperwoman’s business. “I am grateful for the information you are finding for me, and I will most certainly keep my word and ensure that you are the first to know if I encounter anything that amounts to a scoop for your newspaper, but I have only one assistant.”

Beattie was firm. “I thought, seeing as he’s not with you at the moment, you might need a bit of help with the legwork.”

Maisie shook her head. “Ah, but he is here. And I have found that I make more efficient progress alone, or with just my assistant working on other aspects of a case, in tandem with my inquiries.” She paused, so that her words might have an effect. “And though I am at present looking into events that have piqued your interest for some time, it is not yet what I might term a case, not in the way you might think.”

“Oh, yes it is. You’re sniffing at this one like a hound following a scent, and I want to be there when you chase down the culprit.”

“Then if you wish me to execute my duties effectively, you must return to Maidstone when we have completed our conversation and leave me to do my work. Rest assured I will keep my promise to you.”

Beattie Drummond looked down at her hands as she clutched the top of her briefcase. “I want to be out of here so much. I want to be taken seriously by a newspaper and not have to go to one more school fete.”

“Yes, I know you do, Beattie, and I give you my word that you will have your scoop.”

Beattie nodded. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Maisie started the motor car and drove slowly away from the station, stopping at the edge of a field. She reached behind the seat for a blanket and a bag with a flask and two beakers.

“Come on, let’s have a cup of tea.”

They set the blanket at a point overlooking the soft undulating patchwork-quilt fields and ancient woodlands that were a hallmark of Kent’s High Weald. Sitting down, each with a beaker of tea, they discussed Beattie’s findings.

“Here’s a list of seven houses where miscellaneous fires have broken out. There have been at least three more according to my records, but I don’t have the details. As you can see, they take place around the same date each year. You have the family names there, though I have only given the head of household and spouse, not the names of all the children—with one exception.”

“Which is?”

Beattie leaned across, still holding her beaker of steaming tea in one hand. “Phyllis Mansell, now Phyllis Wheeler. She and her husband live with her parents, though they have two children of their own, and a new baby, I think—last time I came to the village for the paper, she was up like a balloon. Anyway, she was supposedly best friends with the girl who died, Anna Martin.”

“How do you know?”

“Snooping. Asking questions to make things easier for any private inquiry agent who happened to come along.”

Maisie raised an eyebrow and smiled, taking the comment in the spirit of a quip, rather than a bitter retort. “Thank you. I appreciate it. Do you know anything else about the Martin family? How long had they been here?”

“They had been here for some years. The parents had been in London, then came to Kent because Anna had trouble with her breathing. They thought that getting her out of those pea-soupers would be just the ticket. You can imagine it: ’Come to the country air, breathe in dust and hay!’” Her mimicry reflected recent government advertising campaigns to get more people out and hiking, for better health and to fight disease. However, Maisie was intrigued when she mimicked an accent, rolling her vowels and using a singsong cadence.

“Why are you speaking like that?”

“Well, they were Dutch, the Martins.”

“Dutch?”

“Yes, only one generation back—something like that.”

“So the original name was probably Maarten.” Maisie looked into the distance, seeing the name written in her mind’s eye. “Hence the names Jacob and Bettin.”

“And Willem.”

“Yes, of course.” Maisie was reflecting upon Carter’s description of the baker in Heronsdene and how Mrs. Crawford always ordered from him, because he was the best. But he hadn’t mentioned that the family were from the Netherlands.

“Did they have discernible accents, do you think?”

“I don’t think so, despite my impersonation, though I understand Dutch was spoken in the home. I once had a Dutch friend who spoke five or six languages. She liked to travel and told me, ’No one speaks my language, so I have to speak everyone else’s if I want to be understood.’”

Maisie was thinking about Priscilla’s boys, hence “I see” was the sum of her reply.

“Anyway, you’ll find Phyllis rather loath to talk about her friend—I know. I tried collaring her for a chat during the pancake races one Shrove Tuesday. Clammed up very tight, she did.”

“I’ll try to find out if she has any thoughts about the fires.”

“I doubt she can tell you much, really. I was just sniffing around, wondering whether to write some sort of In Remembrance piece when the ten-year anniversary of the Zeppelin raid came around. No one wanted to think about it, talk about it, or otherwise bring it back. So that little idea was shot down in flames, as so many before them.” She sighed. “Anyway, here’s the Reverend Staples’s address. He was the village vicar. As you can see, he lives in Hawkhurst now, at Easter Cottage, down the road from the church, St. Laurence’s at The Moor, which is the old part of the village, up on the hill. He’s not the vicar there, but old habits die hard—he can probably only sleep if there’s a church clock on his doorstep clanging away all night. Do you need directions?”

“Please, if you don’t mind.”

“He’s a good sort, really. Rather fond of chamber music. In fact, while he was vicar he started a quartet here in the village.” Beattie noted the directions on the sheet of paper she had already prepared for Maisie and handed it to her.

Maisie folded the paper and placed it in the black document case she’d brought with her from the motor car. “You’ve been very kind and incredibly helpful, Beattie.” She paused, then reached out and placed her hand on the reporter’s shoulder. “You really will get your chance, I promise. As soon as anything concrete surfaces, I’ll be in touch. I give you my word.”

Beattie nodded and glanced at her wristwatch. “Well, this will never get the eggs cooked, will it?” She looked at Maisie. “Where’s that lovely nurse’s watch you were wearing last time we met?”

Maisie shrugged. “I forgot to put it on today. I’ll have to use the sun as a timepiece.”

As the women returned to the MG, Beattie expressed annoyance at having missed the two London boys who had been released by the police. “I thought I would be able to interview them with their people, you know, among the hop-pickers, get some other bits and pieces to give some local color. Heaven knows, they didn’t hang around once they’d been let off.”

“The parents wanted to get them back to London, back to work before news of their arrest filtered northward and they lost their apprenticeships,” said Maisie, easing the MG back onto the road.

Conversation was lighter as they drove toward the station for Beattie to catch the train to Tunbridge and from there to Maidstone. As Beattie alighted from the motor car, Maisie leaned toward the passenger window. “Beattie, I had some good advice from a friend yesterday. She told me that if you want to find silver, you have to think silver. There’s no reason why it wouldn’t work with your business as well. If you want success, you have to hold it“—she tapped the side of her head—“as vividly as you can, up here.”

Beattie frowned, then smiled. “Oh, I see. Imagine myself sitting at the guv’nor’s desk.”

Maisie shook her head. “No. Really see yourself at one of the big newspapers. Think silver, Beattie.”

MAISIE DROVE DIRECTLY from the station to Hawkhurst, a journey that once again took her through village after village resplendent in the midst of a varied and colorful harvest. She saw apples almost ready for the picking as she passed the orchards, with sweet Cox’s Orange Pippins hanging heavy on branches and hearty bitter Bramleys just waiting to be sliced into a pie. Alongside an orchard of nutty-brown russet apples, she stopped, idling the MG while she slipped through the fence and twisted one from a branch, and then drove off before anyone caught her in the act of scrumping.

Entering Hawkhurst, she drove up toward The Moor, past the grassy common, the village school, and the church, before parking outside Easter Cottage. She pulled on her jacket, smoothed the linen skirt she had selected that day, and on her head placed a soft straw hat with a purple grosgrain band and low broad brim. She put a clutch of index cards into her shoulder bag, not wanting to use the document case, lest it seem intimidating, too formal. Then she locked the MG, walked up the path, and rang the bell.

The Reverend Staples opened the door, calling out to his wife, “It’s alright, Jane, I’ve answered it myself.” He turned to Maisie. “May I help you?”

“Reverend Staples? My name is Maisie Dobbs.” She paused to hand him a calling card. “I am working for the company currently in the process of purchasing a large tract of land, plus the brickworks, from Alfred Sandermere in Heronsdene.”

The vicar, who still wore his white clerical collar, along with a V-necked maroon cardigan that had been darned at the elbows, frowned as he read her card. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how—”

“I’m completing a report on the village’s recent history, a factor the purchaser always takes into account, as a local business is so much a part of the adjacent community. Given your very close association with the village, I thought it would be a good idea to seek your opinion on a few points.”

He stepped aside, holding out his left hand. “Of course, do come in.” He closed the door behind her. A woman came from the drawing room, through which Maisie could see French doors leading to the garden, where whitewashed cast-iron furniture was set on a lawn. The woman wore her silver-gray hair in a tight permanent wave and looked very much the quintessential vicar’s wife, clad in a simple knitted cardigan with a string of pearls at her neck and a skirt that brushed her calves just above the ankle. “Ah, Jane, this is Miss Maisie Dobbs. She represents the company buying most of Sandermere’s estate. Wants to find out a bit more about the village.”

The woman clasped her hands in front of her waist as she replied. “I’m glad to hear it. That brickworks needs to be properly run, and the interests of the village in the business that employs most of the men should be taken seriously” She paused and smiled. “Might I bring some tea to your study, dear?”

The vicar replied that tea would be very nice indeed, and Maisie suspected that Mrs. Staples had spent much of her married life making tea for those who came to see her husband.

Reverend Staples led Maisie to his study and held out his hand toward a chair as he closed the door behind him. “Please, take a seat.”

Once more, Maisie was seated on the guest’s side of a wooden desk more suited to a room three times the size. With a ream of unused paper to one side of the blotting pad, and a scribbled-upon haphazard collection of notes on the other, it seemed that the vicar was working on a manuscript of some sort.

“You’re a writer, Reverend Staples?”

He waved his hand as if to dismiss the thought, then used an arm to sweep the written-upon papers to one side. “I thought I might be. I’ve been working on an autobiography of sorts, a recollection of my days as a country vicar. I thought I might blend witty anecdotes with a treatise on the pastoral care of a small community. However, I have discovered that I am not a born writer, and that those little scenes of rural humor do not stand the test of time. But the work gives the impression of getting on with something and assuages the guilt that accompanies a stroll across the road to watch the cricket.”

Maisie smiled. She was glad the conversation had mellowed, so much the better for her questioning. “I think I should come to the point. My client has been concerned regarding the instances of petty crime in Heronsdene over the past—say—ten years or so, including a spate of fires. Have you any . . .“ She paused, seeking the right word. “Have you any insight that might shed light on the causes of such vandalism? I should add that the fires—which seem to happen on an annual basis—are of particular concern.”

The vicar ran his finger around his collar and rubbed his chin. Hot around the collar, thought Maisie, as Maurice’s words echoed in her mind. The door opened, and Jane Staples brought in a tea tray. She made a comment about the garden while pouring, then passed cups of tea, to Maisie first and then her husband, who seemed relieved at the interruption.

As the door clicked behind her, Maisie repeated her question. “Your thoughts on the vandalism, sir?”

“Of course, I’ve heard about the petty crime, as you call it. You no doubt know the lion’s share of those incidents were after my time, so I cannot exactly lay claim to having my finger on the village pulse. Certainly, such events do seem to coincide with the hop-picking, and the coincidence cannot be ignored. High jinks by London boys in particular.”

“And the fires?”

His cheeks became pink once more. “Yes, the fires. I’m sure that, to an outsider, the fires might look suspicious—generally the same time of year and so on. However, you people really mustn’t make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s a busy time of year. People are working in the fields all day—if not in the hop-gardens there’s often a second threshing of the hay, then the apples and pears, and that season follows the picking of summer fruit, strawberries, cherries, blackcurrants—so workers are tired, they ache from the day’s labor, and they make mistakes. A chimney’s set on fire because the stove’s been banked up for more hot water, a saucepan alight on the hob because someone’s fallen asleep, or a paraffin lamp’s been left untended—no one in the village has the convenience of electricity, my dear.”

“So you believe ten or more small fires, generally at the same time of year, are the result of household accidents?”

Staples leaned forward and began folding the edge of a sheet of paper, first one fold, then another, until the paper was triangular in shape. He spoke while his hands were busy. “Yes, I do, Miss Dobbs. If you list them it seems hard to believe, but Heronsdene is a rural farming community, with the addition of a factory. The people are not strangers to accidents. They take them in their stride, help one another out. They are very close-knit, as you have no doubt discovered. It is a blessing that no one has been hurt.”

“Some weeks ago a fire almost took the lives of Mr. Sandermere’s hunters.”

“Well, that might be one fire to take a second look at.”

“I have already.”

“I’m sure.”

Maisie smiled, encouraging Staples to soften before presenting another question she knew would challenge him. “Can you tell me about the Martins?”

He scratched his right ear and reached for his hitherto untouched cup of tea. “Of course. Very nice people. Churchgoers. Musical family—Mrs. Martin played the church organ, Anna was a pianist, and Jacob quite a respectable violinist.”

“A violinist?”

“Yes, tragic loss, with the Zeppelin.”

“Indeed. You were of course in the village when the tragedy happened, weren’t you?”

He cleared his throat. “I had just returned from London earlier in the day. I had church business at the archbishop’s office at Westminster. While I was there, I was also on an errand for Jacob Martin.”

“What sort of errand?”

“Well, he’d told me several weeks earlier that he had taken his violin to be repaired by an expert in Denmark Street. He was a very busy man, so when I knew of my appointment, I offered to collect it for him. I arrived back in the late afternoon and had not had an opportunity to return the instrument before the bombing.”

“Do you still have the violin?”

He shook his head. “No, unfortunately not. It was stolen from the rectory in Heronsdene.”

“I thought you said the petty crime came after your time.”

He deflected the question. “The thieves were probably London boys, inexperienced in their trade. Had they been less callow, they would have known that the items taken—the violin, a small clock, a brass toasting fork—were of almost no consequence. There were more valuable ornaments in a display case that was left untouched.”

“London boys? So the burglary took place at hop-picking time?”

“Yes. As I suggested, if something untoward is going to happen, it will be during the hopping.”

“What did the police say?”

He shook his head. “We did not summon the police. There’s no local constabulary, so the police have to come some distance, and seeing as it really was very petty, with no great loss, we thought best simply to let it go and let God be the judge of the perpetrators.”

Maisie was about to speak when there was a light knock at the door and Jane Staples came into the study. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Miss Dobbs.” She turned to her husband. “Telephone for you. It’s the bishop’s office.”

“Oh, dear.” Staples stood up. “Do excuse me, Miss Dobbs. I shall have to bring our conversation to a close. One doesn’t keep the bishop waiting, and—between us, please—he can go on a bit.”

“Thank you for your time, Reverend Staples.”

The vicar’s wife showed Maisie to the door, while her husband walked toward the drawing room.

Maisie returned to her motor car and drove a short distance, to park again close to the pub. She doubled back toward Easter Cottage on foot and, careful not to be seen, walked around the perimeter of the vicar’s house and gardens before making her way back to the MG once again. As she passed the pub, a beery warmth wafted out, along with patrons leaving, having been turned out following the afternoon’s last orders. She was thirsty, having taken but one sip of tea, and could almost taste an ale rich with hops and barley teasing her tongue. Pulling onto the road, she drove toward Hawkhurst’s white-painted colonnade of shops, where she bought a cherry-red Vimto to quench her thirst. And for a while she sat to consider why a man of the cloth had lied to her—for as she had suspected, there was no telephone connection at Easter Cottage.

BY THE TIME Maisie returned to Heronsdene, it was mid-afternoon. Several hours of daylight remained, so there was no time to be wasted in contemplation. She had work to do. She engaged in a cordial conversation with Fred Yeoman, then went to her room to change into her walking skirt and brogue-like leather shoes. She had remained in Hawkhurst only long enough to drink her bottle of Vimto and make notes on the wad of index cards, which she now placed in her leather case. She put several fresh cards into her knapsack, along with binoculars and her Victorinox knife, reached across the dressing table to pick up her nurse’s watch—but stopped. Her fingers lingered over the watch and then she took it up, placing it in the front pocket of her knapsack instead of pinning it to her jacket, next to her heart. She would heed Beulah’s warning, but she still needed to know the time.

Leaving the MG parked outside the inn, Maisie set off on foot for a walk of two miles or so, to the tree where the London boys had hoped to claim a couple of tenners—conkers that would be so strong in competition with other boys that they would smash at least ten lesser conkers to pieces. Instead they had found silver and a week in police custody.

Hiking along a woodland path, Maisie first searched for a specific tool: a slender hazel branch she could cut just below the fork, to use as a divining rod. Standing on tiptoe to take hold of a worthy branch, she drew back the leaves to better view the diameter of the still-green wood. She let the branch snap back up, took out her knife, pulled open a suitable blade, and reached up to the branch again. Cutting through the sinewy fibers, she soon brought down the section she wanted. She sliced off the leaves, tested the rod, and smiled. Now all she had to do was think silver.

She had earmarked two locations where the cache of Sandermere silver might be stowed or buried. The first, down by the stream, was less compelling, but she had to search the area to ensure her investigation was completed to the most thorough degree. For Beattie Drummond was right: It was an investigation, no less important or significant than any case she had worked on before.

Walking farther, she doubled back through the woods and up toward the horse chestnut tree. She hid her knapsack behind the tree, so as not to be encumbered on her way, then closed her eyes and envisioned a collection of silver—spoons, goblets, platters, teapots, chafing dishes. She held the hazel rod, with the fork in the branch facing in the direction of the woods opposite, and walked on.

With branches hanging low and brushing against her face and undergrowth hampering her progress, Maisie struggled to become attuned to the rod. She knew the image of silver was becoming fogged, as if shrouded in the mist of disbelief, and any powers of divination to which she might have laid claim were being drawn away, just as water is sucked from the shore by the tide’s pull. Following the rod’s direction, she came close to the stream, her brow glistening, her arms filled with ache.

“Well, I won’t find anything here!” She slumped down next to the stream. Resting the hazel rod on her lap, she watched the water run up around the roots of an ancient oak, eddying along, carving through the clay, leaving visible layers of strata in its meanderings. Maisie sighed, the water soothing her, encouraging her to go to the second place now, where the encroaching eventide shadows might camouflage her presence. She came to her feet, brushed down her skirt, which she knew was in dire need of laundering, and looked one last time at the stream before turning to go. But something stopped her, something at the edge of her vision caused her to halt, to wait, to regard her surroundings once again.

Trees overhung the rushing water, and the undergrowth was a rich green, with ferns and bindweed covering the peaty ground. Closer to the stream, the heady aroma of wild garlic tested her senses as she looked back and forth and around her. Then she saw, hidden in the greens and browns of the woodland, a collection of four or five old and rusty one-gallon cans. They had been thrown some four feet in from the bank, not carelessly, but with some speed, otherwise they would not have been found at all. Ferns had been pulled across, to disguise the rusted tin as far as could be managed. Maisie knelt down and unscrewed the top of one can, flinching as metal rasped against metal. Yes, they had once contained paraffin oil, a most flammable liquid.

Maisie spread the ferns back across her find and left the woodland, wondering who had used the liquid. She entertained the thought that its purpose might have been innocent, with, perhaps, simply a careless dumping of spent metal. But a paraffin can was useful, not something to throw away. She wondered if the liquid had been used to set the fire on Sandermere’s property. Perhaps even for those in the village. Yet each of those fires represented too small a conflagration for such an incendiary substance to have been used.

She left the wood, returning to the chestnut tree to claim her knapsack. It was still warm, and too light to do anything more, so she walked along the road, looking for a place to sit, to complete more notes. Consulting her watch, she thought it might be an efficient use of daylight to call upon one or two of those who had been the victims of arson—or merely fiery accidents—in recent years. She found a fallen tree trunk at the side of the road, its head of leaves and branches sawn away to leave a welcome seat—for a walker or for one who just wanted to rest for a while. As Maisie sat down and looked out across the land, she realized her chosen place commanded a view over the wall of Sandermere’s immediate property and on toward the house and stables. A shallow hill rose to the right, and as she continued to cast her eyes over the property, she saw Webb, his broad-brimmed hat marking him, standing on the hill, watching Alfred Sandermere’s house. He did not move for some moments, remaining still as if transfixed by the mansion. Then he turned and walked away.

FOURTEEN

Upon reflection, Maisie considered it best to confine her visits with the victims of “accidental” fires to the hours of one day, rather than begin knocking on doors in the evening. In a small village, word of her presence would doubtless travel with speed from house to house, from person to person, like a bumblebee hovering from one bloom to the next, though in this case the work at hand would not result in a honeyed sweetness.

And though she had been tempted to go to the gypsy camp, drawn by the music and dance that was still smoldering within her, she knew a pall had enveloped the tribe since Sandermere’s attack on Paishey, and a quiet stillness had descended upon their sojourn in Heronsdene. Sandermere, as far as she knew, had not been seen since the incident. She was tempted, also, to join the Beale family and the other Londoners this evening, knowing they would be preparing tea in the cookhouse before sitting around a fire to tell stories, to reflect on hop-picking in years past—and to talk, now that there was but one week or so to go of the harvest, about returning to London, to the Smoke. Instead, she remained at the inn.

The residents’ sitting room was empty when Maisie came down for supper, other guests having not yet returned from their walks across the countryside or forays into the surrounding villages. Fred Yeoman served a plate of hearty shepherd’s pie with fresh vegetables from the garden and stopped to pass the time of day with her, to talk of the weather and how they had been lucky, with only one or two days of rain throughout the hopping. But as their talk lulled, and Fred looked out of the window to comment on a flight of ducks passing on their way to warmer climes, the conversation from the public bar became louder and within hearing.

“I’ll be glad when that property’s sold and we all know what’s what around here,” one voice piped up.

“Pity Sandermere isn’t going too, as far as I’m concerned. The war took the wrong brother, no doubt about it.”

“Can’t do nothing about that now, Sid. Twenty-five boys and men were taken from this village, half on the same day, and we can’t do nothing about that either.”

There was a general jawing, a chewing over of times past, then another comment. “We’ll breathe a bit easier when they’ve all gone: the Londoners, the pikeys—and that woman! Asking her questions about them, down the road. Wants to know a bit too much, if you ask me.”

At first, Fred Yeoman seemed paralyzed by the overheard conversation, but then he hurried to remove Maisie’s plate while raising his voice to a degree that was unnecessary in the small room, a level that ensured he would be heard in the public bar.

“Enjoy your pie, Miss Dobbs?” He barely paused while clearing her plate. “We’ve some lovely fresh apple tart with custard, made this afternoon. Got any room for just a slice?”

There was silence in the bar, as if Heronsdene itself was waiting to learn whether Maisie Dobbs, a Londoner, wanted fresh apple tart or not.

She shook her head, blowing out her cheeks. “I’m fit to pop, Fred, thank you. Tell Mary the shepherd’s pie was the best I’ve ever had—bar none.”

“Right you are, miss. Anything else we can get for you? I expect you’ll want to turn in, what with you being so busy. Think you’ll be finished soon?”

“With my report for the buyers? I daresay I will, Fred. I daresay I will.” And with that Maisie left the residents’ sitting room. As she ascended the narrow staircase, she heard the buzz of conversation strike up again in the public bar, though she could discern no more references to “that woman.”

In her room, Maisie reread a postcard that had arrived for her earlier. It was from Priscilla, confirming that Simon would be laid to rest in two days, and they would need to meet to discuss the arrangements. Maisie shook her head, for her friend, as always, could not resist offering an opinion as to how Maisie should travel, suggesting she come by train to avoid tiring herself in advance of a long and difficult day. But essential work in London, together with the fact that she could only afford a short time away from Heronsdene, meant that Maisie would be driving back and forth despite a mounting fatigue every time she thought about the funeral.

She worked on the case map for a while, noting points she had gathered but had not previously added to the map. Using colored pencils, she joined words, circled a name, and drew a line to another name, making connections, crossing them out, then making them again. If Billy were with his employer at their office in Fitzroy Square, he might have smiled at exactly this stage. Then he would look at Maisie and say, “You’ve known all along, haven’t you, Miss?” And she would comment, in return, “But there’s more to do, Billy—still more pieces to slot into place.”

As she rolled up the case map and placed it in her bag, she knew her work was almost, but not quite, done. There were still questions and, as she knew only too well from her years of apprenticeship with Maurice, just one question could lead to many responses, and each one of them was part of the story. Tomorrow she would uncover more threads to be woven into the picture that was forming.

The image of threads played on Maisie’s mind that night as she lay in bed. She thought of Marta, her weaving teacher, and the fact that she bore a name that denied her origins, denied her the color and texture of her people. She had become a Jones, a name her father chose, like a cape with which to cover a garish costume. She was a Jones to fit in, the truth of her heritage enveloped in someone else’s name.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Maisie’s first stop was to a “two-up-two-down” terraced house close to the village school. Mr. and Mrs. Pendle lived alone, though Maisie suspected that Mr. Pendle would be out at work when she called. She had only to knock once, and the door was opened by a woman in her early sixties, wearing a gray skirt with a blue cardigan and a floral sleeveless wraparound housecoat fastened with a length of cord around the waist. She wore knitted stockings that had gathered at the ankle and black lace-up shoes. Her hair was tied back in a bun so tight it seemed to pull at the corners of her eyes. In her hand she wielded a feather duster. She reminded Maisie of the women who worked at the coffee shop she sometimes frequented on Oxford Street, the one she always said was more caff than café. They were women who called you dearie while wiping the table in front of you, lifting your cup and saucer, and paying no mind to the fact that you were still eating toast as they went about their business of wiping, lifting, and tuttutting about the way some people leave a mess behind them.

“Mrs. Pendle?”

The woman frowned. “Yes?” Her response came out as Yerse.

“My name’s Maisie Dobbs. I represent the company in negotiations to purchase a large tract of land on the Sandermere estate. The buyer is very keen to know more about Heronsdene, especially as men from the village are employed at the brickworks, so I’m taking the opportunity to speak to a few of the people who live here. Could you spare me a moment or two?”

The woman stepped forward and looked both ways on the street. “I should think you’d be best to come when my husband gets home.”

“Is he employed at the brickworks?”

“No, he’s a plumber, working over in Paddock Wood.”

“But I am sure you can still help me, Mrs. Pendle.”

The woman looked back and forth again and stepped aside. “You’d better come in then.”

Maisie entered a shadowed passage, with dark brown wainscoting and brown and pink faded floral wallpaper. A brown picture rail some nine inches from the ceiling ran the length of the passage, with family photographs of different sizes hanging from it like marionettes. On the opposite wall, three plaster mallard ducks were positioned to give the effect of flight into the sky, though one had come loose and was poised for a nosedive toward the polished floor. Maisie suspected the wavering mallard might be the source of some nagging by Mrs. Pendle toward her husband.

“To the right, Miss Dobbs, into the parlor, if you don’t mind.”

Maisie stepped into the parlor, which smelled of lavender and beeswax polish. A piano stood against the wall just inside the door, and a settee with two matching armchairs, covered in a prickly brown wool fabric with patches darned along the arms, were situated in front of the fireplace. In the bay window, a mahogany table was set with a lace doily, on top of which an aspidistra drooped, its pot settled in a saucer overfilled with water.

The wallpaper was the same as that which decorated the passageway, and a mirror hung over the fireplace from the picture rail, along with several more photographs on each wall. On the mantelpiece, three pewter frames held sepia photographs of two young men and a girl.

“Do take a seat, Miss Dobbs.”

“Thank you.” Maisie sat down on the settee, while her hostess perched on the edge of the chair next to the fireplace, as if not quite happy to be using the room, which was no doubt only occupied on Sundays, and perhaps at Christmas and Easter.

“Now then, what can I do for you?”

“My employers, the company who hope to complete purchase on the estate, have been somewhat concerned about petty crime in Heronsdene and about the fires that seem to occur here with some regularity. I understand you and your husband had a fire here a year or so ago.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, that! Nothing untoward about that, I can tell you. Chimney fire, caused by my husband.”

“How did it happen?”

“He thought he’d be clever and collect coal along the railway lines. Lot of people from round here do it—walk along the lines, pick up coal dropped when they’re filling the engines. Saves a bob or two, I can tell you, and we all need to do that, don’t we?” The woman laughed. It was a short laugh, dismissive in its way. “Anyway, he came back with a big sack of coal over his shoulder, dumped it in the bunker out the back, and then we used it for the stove in the kitchen.” She leaned forward as if drawing Maisie into a family secret. “But clever boots, my husband, didn’t stop to think that boiler fuel that can pull a locomotive from here to London, would probably cause an almighty blaze in our chimney—and that’s what happened!”

“That’s an extraordinary story, Mrs. Pendle. Who would believe such a thing?” Maisie leaned forward too, allowing the impression of being drawn into the tale. “And you never reported the blaze? Not even to your landlord?”

The woman waved her hand. “No, no point. We sorted it all out ourselves and made repairs. Good as new in next to no time. We all help each other in Heronsdene, you can depend on that. People came. It’s not as if the fire got out of hand and hurt anyone.”

“Well, I’m glad the whole house didn’t go up.” Maisie paused. “Can you tell me about the night of the Zeppelin raid, Mrs. Pendle?”

The woman sat back. “Whatever do you want to know about that for?”

“Oh, not for the sale of the estate. No, I heard about it from the smithy and became interested. I understand it took a whole family—the Martins. Dutch, weren’t they? You must have all been terrified when it happened.”

Mrs. Pendle had rested her hands in her lap and now she wrung them together, her fingernails grazing paper-thin flesh and swollen veins. “Terrible thing, it was. Not that I ever knew they were Dutch beforehand, though I knew they came from somewhere over there.” She faltered, leaning forward again. “The airship came over just a day after we found out about the boys, you see.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, half the men and boys in the village had joined up together and were with the West Kents, and we lost them in 1916. The Somme, it was. Then, just one day—or it might’ve been two; it all runs together now, when I think back—before the raid, six or seven more families had word that their sons were gone, killed in action. Brought it all back, you know, to those still mourning. It was like they went all at once, us all being so close.” She looked up at Maisie. “We’re not a big town, just a small village, and look at how many we lost, boys and men born here, who worked here and would have died here, at home. Men who had families or sweethearts, boys you’d’ve seen grow into men, who would’ve had families of their own. Instead they were dead, in France, killed by them Germans.”

Maisie began to speak again, but the woman went on.

“I mean, it must have been the same, over there in Germany—I know that now, don’t I? But then, all I could think about—all anyone could think about—was how our village had lost so many. And then, to add insult to injury, along comes that Zeppelin.”

“It must have been dreadful for you all. Especially to see the Martin family killed.”

The woman picked at a loose thread in the arm of the chair. “Yes, well, it was very sad, yes.”

“And their boy gone too.”

She nodded, her face flushed.

“Did you lose a son, Mrs. Pendle?”

She nodded again. “That’s why I can’t tell you much about the Zeppelin raid. We still couldn’t believe our Sam had gone. His brother was at home, wounded, when we heard, and our daughter was working at the hospital in Maidstone. I can’t say as I remember as much as some might be able to.”

Maisie nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Pendle, you’ve been very kind to answer my questions.”

“Yes, well . . .“ She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and stood up. “I’d better get on. No peace for the wicked, eh?”

Maisie stood up and moved toward the door. “The people here must have been very angry when the Zeppelin went over.”

“Oh, yes, we were angry alright. But it’s sometimes like that, isn’t it? Instead of feeling heartache, all you are is filled with temper.”

MAISIE MOVED ON to the next house on her list, on the opposite side of the street to the smithy. A man recently widowed lived at the cottage, which was another example of medieval architecture, with low beams and a thatched roof. Once again, the door was opened following the first knock, and Maisie explained why she was calling. This time she was led into a small kitchen not unlike her father’s. A black cast-iron stove was set into an inglenook fireplace, beside which a threadbare armchair with several worn cushions—to make up for a sagging seat—provided a convenient resting place for an ample cat with a neck as wide as its girth. The cat looked up at Maisie, yawned to reveal every needle-like tooth in its head, and went back to sleep.

“Better not disturb Mildred there. You wouldn’t want to sit on that chair, on account of the hair, and she’d only want up on your lap anyway.”

Instead, the man, George Chambers, pulled out two wooden chairs from a pine block of a table that was bowed in the middle from decades of use, dusted off the seat of one chair with the palm of his hand, and beckoned Maisie to sit down.

“Now then, what do you want to know from me? I can’t see as an old fella like myself can be of any use to one of those concerns in the city bent on buying from his nibs over at the estate.”

Maisie smiled. She liked Mr. Chambers, though she suspected he knew—probably the whole village knew by now—that she would come to see him. But though she understood that no one person would ever tell her the whole truth, if at each house she came away with one small nugget of information, it would help her color the story that had already been outlined, in her mind and on her case map.

“Mr. Chambers, would you be so kind as to tell me about the fire you had here, about five years ago?”

“Fire?”

“Yes, I understand a fire broke out in your living room under suspicious circumstances, yet you did not inform the police.”

“Suspicious circumstances? Where did you hear that?” His laugh was phlegm-filled, as if something were caught in his chest. Maisie thought he would be well advised to spend fewer hours sitting beside a stove fueled by anthracite. “We got it so quick, it wasn’t worth even calling out the fire brigade—I daresay you know by now that the nearest is in Paddock Wood.”

“So what started the fire?”

“Boys. Always the same. The little blighters start collecting or making fireworks about now, in time for Guy Fawkes night.”

“But that’s not until November fifth.”

“That it might be, but those nippers think ahead when it comes to Bonfire Night.”

“And you think they—what? Threw a banger or a Catherine wheel through the window?”

“That’s about the sum of it, miss.”

“I have to say, Mr. Chambers, that you seem rather sanguine about it. Why, where I grew up you would have had your hide tanned for such antics and been called upon by the constabulary.”

He shook his head. “Oh, no, not for a bit of high jinks. And the neighbors came quickly, and everyone helped put it right.”

“And you never caught the children responsible?”

The man shook his head. “Per’aps we were a bit soft on them, but that’s how we’ve come to be here, us who lost our sons in the war. My wife passed on last year and was glad to go, to be with her boys—neither of them came back, you know.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Chambers.” Maisie paused. “I was a nurse in France.”

“Then you know, don’t you. You know.”

“Yes. I know.”

The man’s eyes grew moist, and he pulled a soiled handkerchief from the pocket of his corduroy trousers.

“I’ve heard from some of your neighbors about the Zeppelin raid. Can you tell me about it?”

He blew his nose, sniffed, and inspected the contents of his handkerchief before crumpling it again and returning it to his pocket. “I reckon it was either going toward London, and for some reason had to turn back and so dumped its bomb here, or it was on its way out of London, hadn’t found the target it wanted, saw a light—even though we had the blackout—and then dropped it.”

“And it happened just after some of you had received word that your boys had been killed in France?”

“That’s right. We lost Michael and Peter early in 1916, but it was still here.” He pressed his fist to his chest. “And of course you’d learn about this one gone, and that one. But then came the telegrams telling of more, on the same day. And we all see the nippers grow up, so it’s like losing your own all over again. Then that balloon went over and we copped it. Insult to injury, like I said.”

“And you lost the Martin family.”

“Yes. Though they were outsiders, you know, not born and bred here. Only been in the village about twelve-thirteen years. They were from over there, you know—Europe.”

“They were English, as I understand it. At least the children were born here.”

“But not here.’ He pointed to the ground. “Not in Heronsdene. But it was bad, all the same.”

Maisie was just about to ask another question when a knock at the door interrupted her.

“I’d best get on now, miss, if you’ve nothing else to ask me.”

Maisie shook her head. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Chambers.”

He led the way toward the front door, which he opened to reveal Mrs. Pendle, standing on the doorstep holding a tray covered with an embroidered cloth.

“Oh, hello, Miss Dobbs. Didn’t know you were here. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all, I’m just leaving.” Maisie turned to Mr. Chambers, thanked him again, and went on her way. As she stepped back onto the pavement, she heard Mrs. Pendle announce in a loud voice, “It’s a nice oxtail soup today, with dumplings.” When she looked around to wave goodbye, she saw Mrs. Pendle hand over the tray and step inside the cottage, her arms folded. She smiled to herself. Her grandmother had once said that you always knew when a neighbor woman was about to stay for a chat, because she’d fold her arms, ready to lean on your fence. But time spent with the villagers had been more than worthwhile, especially the conversation with Mr. Chambers. He’d given more than two nuggets’ worth of value with just one unguarded comment, as she suspected he might.

Considering the list again, Maisie decided that at this stage she would visit only one more house, the home of Phyllis Wheeler, nee Mansell, the girlhood friend of Anna Martin. It was located about a quarter of a mile past the smithy, on the right. An Edwardian villa set back from the road, the house was shabby despite being younger, by several hundred years, than many in the village. Two bay windows flanked an olive-green front door, the color of the house reflecting the livery of the local railway company who owned the property, so Maisie concluded that Phyllis’s father worked at a local station. She hoped Phyllis would be at home, seeing as she had two children and a new baby.

She was walking along the path toward the door when it opened and a woman began struggling to maneuver a perambulator across the threshold.

“Here, let me give you a hand.” Maisie stepped forward and pulled the front of the baby carriage, while the woman pushed from inside the door.

“Thank you very much. I usually leave it outside, but with all these Londoners and gypsies about, you never know, do you?”

Maisie smiled. “Mrs. Wheeler?”

“Yes.”

Maisie explained the purpose of her visit, at the same time concerned that it might be met with a negative response. Instead the woman agreed to answer a few questions, especially if it helped to get the brickworks in better hands, because her husband worked there.

’Are you going shopping or just for a walk?”

“Bit of both, if I’ve time before this one wants his feed. The elder two are in school, and by the time I’ve cleaned up the kitchen, I’m dying to get out of the house for a bit. My father leaves early, working on the railway, and my mother’s up at the Sandermere place, so I’m alone all day until the children come home.”

“Well, shall we walk down to the crossroads and then back toward the village again? It’s turning quite warm now, isn’t it?”

The woman agreed, and they began strolling away from the village. The baby slept, the pram’s white summer canopy casting shadows on his sleep-blushed cheeks. For a moment or two, Maisie spoke of the weather, of the apples hanging heavy on the trees, and of the beauty of Heronsdene. She was grateful to be walking, not least because it gave her the opportunity to gain a deeper understanding of the woman. In mirroring her gait, the way she moved and held her hands—even though she was pushing a pram—Maisie would absorb, for a moment, some of the emotions the woman experienced as she answered her questions. And with movement of the body came movement of the mind and of the voice, so Maisie thought the conversation might be fruitful.

At first they spoke of the estate and of the brickworks, with Phyllis repeating stories of the daily ups and downs of his trade that her husband brought home, especially criticism regarding Sandermere’s ownership. In the set of her shoulders, her jaw, even the manner in which her walk became brisk, she indicated dislike of Sandermere and perhaps something even deeper. Maisie pressed her to reveal her feelings.

“To tell you the truth, I can’t stand him. He’s the one who should have died in the fire, not Anna.”

“You mean the fire following the bombing?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Was he in the village, then?”

“Everyone was in the village, we were all there.”

“How old was he at the time, fifteen, sixteen?”

“I can’t say as I know, exactly.”

“But you were about the same age, and from what I’ve seen of Alfred Sandermere he would have paid attention to a pretty girl in the village—especially as any other suitors a young woman might have, had all enlisted.”

“Well, I didn’t like him, but Anna did.”

“She did?”

The young woman stopped, reached into the perambulator to pull a soft white blanket up around the baby’s chubby legs, and then crossed her arms, allowing the handle of the carriage to rest against her hip.

“Oh, make no mistake, Miss Dobbs, man and boy he could be all sweetness if he wanted. To tell you the truth, she’d set her hat for Henry, the elder son. Mind you, it’s not as if the likes of them would ever look at the likes of us, not for anything but a—you know—not a serious courting.”

“I understand.”

The baby whimpered in his sleep, so they began walking again.

“Bit of a Sarah Bernhardt, was Anna, very given to being dramatic. She was besotted with Henry, but she wasn’t much more than a girl when he left for war. He’d come into the village in the dogcart and tip his hat to her. ’Good morning, Miss Martin,’ he’d say, and she would swoon. He did the same thing to every woman in the town, out of being polite, but she thought it was all for her.” She shook her head. “She was a funny one, Anna, made me laugh. And I loved her for it.” Phyllis reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, and when she couldn’t find it, Maisie took one from her black shoulder bag and handed it to her.

“So”—she sniffed, dabbing her nose—“after Henry went back over there, along came Alfred—and you have to remember, Anna was a very, very pretty girl.”

“I see.”

“Well, there’s more to see yet.”

A change in the woman’s movement caused Maisie to pay more attention. She moved ahead with an urgency to her step. She wants to be free of a burden, thought Maisie.

“She was a bit of a will o’ the wisp,” Phyllis continued. “Couple of times, Mr. Martin sent Pim round to—”

“Who?” Maisie rested her hand upon Phyllis’s arm. “What did you say?”

“Pim. That was her brother. That was his nickname.” She shrugged. “It’s what the Dutch call someone with the name of Willem.”

Maisie nodded, slowly. “So Mr. Martin sent Pim round. Why?”

“Because they didn’t know where she was. Called high and low for her. And I couldn’t lie, could I? But Anna had lied. She’d told them she was coming to see me of an evening, when she was out.” She shook her head. “Later on, when we’d had word that Henry was dead and she was seeing a lot of Alfred, I told her, I said, ’You’ll get into trouble if you’re not careful.’ She said he wanted to marry her, and I told her not to be so silly, he would never marry below him, never marry someone who wasn’t a toff like him, who wasn’t his sort.”

Maisie smarted, trying not to think of Simon, of Mrs. Lynch.

“I told her that the likes of Alfred Sandermere would never marry one of us. No, he’d marry one of his own.”

“Then what happened?”

She sighed. “Doesn’t do any harm to tell it, now she’s dead and gone. But she came over one day, about a week before the Zeppelin, and we went for a walk, like we’re doing now, down to the crossroads, and she told me she’d got herself into trouble. She was in the family way.”

Maisie nodded. “She must have been terrified of anyone finding out, in a small village like this. Of the shame.”

“Oh, you might have thought as much, and first off she was a bit scared. But you know the silly thing? She thought he would marry her. She thought that baby would put her in the big house and give her the—I don’t know, the . . . what did she call it?—belonging, that’s it, the belonging she wanted.”

Maisie understood. “Then what happened?”

“Next thing, Alfred’s telling her he knows of a woman in Tun-bridge Wells who does for girls in her condition. He had the name from a friend. But what friend? That’s what I wanted to know. I begged her not to do it, to tell her parents and get it over with. I told her she could go away until after the baby was born and no one would know, not for definite. But instead she told him she wanted the baby, she wanted them to get married, and according to what she said to me, the last time I spoke to her, he said something would have to be done if he had to do it himself.”

“He said that?”

She nodded. “And that was that. Then she was dead anyway.”

“Did Alfred . . . ?”

“I’d better turn back now, Miss Dobbs. The baby’s stirring and he’ll be wanting his feeding soon.” She stopped for a moment, pulling her dark blue coat across her still-swollen stomach, and flicking back chestnut hair that had come loose from the combs used to push it back into a twist. “I can’t tell you any more than that. That’s all I can tell you about Anna. The Martins were very nice to me. I was always welcome in their home, up above the bakery—I remember how it smelled, all warm and sweet. Doughy.” Phyllis shook her head. “She was my best friend since I first went to school, and we stayed that way right until the day she died.”

They walked in silence until they reached the house. Maisie offered to help maneuver the perambulator through the doorway, but she declined.

“What was Pim like, Phyllis?”

“What’s any younger brother like? He was a little toe-rag when we were girls, always sneaking up on us, teasing, pulling ribbons from our hair. The other children tormented him at school, more than they did Anna, it being she was so lovely. Not that Pim was ugly, mind, but you know what boys are like. It was his name, and the fact that he and Anna would speak in Dutch to each other. They didn’t do it to be sneaky or anything like that, it was just their way. But people eavesdropped on them all the same.” She nodded, looking down toward the school. “Yes, he took a fair bit of it, when I think back. Then, when that Alfred Sandermere was sent home from school a few times—oh, there were other stories told to the servants, so it would get around the village, but we all knew the truth—he started looking for friends around here, and Pim became his little companion. He was younger than Alfred, and talk about look up to him! Mr. Martin didn’t like it at all. We all saw that Pim changed, you know, started getting up to mischief, on account of Sandermere pushing him to do this and that. It was through Pim that he and Anna met, though it wasn’t long before Pim was sent away.”

She paused, placing her little finger between the baby’s gums as he began to wriggle. “I put it down to all that teasing, all that trouble in school, and then Sandermere, a nasty evil boy, he was.” The child stirred, wimpering, as if working up steam to wail.

“The long and the short of it was that they got up to something serious, and it was Pim who went down for it, to the reformatory. The next thing you know, he was in the army—and only thirteen at that. Then he was killed. Vicar said the telegram arrived the day after the Martins died, so it was just as well they didn’t know, none of them, what had happened.”

“The vicar?”

“Yes. When the postman came with the Regret to Inform telegram, he didn’t know what to do, so he went to see the vicar, being as we all knew each other here.”

The baby wailed, pitching his scream to meet the grumble in his stomach. Phyllis moved to push the perambulator away. Even though she had accomplished far more in her questioning than Beattie Drummond predicted, Maisie needed to press her with just one more question.

“I’ve heard village children talking about seeing Pim Martin’s ghost. Do you know why?”

Phyllis shook her head. “It’s just kids, trying to scare each other. But if he did have a ghost, it would haunt Heronsdene. Goodbye, Miss Dobbs, I hope the walk was worth it.”

“Yes, it was, and I think for you too.”

Phyllis pressed her lips together, and as she turned, bending over to soothe her infant, Maisie saw the tears running down her cheeks.

FIFTEEN

Maisie went straight to the hop-garden to see Billy. She passed the gypsies, waving to Beulah, Webb and Paishey. As she walked by, she thought the scene would not be out of place in a Thomas Hardy novel—the women’s long skirts and Webb, with the broad-brimmed hat he always wore when he was out working, and his loose uncollared shirt, rendering the image more akin to a Victorian pastoral tableau. All that was needed was the tragic character—a Jude or a Tess—to complete the story.

She found Billy and his family working hard, with the usual banter between the Londoners in full swing.

“ ’allo, Miss, we was just wonderin’ where you’d got to, didn’t see you yesterday.”

“I’ve been busy, Billy Have you got a minute for a quick chat?”

“Right you are.” He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “Won’t be long, love.”

Maisie and Billy walked back toward the farm road, heads bowed as they spoke.

“ ’aven’t seen that Sandermere since I bopped him one. Thought we’d be kicked off the farm, we did.”

“I think he’s gone to ground at the mansion, probably nursing a broken nose, if that swing was anything to go by.”

Billy shook his head. “No, if ’is breath was anything to go by, ’e’ll be in ’is cups. Anyway, one of the locals came across yesterday—they didn’t mind seein’ ’im knocked over, that’s a fact—and told me that, according to someone who works up at the ’ouse, ’e’s not been out of ’is rooms since ’e got back there. Bet that ’orse is enjoying a rest.”

Maisie nodded. “Billy, I wanted to let you know how I’ve been getting on with the investigations, even though you’re on holiday. And I’m going back to London later today.”

“Blimey, you’re goin’ back and forth for this one, ain’t you?”

Maisie nodded. “I know, but it won’t be for much longer. Now, let’s walk along here. There’s something I want you to do while I’m away.”

An onlooker might have been intrigued by the pair as they strolled on. The man, revealing a slight limp, his wheaten hair rendered almost white-blond by the sun, leaned toward the woman as she spoke. And the woman, tall, slender, wearing a straw hat to protect her skin, would sometimes use her hands to emphasize a point. Some might have thought them conspirators, though a more acute observer would have seen the man nodding his head—and on two occasions wide-eyed surprise registered on his face.

“Right, Miss, don’t you worry, I’ll find a way to get what you want, without anyone givin’ it a second thought. You said her name was Beattie Drummond?”

“Yes, that’s right. And be careful—she’s sharp and she’s after a big story. I’d go to Phyllis again, but I believe her to be overwhelmed, especially having a babe-in-arms.”

“Poor woman. Mind you, she told you as much as she could, didn’t she?”

“It was enough, in a roundabout way, along with the other grains of knowledge. As usual, there’s that leap of the imagination, which is why there’s more to do. Now then, I must be on my way.”

“And you reckon they’ll see you at the reformatory this afternoon?”

“I hope so. I may have to grovel.”

“Best of luck, Miss. See you the day after tomorrow.”

MAISIE HAD OFTEN rolled her eyes at what she and others referred to as the old school tie, those connections forged and sealed in the boarding schools of youth—for those of a certain station—that would bond boys together as they came of age, so, as men, a favor could be asked, a door opened, even a loan settled or a crime forgotten. For her there was no old school tie or any other claim to some association, except that of being a Londoner, or the thread of familial relationship that rendered her welcome by Beulah and thus by the gypsy tribe. It was therefore a stroke of good fortune that the man who happened to be governor of the reformatory displayed on his desk a photograph of his wife as a young woman.

“Ah, your wife was a nurse, in the war, I see,” said Maisie.

“That’s where we met. I was a medical orderly at the same general hospital.”

Maisie smiled. “I was a nurse too, at a casualty clearing station.”

The man nodded. There was no need to say more, to share a reflection or a memory. He simply smiled and said, “And how can I be of service to you, Miss Dobbs?”

When she explained the reason for her visit and described the information she was seeking, he lifted a set of keys from his desk and replied, “We’ll have to go down to the records office. I can leave you there with the files for half an hour. Will that be sufficient?”

“Thank you—that will be plenty of time.”

Not quite the old school tie, but a lifelong bond all the same.

MAISIE LEFT THE reformatory for London in the late afternoon, glad to depart the dour smoke-stained red-brick buildings, to hear the gate locked behind her, and to silently bid adieu to the sullen boys, all dressed the same in blue overalls, working in the gardens, marching across the parade ground, and cleaning the windows. Though the reformatory was not a hardscrabble borstal, it was nevertheless an incarceration.

She drove all the way back to London with the top down on the MG, glad to feel the balmy air cross her skin, prickling her senses alive and shaking off the dark mood of the reformatory. She had gleaned more information than she thought possible, which, as she knew, would only beg more questions. To her list of tasks to be accomplished, she added a visit to the repository for war records, but she would need an introduction to open those doors, as she was not a relative of those whose records she sought. With luck, she could draw upon her relationship with the wearer of an impressive old school tie.

On the outskirts of London, she stopped to pull up the MG’s roof. Following some delay on the Old Kent Road, where a costermonger’s barrow had overturned, pitching fruit and vegetables into the street, she was keen to see her flat again. She had already sent a telegram to Priscilla to let her know that she was driving up this evening and would pick her up tomorrow morning for the journey to Margaret Lynch’s London home, from which the funeral cortege would leave.

Maisie spent the evening quietly, except for one excursion, out to a telephone kiosk to place a call to James Compton, to whom she gave a resume of her investigation to date. She informed him that she estimated a final visit to Heronsdene of only two more days, perhaps three, after which she would submit her report and recommendations. Then she asked if he knew where she might be able to reach his father.

“He’s here at the club this evening. We’ve been in conference with the directors all day, talking about expansion and also—right up your alley—security at our offices in Toronto. Can’t have one without the other.”

“Of course.”

“Hold on a minute, I’ll get him for you.” James set the telephone receiver on the table, and Maisie heard voices in the background as he informed the porter to hold the call. The voices receded, there was silence, and then a voice came closer again, thanking the porter.

“Maisie, how are you?”

“Very well, Lord Julian, and you?”

“Better when James has the reins well and truly in his hands, but I think it’ll be difficult to have him come back from Canada for any significant length of time, even though I’m trying my best. I thought he would stay for the hunting, but now I’m not sure.” He cleared his throat. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I need a door opened at the war records repository.”

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I want to view two records.”

“Consider it done—but I’ll need the names.”

MAISIE’S SECOND TELEPHONE call was to Priscilla, at the Dorchester.

“Maisie, I am so glad you telephoned. Where are you?”

“In a telephone kiosk in Pimlico.”

“Oh, dear God, a public telephone kiosk, and in the dark? Anyone could be watching you, ready to strike.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Pris. There’s no one watching me, and I’m perfectly alright. How are the boys?”

“I’m making progress. I’ve summoned Elinor back from Wales, so she’s here with us—and probably glad to be back. Half her family are miners, and life is bleak for them.” There was a brief pause. “Oh. I seem to have found the perfect London house, and I may have settled the question of my sons’ education.”

“Will they board?”

“No. The boys will become day pupils at a London lycée where they teach in both French and English. It’s popular with diplomats from the far reaches of the empire who want their sons to have a solid British education, so everyone’s different. And when they come home at the end of the day, I will have Elinor to keep them on the straight and narrow if I need a moment to myself.”

“Where’s the property?”

“You will never guess. Margaret has decided to vacate the London house for now and live permanently in Grantchester—you remember, where they had Simon’s party?”

“Of course.” How could I forget? ’thought Maisie.

“We discussed the lease when she telephoned with details of the service tomorrow. And speaking of the service, it’s not quite what we may have expected.”

“What do you mean?” Maisie rubbed her hand across condensation forming on the kiosk’s windowpanes and peered out to see if there were passersby.

“Hold your breath, Maisie.” Priscilla paused. Maisie drew away from the window and looked up into the small mirror behind the telephone. “Simon’s being cremated.”

“Cremated?” She saw her eyes redden in the rust-spotted mirror.

“Yes. Margaret is being terribly modern—and it’s not as if cremation has been seen as quite the devil’s work ever since the Duchess of Connaught was cremated in 1917—first member of the royal family into the fire.”

“Oh, Priscilla, how could you?”

Priscilla drew breath but did not apologize. “Maisie, do try to be less sensitive. I know this is a terribly difficult time, but one has to keep some perspective. The Simon I knew would have been first to laugh at such a quip.” She sighed. “Margaret thought—rightly, I have to say—that it’s what Simon would have wanted, having lingered for so long. She said there can be a proper goodbye before his ashes are sprinkled across the fields close to his home where he played as a boy, and she won’t have to fret about who might look after his grave when she’s gone.”

“But—”

“No, you can’t, Maisie. You can’t commit to grave visiting, I won’t allow it. When he’s laid to rest—or whatever they call it when you’re cremated—it will be a rest for those close to him as well. I agree with her wholeheartedly that it represents a release, a letting-go for all concerned.”

Maisie said nothing.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”

“I’m here, Pris. And I think she’s right too, though it came as rather a shock at first.”

“Yes, of course it did. Now then, I am going to lounge in a deep bath this evening, seeing as Elinor has the boys back under her thumb once more and all is well in my world. My darling Douglas will be here soon, along with my motor car, and my cup will runneth over.”

Maisie nodded, though there was no one to see her. “Good night, Priscilla. See you at half-past nine tomorrow.”

“Sleep tight, dear Maisie. And don’t fret, it will soon be over.”

Maisie walked slowly back, glad to return to the flat that she now saw as a cocoon. She thought about what Billy had said, about throwing on the clod of dirt, of releasing something of the memory into the earth. What did one release with a cremation? Where was the ritual, the ending of the story, when there was no grave to visit, no place to set down a posy of primroses or an armful of fresh daffodils? She sat for a while, and though the evening was not cold, she placed a florin in the gas meter and ignited the fire. She felt chilled to the bone, yet when she considered Margaret Lynch’s decision, she could not help but feel it was a good one, and wondered if she had settled upon it, in part for her sake.

MAISIE STOOD TALL when the final hymn was announced, feeling the numbness in her feet, which had been cold since she went to bed last night. It was no ordinary cold but a deep seeping dampness that could not easily be countered by exterior warmth. It was bitter and clammy and, in truth, it had been with her since France, since the war, and there were days when she thought it would freeze up through her body and turn it to stone.

Margaret Lynch stood between Maisie and Priscilla, and as they opened their hymnbooks to the correct page, she felt Simon’s mother lean against her. Maisie closed her eyes for a moment and rooted her feet to the ground, so that Margaret might share her strength, and then, though it might be considered presumptuous, she linked her arm through the older woman’s to offer greater support. Margaret Lynch patted Maisie’s hand and nodded, and as air gushed from the organ’s bellows, the introduction began and voices rose up in unison.

I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,

Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;

The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,

That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best;

The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,

The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

As the second verse began, the coffin was moved back through a divided curtain toward the incinerator. When the curtain closed again, Simon was gone from them forever. Maisie felt his mother increase the pressure on her hand, and she in turn drew her closer.

Later, following an early luncheon at the Lynch house in Holland Park, Maisie and Priscilla waited until the other guests had departed before taking their leave.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright, Margaret?”

“Yes, of course, Priscilla. I am in need of rest, so I will go to my room and put my feet up.” She reached out toward Maisie and Priscilla. “I am so glad you were both here.”

Priscilla kissed the air next to Margaret’s left cheek, while Maisie stepped back. Then, just as Maisie was about to hold out her hand to bid the bereaved woman goodbye, Margaret took her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.

“Please come to visit me, Maisie. I shall be here in Holland Park for a week or two while my belongings are packed up and sent to Grantchester. So, please come.”

“Of course. I would be delighted.”

“Thank you.” She held Maisie’s hands in both her own. “Thank you. For all that you were to him.”

HAVING DEPOSITED PRISCILLA at the Dorchester once more, Maisie pulled her watch from the black document case and checked the time: two o’clock. She had to be at the repository at half past three; in the interim, she would go straight to Denmark Street, a mecca for London’s musicians.

Andersen & Sons, Luthiers, was halfway along the narrow street, just off Charing Cross Road. A brown awning kept the sun’s rays from the window, in which a gentleman mannequin, garbed in evening dress, was seated on a chair with a cello positioned ready to play. The bow had been tied to his hand to hold it in place, and it looked as if he might come alive and draw it across the strings at any moment.

A bell rang above the door as Maisie entered the shop. All manner of stringed instruments were positioned around the four walls. Guitars were hung from hooks, as were lutes, balalaikas, ukuleles, violas and violins. Two harps were set on the floor, along with a cello and a double bass. Mahogany counters flanked either side of the shop, displaying strings, clamps, an assortment of plectra, and other tools of the string musician’s trade. Just inside the door, a stand held a selection of sheet music that had become dusty and curled. And at the back of the shop, through a velvet curtain tied to one side, she saw two men working at facing benches. Each surface was illuminated by two electric desk lamps, though the shop itself was dimly lit, probably to save money and to protect the instruments. The older of the two men also used a substantial magnifying glass, which had been bolted to his workbench.

As the door closed, the younger man rubbed his hands with a cloth and came out to greet Maisie.

“Can I help you, madam?” He executed a shallow bow as he spoke.

“I wanted to speak to Mr. Andersen, if I may?”

“Which one? There are three, with only two of us here today.”

“Then it would be Mr. Andersen, Senior.”

The man, who was about thirty, went back to the workshop, calling “Dad, lady to see you,” and pushing the curtain aside as he returned to his work. The older gentleman, his shoulders hunched from years of leaning across the workbench, came to greet her.

“May I help you?” He spoke with an accent, which Maisie identified as being Danish or Swedish.

“I have come to see you about a violin you repaired, some years ago.”

The man smiled, his gray-blue eyes kind, while the white woolly curls on his head made him seem endearing, like a favorite uncle in a child’s fairy tale. “I keep perfect records, and I remember my customers, though I am more likely to remember their instruments.”

“The violin belonged to a man named Jacob Martin, but seeing as he was Dutch, it may have been Maarten.” Maisie emphasized ten, her tongue touching her teeth as she spoke.

Andersen frowned. “I remember Jacob well. His surname was originally van Maarten.”

“Van Maarten?”