An Incomplete Revenge

“Yes. He changed it when his daughter, Anna, was born. Jacob was born and bred here, and he wanted his family to be assimilated.” His pronunciation of the word was deliberate, syllable by syllable. “He came into the shop often, as his bakery was close to Covent Garden, so he would stroll up after the market folk had come for their pastries in the morning, the traders for their coffee and sausage rolls. We had a shared love, you see, of the instruments.” He paused. “But why do you ask of him?”

“Before he died, Mr. van Maarten brought a violin to you for repair, and it was collected by the vicar of the parish, I believe, on the day he was killed, in a Zeppelin raid.”

Andersen frowned. “Let me get my order book, and I will be able to tell you exactly.”

Maisie waited while the man went back into the workshop. Standing alongside a harp, she stretched out her hand and ran her fingers across the strings, the tumble of notes reminding her of a shower on a bright day, of primrose petals bending to the weight of raindrops. She regretted never having learned to play an instrument.

“Yes,” said Andersen, as he came back through the curtained doorway and into the shop. “He brought the violin to me in August. He liked to bring it in once a year. It was like a child to him.”

“What can you tell me about it? I know very little about musical instruments.”

Andersen looked up at Maisie, smiling as if remembering the features of a much-loved friend. “It was an exceptional violin, a Cuypers—Johannes Cuypers, the father, not one of the sons, who were also luthiers. It was an earlier model with the most exquisite reddish-golden finish, as if candlelight were reflected in the wood. The violin was almost one hundred and fifty years old, and Jacob—” he pronounced the name Yaycob—“inherited it from his father, and his father before him.”

Maisie took a deep breath. “Was he a proficient player?”

The man took off the spectacles he had donned to better read the ledger and pointed a bony finger toward the shop’s entrance. “Let me tell you, when Jacob picked up his violin, people would stand at that door to listen. He was an artist. It was a great loss.” He shook his head and looked down at the ledger once again, then turned it to face Maisie. “It may be my own writing, but my vision has worn with the years, and of course with my work. Your eyes are younger than mine. Look there and you will see when it was collected. I confess, I do not recall the man who collected the violin speaking of the Zeppelin, so it must have been before the tragedy, as you said. I myself received word of it some weeks later, when a mutual friend came in to tell me that he had perished, along with his family. It is best, I believe, that the boy was killed in the war. He was close to his father. It would have destroyed him.”

Maisie nodded and, squinting in the diminished light, made a note of the date of collection on an index card. “Thank you, Mr. Andersen.”

As she made a final note before placing the card in her bag, Andersen continued speaking, his affection for the van Maartens evident in memories shared. “They were a musical family, their own little orchestra. The boy was his father’s son, though given that he was but a child, his violin was a lesser model. I would not be wrong if I said that he would have become the better player, which would have pleased Jacob; mind you, the boy was troubled as he came to the edge of manhood, there were difficulties at school, so Jacob told me. It concerned him, as he had tried to avoid such problems.” He shook his head. “I often wonder what happened to the Cuypers. It was a delight to hold, such balance, such workmanship. And such beauty.”

Maisie held out her hand to Andersen. “And you never changed your name, Mr. Andersen? It seems something of an accepted practice among those from foreign lands.”

“I never needed to. The Vikings were kind enough to leave their names behind centuries ago, so my name is not unusual in this kingdom. Indeed, to me, an Andersen in Denmark Street seemed a perfect match.” He shrugged. “It is surprising, though, to have an acceptable name that originally belonged to marauding and cruel invaders.”

Maisie smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Andersen, you’ve been most helpful.”

The man inclined his head and shuffled back to his workbench.

SHE SAT IN the MG for some moments before moving on to the war records repository. The cards were falling into place. It was one thing to know, in some way, what had happened in a case such as Heronsdene, but another to understand the layers of truth and the web of lies that held a story together. Now she was acquiring a transparency, more able to interpret a chain of events in a manner that made sense. She sighed, checked the flow of traffic, and pulled out into the Charing Cross Road. One thing was clear, and that was that the man of the cloth had told another lie, for the violin was collected two days after the Zeppelin raid, when the Reverend Staples had known that both Jacob van Maarten and his son were dead and there were no descendents to lay claim to the valuable violin.

Maisie had visited the War Office Repository on Arnside Street before and was struck again by how much it reminded her of a library, with its polished dark wood floors and whispered conversations between visitors, who sat at refectory tables while poring over manila folders and onionskin papers. Today there were two couples and a woman on her own. Maisie thought the couples might be parents of soldiers lost to war or taken prisoner, and hope had kept them searching for a sign, perhaps one word, a sentence, a comment by a commanding officer that might give hope that their son was alive somewhere. Then again, it could take years to face up to the truth of a loved one’s loss—how well she knew that herself—and perhaps the lone woman was at last curious, after years of widowhood, to know the circumstances of her husband’s death on a foreign field.

Maisie placed her hand on a bell mounted on the counter. Less than a minute after the chime, a young man appeared, a pile of large envelopes under his arm. Maisie gave him her name, and explained that she had received a clearance to view two records. The man placed the envelopes on the counter and ran his finger down a list of names.

“Ah, yes, there you are.” He pointed to a table by the window. “If you take a seat, madam, I’ll fetch the files for you.”

Maisie thanked him and sat at the table indicated while she waited. There was no view to speak of, simply rows of rooftops extending off into the distance. Sun glinted off skylights, and she watched pigeons swooping back and forth, and sparrows alighting on gutters, and listened to the sounds of the river in the distance. It occurred to her, as she waited, that she would try to see Maurice on the way back to Heronsdene. Of course, she would see her father, but she wanted to talk to her former mentor, as in their days together.

Until now, she had avoided reflecting upon the cremation this morning, busying herself with those aspects of her investigation that must be accomplished before she returned to Heronsdene. Though she had at first been taken aback by Margaret Lynch’s decision not to have Simon laid to rest with a gravestone at his head, she had come to understand both the wisdom and the sacrifice inherent in that choice. And she was filled with admiration, all other feelings having burned away within her as Simon’s mother leaned against her, seeking her support. And she wondered about that movement, and those often elusive events, conversations, or thoughts that rendered the path clear for forgiveness to take root and grow in a wounded soul.

“Here you are, madam, Sandermere and Martin, though as you can see we have two names for the corporal, on account of his being enlisted under one name and then taking another—which, according to the record, was his in the first place.”

“I understand. Thank you. I shan’t be long.”

“Take your time. We close at five o’clock.”

Maisie had handled such records before, had spent time at the repository searching for clues, inconsistencies and truths in the papers of those, alive and deceased, who had served in the war. But when she came to the moment of opening the records of the dead, she undertook the task with a deep respect and reverence because, whatever might have been said about the man by his commanding officer, he had given his life for his country. Whether that gift was given willingly, perhaps with regret, or with anger was not relevant, once that life had been lost.

She discovered that Henry Sandermere had been killed by a sniper in the Somme valley shortly after his return from leave, in early July 1916. The report from his superiors was complimentary, and he would soon have received a promotion to captain had he lived. Nothing about the death was unusual. Officers were, for the most part, drawn from the families of the landed gentry, the aristocracy, families of wealth and privilege. Centuries of advantage, of—at the very least—better nutrition, had resulted in such men being, on average, taller than the rank and file. It was no surprise, then, that the sniper found an officer an easy target. And the regular soldiers were canny, learning quickly to keep their heads away from the parapet.

Corporal Willem van Maarten’s file was somewhat fuller, given that notes had followed him from the reformatory. Maisie had known that many boys and men incarcerated at His Majesty’s Pleasure were enlisted with the promise that their service would render sentencing void, unless they committed criminal acts while in the army. Youth did not spare one the opportunity to serve, though van Maarten’s record contained two letters of complaint from the boy’s father, who was concerned at his son’s age upon enlistment. An official note had been attached to the letter, to the effect that the boy wished to remain in the army and to serve in France. She shuddered to see a letter from the reformatory with the words RELEASED TO THE ARMY stamped across it.

There were also notes pertaining to the issue of whether Corporal van Maarten had been taken prisoner and then confirmation, in September 1916, that he was presumed dead. The telegram to his parents had been sent just one day after the Zeppelin raid. The final comment by his commanding officer had described his service record as exemplary

Maisie did not need to make notes on an index card, for she had already garnered the information required, and those details she wished to retain were lodged firmly in her mind. She replaced all notes in the manner in which they had been given to her, collected the folders and her belongings, and walked back to the counter.

“Got everything you want?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Well, if you need anything else, you just come back and we’ll help you out.”

Maisie looked around the room, at the solitary woman holding her hands to her forehead, leaning forward as she read, shaking her head. She would prefer never to have the need to come to the war records repository again, but she knew that, given her work, it was a faint hope.

It was half-past four when she left London. If she had a good run down to Chelstone, she would arrive by six o’clock. Time to see her father and walk across to the Dower House to visit Maurice. She planned to be in Heronsdene again by nine o’clock. Then she would lay down her head and rest, for morning would herald a formidable day.

SIXTEEN

Following supper with her father, Maisie walked across to the Dower House to see Maurice Blanche. She guessed he had seen her motor car pull in through the gates of Chelstone Manor, and she knew in her heart that he hoped she would come to see him again. She made her way though the gate that divided the properties, up the path past the conservatory, and around to the front entrance. The housekeeper, a short woman who always wore a black skirt and a white blouse with a cameo at her throat, was waiting with the door open to greet her.

“You’ll find the doctor in his study. He asked for port to be brought for you, and there’s some nice Stilton with biscuits on the trolley—I always think port’s too harsh on its own.”

“That’s lovely. I’ll go straight through.”

Maurice was sitting at his desk as Maisie entered the room, and he looked up, smiling, as she closed the door behind her. She tried not to notice how he had aged of late. There seemed to be a strain in his standing and locomotion, and he reached for his cane more than he might once have done. Had sadness wrought such changes? One year ago they traveled to France together, and though there was no doubt about his age—he was in his seventies—there had been more of a spring to his step. Had his work begun to take its toll? The events of last September, when she was brought in secret to the house in Paris to be told that her investigations had crossed the path of the intelligence services, proved his knowledge was still in demand and that he played a role of some significance in matters of international importance.

“Maurice, are you feeling unwell?”

He shook his head. “Do not concern yourself with my health, I am simply demonstrating the effects of age. Those falls and scrapes one has in earlier years come home to roost. Take that as a caution, Maisie.”

Maurice kissed Maisie on the cheek and then held out his hand toward her usual seat by the fire, opposite his well-used armchair. A trolley was positioned between the two chairs, and Maurice poured a glass of port for Maisie and a single malt for himself before easing himself into his customary place. He reached to the side of the fireplace, selected a pipe and his tobacco pouch, and began to speak as he went through the motions of filling and lighting the pipe.

“You wish to talk about the case in Heronsdene?”

“Yes, I do. But first—”

Maurice looked at Maisie, inclining his head as he drew upon his pipe.

She continued. “Simon was cremated and—oh, dear.” She rested her head in her hands. “I can’t believe it was just this morning. So much has happened.”

“I take it you fell to your work soon after the ritual of that final farewell? No doubt you busied yourself with appointments germane to your investigation.”

Maisie nodded. “I allowed only a day in London; I have to return to Heronsdene tonight. I’ll drive back to the inn when I leave here.”

“Was that necessary, the rush?”

“It was best. There is a momentum, and I am under some pressure to secure an end to my work there within the next day or so.”

“I see.” Maurice shook the match and threw it into the fireplace. “Tell me about the cremation.”

“At first I was taken aback, but I realized that Margaret—Simon’s mother—had made the best decision. Simon had remained alive for so long, yet it was not Simon, not like we all remembered him. But I had never been to a cremation before. I was”—Maisie pressed her lips together as she searched for the word to describe her feelings—“unsettled. Yes, I was unsettled, knowing his body was being consigned to an inferno.”

There was a silence as Maurice looked into the fire, considering her words before speaking again. “He was wounded in the fire of shelling, and he has been laid to rest in fire. There is a rhythm to the decision, as well as a practicality for an aging woman alone.”

Maisie remained silent, holding the glass of port in both hands, turning it around in her fingers and watching the alcohol’s film run along the rim of the glass.

Maurice began to speak again. “The concept of such an end brings to mind the phoenix, the sacred firebird, who at the end of life builds a nest of cinnamon twigs, which he ignites, and goes to his death amid flames that will bear new life.” He took one sip of the rich amber malt whisky. “Of course, a new young Simon will not walk through that door to greet us, but I sense that seeing him go in this way, knowing there will only be ashes to sprinkle on the breeze, is a gift that has been given you, if you choose to take it.” He smiled. “This is one of those times, Maisie, when you must not think, must not dwell and search for meaning. You have done those things, you have held Simon in your heart, and you have taken steps into a future that you might never have imagined in 1917. He is gone now. Think of the newborn phoenix and embrace it.”

She said nothing. In her mind’s eye a bird with gold and red plumage struggled amid flames of its own combustion.

“It is also worth knowing that tears from the phoenix were said to heal all wounds.”

Maisie looked up at her mentor, placing her port on the trolley. “Thank you, Maurice. I’m glad I came to see you.”

“You are no longer my pupil or my assistant, Maisie. You are accomplished in your own right. You have little need of me now, I understand that—”

“But—”

“Allow me to finish. Our relationship has changed, as it should. I hope, however, a new friendship will develop between us, and that you might allow an old campaigner to share in the excitement of your investigations, if only afterward, in a story by the fire.”

Maisie came from her chair and kissed him on the cheek. “You have been so kind to me, Maurice.”

As she stood back, Maurice reached for his cane once more. “I will walk you to the door.”

“But the case—”

He held up his hand. “You don’t need my counsel, Maisie. You know what must be done.”

SHE ARRIVED IN Heronsdene later that evening, parked the MG outside the inn, and walked down toward the waste ground that was once the site of the van Maartens’ house. She thought of the fear, the terror, the sheer unimaginable suffering they must have endured, their lungs festering with smoke and fumes, skin searing back from the bone, as unconsciousness and death claimed them. She wondered about the house, a bakery with a dwelling above, and imagined this home, a place of security, the lair to which a family cleaves, as instead a flame-filled inferno that consumed three human beings who had lived, breathed, worked, made music, and loved. Then there was nothing. Nothing. Nothing but an eerie cold, a bitter aura that kept a village at bay—except one soul who seeded the land with a profusion of Michaelmas daisies and who had come back, on the night of the fire at the inn, with a humble bouquet. It was as if a message had been left: There, it is done, you are remembered.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Maisie left the inn early, having asked only for tea and toast, though her taste buds were tempted by the rich aroma of eggs, bacon, tomato and mushrooms being fried ready for the guests. Fred had offered to pack a hot egg and bacon sandwich, but Maisie declined. She had to be at the Sandermere estate at a time when the groom might be out exercising the horses—it was widely known in the village that Alfred Sandermere had still not emerged from his rooms on the first of the mansion’s upper floors. According to local talk, trays left outside his door were being dragged inside when servants left the corridor, only to be pushed outside again in the middle of the night. An empty brandy or wine bottle indicated that a fresh supply must be brought to the room, but it was said that Sandermere had not left either clothing or bed linens to be laundered, nor had he allowed servants into the rooms to clean.

She parked the MG some distance from the estate, in a lay-by from which she could hike through the woods and climb over a fence on the way to her destination. She had deliberately worn her brown corduroy trousers, brown leather walking shoes, and a dark brown cardigan over her blouse. She wore a brown felt hat, pulled down as low as she could, and hoped she had enough camouflage to avoid being detected. Along with her knapsack and Victorinox knife, she brought the hazel divining rod she had fashioned herself.

Soon she was on the perimeter of the Sandermere property, making her way toward the stables. She looked about her, ran from the security of overhanging trees to the rear entrance, and listened for movement. The only sounds audible were those of horses, pacing a stall, munching on hay, or nickering at the sound of someone close by. She did not hear a groom talking to the horses or walking back and forth with pails of water, nor did she hear the scratching sweep of a brush being drawn back against a horse’s coat. She looked around the arched entranceway to the stables and stepped inside. She counted the horses—one was missing, so the groom was out. Stepping with care along the brick walkway that divided the stalls, she reached out to each horse as she went by, perhaps to offer a sugar lump—she was Frankie Dobbs’s daughter and never went anywhere near a horse without a treat—or to rub a soft equine nose or the side of a horse’s neck. She reached the far end of the stable block, where tarpaulins still flapped against the side of the building, and took out her divining rod. She slipped her Victorinox knife into her pocket and hid her knapsack on the ground behind the door of the tack room, which was drawn back and tied to prevent it from slamming shut. Unencumbered, she walked out beyond the stables, holding the divining rod in the manner taught by Beulah. She closed her eyes. Think silver.

She felt the heft of the rod in her hands, not light as the branch had been when she cut it from the tree. Now it had substance as she clasped it, and she recognized the weight of its power as it drew her on. She had thought it might lead her to the tarpaulin, to the foundation recently disturbed and pulled apart. The ground was gravelly and uneven where workers had been reconstructing the stables before Sandermere had called a halt—it was this unfinished work that had brought her back, suspecting it might be evidence of more than a job awaiting completion. But as she walked toward the site of the rebuilding work, the fork seemed to become small and delicate in her hands. Holding the image of silver in her mind’s eye, Maisie turned, trying to find that vein of energy again, that line of influence where the hazel would come alive, like a fish on the line.

The rod became strong as she turned and stepped onto the cobblestone floor of the stables. Now she felt the draw, now she and her divining rod were engaged as she placed one foot in front of the other. It was as if the rod itself were formed of that sacred ore, magnetized toward shared mystical properties, as she was pulled back toward the archway through which she’d entered the stables. Then, just as she was about to step out of the building, she felt a drag on her hands, a wilting, so she turned first to the left, and almost cried out in frustration as the rod became loose, unharnessed as it rested on her fingers. Maisie turned to the right, and sighed with relief as the leaden sensation returned. Now she was looking straight into the eyes of Sandermere’s hunter. The horse responded to her hand, blowing soft sweet air onto her palm, and then reached out to investigate the rod with his nose.

“Oh, no, you don’t, laddie.” She unlatched the half door of the stall, pushed back on the horse’s chest with her left hand, and waited as he moved away at her touch. She latched the door again and paced around the stall.

Resting her hand first on the horse’s flank and then his withers, she moved him back and forth, pushing fresh straw aside so she could check every inch underfoot. She stepped to the right, to the left, and to the back of the stall, kicking away straw and pressing down on the square paving stones with her feet. She used her divining rod again, and as her fingers took the weight, so she was drawn toward the raised water trough in the corner. It was a plain brick and enamel trough, akin to a square scullery sink but deeper and longer. Underneath, a support had been built of the same slate slabs as were used on the floor. Maisie knelt, aware but not afraid of the hunter behind her. The horse seemed as curious as she, his warm breath close to her neck as if he too wanted a closer look.

She took out the knife, selected a blade, and began to run the tip along the pointing between each slab. One slab came away with ease. Soon she could grasp it, her fingers working carefully to pull it free. She checked the security of the water trough. It held firm, likely supported by bolts or bricks underneath.

Hearing horses’ hooves and a voice coming closer, she held her breath.

“Right, then, Humphrey, that’s you done!”

Maisie listened as the groom dismounted, his boots clattering against the cobblestones.

“Nice and easy does it, eh, old fellow? None of that racing all over the place, just a nice little trot, that’s good enough for us.” The groom spoke kindly to the horse. “We’ll get all this lot off you, a bit of a rubdown, and then we’ll take you down to the bottom field. How about that, my friend?”

Maisie heard the groom pat the horse’s neck and the sounds that accompanied the removing of saddle and bridle, of the horse’s hooves being picked out and cleaned, one by one.

“Fontein, you’re next, so don’t you stand there getting in a state, alright, guv’nor?”

Maisie listened, still as stone against the water trough, as the groom made much of the horse just exercised. At last she heard the horse turned around and sounds indicating the groom had left the stables once more, to put the horse out to pasture.

She continued with her endeavor, finally easing away the slab and using all her strength to pull it aside and lean it against the wall that separated the hunter from his stablemate. She had no torch with her, so was dependent upon the shaft of light that came in through the archway and was now being blocked by the horse.

“Move over, lad. Come on.” Maisie stood and pushed the horse back once again, reaching into her pocket for more sugar lumps, which she hid in the hay remaining in his manger. “There, that’ll keep you busy.”

Kneeling down next to the water trough, Maisie peered into the space revealed by the slab she’d removed, feeling with her hands for something loose, unexpected. Soon her fingers alighted on fabric of rough texture; using one hand to brace against the side of the trough, she pulled it out. The sack was dirty and damp, tied with string at the top. She lost no time in untying the closure to inspect the contents. Silver. The sack was filled with so much silverware that Maisie thought it looked like a priest’s ransom. There were goblets, decanters, cutlery, all manner of goods marked with the etched insignia of the Sandermere family: a large “S” set in a shield with a heart in the center and a single sword across.

She reached in again and found another sack, this time containing items indicating theft from places other than the estate. There was an empty wallet, a watch, a roll of money, jewelry. Maisie stood up, took off her hat, and wiped her hand across her forehead. Instead of taking the sacks with her, she secured them as she had found them and heaved the slab back into place. The groom was no thief, of that she was sure. She replaced her hat, while the hunter, who had eaten all the sugar, nuzzled her for more.

She pushed him aside. “If you’re not careful, I’ll have a soft spot for you, you big lug.”

Maisie checked the stall and, listening for the groom’s return, let herself out and latched the half door once again. The hunter’s blanket had been hung over a bar on the outside of the door, obscuring his nameplate.

“Well, well, well. Merlin. I should have known.” She patted him once more. “Only you and I know that your master is a thief.”

MAISIE GATHERED UP her knapsack, relieved that the groom had not even noticed it in the shadows, and made haste back toward the woods, once more climbing the iron fence and claiming her MG. She drove away from Heronsdene, into the next village to find the telephone kiosk, and lost no time in placing the call.

“James?”

“Maisie—gosh, you sound out of breath.”

“Just a bit. I have some information for you that I believe you must act upon without delay.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve found the missing Sandermere silver and a few other things besides. And I know the culprit.”

“Who?”

“Alfred Sandermere.”

There was a pause. “I might have known. I never trusted that man, from our first meeting. And the fires?”

Maisie took a deep breath. “That’s something different. But I will have news about them for you shortly. In the meantime, I should recount the events of the past week, concerning Sandermere.”

When she had finished giving him all the necessary information, James sighed. “What do you think should be the next move?”

“Call the police, James. You now know where the silver and the other items are hidden. I suspect he was waiting for a while before selling his hoard via underworld contacts. It was likely a scheme to keep his creditors at bay. Do warn the police that he is a volatile man and may need to be restrained.”

“Of course. I shall also speak to my solicitors.”

“Indeed. Now I must go, James. I have no doubt I shall see you soon.”

Maisie allowed herself a short time alone in the MG, leaning her head back against the seat. Her stomach grumbled, and a warmth rose up in her chest that took her breath away. Was she sickening for something? Beads of perspiration trickled down the side of her nose, and she reached for her handkerchief to wipe her brow and cheeks. I am on fire. She opened the door to allow a breeze to waft into the motor car and recognized that she was unsettled about the feelings rising within her.

Soon the sensations subsided, the inferno that had gripped her insides extinguished by logical consideration and fresh air. In some way she thought the lingering image of Simon’s cremation had played a part in her indisposition. She shook her head and once again set off for Heronsdene and the farm.

THE PICKERS WERE only two hop-gardens from the end of their work on the farm, and many were already talking of the packing up, the journey back, and welcoming autumn’s snap, then winter’s chill. Billy saw her approaching from a distance, waved, and came toward her, stopping to pick up his jacket on the way. They dispensed with the pleasantries of greeting.

“I went into Maidstone on the train yesterday mornin’ to see Beattie Drummond. Blimey, she’s a bit of a one, eh?”

“Push you for a story, did she?”

“Not ’alf, but I was ready for ’er when she said you’d promised she’d be the first to know when you’ve done your bit.”

Maisie nodded. “So, did she find anything?”

Billy pulled an envelope from his pocket and passed it to Maisie. “She came out and gave me some photographs taken in the village before the war. I didn’t let on, didn’t say what we was lookin’ for—or who.”

“Right.” Maisie opened the envelope and flicked through each photograph with some speed, until she came to one image in particular.

“Here we are.”

“I can smell the bread from ’ere. I reckon that was taken on Empire Day, what with the flags and bunting outside the shop, and Mr. Martin standin’ there with a big loaf of bread shaped like the British Isles in ’is ’ands—I mean, that’s clever, ain’t it? You can cut the dough in the right shape, but to get it to turn out how you want it after you’ve put it in the oven—that takes a lot of skill, I would’ve thought.”

Maisie nodded, squinting at the photograph. She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a magnifying glass, leaning over to better consider the subject.

“Shall I post ’em back to ’er?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“Got what you want, then?”

“Yes. I just wanted to double-check something, before I go any further.”

“Do you want me to come with you later on?”

Maisie smiled. “No, you’ve done enough. You’re on holiday, remember?” She paused. “Oh, and when you’re in touch with George, tell him his boys are well and truly off the hook. They won’t be summoned back to Kent.”

“Just like you thought, was it?”

She nodded. “More or less. Want a hand with the picking? I can help out until packing-in time, then I have to go up to see Webb.”

MAISIE WELCOMED AN afternoon sojourn among the hop-pickers, the smell and grainy stain on her hands, the way the bines were pulled down, opening up the blue afternoon sky, as if a canopy were being drawn back to reveal clouds puffed up with white importance, a backdrop for rooks cawing overhead and swallows calling from on high. This, she knew, was the calm before the storm, the clouds a portent for the events that must unfold in all their grayness.

The tallyman came around, and as the last count of the day was completed at each bin, the pickers moved off, either toward the hopper huts if they were Londoners or to the village for the locals, while the gypsies wandered toward the hill, the women’s skirts catching in the breeze, a profusion of color moving from side to side with the sway of their hips.

“And-a-one . . . and-a-two . . . and-a-three. . . .” The tallyman continued his count at the Beales’ bin. Maisie smiled, for each member of the Beale family mouthed the number as the tallyman, sleeves rolled up above the elbow, pushed his flat cap on the back of his head and plunged the bushel basket in again and again. “Nice work, clean picking, that’s what I like,” he said, then took his pencil from behind his ear, and noted the afternoon’s accomplishments.

Maisie waved to the Beales as she left, walking toward the hill that led up to the gypsy camp and the clearing they had used as a gathering place since before the hop-picking began. When the jook came down the hill to meet her, she stretched to rest her hand on the dog’s shoulder until she reached the vardos.

She went first to Beulah and greeted her before asking, “Is Webb back from the hop-gardens?”

The old woman was holding an earthenware cup filled with a translucent green broth that she sipped before replying. “Gone for wood. Jook brought us hare again.” Then she rubbed her chest.

“Are you feeling ill?” asked Maisie.

Beulah winced. “Not holding my food well today. It’s sitting on my chest, on account of the bread.”

Maisie sat next to her. “Do you have any other pain?”

“Don’t need none of your doctoring. I’ll see to myself.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Mixture. Helps the food go down. Now then, girl, never you mind about me. There’n be nothing wrong with Beulah.”

At that moment, Webb came back into the clearing, along the path on the opposite side of the ring of stones that marked the perimeter of the fire.

Beulah called to him. “Webb. Come, son, the rawni wants to talk to yern.”

Webb dropped the armful of wood alongside the stones and brushed his hands down the front of his trousers. As he came forward, he removed his hat and ran his fingers through the mane of brown curls that was now almost shoulder-length. “What do you want, miss?”

Maisie stood up, still concerned about Beulah. “I’d like to ask you a question or two, if you don’t mind.”

The man shifted his position, moving his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms and raising his chin just enough to reveal defensiveness. “Depends on the questions.”

Maisie wondered how she might tread lightly, how she might couch her questions in a manner that was not inflammatory. “I have a friend in London, a luthier. His name is Mr. Andersen, and—”

“Don’t know no Andersen.” Webb had taken a step back.

“Of course, but I was telling him about your beautiful violin, and when I described it he thought it might be worth—”

“You reckon I stole that violin, don’t you?” Webb’s shoulders were hunched now, his eyes flashing like those of a fox with the hunt at his tail.

“Of course not, of course I didn’t think to suggest that you stole the violin.”

Webb came closer.

“Webb!” Beulah had come to her feet, still clutching the green liquid with one hand while she rubbed her chest with the other. “No wonder my food’s stuck in my gullet with you a-goin’ on like that. Now then, my son. Listen to her.”

But Webb was not to be cut off. “You’re just like the rest of them—no, you’re worse. You come here, eat our food, dance to our music, and act like you know us, and now you’ve shown your colors as a true diddakoi, not one of us and not gorja but half and half, and they’re the worst—they’ll stab a back before it’s turned.”

“Webb! Now, then. You pull your neck in, my boy!” Beulah nodded toward Boosul, who was swaddled in her mother’s skirts, for Paishey had come to sit beside Beulah.

Maisie looked from Webb to Beulah, then shook her head. She had been wrong in her timing, off in her choice of words, and she knew she should leave. “I know the truth, Mr. Webb. I know. And I can help you.” She squeezed Beulah’s hand and began to walk away.

She had gone but a few paces when she heard Paishey scream, followed by Webb shouting, “Beulah, Beulah!”

By the time Maisie reached the woman’s side, she was wide-eyed, gasping for breath, her words barely audible. The gypsy clan gathered around, as Paishey knelt behind Beulah and rested her head in her lap.

“Move back, she needs air!” Maisie heard her own voice echoing in her ears as she waved her hand to add weight to her words.

“Do as she says,” urged Webb. “Give her room to breathe.”

Maisie felt for Beulah’s pulse, her fingers barely moving against a throb that was neither strong nor rhythmic. “It’s her heart, Webb.”

Paishey had loosened the gypsy matriarch’s silver-gray hair, which lay down across her shoulders. Now, as the lines and wrinkles that marked her age diminished with each second, the woman raised her arm and motioned to her son to come to her. Maisie moved aside, allowing Webb to crouch beside his mother, then looked on as the dying woman wrestled against the weakness in her body to grasp the cloth of her son’s shirt and pull him closer. Webb cradled her in his arms, while Paishey remained at her head, and he leaned forward to hear the words his mother strained even to whisper. He nodded, his eyes reddened, yet his grip remained firm.

“Listen to her, son. She’ll free you,” was all that Maisie heard. Then, calling upon all reserves of energy remaining in her body, she spoke loud enough for the clan to hear. “He is my son. Follow’n him now.”

Webb began to sob. “No, Beulah, please, no. Stay, don’t go.”

But Beulah was smiling, holding up her hands as if to one who was reaching down to her, and saying her final words with a gentleness Maisie had not heard before. “Set yourself free, boy. Set yourself free.”

Maisie stepped forward, kneeling to feel her pulse and then to listen for her breath. There was nothing. She sat back to look at Beulah, then turned to Webb and Paishey. “She’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

Leaning forward, Paishey placed her hands on each side of Beulah’s head and used her thumbs to close her eyelids. Then she kissed each closed eye before reaching into her pocket for two copper coins to lay on the motionless lids. Webb moved away, and the women came forward, Esther helping Maisie to her feet. “We’ll’n look after her now, miss. You go on home. She belongs to us. We’ll’n take care of her.”

Maisie walked once more to the edge of the clearing, where even the horses had gathered, their heads up and intent. She pushed them aside to pass, and as she made her way down the hill, she heard the heartsick wail of a dog howling. It was not an ordinary call, the yelping that might answer a vixen’s midnight screech, but the timeless baying that country folk called a death howl. Maisie stopped to listen, was still so the dog’s cry could move through her, so she could feel the vibrations she had never been able to voice, that had caught in her chest so many times.

SEVENTEEN

As she walked away from the encampment, Maisie knew the keening had started, a sound that would grow ever louder as the gypsies gave vent to their loss. There would be no time to speak to Webb until after Beulah’s funeral, for which she would return in a few days. It would be a narrow opportunity—the gypsies would move on with haste now.

Not wanting to be on her own, Maisie walked to the hopper huts, where Tilley lamps burned outside to beckon her forward, for the sky bore the rose tint of sunset and dusk was but minutes away. The doors of the huts were open, and Londoners had brought chairs outside so they could sit and talk now that the day’s work was done. Billy’s mother was seated outside the family’s hut, shucking peas, the colander on her lap held steady by her knees.

“Is Billy here, Mrs. Beale?”

“Him and Doreen are in the cookhouse.” She pointed toward the whitewashed brick building and went back to her task.

Maisie stopped to talk to Doreen, noting the gaunt pallor that had clung to her skin since the death of her daughter was now disguised by sun-kissed cheeks. Billy walked outside with Maisie, where she told him about Beulah’s death.

“Well, that’ll put the tin lid on that, won’t it?”

Maisie nodded. “It certainly makes things a little trickier.” She paused. “You know, there’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, Billy. I want to know what you heard after Sandermere attacked Paishey, when you restrained Webb. He said something that appeared to flummox you—then you seemed thoughtful, as if what he’d said wasn’t quite right.”

Billy nodded. “It was when ’e said mornin’ hate.” Billy pronounced the h—a consonant that was usually absent in his cockney accent. He was emphasizing the word hate.

“What does it mean?”

He shrugged his shoulders. Maisie understood that he did not care to speak about the years of his soldiering. “It’s what we used to say, in the war.” He kicked his foot against the clay-like earth, folded his arms, and looked down as he spoke, staring at the sandy patterns left by his boot. “There was times we knew the Hun didn’t want to be there any more ’n we did, and they knew we didn’t want to be there either. These weren’t the big shows but the sort of in-between times. We’d be in our trench, like ants, and they’d be in theirs. Bein’ a sapper, I was with the lads what ’ad to get out there and mend the wires, lay communication lines, that sort of thing. But of course, the ’igher-ups, theirs and ours, didn’t like us all just sittin’ there, not doin’ anythin’ but brewing up a cup o’ char, so we ’ad to fire off a few rounds every mornin’ and again at night, just to show we were still after the enemy.” He shook his head. “And it was as if we all knew what we ’ad to do, them and us. Someone would call out to us, ’Guten Morgen, Britisher,’ or we’d call out to them, ’Wakey, wakey, Fritz,’ and then we’d go at it for a while, prayin’ that no one copped it. Don’t know what they called it, but we called it the mornin’ hate and the evenin hate. Sort of summed it up, shootin’ at each other to show—to prove—that we hated.”

Maisie nodded.

“And for what? That’s the big question, ain’t it? For what?” Billy shrugged.

She placed her hand on his arm. “I’d better go, Billy I’ll leave you in peace with your family. Not long to go now, eh?”

He looked up at the spent hop-gardens. “Next year’ll soon roll round, and we’ll all be out ’ere again.” He pulled a packet of Woodbines from his trouser pocket, along with a box of matches. “Puttin’ the money away, we are.”

“Your passage to Canada?”

“If we can do it, Miss. I used to just say it but didn’t reckon I’d ever want to go, not really, not being a Londoner born and bred. Now, what with Lizzie gone and Doreen not gettin’ over it at all, we need a new start.” He lit a cigarette, closing his right eye against a wisp of smoke that snaked upward. “Don’t know whether me old mum will come with us, but I won’t want to leave ’er. And I don’t know what sort of work I can do, but—well, I’ll ’ave a go at anything.”

Maisie nodded. “I know you will.” She smiled encouragement. “But in the meantime, I need a good assistant, so don’t think of going anywhere too soon, will you? Now then, I’m off, back to the inn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

ARRIVING AT THE inn, Maisie stopped to greet Fred Yeoman before climbing the stairs to her room. She was not hungry and had declined supper, saying she would have some bread and cheese and an ale on a tray, for later if she was hungry. At least the ale would help her sleep.

She opened the curtains wide, the better to see out to the clear night sky as darkness descended. Pulling her chair to the window, Maisie sat down and closed her eyes. How would she ever bring the case to completion now? She could point to Sandermere as being responsible for much of the petty crime in the village, but without the evidence of confession she could not throw light on her other suspicions.

A knock at the door caused Maisie to start.

“Sorry to bother you, miss, but there’s a man to see you.”

Man, not gentleman, thought Maisie.

Yeoman cleared his throat. “It’s one of the travelers, the pikeys. Don’t know what the fellow wants, but I told him to wait outside. Name of Webb. Wears a big hat.”

Maisie nodded. “Right you are, Mr. Yeoman. I’ll come down straightaway.”

Closing the door behind her, Maisie held on to the banister as she hurried down the winding, narrow staircase and through the doorway to the street, lowering her head as she went to avoid the beam.

“Webb, what a surprise.”

He nodded and touched the brim of his hat. It was almost dark, and she could only just see his eyes as he turned toward her and was bathed in warm amber light from the inn’s outside lantern.

“Beulah would have wanted me to come. I talked to Paishey—she’s with the women—and she said I should.”

Maisie frowned. “Is it alright for us to speak without one of your womenfolk with us?”

“Because of how it is, and that we’re here in the street, we can talk.”

“Would you like to walk, just down to the church perhaps?” Maisie knew such a stroll would entail passing the site of the old bakery, which was opposite the memorial and the church.

“Beulah said you were expected. That she’d asked for help, and you came.”

“And do you believe that?”

He turned to walk, and Maisie fell into step alongside him.

“You mean, do I believe that, seeing as I’m gorja?”

“Yes.”

Webb pushed his hands into his pockets and, as they walked, spoke with an eloquence not apparent when he was with the gypsy tribe. “I do believe. Beulah saved me, looked after me, so I’d have done anything for her, and I’ve seen enough to believe her.” He looked sideways at Maisie. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

“I do, yes, but I’ll still call you Webb, if you like.”

“Yes, that is my name now.”

“And I’d like to know your story.”

“But you know it already. I’ve seen it in your eyes. And you saw me leaving the inn’s garden. And there are the questions you’ve been asking.”

“I know your story, Pim van Maarten, only inasmuch as I have facts. I would like to hear it told in your words.”

Webb looked down at the ground and shook his head as they continued walking. “Haven’t been called by that name in over ten years.” He stopped as they reached the waste ground, then turned toward the church, where a gaslight was glowing over the gate, and to the side was a bench. “Let’s sit down over there.”

When they were settled, he began to speak again.

“We came down here when I was a baby, because my sister couldn’t breathe right, not up there in London. To tell you the truth, I don’t reckon she breathed right down here, but she grew out of it anyway. My grandfather was from the Netherlands, where he was a baker, like my father, though he came to London after he was married and before my father was born. They spoke Dutch at home, and we did too. It was my father who dropped the van from our name and changed the spelling. He said he didn’t want us to be different, he wanted us to sound English. My mother—who came over from the Netherlands to marry my father—worked hard to lose her accent, but we kept to some of the old traditions, like celebrating the visit of Saint Nicholas and Black Peter in December.”

“You were a happy family,” said Maisie, encouraging him to continue.

He nodded. “We were. It was my fault that everything changed. Children can be harsh, Miss Dobbs. They can be hurtful. One of the boys at school had heard us speaking Dutch at home, and for some reason—I never understood why it began, it could have been because my reading was better than his—he started to tease me, and the teasing went on, and it got worse, until I didn’t have any friends at all. I was the whipping boy, the one who was always left out. The one who was bullied.”

“And your sister?”

“Ah, Anna was beautiful, so for her it was not too bad. And she tried to protect me, but as soon as she was twelve and matriculated, she left the school to help in the bakery. Then later on, I met him: Alfred Sandermere.”

“And he offered you friendship, but at a cost?”

“Yes. I was to be his cohort, the younger sergeant-at-arms who would get into mischief with him.”

“And the mischief grew more serious.”

He nodded, leaned forward, and rested his head in his hands.

“My father was so diminished by my behavior. He tried everything to help me but was lost, trying to deliver me from the path I’d chosen. I was not the man I am today. I was a boy who made a poor decision, a boy who wanted to be of some account, and Alfred gave me what I needed. He gave me friendship.”

“Then you were caught.”

“Yes.” Webb leaned back, his cheeks wet. He removed his hat and ran his fingers straight back through his hair. “We had committed a crime, a robbery—Alfred was a seasoned thief, but there were dogs, and we were discovered.”

“And you took the blame.”

“His father, the name, connections—you know, the magistrate who goes shooting on the estate—Alfred’s time in custody was over like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“But you were sent to the reformatory.”

“Yes.” He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “My father came whenever he could to visit. He brought me books, he brought me my old violin, which he had to take away again because they would not allow me to have it. He was ashamed of me, his son, but he never failed to visit. He blamed himself for what I had done.”

“When did you enlist?”

He sniffed, composing himself. “They came to me when I turned thirteen. They looked at all of us of a certain age. I was solid for my years. Working in the gardens and in building jobs at the reformatory had given me muscle. I could have been taken for nineteen, and that’s all they wanted, boys who would pass the medical and could be listed as fit for service.” He took another deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. “I was told that enlisting would absolve me of my crime, that my record would be destroyed. I signed the necessary papers, and off I went. By the time I was fourteen, I was in France, in the trenches. I was a soldier, a fighting soldier. And there were others, other boys who passed as older. Some of them had enlisted with their fathers, some wanted to get away from home, and there were the boys like me who had been released from the reformatories or borstals.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I saw terrible things there.”

Maisie nodded.

“I saw things I never want to see again.”

She allowed a pause before speaking. “And you were listed as dead.”

“I didn’t know what I was listed as until I was sent home. I was in a shell hole, my mates shot or blown to pieces and gone, the rats crawling all over me. I was scared to put my head up, scared to do anything but cry—cry because I could, because it was the only thing left for me to do. Then, the next thing I knew, there was sky no more, so I looked up, and there were five big Germans leaning into the hole with bayonets fixed. Then one of them said, ’He’s a boy, a big boy They have sent boys to do the work of men.’” Webb turned to Maisie. “I also speak some German and some French, so I knew what was being said. I was taken prisoner. And because I thought they would kill me, I pulled off my tags and threw them in the hole, so that my father and mother might have word of me. I thought that even though there was no body—and that wasn’t unusual, the way men were blown up in the shelling—when my pals were found, they would know that I, too, was dead.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“I was released after the war and repatriated. Then came demobilization, and all I wanted to do was come straight home.” He gasped, a cry issuing from his lips, as if he might break down. “I walked from the station and came into the village before dawn, when people were still in their beds. I’d returned a man, not a boy, and though the war was written in the lines on my face, in years I was still a youth. I was proud of myself. I had a clean record. I could take on anyone who went for me, and I could turn away from Sandermere. I wanted to be my father’s son again, I wanted to see my family.”

They were silent for some moments, until the man, his voice breaking, began speaking again.

“I walked down this street—there was no memorial then, no division in the road to accommodate the list of fallen from the village. Most of the older boys who had made my life a misery were gone. Dead. I have seen others, though, seen them with their arms missing, in their wheelchairs, or with their faces scarred.” He shrugged. “Then I came to this place, expecting to walk through the front door to wake my family, expecting to be received with their love, but there was nothing. Nothing but the burned shell of a building that was gone, incinerated. I could not speak, could not think. My breath left my lungs. The only thing I could think to do was to go to my sister’s friend, to see Phyllis. I waited in the woods close to her house. I could not go in, could not trust myself to speak to anyone, could not even have mustered polite conversation with her father. I waited until they departed the house one by one, until I saw Phyllis, in her maid’s uniform, leave the house to walk up to the estate. And I stopped her.” He gave a half laugh. “She thought I was a ghost.”

“And she told you everything.”

“Yes, everything. And she told me who was involved. I knew I would never forget them.”

“How did you meet Beulah?”

“I told Phyllis not to say a word about seeing me. Then I ran. I ran, my kit bag across my shoulder, until I couldn’t run anymore. I half walked, half fell into the woods and collapsed. I have no memory of the days and nights that followed. I do not know what happened. When I awoke it was to the smell of broth and wood smoke. I was laid out in that clearing up on the hill. It was summertime, 1919, and they had come for the fruit-picking and the hop-picking.”

“And Beulah claimed you for her son.”

“Her real son had died as an infant and would have been about my age, so, yes, she took me for her son. And I was willing to be adopted, for I had no one, nothing except a need to make them pay.” He turned to Maisie. “You see, I understood revenge. And I understood that if that was what they had wanted—revenge—then the job was left half done, because I was still alive. Pim van Maarten was alive, and I wanted my pound of flesh, from them”—he pointed back toward the center of the village—“and from Alfred Sandermere, because my father, mother and sister would still be alive if it hadn’t been for him.”

“Yes, I know.” Maisie paused. “So you hounded the villagers with fires, each year, on the anniversary of your family’s death.”

“I surprised myself, you know. I thought I would be able to take the life of every one of them, make them feel what my family felt. But I must have seen too much killing in France. All I could do was scare them. I only caused damage to bricks and mortar.”

There was silence, broken when Maisie spoke again.

“Your father would have been proud of your mastery of the violin. You are a worthy successor—and you favor him, though not with the hair.”

Webb smiled. “Yes, he would be proud. And though I look like him, I am not half the man. He would have found it in his heart to understand.”

Maisie allowed a few seconds to pass. “How did you know the Reverend Staples had the violin?”

“Stroke of luck, it was, going to the vicar’s house with Beulah, selling flowers. When he opened the door I saw it there, lying on a table. So I went back later and took what was rightly mine. I remembered some things from Sandermere, such as how to break into a house or just walk in while the doors to the garden were open.”

“And what will you do now, Webb?”

He looked again toward the waste ground that was once his home. “We’ll bury Beulah, do what we have to do with her vardo, her belongings, and then we’ll go.” He turned to Maisie. “Will you come? To her funeral, and to the afterwards?”

She nodded and said she would go, though she did not reveal how much she dreaded the afterwards.

After bidding Webb farewell and returning to her room, Maisie leaned back in her chair and looked out into the blackness. A faint light rose up from the kitchen below, and she could hear the bubbling of talk in the public bar. She knew that Webb would not rest until he had received some acknowledgment from the villagers, and she understood that secrets long buried were not easily brought to the surface. She would try to see Sandermere tomorrow, but first she would visit the Reverend Staples.

She stood up and reached out to close the window against the unrelenting howl of the dead gypsy’s lurcher. We’ll do what we have to do with her vardo. She wondered if she could bear to witness the ritual.

AS MAISIE LEFT the village next morning, bound for Hawkhurst, she passed two police Invicta motor cars traveling in the direction of the Sandermere estate. Clearly James had made his report. She wondered what tack they would take. Would Sandermere be summoned from his room for questioning, or would there be a softly-softly approach, with the police claiming they were acting on a tip-off, perhaps, and knew where the silver was hidden? How would they link Sandermere, except by accusation? His fingerprints would be expected to be on such items as were hidden in the horse’s stall, which led her to believe that they would question him until he confessed, wearing him down with suppositions that would eventually prove to be true.

She paid little attention to the surrounding countryside today, wanting only to complete her confrontation with the retired former vicar of Heronsdene parish church, and arrived at Easter Cottage in time to see Mrs. Staples leave the house with a large basket, then continue walking toward the houses on the other side of the green. There would be no phantom telephone calls today. Parking along the street, Maisie locked the MG, walked back to the cottage, and rang the bell.

“Miss Dobbs, what a surprise.” The vicar seemed flustered, holding a copy of The Times which he began to fold and fold again as he spoke to her. He was wearing exactly the same garb as at their previous meeting and seemed crumpled and uncomfortable at having his morning disturbed, especially by a woman who doubtless would broach a subject he would rather not dwell upon.

“Good morning, Reverend Staples. I was just passing and thought I would drop in to see you. I have some information you might find interesting.”

“Do come in.” He led the way to the study. “Please, be seated.” He waved the newspaper toward a chair and sat down when Maisie was settled. He leaned back, placed the newspaper in the wastepaper bin, and, as if trying to find a comfortable position in which to brook an unwelcome conversation, he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the desk. Finally, he sat up with his arms folded in front of his ecclesiastical cross. “Now then, what’s all this about?”

Maisie smiled, confident in her composure. She was used to being lied to, but not by a religious man.

“I had cause to travel up to London this week and by chance was close to Denmark Street, so I popped in to see Mr. Andersen—Senior, that is—the luthier to whom Jacob Martin always took his precious and very valuable Cuypers violin to be tuned and generally reconditioned.”

The vicar frowned. “Cuypers? Precious? You must be mistaken. And valuable? I doubt it.”

“The luthier, whom I believe to be something of an expert, said the violin was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen and that Jacob was an accomplished musician.”

“Well, I never.” The vicar shrugged.

“Reverend Staples, please do not be vague. I believe you know perfectly well why I am here. There is nothing I can do now regarding your crime—for what you have done constitutes looting and is thus a criminal act—but I can at least be an advocate for the dead and tell you that I know what you did.”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“Yes, you do. Jacob Martin—and you knew that the family’s real name was van Maarten—told you he had taken the violin to London, to his friend Mr. Andersen, in Denmark Street. After the tragedy, indeed, after you received the telegram with news that Willem, Pim, was presumed dead, you went to London to claim the violin, saying nothing to Mr. Andersen of what had happened, only that Jacob had asked you to collect his property. Weren’t you afraid he might ask what you intended to do with the instrument? Or that he might know a relative with a claim to it?”

“I—it wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, I think it was, Reverend Staples. And, as I said, what you did amounted to looting, which is beneath your calling.”

“But it would have languished there; it would have not been played. It was a beautiful thing, a work of art.”

“And it didn’t belong to you. It was meant to be passed on, father to son.”

“But the son was dead.”

“As far as you knew, he was missing.”

“But he—” The man stopped speaking and looked at Maisie, his eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”

“Before I try to say anything, I have one question for you.”

“And that is?”

“Why didn’t you stop it? A man of the cloth could have put a stop to what went on in Heronsdene.”

“But I—”

Maisie inclined her head, watching the white pallor of fear rise up on the vicar’s face. “Your expression has told me all I need to know.”

“You don’t know what it was like. The chaos, the fear, the terror.”

“But aren’t you supposed to walk up to that chaos and challenge it, Reverend Staples? Isn’t that what you are called to do, rather than be part of it?”

The man leaned forward, his shoulders slumped. Then he looked up and sighed deeply. “The violin was stolen from me anyway, so what does it all matter now? It’s in the past.”

“You retired several years ago, didn’t you?” She did not allow him to reply, but continued. “I suspect because you could not stand another hop-picking season and the fires that came with it. You probably thought you were being haunted, didn’t you? Haunted by the ghost of a young man who had lost his entire family in one night. Haunted by the young man who might one day come for the violin that was rightly his.”

There was silence. Then the Reverend Staples spoke again. “You are right, Miss Dobbs. I am haunted, and I will bear that cross for the rest of my life.”

Maisie stood up. “You may wonder why I came today, to tell you what I have discovered when there is nothing I can do about it. I came because I wanted you to know that someone else knows what you have been part of, and that you had taken property from the dead before you even buried their remains. You should have been the moral anchor of the village, not of the hue and cry.”

Maisie bid the vicar good day without further ado and left Hawkhurst to return to Heronsdene, where she intended to pack her bags and make her way to her father’s house before going on to London the next day. It was unlikely that she would be able to see Sandermere this afternoon, given the police presence she had witnessed as she left the village this morning. She was looking forward to getting home now, to the city with its self-important bustle. If she were to remain faithful to her practice of ensuring that all ends of a case were tied before leaving, she would have to admit that there was more to do, but James Compton had not required her to bring all the guilty to account. He had asked her only to find out what was amiss in the village, and she knew more than enough to make her report. Yet such considerations did not sit easy with her, and she hoped, even now, that she might find a way to usher her work to a more fulfilling close.

FRED YEOMAN GREETED her as she opened the door from the street into the residents’ sitting room.

“Good afternoon, Miss Dobbs. On your way this evening?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“We’ll be sorry to see you go. Not very busy for the next couple of days—mind you, when I saw the police driving through the village, I thought we might see some more outsiders, though we don’t welcome newspaper reporters and the like in Heronsdene.”

“Quite right. Are the police still up at the Sandermere estate?”

“According to one of the regulars who works in the gardens, they’ve been up in Sandermere’s rooms talking to him, and there’s been some sacks taken out of the stables.”

“I see. I wonder what’s in them.”

“I reckon it’s that missing silver. Probably them London boys hid it under his nose, thinking they’d come back for it later.”

“You still think it could be the London boys? Even though they’ve been absolved of the crime?”

“Well, they can unabsolve them, can’t they?”

Maisie realized she was shaking. “Have you considered that it might be someone other than a Londoner or a gypsy who has committed a crime? That the person might be at the house? Or in the village?”

“Well, I—”

“You, of all people, should know what Alfred Sandermere is like. The whole village knows what he’s like. He’s had every one of you in the palm of his hand for years.”

The man flushed. “I better be getting on. I’m sure the police will sort it all out, whoever took the silver.”

Maisie admonished herself for taking such a position, but she had felt her frustration rising to the surface. She packed her bag, checked the room to ensure she had collected all her belongings, and came back downstairs, where she rang the bell to summon Fred Yeoman. He stepped through from the kitchen, where he had been talking to his wife.

“I must apologize, Mr. Yeoman. I should not have snapped.”

“And I shouldn’t have tarred all Londoners with the same brush. I keep forgetting that you’re one of them, if you know what I mean.”

Maisie ignored the implication. “I’ve enjoyed staying here, at the inn. Thank you.”

“And thank you again, miss, for saving our bacon on the night of that fire.”

Maisie smiled and said goodbye. She packed her belongings in the motor car and drove toward the farm, once again passing the two police motor cars as they left the village. She saw no silhouettes in the back seats and guessed that Alfred Sandermere had not been taken into custody yet.

For the last time, Maisie parked by the oast house and walked out along the farm road toward the hop-gardens. Only a few gypsies were out today, but a full complement of Londoners were still picking, as were some locals. She breathed in the spicy air and reached out to take a solitary hop from a spent bine. As she crushed it between her fingers to release its fragrance, she thought of Webb and of his younger self, Pim van Maarten, and how it must have been for him to return to the village only to discover his family gone. The time of year must torment him so, for in the Weald of Kent it is in late September that the senses are teased more than at any other time, with the hops, sweet apples, and earthy hay. And it is in the senses that memories are summoned, so that a sound, a scent, or the way the wind blows brings a reminder of what has happened and when.

The Beales asked Maisie to stay awhile, to lean on the bin, to pick hops, and to pass the time of day before she left. As the sun began to slip down on its journey toward the horizon, she said she should be leaving, and after saying her farewells, she turned to leave. It was a departure that would be curtailed only too soon.

A sudden cry went up from a Londoner working at the top of the hop-garden, who pointed toward clouds of smoke belching from the just-visible roof of the Sandermere mansion.

“Fire! Up at the big house. Look, fire!”

EIGHTEEN

Women with children remained behind, as the hop-pickers ran en masse toward the estate house, some stopping only long enough to pick up an old bucket or other receptacle that might be needed.

“Quick, Billy, the motor. We’ll cut across on the estate road.”

They pulled out of the farm and sped toward the entrance to the Sandermere mansion, where they parked outside the gates and ran toward the house. They saw the groom struggling to lead two of the horses from the stables, in case the fire should spread and leap to the outbuildings.

“I’ll go and give him a hand.” Billy moved with as much speed as he could muster toward the groom.

Villagers soon began arriving, and when she looked up at the hill where, days ago, she had seen Webb gazing down on the mansion, she saw the gypsies clustered, watching. She stopped for mere seconds and saw Webb come to the fore, the silhouette of his hat distinguishing him from his people. Then, raising his hand to the tribe, he led them toward the house to help.

Staff were clustered outside the property, as flames licked up from the windows of the upper floors like giant tongues seeking sustenance. One side of the roof was ablaze and crackling, the flames that had caught the onlookers’ attention leaping up in a fiery dance.

“Is everyone out?” asked Maisie.

The butler shook his head, his eyes glazed. “N-no. Mr. Sandermere locked himself in those rooms. He went up there in a black mood after the police came.”

“Was he drinking?”

The man nodded. “Yes, yes, he was drinking. Called down twice for more wine and brandy”

“God!”

“Did anyone telephone the fire brigade?”

The man nodded. “Just before we all got out, on account of the smoke. The house may be made of stone, but there’s the paneling, the curtains, the upholstery—it’s all smoldering, giving off fumes, and burning like tinder.”

Maisie ran back to the gathered crowd, who were already forming a line down to the water tap by the stables. This was how it had been at every fire, the villagers working together to extinguish the flames, thought Maisie. Every fire except one. They’ll never do it. They’ll never stem this inferno.

She looked back at the mansion, and as she scanned the windows, her eyes squinting against the smoke, she saw Alfred Sandermere standing, looking at the throng below as if in a trance. Then he fell forward and slowly began to slide down the panes of glass.

Together the Londoners, the villagers and the gypsies passed buckets of water back and forth. Maisie was close to the house, next to the butler, who was pointing up to the window, when Webb broke away and ran toward her.

“Is he still in there?”

Maisie nodded, coughing. “Yes, he’s up in his rooms, on the first floor.”

The butler explained what had happened and pointed to the windows.

Webb held his breath, his face contorting as he understood that Alfred Sandermere was likely unconscious, and would burn to death if not helped. Then he took off his jacket and his shirt. “I cannot let a man die like that, no matter how much hate I bear for him.”

Paishey ran to her husband’s side, and as others came closer, seeing the gypsy remove his clothes above the waist and begin to douse himself with water, Webb turned to his wife.

“I’ve got to find him. Give me your shawl.”

Paishey pulled the shawl from her shoulders, immersed it in a bucket of water, and wrapped it, sopping, around her husband’s upper body. It was then that Webb pulled off his hat. Maisie saw Fred Yeoman, who was standing nearby, put a hand to his mouth. Webb wasted no time; he held his wife’s hand in his for a second and then ran into the holocaust.

No one spoke or shouted, but a muttering began between the villagers as Fred turned first to one, then to another.

“Did you see that? Wasn’t that Pim Martin?”

“I didn’t want to say anything, thought I was seeing things.” “Looked for all the world like Jacob.”

“It was him, I know it was.”

“No, couldn’t have been. He’s been dead all these years.”

In the distance, the relentless ringing of the fire tender’s bell could now be heard coming closer, as the people came together to wait for Pim Martin to walk from the burning home of the man whom, they knew, he would himself have murdered, if he could. No movement was visible as the flames bucked and leaped from floor to floor, and some of the onlookers screamed as the reverberation of a falling beam echoed through the house.

“They’ll both be dead. The man was mad to go in, mad.”

Two fire tenders screeched to a halt, their red livery reflecting another eruption of flames from the roof. Maisie and the butler spoke to the fireman in charge, as others pulled hoses and dug in their heels to brace against the force of water that cannoned out toward the eye of the fire. And still Paishey waited, as close as she could to the door through which her husband had entered the house. She neither keened nor cried but waited with her shoulders back, a vigil for her husband until he returned. Soon others gathered around her, both locals and outsiders, waiting, waiting to see if the man they knew only as Webb would walk from the blaze.

“I can hear coughing,” a fireman shouted back to the chief.

Paishey called out, the first words she had spoken since her husband ran into the mansion. “Webb, come back to me, come back to me, Webb. I’n be waiting for you, my Webb. I’n be waiting here for you.”

And then they saw him, the shawl gone, his torso seared with charcoal and dripping with black heat, one hand shielding his eyes, the other dragging behind him, by the scruff of his neck, the smoldering body of Alfred Sandermere.

“Webb!” Paishey was first to his side, as he leaned forward and retched, only letting go of Sandermere when Fred Yeoman touched him on the arm and said, “It’s alright, we’ve got him now. It’s alright, lad.”

The gypsy men pushed forward to claim Webb, dousing him with water again and again, pulling him away from the smoke toward the air beyond the boundary of the fire’s breath. Two firemen placed Sandermere on a stretcher and took him back, close to the place where the gypsies circled around Webb at the bottom of the hill. Soon another bell was ringing and an ambulance approached, followed by the doctor.

Maisie made her way over to the gypsies. “Is he alright? How does he breathe?”

Paishey looked up. “He’n be safe, now, miss. Webb’s breathing alright, and we’ll look after the burns.” She pulled a pot of deep green cream from a pocket in her skirt. “Beulah’s mixture.”

Maisie nodded, knowing the people who had come together to fight the fire would now disperse to their tribes, would gather to be with their own. She moved across to the place where Sandermere was being treated. “Can I help?”

The doctor glanced at her, as he held up a syringe ready to inject painkilling morphine into Sandermere’s body, for the man’s deep mucus-filled moaning told of his distress.

“I was a nurse in the war, in France.”

“Good, then you’ll have seen your share of burns. I need your help to get him stable before he’s taken to Pembury Hospital. Right, then, let’s get on with it—my instruments and that swab.”

The years contracted as Maisie doused her hands with disinfectant from the physician’s case, placed a spare mask across her mouth and nose, and laid out the exact instruments that would be needed. Using forceps, she picked up a swab, snapping the instrument into the palm of the doctor’s hand as she prepared another swab, then held scissors ready.

“Like riding a bike, isn’t it? It all comes back to you when you need it.” The doctor wrinkled his nose to keep his spectacles from sliding down, and Maisie reached across to push them back up again.

She took the soiled swab and handed him the scissors. She remembered the humor, the quips and jokes leveled at death, as he did his work at the same time as the casualty clearing station doctors. And she remembered Simon, that final day working with him, and his last words when shells began to rain down on the operating tent as they tried to save the life of another soldier: “Let’s get on with it.”

LATER, WHEN THE ambulance had left and the gypsies had made their way up the hill, across the fields, and back to their clearing, Maisie found Billy among the Londoners trudging to the hopper huts.

“I thought we’d lost you, Miss. I’m glad to see you.”

“You too.”

“What about that for a turnup, eh? There’s that Webb, showin’ them all who ’e is. You should ’ave ’eard ’em, talkin’ about it.”

“I’m sure they were.”

“They’re terrified of what might ’appen now. There was talk of a meetin’ tonight, at the inn. They want to get everyone together, to work out what to say to Webb when ’e comes. They know ’e’ll come for ’em.”

Maisie stopped. “Then that’s where I’ll go, to the inn.”

“Miss, you’re all spent. Look at you, you’re wore out. You can sort them out tomorrow, they’ve been haunted this long.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s time. They know about Pim now—well, they’ve likely known all along, if truth be told, but now they have proof. And they know the piper must be paid. They have to tell him, to his face, what happened.”

CLAIMING HER MOTOR car, Maisie used a clean handkerchief to wipe her hands and face, then started the engine and drove toward the farm, going as far as she could on four wheels before she had to continue on toward the gypsy camp on foot.

Webb was resting at the edge of the clearing where the air was fresh with a crisp evening breeze that might help clear his lungs. Paishey sat with him, with Boosul on her lap, and together they watched Maisie approach. She saw Beulah’s caravan moved to one side, farther away from the others, for the coffin containing her body rested within. The lurcher lay on the steps and did not stir.

“You were brave, Webb. You risked your life for a man you have every reason to despise.”

He nodded. “I just couldn’t stand there and do nothing to help him.”

“You are hurt?”

“Not as badly as it seemed. Some skin singed, and my lungs are sore, but that will go in time.” He looked at his wife and his daughter, then back at Maisie. “Will he live?”

“The doctor was not hopeful. The burns are extensive, and the risk of infection high. He will be drugged for days, for weeks to come, if he survives.”

“It may be a small mercy, then, that my family perished. That they did not live with such pain.”

A silence descended between them, the only sounds a gentle nickering to be heard, as horses grazed nearby, and a gypsy meal being prepared in the clearing.

“They know who you are, Webb.”

“Yes. The hat has served me well, and the passing years have done their camouflage work on my face, though it seems I look more like my father than I thought, except for the hair. I have come to work here for many a season and have been taken for nothing more than the gypsy they saw me to be.”

“It’s like seeing someone you know in a different milieu. You don’t recognize him because you don’t expect to see him in a certain place.”

Webb shook his head. “I wonder what will happen now?” He coughed, wincing and clasping his chest.

“I thought you would want to know that there is to be a meeting in the village tonight, at the inn.”

“Ah, they don’t know what to do about me.”

Maisie came to her feet. “I’ll be there, Webb. I want to hear what they say, and I want them to explain themselves, to tell what happened on the night of the Zeppelin raid. Just as you told me, in your words, how you came back here, so I want to hear their story.” She turned to stroke a horse who had come close in search of a treat before she spoke again. “If you are well enough to come to the inn, I would have thought that you might want to hear their story too. It is, after all, part of your past.”

Webb looked at Paishey, and she smiled. “If I’m there, I’m there,” he said. “That’s how it is.”

Maisie looked across toward Beulah’s vardo. “When will she be buried?”

“On Tuesday. The word’s gone out, and I’ve seen the vicar, the one who comes to the village from Horsmonden. She’ll be buried in the churchyard, with my people.”

“Then back here for the afterwards?”

Webb nodded. “It’s not as if Sandermere will be here to complain about a bit of a singe on his field, is it?”

MAISIE PARKED THE MG close to the church and watched as villagers came alone and in pairs to the inn. Even though the evening was not cold, each and every one was wrapped as if winter’s breath had settled upon the community and their bones had been touched by a sliver of ice. When those whom she knew had arrived, Maisie left the MG and walked across to the waste ground opposite. Gone was the chill of her earlier visit, the specter of the terrible night when the Zeppelin came and the van Maartens became the crucible who paid the ultimate price.

Pulling her collar up around her neck, she walked at an unhurried pace toward the inn. Was it on a night like this that the Zeppelin came over, its low drone lingering above the village? Had a light—perhaps embers from the smithy’s fire—caught the enemy’s attention, providing a new target? Here, in a place where sleep evaded those who had just learned that their sons were dead, Wealden boys killed on a foreign field and never to return home again, the Zeppelin had brought the war to a village in England.

She lingered for a moment or two outside the inn, looking through the ancient diamond-paned glass as the villagers came together, some seated, some standing at the bar. Fred Yeoman leaned across, resting his elbow on the counter, with his sleeves rolled up and a cloth in his hand that he absentmindedly drew back and forth across the wood as he spoke. From a seat next to the low inglenook fireplace surrounded with shining horse brasses, a man raised his hand to Yeoman and called out above the throng, loud enough for Maisie to hear, “Better get on with it, Fred. There’s a lot of talk to be done tonight.” Maisie took a deep breath, rested her fingers on the door handle for a moment, and entered the inn.

At first she was hardly noticed, then a woman glanced around to see who had joined them, and Fred Yeoman looked up from the counter, ready to pour another half-pint. The woman nudged her husband, who turned, and soon the hubbub of conversation died. The innkeeper broke the silence.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit in the residents’ room, Miss Dobbs?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you, Mr. Yeoman. But I would like a half-pint of the Harveys ale, if you please.” She pulled off her jacket, a sign that she was staying, and looked around the bar. A man next to the counter stepped away and held out his hand toward a stool. She inclined her head and stepped forward, thanking the man for giving up his seat. Fred placed the frothy brew in front of Maisie, which she sipped before turning around. All eyes were upon her, the outsider.

She set down her glass and looked again at the villagers, weighing her words with care. She had no need to raise her voice; the crackle and spit of a fire in the inglenook was the only sound to punctuate her words. “You’ve all seen me in this village, and you know I’m working for the company involved in negotiations to purchase the brickworks and the estate. And you know by now that my interest has been in the crimes, and more importantly, the fires that have occurred in this village.”

Her words were met with silence. One man shuffled his feet, only to be met with a scornful look from his wife, who crossed her arms and turned away from him. Maisie continued.

“Heronsdene is a beautiful village, and I believe you are all good people.” Again she paused, choosing her words with care. “But a secret cannot be kept forever—”

At that moment the door opened, and it appeared to Maisie that every single man and woman in the room drew breath as the man they had known before the fire only as Webb, the traveling gypsy, came into the bar. Maisie nodded and smiled, holding out her hand to the seat just vacated next to her. No one attempted to leave. No one made an excuse to depart, or coughed, or made a noise.

Webb joined Maisie and looked around the room, as if to remember every single face and to torment each villager with his silence.

“I was just saying,” said Maisie, her voice low, “that a secret cannot be kept forever.”

Webb cleared his throat to speak, but instead nodded to Maisie, who continued addressing those assembled.

“You came together this evening to decide what to do about this man, whom you knew as Pim Martin when he was a boy. He was from a family you understood to be of Dutch blood until the night of the Zeppelin raid, when you came to sense the power of doubt. Will anyone speak to this man of that night?”

There was silence for a moment. Then a woman began to sob and was comforted by Mrs. Pendle. One man stood as if to leave, but was stopped by another, who laid his hand on the man’s shoulder and shook his head.

Maisie spoke again. “Pim Martin went to war as a boy. He fought for his country, as did the other sons of Heronsdene. This man, then barely fourteen years of age, saw death of a most terrible kind—” Her words caught in her throat, as she banished images of the war from her mind. “Then he came home to . . . nothing.” She paused. “So I ask again—will anyone speak to this man of that night?”

Now the silence in the room was interwoven by more sobbing. Maisie watched one woman repeatedly punch her knees with her fist, as if to strike feeling into limbs that were otherwise numb.

The man she knew to be Mr. Whyte coughed and raised his hand, taking off his cap, then passing it from his left hand to his right and back again. “It’s hard, to tell of what happened—”

Another voice joined in. “It was madness. We were all touched by madness and didn’t know what we were doing.”

“It wouldn’t’ve happened if the boys hadn’t been killed.”

“Or if that Sandermere hadn’t been drunk, the lying hound.”

Now voices came from left and right, as if every man and woman wanted to speak at once, to confess and have the hand of absolution laid upon them.

Fred Yeoman raised his hand. “Miss Dobbs is right. We’ve got to tell, and it’s no good starting in the middle and then going both ways at once. Someone has to start at the beginning, and it might as well be me, because I’m the landlord here. But first I’ll put a glass in Pim’s hand, if you don’t mind.”

“Webb. You can call me Webb now.”

Yeoman nodded and pulled an ale, finishing the pour with a hearty head before passing it to the gypsy. Then he wiped the counter once again, threw the cloth to one side, and gripped the edge of the bar as he began to speak, looking down at his whitening fists, then up at Webb and the gathering in front of him.

“After you’d gone, after they’d taken you to the reformatory, there was change here in the village. We lost a lot of our boys, the first lot in ’ 15, then others here and there, then a dozen all together in the summer of 1916. It was during the hop-picking that the telegrams with news of more lost were delivered.” He looked at Webb. “You’ll remember them. There was Derek Tovis, John Barham, Tim Whyte, Bobby Pickles, Sam Pendle, Peter Tillings—all gone on the same day. All our boys.”

Webb nodded. “I remember them, each and every one.”

“Word went round like wildfire, and it was as if we’d lost them all at once. Small village like this, and we’d lost nigh on all our boys.”

Yeoman cleared his throat. Then George Chambers, whom Maisie had visited, looked directly at Webb, raising his hand to speak.

“All I’ve got to say is, that it got us all here, right here.” He thumped his chest. “It felt like we had one big heart that was breaking, here in the village, and we didn’t know what to do. How to get rid of the . . . the pain.”

Maisie looked at Webb, at his fingers, curled and frozen as he clutched his glass, which she feared might break.

Whyte took up the story. “Then, that night, we’d all been in here. You know, Pim—Webb—you know how it was, how we’d always come here, to talk of village matters, sort things out. Well, we were here, talking of the boys, wondering how we would all get through it. And that young Sandermere was in.”

“I refused to serve him, not only on account of his age, but by the smell of him he’d already been at his father’s brandy,” said Yeoman.

Whyte continued. “It’s not as if anyone would ever listen to him, as a rule. Not as if he was respected, like his brother, Henry, and his father before him.” He shook his head and brushed his hand across his forehead. “But he was going on about the Hun this, and Fritz that, and we all sort of joined in. It was somewhere to put the—you know—the hate.” He looked around the room, his discomfort at such candor causing him to shrink back against the wall.

Yeoman spoke again. “We was all talking, about the boys, about the war and the Germans, when we heard that drone. It was strange, a sort of muffled whirring. Bill over there said, ’Can you hear that?’ Then Sandermere stumbled outside and looked up and came running back. ’It’s a Zeppelin!’ he shouted. Someone said, ’Don’t be bloody silly, boy, you’re one over the top. What would a Zeppelin want here?’ The Hun had taken enough of our boys over there.”

“Then we heard it,” said another man, who also took off his cap as he spoke, looking with intent at Webb, as if willing him to understand.

“The explosion,” added Yeoman. “Down at the smithy.” He coughed and held his chest. “We all rushed out, and the fire was already well out of control, but someone started running to the telephone kiosk in the next village, to call out the fire brigade.”

Whyte took up the story. “We had to do something, so we all ran down to the smithy to do what we did today, to put out the fire, which was in the barn next door.” He looked at Webb. “Your people were at the bakery, son. Your father never came down to the inn as a rule, on account of being up early to start the ovens.”

Webb swallowed deeply, his eyes watery yet his gaze unflinching. He said nothing, but looked around the room to see who might take up the story. Maisie turned to Yeoman, who spoke again.

“We thought the smith was dead. Couple of people had gone to his house, but there was no answer, so we thought he’d been in the barn—always pottering at night, the smith.” He paused, then reached behind the bar for a brandy bottle and a tot glass. He filled the glass, downed the amber liquid in one gulp, and poured a second time. “Then that Sandermere boy started again, yelling about vengeance, about revenge. Then he says, for us all to hear—” He turned to Webb. “I’m sorry, lad, I am so sorry—are you sure you want to hear this?”

Webb nodded and reached for the brandy bottle, pouring a measure into his empty beer glass. “Go on, Mr. Yeoman. I’m listening.”

“Sandermere said, ’Them von Martins called the Zeppelin to kill us all.’ He kept screaming and yelling that you were really Germans, that you weren’t Dutch at all, and that you’d avoided being sent to an internment camp because your father had lied. He said your sister Anna had told him that your name was really von Martin, not van Maarten, and you were spies.” He choked back tears, and the villagers clustered closer together. “And we had no doubt, because our boys were dead, and our village had been bombed, that he was telling the truth. He just kept screaming to go and get them, that they must pay with their lives. It—it’s hard to tell it now, but it was as if we’d been struck by madness. We weren’t ordinary people anymore, we were one big monster, an animal out of control going after the enemy, who had to pay. And we let a drunken boy lead us, with his filthy ideas and his taunting, until we believed we had to make the enemy suffer, for our sons and for our village.”

Webb did not look up but asked, in an almost whisper, “And what did you do?”

“We had fire in our hands, and we had fire in our hearts, and we ran, a mob holding pieces of burning wood from the barn, nothing but a rabble with Sandermere at the head, moving toward the bakery. And the terrible thing is, your parents were running down the street, to see if they could help.” He choked back tears and put his head in his hands.

Whyte took up the story again. “Then they saw us coming, with Sandermere shouting, ’There they are, Fritz and his wife!’ And Jacob put his arm around Bettin and ran back to the bakery. She was screaming for Anna, to go indoors—the girl was just coming out to see what she could do—and they all hurried inside.” He stopped to take a breath, rubbing his chest as if winded by his memories. “I don’t know where the paraffin came from, but soon the bakery was burning, and we bayed like animals, for the blood of the German family we’d been told lived inside.”

Mrs. Pendle stepped forward, her voice low, as she spoke. “We were the devil himself that night. It was as if all the terrible things you ever thought in your life had made lunatics of us, and we could not stop. We are murderers, each and every one of us, because we killed an innocent family. It doesn’t matter where they came from, they were innocent. And we are ashamed. We are so ashamed.”

Fred Yeoman spoke again. “I don’t know when we came to our senses. The house had almost burned by the time the fire brigade came, and the men who were sent by the authorities had no questions for us. And the smith had been out on the railway lines, picking up coal for his fires, so he wasn’t dead after all.” He moved to place his hand on Webb’s shoulder, then drew back. “The next day, we all saw the truth of what we’d done. It’s been like a sickness ever since. A few have moved away, but it’s hard to do with a village like this. You know your own, and you know where you belong. We’ll never get over it, never. We’ll bear that cross, all of us, forever, and there’s not one of us that goes to bed at night and doesn’t hear the screams.”

“Then, the next day, we found out you were presumed dead,” said Whyte. “And the lie went on, a whole family killed by the war. Soon we all began to believe the tale, though we never forgot that lunacy, that insanity that laid claim to every single one of us.” He looked around the room, as if to dare a contradiction. “Then the fires began, each year, about the same time as the anniversary of the Zeppelin raid. And we believed we were being haunted, that the spirit of Pim Martin had come home to drive us into our graves, had come for his due. So we didn’t report the fires, because we knew we had it coming to us. We deserved to die, if it came to that.”

Silence enveloped the room. No one stirred, no one coughed or shuffled their feet. Only the fire crackled in the grate, the odd spark spitting out onto the hearth as the logs smoldered.

Yeoman was the first to move, pulling down tot glasses and filling them with brandy. He began speaking as he poured. “And the thing is, I never did find out—I don’t think anyone did—why Sandermere went off like that. He’d been seen with Anna, was sweet on her, so why would he do such a thing? I never knew whether it was a mania or the drink that made him accuse like he did, that made him lie and cause death into the bargain.” He set the bottle down and looked at Maisie, as if for help. “And he’s had us by the throat since it happened, reminding us that we were all in it together and if one talked, we’d all be branded killers.”

“You were killers,” said Webb, breaking his silence. “You took my family, and they were good people. They came here to be part of this village, part of you, and you murdered them.” He sighed and took up a tot of brandy. “But—” He paused and looked around the room, his gaze alighting upon each villager in turn. “But I have come to know something in the past few days, something I learned from my father when I was a child, except that somewhere in the middle I forgot. I have learned, I hope, that revenge can only take more lives, and this life of mine—my wife, my daughter—is too precious for me to give it over to vengeance.”

“Do you forgive us?” A voice barely more than a whisper asked the question.

Webb shook his head. “That is not for me to do.” He finished his drink and rapped the glass back on the bar. “This business of forgiving yourselves is your work.” He turned to Maisie. “Beulah was right; she said you would set me free. I thank you for your kindness—to her, to me, to my people.”

Webb picked up his hat and left the inn, the cluster of villagers parting to allow him to reach the door, which he closed, gently, as he stepped outside.

Fred Yeoman turned to Maisie. “He won’t come back, will he, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie shook her head. “The gypsies will move on after Beulah’s funeral, and they won’t be back. They rarely return to a place where one of the clan has died. It’s bad luck.”

“I’m glad we talked to Pim. Can’t call him Webb, not with him being the image of his father, now that I’ve had a good look at him.”

“It’s done now. It’s out in the open and we’ve told of what went on, but it won’t make us sleep easier in our beds,” added Whyte.

The room was quiet once more, as if all assembled here were trying on their memories of that night to see how they fit, only to realize that they would wear their guilt forever.

Maisie was thoughtful before speaking again. “Think of what Webb said, that there’s no time for vengeance. I can’t help you with your shame, your remorse, but I can make one small suggestion.”

“What’s that?” Fred Yeoman leaned forward.

“You’ve let their land grow wild. In law it belongs to Webb, and you never know—he may come to claim it one day or he may wish to sell. Look after it for him. Keep it well. People died there, so it deserves to be cherished.” Maisie stepped away from the bar, reaching across to shake Fred Yeoman’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Yeoman. I have to be off now.”

Once again the villagers stepped aside as Maisie left the inn. She stood outside for a few moments, and as she pulled her collar up she heard the sound of sobbing coming from inside and the low muffled voices of the villagers. She walked back to the MG, stopping alongside the land that once held the bakery where Jacob and Bettin van Maarten worked to raise a family and be part of a community. She thought she saw movement on the other side of the lot and stepped aside, so that the light from the church gate could illuminate the land. Michaelmas daisies had been strewn where once the threshold had been, where Jacob Martin, the baker, had been photographed holding a loaf of bread baked in the shape of his adopted country, surrounded by her flags flapping in the wind.

SOON SHE WAS on her way to Chelstone, but stopped when she reached the next village, to place a call from the telephone kiosk.

“B. T. Drummond speaking.”

“I guessed you’d be there, waiting by the night phone.”

“Maisie Dobbs! I thought you had gone to ground and I’d never get my story. If this is about that fire, then you’re late. I already know, the story’s mine, and I’m coming out as soon as it’s light—with a photographer.”

“The fire is only part of why I’m calling. I have your scoop for you, if you want it, though I don’t think you’ll be able to print it—but a promise is a promise and I said I would let you know.”

Maisie heard a notebook flipping open.

“Right, then, go ahead.”

“It’s too long a tale, Beattie. Can we meet before you come down to Heronsdene tomorrow? I can see you in Paddock Wood, if you like.”

“Right you are. Nine o’clock at the station?”

“Nine o’clock it is.”

Maisie set the telephone receiver back on the cradle and returned to the MG. Settled into the work of driving, she sighed. No one, not even Webb, had asked why Alfred Sandermere had been so anxious, even in his impaired state, to see an end to the Dutch family. It was an omission that allowed her a measure of relief. She had been cautioned by Maurice Blanche during her apprenticeship to take care when handling truth, and she knew that such knowledge would have brought nothing but added distress to a man who had lost so much.

NINETEEN

Maisie arrived at her father’s home late and tired, with black smudges on her forehead, her hair matted and slicked to her face. The odor of disinfectant and smoke was still clinging to her as she dragged her bag from the motor car and entered the cottage.

Frankie banked up the kitchen fire and brought the old tin bath from the scullery, setting it on the floor in front of the coal stove. As soon as the water was hot, Maisie filled the bath while her father walked across to the stables for his customary final check on the horses stabled at Chelstone. She opened the stove door so that heat from the blaze would keep her warm as she bathed, washing away the stench of fire and several livid red smears of Alfred Sandermere’s blood that remained on her arm above the wrist. She was exhausted, the muscles of her neck and shoulders were taut and aching, and though she was keen to return to London, she knew that a day under her father’s wing would be solace indeed. She would remain in Kent until Beulah Webb was buried and the ritual of the final farewell done.

Finishing her bath, Maisie dressed in a pair of old tweed trousers and one of her father’s worn collarless shirts—not garb she would wear on the London streets but comfortable in his home and while she was at Chelstone. They shared a stew of rabbit and vegetables, and later, while Maisie dozed in an armchair by the fire, her father touched her shoulder.

“Better go up, love, you look all in.”

She agreed, knowing that tomorrow she would have to be awake early, and on her way to Paddock Wood station to meet Beattie Drummond. She wanted to see Maurice, but the day had been too long already. She would see him tomorrow.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Maisie collected Beattie from the station, and from there they went to a small tearoom in Paddock Wood. The shop, constructed of white overlapping weatherboard in the Kentish style, offered low-beamed comfort as they entered, with a counter to the right filled with plates of cakes and pastries baked to tempt even the most sated appetite. There were drop scones and cheese scones and melt-in-the-mouth butterfly cakes decorated with marzipan leaves. There was tea bread, malt loaf, and walnut cake; chocolate sponge, rich fruit cake, shortbreads, filled rolls, and cream horns, as well as Maisie’s favorite, Eccles cakes.

They chose a seat in the corner by the window and, when the waitress came, asked for a large pot of tea and two Eccles cakes, an order to which Beattie added a slice of malt loaf before the waitress left the table.

“I was at the newspaper until late—didn’t have supper or breakfast. I am famished.”

When the tea was poured and the cakes divvied out, they leaned forward to talk. Beattie flipped open her notebook.

“No mention of my name,” instructed Maisie. “And no direct words from me—understood?”

Beattie sighed. “If that’s what I have to promise to get the story, so be it. Start anywhere you like.”

Maisie sipped her tea and commenced telling the story as she would a child’s tale, painting a picture of the characters and their sensibilities, fears, loves, hates, weaknesses and strengths. Beattie was silent as Maisie spoke, only interrupting to ask the odd question or to lick her finger, flick back through the pages of her notebook, and then nod her head for Maisie to continue. Almost two hours, one more pot of tea, and a fresh round of malt loaf later, Beattie leaned back in her seat and shook her head.

“I have no idea how I am going to write this story,” she sighed.

Maisie poured more tea. “I can’t help you there. I can only tell you what happened.”

Beattie flicked through her pages of notes again, still shaking her head. “And Anna was expecting Sandermere’s child?”

“That’s what her friend said.” Maisie looked down as she spoke.

“And that’s what killed her family?”

“It was a catalyst for Sandermere’s wanting Anna out of the way.”

“But in situations like that, where there’s an unwed mother with the wrong ’breeding,’ it’s not as if his sort worry, do they? At best they usually throw some money at the family—well enough to have the girl go away to have the baby, who’s then adopted far from home to avoid any embarrassment over a rich man’s offspring living at a lower station, just up the road.”

“I have no more light to throw on this story for you, Beattie. Sorry.”

Beattie Drummond shook her head. “No, no, you’ve given me a lot here, but as I said, I’ll have to think long and hard about what to do and how I can make my mark with it—before someone else does.”

“No one else has this amount of information, but by this afternoon much of it will be in the hands of the Compton Company. I have no reason to believe they will make any part of it public, though.”

Beattie looked at her watch. “I’d better be off. I’ve to meet the photographer’s train at eleven.”

Maisie nodded and pushed back her chair.

“Are you going back to London today?” Beattie Drummond picked up her bag and walked toward the door with Maisie.

“No, I’m staying for Beulah Webb’s funeral tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, she’ll be laid to rest in Heronsdene churchyard at eleven o’clock.”

“Now that is news. A gypsy funeral—the village will be packed! I’m glad I mentioned London, otherwise I’d never have known.”

“Oh, yes, you would, B. T. Drummond. You would have found out, a terrier of the news like you.”

MAISIE RETURNED TO Chelstone, where she would visit Maurice Blanche and, later, James Compton, who was now in Kent. He had informed her via a telephone call to her father’s house that he would be at Chelstone Manor in the afternoon to receive her final report. He would later be in conference with his legal counsel and solicitors for the estate, to discuss the land purchase in light of the recent fire and current perceived values.

During the drive, she ruminated on the fact that she had withheld one small grain of information from the newspaper reporter, not an overt omission but more in allowing the reporter to make an assumption. When Beattie referred to “Sandermere” as the father of Anna’s unborn child, Maisie had done nothing to disabuse her of that belief. Taken literally, it was not an incorrect conclusion.

Maisie parked the MG outside the Groom’s Cottage and, knowing her father was still at work, went straight to the Dower House to see Maurice Blanche, who waved to her from the conservatory as soon as he saw her walking up through the rose garden. The housekeeper showed her through to where he was standing, waiting for her. She was pleased to see that he looked better and said as much.

“I confess I was dealing with matters of some concern when you came before, but now I am back to my old self. Sometimes the worries of the world give one pause for thought, and one wonders—especially someone of my antiquity—why history is not a more efficient teacher.” He held out a hand, inviting Maisie to take a seat next to his in front of the bank of windows commanding a view that seemed to comprise only converging shades of green and blue, where Wealden fields and forests met a clear and distant sky. “Now then, tell me what has happened.”

For the second time that day, Maisie recounted the events that led up to the killing of the van Maarten family, knowing she would have to steep herself in the narrative again with James. This time, however, she gave a complete report.

“So Anna did not consort with Alfred Sandermere?”

“No, she didn’t.” She shook her head. “Something did not sit right in the story told by Phyllis, that the child was Alfred’s, though I am sure Anna made her believe it was so.” She paused. “I didn’t know her, but I knew enough about her, and I just could not see how a girl who was sweet on Henry Sandermere—a fine person, according to all who knew him—could throw herself at Alfred. Admittedly, I have no means by which I can confirm my conclusion, but I am sure it’s right.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“According to his military record, Henry came home on leave in early June 1916. He was keen on Anna, who by all accounts was quite a beauty. I suspect that when the young subaltern returned from service in France, he melted her heart, and they spent more time together than just the few moments it took for him to purchase a cake or two at the bakery. By the time his leave was over, she was with child. In July, shortly after his return to duty, he was killed by a sniper.” Maisie sighed. “I suspect she panicked. Her brother had already caused much distress in the household on account of a Sandermere, and she probably wanted to spare her parents further anguish if she could. She was seen spending some considerable time with Alfred, who pursued her relentlessly—to him she was even more alluring because his brother had fallen for her.”

“Despite her station.”

“Yes, despite her station.” Maisie paused, then went on. “I believe she told Alfred about her condition. She may have wanted him to propose marriage. It is my guess that she probably said she was going to inform his parents that she carried their dead son’s child.”

“And that signed her death certificate, though she didn’t know it at the time.”

“I doubt whether Alfred knew it at the time either, but he soon would have seen the writing on the wall, the possibility that his father would recognize the right of the child to the Sandermere name, which would put Alfred out of the line of inheritance. Henry’s fondness for Anna was well known, and the family must have been aware that they were spending a great deal of time together during his leave—enough to fall in love.”

Maurice nodded. “And in a time of war such parents would perhaps turn a blind eye to the girl’s lowly standing, imagining that after the war the chasm that divided their circumstances would drive them apart, and everyone would be in their place again.”

Maisie flushed and pressed her lips together, her eyes filling with tears as his words struck a resonant chord. “Yes, that’s probably exactly what happened.” She wiped her eyes. “Alfred must have known that, for his grieving parents, such considerations—that chasm, as you say—would diminish with the prospect of their beloved older son’s son growing up at the Sandermere estate, with a beautiful young woman whom they could mold, even though she would not have been their choice. Or they could have adopted the son, another recognition of his status.” She paused, remembering the attack on Paishey. “The rank that went along with being heir to the estate was crucial to Alfred. He had stepped into the shoes of the popular and much-liked Henry and could not bear to risk the loss of what was, in effect, his foundation.”

“And when the Zeppelin bomb hit, even in his drunken state Alfred saw an immediate means of dispensing with an embarrassing situation, an unwelcome claim to the Sandermere name.”

“Yes. Shock can give new energy to even the most addled brain.”

Maurice nodded. “An interesting case, Maisie. You must be glad it’s over.”

She gave a half laugh and was thoughtful before replying. “Yes, I’m glad it’s over, all of it. But at least it gave me something to chew over after Simon passed and following his funeral. Now his death seems as if it were something in the distance behind me, as if we were at sea and he is vanishing into the mist.”

“Yes, time is strange in that way, is it not? You will be glad to get back to London, won’t you.”

“But not until after the gypsy’s funeral tomorrow. Then I’ll go back.”

They sat in silence for a while, comfortable in the quietness and solitude of their renewed friendship. Maisie had wanted to ask Maurice about his work, a question or two to follow his comments when she entered the conservatory, but she was aware of the fragility of their reconciliation. It was his secrecy—understandable, she now realized—that had led to their discord last year. Now, as time and the thread of forgiveness drew them together again, it was Maurice who began to speak.

“In some ways, Maisie, similar work has engaged us of late. We—my contacts overseas and my colleagues in London—are most concerned with a growing frustration on the other side of the Channel. The depression we find ourselves in here, and which is causing havoc in America, is allowing people to give weight to that which divides them, rather than to the shared experiences and elements of connection they see mirrored in their fellow man. There are those in Germany who would use discrimination to elevate their politics, which gives us cause for disquiet. And on the continent in Spain, inequities threaten to become incendiary There are many people, Maisie—and I confess, I am among their number—who believe our peace to be only so resilient and who fear another war.”

“I pray it doesn’t come to that, Maurice.”

“Yes, pray, Maisie. Do pray.”

And as her beloved mentor regarded the vista before him, his hands clenched on the arms of his chair, Maisie reached across and placed her hand on his.

LATER, IN THE library at Chelstone, Maisie gave James Compton a complete briefing according to the case assigned to her when they met in London. She explained new facts she had gathered and recapped those elements already reported, concluding that there would be no more petty crime, and the fires would now cease. Webb—Pim van Maarten—would most likely never return to Heronsdene following the funeral of the woman who adopted him.

“Well, we know Alfred Sandermere won’t be committing any more acts of burglary, on his own property or anyone else’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh dear, of course, you wouldn’t have heard.” James sat forward. “He died in Pembury Hospital this morning.”

“Oh, poor man.”

“Poor man?”

“Yes, to be troubled, haunted in that way, since childhood. What a dreadful way to live—and to die.”

James sat back in his chair. “I don’t know if I can be that forgiving. The man was a liability, a menace. The village will be better off without him, and—I hate to admit it—so will we.”

Maisie frowned. “I would have thought his death might make purchase of the brickworks and the estate rather difficult.”

He shook his head. “Following Henry’s death, his father added codicils to the trust that would enable their solicitors to go ahead with a sale of the property if anything should happen to Alfred and he was sole heir at the time of his death, without a son to inherit. Essentially, the whole estate is now for sale and we are the buyers.”

“What will you do with the house?”

“Demolish, then apply for permission to build several new houses on the site.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those who doesn’t like to see new houses go up.”

“They can be such a blight on the land.”

“We’re in the business of construction, Maisie. And we’ve got a brickworks right there, ready to be improved with investment and an injection of new practices.”

She nodded. “What about the horses?”

“We’re selling all but one.”

“Sandermere’s bay?”

“How did you guess?”

“I’m my father’s daughter. I know a good horse when I see one.”

“He’ll certainly have a better life. And I’m bringing the groom over to Chelstone. Your father will be his boss. I’m sure he’ll teach the boy even more than he knows already.”

“I’m glad. He was kind to the horses.” Maisie paused. “James, when are you returning to Canada?”

“In a month or so. There’s a lot to do here, so I expect I’ll sail at the beginning of November—don’t want to leave it too late. Those bloody icebergs make me nervous.”

“Of course.” Maisie nodded, then cleared her throat.

James Compton looked at her across the desk. “I’ve known you a long time now, Maisie, since before Enid died. And I think I know when you have a thing or two on your mind.”

“It’s something you said, days ago, about expanding the Compton Corporation in Canada, about looking at security for your company and your sites over there.”

“Yes, it’s all on the agenda. We have to prepare the company for expansion when the economy gains enough momentum to get out of this slump, and the surprising increase in house-building will help us. Why?”

“It’s my assistant, Mr. Beale. He and his wife lost their small daughter earlier this year, and what with one thing and another he wants to emigrate to Canada, to give their boys a better way of life.”

“You want to help him, even though you’ll lose him?”

Maisie nodded. “They aren’t getting over it. His wife looks more drawn each time I see her, and I know they are saving for passage.”

James picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. “Nothing’s going to happen overnight, I can tell you that. The markets are still depressed, so even though I have spoken of future developments, we cannot hurry that chain of events.”

“I see.” Maisie bit her lip.

“However, I have made a note here, and I know you can vouch for him. Wasn’t he rather good with telephonic engineering?”

“Yes, he was a sapper in the war. He’s been working for me for two years now, so he understands matters of investigation and security. And as he’ll tell you, he can turn his hand to anything.”

James nodded. “A fine reference, Maisie. I believe I might have a position for him in a year, perhaps two. I can speak to one of my staff about it.”

Maisie smiled and nodded. “Thank you, James. I won’t mention it to him, as I wouldn’t want to get his hopes up, but I will write to you again next year.”

“Good.” James held out his hand. “I expect you have a bill for me.”

“And my written report.” She handed him a manila envelope.

James pulled her notes out of the envelope, glanced at the bottom line of the invoice, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for his checkbook. He unscrewed the top of his gray and black marbled fountain pen and began to write, using a wooden-handled blotter to dry the ink. “There you are. Good work. I am sure the company will use your services again.”

Maisie took the proffered check. “James, I’m curious. What will happen to the Sandermere money? There must be a fortune there.”

“Oh, the old man was very specific in terms of establishing a trust and how it should be used. He made it watertight so even Alfred couldn’t change it. There’s to be a new school built in the village, with a generous annual allowance for books and materials. A fund is to be set up to provide scholarships for those children who show promise either academically or in music. And there is to be provision made for improvements to the village, though there are protections in place to avoid overconstruction on the High Street. It wouldn’t surprise me if you saw electricity in every house and on the streets of Heronsdene within a year or two. And of course there’s the usual stipend for the church, to pay for repairs and to keep the war memorial in good condition. After the story you’ve just told me, and considering how Sandermere made the villagers’ lives a misery, I don’t know whether this is the perfect end or whether they don’t deserve such luxuries.”

“Let’s just assume, James, that for Heronsdene it’s all for the best.”

AUTUMN HAD JUST begun to finger the trees, sending cool breezes to sway branches and cast leaves scudding down the street, on the day Beulah Webb, matriarch of her tribe, was laid to rest in Heronsdene churchyard.

When Maisie arrived in the village at half past ten, the High Street was already narrowed by vardos from near and far, jostling for position, lined up almost to the crossroads at the edge of town. Some gypsies came in old lorries, swaying from side to side along the country roads, while others walked across fields from farms close to Heronsdene. The women clustered together, clad in black, all color banished from their clothing. The ritual of a funeral, as at so many gypsy gatherings, demanded that the women and the men be parted, each to their own, for the duration of the day. As she walked closer to the church, Maisie could hear the cries and lamentations of those directly related to Beulah. Grief was expected to be voiced aloud, the pitch of each gypsy’s wail in direct proportion to the mourner’s relationship to the departed one. Paishey was surrounded by women, who held her by the arms as she cried to the heavens for Beulah to come again.

On the street, villagers stood and watched, most from doorways, standing back into the shadows to diminish their presence in deference to the gypsy throng. There were no complaints, no mutterings that they should go, or speculation as to what they thought they were doing, taking over the street. Word had gone round that young Pim Martin, the baker’s son, who they’d all thought had died in the war, was with them now, had been taken in by the travelers, and the gypsy being laid to rest was the one who had saved him. Knowing their debt, the people stood back, giving their streets up for just one day, all signs warning NO GYPSIES having been removed for the duration.

Soon the crowd outside the church began to quiet, with one or two pointing to the road. The descending silence allowed the gentle clip-clop of horses’ hooves to reverberate toward the church, as Beulah’s vardo came into view, with Webb at the reins, dressed all in black and without a hat, his hair swept back. Next to him, Beulah’s lurcher lay with her head across his thighs. As he drew up alongside the church, opposite the place where his family had met death in a fiery hell, men came forward to help unhitch the vardo, one of them taking the horse away until after the funeral. The weeping began again as Beulah’s coffin was taken from her traveling home. With Webb leading the pallbearers, the rom, shoulders braced to hold her weight, carried her into the church for the service, which would be followed by removal of the coffin to the burial site. She would be committed to earth next to the graves of Jacob, Bettin and Anna van Maarten.

Maisie remained at the back of the church. Though she knew gypsies who were not of Beulah’s tribe questioned her presence, she would see one of those she knew nod in her direction, to explain, and thought they might be saying, Beulah made her welcome; she’s a diddakoi, one of us on her mother’s side. And staring up at the stained glass windows, Maisie remembered, just, her grandmother’s funeral. When she died, her father had given word of her passing to a band of water gypsies, who had taken the news along the rivers and canals. On the day of her funeral, narrow boats came from near and far, her people coming to bid her Godspeed.

With the burial over, Webb hitched Beulah’s horse to her vardo once more and led the gypsies back to the clearing, where a feast of hotchi-witchi—hedgehog—stew had been prepared. Maisie walked across the empty hop-gardens and saw, at the bottom of the hill, the Londoners waiting, as the locals had in the village, to watch the gypsies gather. Billy Beale waved out to Maisie and came to greet her, with Doreen at his side.

“We just wanted to pay our respects to the old girl. We’ll go, once they know we’ve come. Most of us are packed up now, ready to catch the milk-train to Paddock Wood in the morning, then a hoppers’ train to London from there.”

“Webb will be glad that you’re all here. I’m pleased you stayed.”

Maisie turned toward the field where the gypsy horses grazed and watched one of the men move them down and into a corner, where he tied each halter to the fence to keep them in place. Webb maneuvered Beulah’s vardo into the field away from the clearing, and as he alighted from the driver’s seat and unhitched the horse for the last time, he looked down toward the Londoners. He remained still for a moment before raising a hand to acknowledge their respect, at which sign the outsiders began to walk back to the huts to complete their packing for the journey home, back to the bustle of London.

Paishey came to Maisie, taking her by the hand and bringing her into the clearing to sit with the women and partake of the funeral meal. Though the clearing was full of people, the talk was low, the natural throatiness of the language tempered in respect for the dead.

When the eating was done, and with no announcement, the gypsies started to make their way to the center of the field where Beulah’s vardo had been left. A group of women remained behind, bringing out the bowls dedicated to the washing of china and cutlery, pots and pans.

Maisie looked for the lurcher and realized the dog was not with the gypsies—in fact, she had not seen her since the funeral. Webb seemed unconcerned, and as the gypsies gathered, he began to pour paraffin around the perimeter of the vardo, which contained everything the gypsy woman had owned: her clothes, her crockery, her bed linens, her crystals, the dowsing rod, and the last bunches of Michaelmas daisies she had tied, ready to sell door-to-door. Another man came forward, running with a burning branch from the fire. He handed it to Webb, who held the torch up high for all to see, then threw it upon the vardo with a scream of despair. Maisie flinched at the eruption, as flames tore through the wood, paint peeled back, and the china, glass and metal inside crackled and spat back at the inferno.

As they watched, Paishey brought Webb’s violin to him. Once more he gently opened the case and removed the instrument from its nesting place of golden velvet. He placed the violin under his chin, drew back the bow, and began to play, each soulful note of the lament carried up on the wind and cast across the fields and along the byways that Beulah had ambled for many a year. Maisie stared into the flames as Webb played, the music growing in intensity, the rhythm changing time and again in the way that life changes, so that, as the fire leaped and scurried around and through the vardo, each refrain became a tribute to Beulah from girlhood to crone. This was the gypsy way, this fire that marked the end of a life, when all that was owned and all manner of ties to an earthly existence were destroyed. Tomorrow, when the vardo’s iron chassis was cold, the gypsies would take it with them, to rebuild. Another traveling home would rise from the remains like a phoenix from the ashes.

When the flames abated, Maisie said goodbye to Webb and Paishey. She did not tarry long with the gypsies. It was time for her to leave because, in truth, though a trickle of blood from the traveling folk ran in her veins, she knew she was not one of them. She was a Londoner, and it was time for her to go home.

As she walked through the village, she stopped at the church, where, as she expected, the lurcher was with her mistress, lying on top of the fresh earth and bounty of blooms that covered her final resting place. Maisie knelt down by the animal, who did not move but remained with her pointed nose between her front paws, eyes open wide, guarding.

“You can’t stay here, jook. Your people are moving on.”

The dog still did not even flinch, so Maisie remained awhile, stroking her coat and lulled by the sounds of the village—the birds on high, a horse being ridden along the High Street, children playing in the fields. Soon, though, Maisie stroked the lurcher once more, remembering the time when Beulah’s dog had walked with her to the MG, her glistening diamond-like eyes reflecting the moonlight.

As she drove through Heronsdene, Maisie saw Beattie Drummond, notebook in hand, interviewing Fred Yeoman outside the inn. She did not stop, to talk or pass the time of day. She was going home.

EPILOGUE

In early November, Maisie decided that the ritual she referred to as her final accounting was long overdue on the Heronsdene case. In the interim, work had come in at a more pleasing pace, although the economic slump that gripped the country showed no signs of improvement, with evidence of a deepening crisis. Those of a certain station were able to retain the illusion that nothing had changed since the heady days of the early 1920s, and the increase in house construction remained baffling to economists. But for the poor, life became even more desperate, with labor lines growing, soup kitchens struggling to feed more mouths, factories closing, and the country in the grip of despair.

Along with that mood of hopelessness came the search for a scapegoat, with the finger pointed toward those who appeared not to belong, who were not considered “one of us.” Oswald Mosley’s particular brand of fascism was feeding upon the discontent, and it appeared to Maisie that people were beginning to take to their corners, ready for a fight. Thus she would not allow herself to breathe easy, feeling the weight of responsibility she had assumed, not only for her own financial security—as had many women of her age who would remain spinsters due to a war that had claimed a generation of young men—but for the weekly wage that kept the Beale family from want. Only when she had cleared her desk of urgent matters would she take time to reflect upon the month’s worth of events that still caused her heart to ache.

“I won’t be in the office for a few days, Billy. It’s time to write my final notes on the Heronsdene case and put it to rest.”

Billy nodded. He understood the importance of this time to his employer, and in his way was emulating her procedures, closing those cases she now allowed him to consider his own with a visit to each place of significance encountered along the way.

“I expect I’ll see you on Tuesday or Wednesday, then. I’ve got me ’ands full with this woman who reckons the shopkeeper is thievin’ from her, the one the police didn’t want to know about. And there’s that other woman who says her best friend is bein’ blackmailed and will pay us to find out.”

“Good work, Billy.” She tidied her desk and collected her shoulder bag and document case. “I just hope the weather holds. This sunshine is lovely, but that wind is going right through me.”

“And takin’ the leaves with it—’ave you seen the square? It looks like every leaf in London came to cover the paving stones.”

Maisie smiled as Billy opened the door for her. “You can leave word with my father, if you need me.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

HER FIRST STOP was not in Kent but in London. At St. Anselm’s school, she remained in her motor car and watched from beyond the gates as the school’s cadet force—an extracurricular activity for those who might one day wish to join the services—marched back and forth across the quadrangle. She thought back to the headmaster, and the way he talked about the school being an army where everyone had to fit in, play their part, and not rock the boat. As the boys clattered across the paving stones, their uniforms pressed and their boots seeming one size too big, she thought about those too young who went to war, the Pim Martins, boys treated as men when it came time to face the cannonade. After listening to the boy in charge shout, “About turn!” one last time, she pulled out into the traffic, on her way to see Priscilla.

Maisie was shown into the entrance hall of the house in Holland Park, just in time to see a gang of boys rush through in a boisterous game of tag. Tarquin, who was bringing up the rear of the unruly snake of boyhood that galloped past, greeted her in his usual manner, by leaping into her arms and kissing her on both cheeks.

“Tante Maisie, Tante Maisie, watch this! Stay where you are and watch this!” Still without his four front teeth, he clambered from her arms and ran to the top of the stairs, where he swung his leg over the banister and, holding on as if his life depended upon it, slid at some speed to the bottom of the staircase, where he promptly fell off and landed on his behind.

Soon his brothers and their friends had sprinted up to the top of the staircase, ready to slide down the banister one by one.

“Get off that banister and down those stairs immediately! You are nothing but a band of ruffians.” Priscilla walked to the bottom of the staircase, her hands on her hips, then called out, “Elinor! Do something about these horrible creatures before I have to do it myself!” She turned to Maisie, grinning. “Better not let them see me smile. I think it’s all rather fun—used to do the same thing myself.”

Elinor emerged from the upstairs rooms to inform the Partridge boys and their friends that tea was ready in the nursery.

“We’ll go into my sitting room for something a little more grown up,” said Priscilla.

Maisie accepted a glass of cream sherry, while Priscilla prepared a cocktail.

“Douglas is with his publisher this afternoon, hence the high jinks on the staircase. I daresay Simon slid down that very banister when he was a boy.” She looked at Maisie as she sat down on the pillowed sofa next to her friend, each of them having claimed one end. Priscilla kicked off her shoes and pulled her feet up under her. “Make yourself at home,” she instructed, before continuing. “Have you seen Margaret?”

Maisie shook her head. “I saw her just before she moved from London, and I thought I would drive out to Grantchester in a day or so. I’ll be sure to call first, just in case.”

“She’d love to see you.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll go, I promise.” Maisie changed the subject. “Are the boys settling in at their new school?”

“Didn’t you see that tribe out there? The school is popular with the families of diplomats, so it’s like the League of Nations, with everyone speaking a different language—as well as English, of course. They leave school early on Fridays, and each of the boys wanted to bring a friend home for the weekend, one of the boarders.”

“Will you stay here, in London?”

Priscilla shrugged. “I’m not sure. I was planning to open up the country house for weekends, but now I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t decided if I like it here. Perhaps it wasn’t such a brilliant idea to bring the family back to England just because I wanted to relive my childhood.” She shrugged. “After all, that’s what it was all about, wanting to see my boys doing the things my brothers had done, as if I could bring them back in a different way. But the fact is, my boys are who they are, their own little people. They’ve been brought up in France, on the coast, and they are each of them different. Even though they’re in a good school, for them, we might all be better off back where we were, away from this country. Even Elinor wants to go back to France. Do you know that last week she was telling me that when she was in school they were whipped for speaking to each other in Welsh? They were forced to speak English.”

Maisie sipped her sherry and was about to comment when Priscilla looked over at her, grinning. “In the meantime, before we decide whether to up sticks and scurry back to Biarritz, I am going to enjoy seeing more of you, for a start. I think I might have to take you in hand, Maisie.”

“And I think I’m doing quite well, thank you.”

“What about Simon?”

Maisie was quiet. “He’s gone, Pris. And now, even more than before, I believe cremation was the best thing. Margaret made a wise decision, though difficult. It’s over. He’s free at last.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know. I can’t say. It was as if he were imprisoned in a room where we could see him but not speak to him, as if we were caught in a vacuum of silence even if we screamed.”

“But you’ve never screamed.”

“Have you?”

“At the top of my lungs, across the Atlantic Ocean, every day for months after the war, after my brothers and parents died. I screamed all the time.”

“Oh.”

The women sat in silence, comfortable in their friendship. Then Priscilla braced her shoulders and reached toward Maisie.

“I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. The furniture we chose to bring with us was delivered last week—what a performance, I shall be hard pushed to take it back with me—and I have a piece I think you’ll love. I want you to have it as a belated housewarming gift. I’ll have it sent to your flat next week.”

“What is it?”

“Come and have a look.”

Maisie followed Priscilla to the corner of the room, where an upright gramophone stood in the corner. The cabinet was of rich mahogany, inlaid with maple.

“Douglas has bought a new one, and this one is going begging.” She bent over it. “See, you lift the lid here, and there’s where you place the gramophone record. You wind it up with the handle at the side and then pull up the arm like this. And there’s a cupboard below where you’ll keep your gramophone records.”

“I don’t have any gramophone records.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve thought of that.” She pulled out a record and placed it on the turntable, then held up the horn, ready to set the needle in the groove. “This man is one of Douglas’s favorites. His music has been all over Paris, and he’s in great demand in the bals musettes, you know, the small dance clubs. He’s a gypsy—one of les Manouches, the travelers who live in caravans just outside Paris—and his music is quite wild and clever. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

And as the music surged into the room, Maisie smiled. “Yes, you’re right, I love it.”

MAISIE HAD DELAYED the journey to Kent until after her weaving class on Saturday. Once more, her spirits were lifted by the colors and textures around her, by swags of dyed wool that hung from the laundry racks, by the presence of Marta Jones, who had told her, in confidence, that she was considering reclaiming her family’s original name.

“I think it will release something, some passion, something here.” Whispering, she pressed her hand against her chest, then took up Maisie’s bobbin to correct an error in her weaving.

“And what is your name?”

“Marta Juroszek.” She smiled as she pronounced the word, rolling her tongue around the syllables as if tasting a new sweet pudding for the first time. “Yes, I am Marta Juroszek.”

And though Maisie was concerned for her teacher—the country seemed in no mood to demonstrate tolerance for those of distant cultures—she saw a sense of belonging claim her.

“It’s a good name, Marta, a strong name. And it’s yours.”

A SURPRISE WAS in store for Maisie as she left Marta’s studio. Leaning against the wall inside the entrance to the building, a visitor waited for her.

“Beattie, what on earth are you doing here?”

“Your assistant told me where to find you. He said you would be finished by twelve.”

“Come on, let’s walk to my motor car. Why are you in London?”

“I’ve been here for a couple of days. I’m going back to Maidstone today.”

Maisie pointed to the MG and opened the doors. Once they were both seated, she turned to Beattie.

“Do you want a lift to Charing Cross?”

“Thank you.”

“So, do you have that job yet?”

Beattie shook her head. “No, still at the newspaper, I’m afraid.”

“Then what have you been doing in London—hot on a scoop?”

“Not quite. I’ve been seeing a few publishers.”

Maisie changed gear to pass a horse and cart. “Go on.”

She shrugged. “I knew I couldn’t write the story—the one you told me about Heronsdene—for the newspaper. It was as if I had a lot of fabric and no sewing machine or pattern. So I racked my brains until they hurt, and I decided what to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“I decided that this newspaper woman would become an authoress. I took the story and wrote it as a novel—embellishing it a bit, you understand.”

“And will it be published?”

“I went through several typewriter ribbons and eight fingernails to provide manuscripts for three publishers, and—you will never guess what—I think one of them will buy it!”

“Congratulations, Beattie, that’s wonderful—and it might help you get a job on a bigger newspaper.”

She shook her head. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Don’t rule it out. And you can always write more novels. I’m sure your work has provided you with more than enough fabric.” Maisie smiled at her passenger. “Here you are. Charing Cross.”

Beattie thanked Maisie for the lift and for keeping her promise. As the newspaperwoman closed the passenger door and walked away, Maisie wound down her window and called out to her.

“What will you call the book, so I know what to look for?”

Beattie Drummond cupped her hand around her mouth and shouted her answer above the throng of passengers going in and out of the station, then she turned away and ran for her train, the book’s title caught up in the melee. The only word Maisie heard was revenge.

HERONSDENE WAS QUIET as she drove through the village and parked the MG. She stepped out of the motor car, changed her shoes for a pair of Wellington boots, pulled out her umbrella in case it rained, and set off on a walk across the hop-gardens and up to the clearing. A moment later she saw the lurcher, standing by the entrance to the farm, watching her every move.

“Jook, what are you doing here?”

The dog loped toward Maisie, her head low, her tail tucked under, brushing close as if to feel the warmth of a human being.

“You should have gone with your people.” Maisie looked up and around her. The dog must have recognized the distinctive rumble of her motor car and followed her from the village. “Do you want to come with me, then?”

The dog’s ears flattened back, so Maisie leaned down, stroked her neck, and set off across the hop-gardens, which were muddy now, the spent bines heaped in brown, brackenish piles ready to be burned. She cut through the wood, across the field where the gypsies had grazed their horses, and up the hill toward the clearing. Everything around her was silent, with the bright silver sky a portent for stormy weather.

Blackened soil marked the place where Beulah’s vardo had burned, and with it evidence of her sojourn on earth. All that remained was that which was carried in the heart. Maisie touched the ground, while the lurcher sniffed, pawed the soil, and then began to slink away to the clearing as if called. Maisie followed, almost expecting to hear the gypsies, but it was silent, with only the wind sifting through the branches and light reflecting off the bark of silver beech trees and muted by giant oaks. Walking to the center of the circle where the gypsies’ fire had once crackled with life, Maisie remembered the night she danced with the women, the color and energy of their celebration reverberating through her bones, along with the sound of Webb’s violin as his bow scorched back and forth across the strings, teasing out sounds she had never heard and might never hear again. Soon, the lurcher touched her hand with its nose, as if knowing there was nothing more to be said or done in this place.

The dog left Maisie at the MG, vanishing into the bushes on a shortcut to the village. Maisie knew she would see her soon enough. Pulling up outside the inn, she waved to Fred Yeoman, who was sweeping the street outside the residents’ entrance.

“Miss Dobbs, didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“How are you, Mr. Yeoman?”

“Mustn’t grumble. Bit quiet now, not so many day-trippers passing through.”

Maisie nodded. “Stormy, today, isn’t it?” She looked back at clouds gathering in the distance, then at the innkeeper. “Tell me, where does the gypsy’s dog stay?”

He stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. “Strange old thing, that one. She stays with her mistress, sleeping on that grave as if the old lady were about to get up at any minute and walk off with her. I call out to her some nights, save a bit of broth for her, you know, put out a bowl here by the door. She’ll come across, eat it up, then go back to her place. And the funny thing is, it’s as if she knows we’ve done right by her, because I’ll go out the next morning, and find a hare by the door, freshly caught, like it’s her payment.” He shrugged. “Whyte says he’ll build a kennel for her, put it in the churchyard, but we’ve some cold nights coming, and she’ll freeze. Mind you, she’s used to it, I suppose.”

Maisie glanced toward the church. “Yes, I suppose.” She paused, then turned back to Yeoman. “I’d better be off. Remember me to the villagers, say I asked after them.”

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs—oh, and before you leave, go down to the old bakery site. We’ve had a bit of a go at it, you know, in case he ever comes back.”

She walked toward the church, stopping alongside the waste ground. The overgrowth had been cut back, old bricks removed, and a series of flower beds tilled. Copper markers indicated where bulbs had been planted, and when Maisie looked closer, she smiled. According to the markers, in spring there would be a profusion of tulips in this very place. She turned toward the church, stopping alongside the war memorial where Willem van Maarten’s name remained among those of the village who gave their lives in the war. She thought of Simon and of the thousands of other young men who had returned wounded. They are the forgotten, thought Maisie. The ones who came home alive, to linger—perhaps for years—before death claimed them or they brought about their own end. She pulled up the collar of her mackintosh and went on to the church.

Lying across Beulah’s grave, the lurcher wagged her tail as Maisie approached. She stopped briefly, with head lowered, in front of the graves of Jacob, Bettin and Anna, and saw that the headstone had been changed, with the name VAN MAARTEN now scored into the granite. Was it another grain of atonement on the part of the villagers, or had Webb paid for the alteration? She knelt down next to the gypsy’s dog, ruffling her ear as she spoke quietly and with kindness to the animal.

“You can’t stay here, jook. She’s not coming back, she’s gone. Come on, you’ve been here long enough. She wouldn’t want you to stay longer.”

Maisie came to her feet and, though the dog did not stir, she raised her head to be fondled.

“One last temptation for you, jook. I know a lovely man who would look after you forever, and I think you could look after him too.”

Still the dog did not move. Maisie gave her a final pat and left the churchyard. She looked back at the gray clouds and, feeling a spatter of rain, began to run to the motor car. She opened the door just as the rain came down, shaking droplets of water from her hair as she started the engine. She was about to pull out, looking back to ensure that a tractor had not come around the corner, when she saw the lurcher running toward her. She clambered from the MG and opened the passenger door. The dog leaped in, sitting on the seat as if she belonged.

“Good, you listened to me. Now then, jook, let’s take you to meet Frankie Dobbs.”

Later, as Maisie sat by the fire, she looked across at her father, his newspaper opened to the racing pages as he squinted to read by the light of an oil lamp. The lurcher was settled at his feet, her head resting atop his crossed ankles. She had claimed her new owner and, following an initial element of doubt on his part, Frankie had taken her into his heart, already reaching down to touch the dog’s fur with every turn of the page.

MAISIE HAD NOT visited the Lynch home in Grantchester since the night of Simon’s party in 1915. Unsure of her emotions, she drove with care, rehearsing conversations and anticipating questions. But when she arrived, Margaret took both her hands in her own and made her welcome. The house seemed more cozy than she remembered. She thought her youth, and the fact that she had allowed herself to be intimidated by such an invitation, would have made even a smaller house seem like a mansion when she was eighteen. The room where she had danced with Simon was, admittedly, spacious, but Margaret had ushered her into a small sitting room overlooking the gardens.

They spoke of Simon, though not of his passing. Margaret told stories of her son’s boyhood and youth, of the ambition that brought him to medicine, and his decision to join the Royal Army Medical Corps as soon as he’d qualified. Then, later, the women together made their way to the meadow, unlatching the gate that led from the gardens to the fields beyond. The late-afternoon light was rendered colorless, grained by a rising fenland vapor, so that to stare into the distance was like looking at a photograph taken long ago.

Margaret chose a place beyond the trees, where they stood for several moments. Then she handed a small pewter urn to Maisie. “Would you . . . ?”

Maisie looked up at the trees to ascertain the air’s direction. She unscrewed the lid and set it on the ground. Then, with one hand on her heart, she reached out with the urn and carefully tipped Simon’s ashes into a gentle breeze.

HER FINAL ACCOUNTING complete at last, Maisie sat back from the dining table at her flat in Pimlico, closed her journal, and set the cap on her fountain pen. She pinched the bridge of her nose to ward off fatigue, then walked to the window. It was late, dark, and as she stood looking out at the swirling pea-souper smog, she rubbed her arms for warmth. She remembered scattering Simon’s ashes and reflected again on the burning of Beulah’s vardo. She could almost hear once more the way Webb had first played a lament that day, then changed the tempo and changed it again so that, with each new tune, something of the gypsy woman’s life was commemorated—her vivacity in youth, her laugh, her wisdom, the fields she called home, and her wanderings along the country lanes. Then it was done, the mourning not confined to that which was dark and shadowed by loss but also rejoicing in the life that must go on.

She ran her hands along the edge of the fine walnut gramophone given to her by Priscilla and then, almost without thinking, lifted the lid and began to turn the handle at the side. She took out her one record, by a gypsy now famous in Paris, a man who had blended French passion with the spark of the Roma. And as the beat began to reverberate around the room, with violin and guitar cutting through the silence, Maisie felt the rhythm in her feet, her body, and her arms, and she remembered the gypsies moving to the music, pounding the ground in a celebration of the spirit.

So, alone in her flat, Maisie Dobbs danced.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my friend Holly Rose—as always, thank you for being the first and most important reader of my work. Your thoughtful commentary and unfailing support are so deeply appreciated—thank you.

To my parents, Albert and Joyce Winspear—thank you for your wonderful stories about being “down hopping” and for providing me with the circumstances that formed my own memories of those good times. And to the Webbs, wherever they are, for the gift of friendship to two just-married escapees from post-WW II London who came to Kent to start life anew—you are remembered with great affection, and I have cherished my parents’ stories of your kindness.

As with my previous novels, thanks must go to the staff of the Imperial War Museum’s library and archives—a truly priceless resource.

To John Sterling, Maggie Richards, and the wonderful team at Henry Holt in New York; to Frances Coady and everyone at Picador; and to Roland Philipps, Heather Barrett, and the staff at John Murray Publishers in London—thank you for your support and your regard for Maisie Dobbs.

To my dear friend, wise mentor, and amazing agent, Amy Rennert—thank you for your support, counsel, and insight. I am blessed to be working with you.

And to my husband, John Morell—thank you, for everything.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JACQUELINE WINSPEAR is the author of four previous Maisie Dobbs novels, Maisie Dobbs, Birds of a Feather, Pardonable Lies, and Messenger of Truth. Maisie Dobbs won the Agatha, Alex and Macavity Awards; Birds of a Feather won the Agatha Award and Pardonable Lies won the Sue Feder/Macavity Award for Best Historical Mystery. Originally from the United Kingdom, Winspear now lives in California.

JACQUELINE WINSPEAR is the author of four previous Maisie Dobbs novels, Maisie Dobbs, Birds of a Feather, Pardonable Lies, and Messenger of Truth. Maisie Dobbs won the Agatha, Alex, and Macavity Awards; Birds of a Feather won the Agatha Award; and Pardonable Lies won the Sue Feder/Macavity Award for Best Historical Mystery. Originally from the United Kingdom, Winspear now lives in California.

PRAISE FOR JACQUELINE WINSPEAR AND MAISIE DOBBS

“In Maisie Dobbs, Jacqueline Winspear has given us a real gift. Maisie Dobbs has not been created—she has been discovered. Such people are always there amongst us, waiting for somebody like Ms. Winspear to come along and reveal them. And what a revelation it is!” —Alexander McCall Smith

“When people ask me to recommend an author, one name consistently comes to mind: Jacqueline Winspear. . . . In this series, Winspear chronicles the uncharted, sometimes rocky path chosen by her protagonist and delivers results that are educational, unique and wonderful.” —USA TODAY

“A sleuth to treasure.” —THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

“The mood and atmosphere of the period ring with authenticity, and the class tension that underlies many of Maisie’s dealings lends the narrative extra sparkle.” —SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE

“[A] superior series.” —THE SEATTLE TIMES

“[Winspear] keep[s] her series about the astonishing Maisie Dobbs alive and as fresh as new paint. . . . In each book, Winspear has used a crime to widen our vision of what life was like in England in the years after the war.” —CHICAGO TRIBUNE

“Jacqueline Winspear has opened the eyes of many American readers to a forgotten world. . . . Winspear excels in depicting trauma, the kind of longterm grief that characters, particularly her restrained Britons, express only in a gesture or a word.” —THE BOSTEN GLOBE

“A detective series to savor.” —TIME

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About The Author