“Over here.” She walked toward him, gentling the horse with a hand to his neck as she approached. “Sorry to bother you while you’re working.”
“What can I do for you?” The man was not curt, but neither was he making an effort to be courteous.
“I’m visiting Heronsdene and wondered about the land next door to you. Does anyone own it?”
“Me. And I ain’t selling.”
“Oh, that’s alright. I was just curious, wondering why it wasn’t used.”
The man shook his head and turned toward the blackened inner sanctum of his smithy. “Not used since the war, since the Hun bombed out my barn. Lucky to save my business, I was, but everyone pulled together, everyone helped.”
“I’m terribly sorry, that must have been dreadful. Will you build another barn?”
“When I get the money, per’aps I will. Until then, I’ve left it fallow. Now then, miss, I’ve got to get on.” And with that he turned away from her, in such a way that, had she not stepped sideways with speed, the horse might have caught her foot with his own.
Maisie stood for a moment or two, watching the farrier as he maneuvered the horse into stocks and tied the lead rein to a ring on the wall. Though the horse turned his great head to look at her, the man did not speak again or cast his eyes in her direction. She crossed the road and went back through the village, passing her motor car and the inn as she walked in the direction of the church.
Three people were apparently killed in Heronsdene, but the smithy had not even mentioned the tragedy when he spoke of the Zeppelin. She considered this as she looked first at the Norman church, then at the ancient lych-gate and the graves beyond. She tried to ignore the war memorial close by but thought the people killed in the bombing might be listed among those from the village who were lost in the years 1914-1918. Maisie sighed and walked over to the memorial. She barely cast her eyes over the list of names, not wanting to inspire memories that came on with the same ferocity as a searing headache might be visited upon her by a too-bright light or a piercing sound. There was no mention of the three who perished here.
Maisie looked around and once more took account of the waste ground she had seen when she first arrived. She crossed the road to better look at the rectangular lot, set apart from other houses in the village, and stood for a while at the edge of the land, for she had realized she was reluctant to step forward onto the ground and was aware of a definite perimeter, even though it was overgrown and no margins of any building that might have been there remained. She closed her eyes as she felt a sudden shaft of cold air, even in the midst of a sun-filled September day with morning’s early chill long banished. It was not a cool breeze borne on the promise of autumn that made her shudder, but a sensation akin to an icy finger laid upon her skin, accompanied by a dark shadow that descended into her waking consciousness. Oh, my God, what happened here? What terrible thing happened here? Maisie staggered backward. The horn from a passing motor car blared as she almost tripped into the road, a sound that served to prevent her fall and caused her to stand upright and regain her balance.
This is where they died. Maisie knew in her deepest being that life had been lost in this place, that an act of aggression had touched the very earth across which she cast her gaze. She shivered, surveying the barren ground, a wasteland except for the Michaelmas daisies. It was then she remembered her grandmother again, remembered the gift of a bunch of the bright mauve blooms she’d gathered while walking with her father. “Ah, St. Michael’s flowers, brought to me by my boosul little angel herself,” said her grandmother. And she cupped Maisie’s cheek with her hand, liver-spotted and wrinkled, and bent forward to smell the musty aroma of Michaelmas daisies, flowers that always bloomed in time for the old festival of St. Michael, the warrior saint of all angels.
MAISIE TURNED TOWARD the church, the cold air diminishing as she made her way along the cobbled path to the entrance. It took both hands to wield the latch and gain entrance, and at once she felt at ease, comforted by the smells of ancient flagstones underfoot, of fresh blooms arranged by the village womenfolk, of damp foxed prayer books and worn woolen knee cushions. But she came not into the church seeking the tranquility offered amid the prayers of ages. She was looking for some sort of marker, some commemoration of the three who were lost when the Zeppelin released its deathly cargo. Names of villagers from earliest times were immortalized on the walls of the church, plaques placed following a timely donation by heirs centuries ago. But there was nothing, no honoring of the dead of a most terrible disaster. She emerged into the day once again, then began walking around the churchyard. Gravestones giving up the weight of years leaned toward one another, moss- and lichen-covered so that names could barely be read. A small contingent of stones in one far corner were those of prisoners of war from Napoleon’s time, given their due and buried with the blessing of God upon them.
Then she found a trio of small stones together under a yew tree, set apart from the rest. The stones were of more recent design and plain in appearance, the names not heralded with curls and loops. Three names, of the same family: Jacob Martin, Bettin Martin, Anna Martin. The date was half buried in weeds but indicated the three had met their fate in September 1916. An inscription followed:
Forgive them; for they know not what they do.
—Luke 23:34
SIX
The hop-pickers had moved on since Maisie last saw Billy and his family. Now the hop-garden where they had previously been picking was barren, a field of rusty spent bines and parched khaki soil. Holding her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes, Maisie squinted across the heat-drenched acres of clay to the hop-gardens beyond and located the pickers moving along abundant rows of hops. Making her way closer, she could see the Londoners at the top of the garden, separated from the gypsies at the bottom.
Once again she tramped along in the midst of a flurry of activity until she came to Billy and his family, snatching hops from bines freshly tugged down to lie across the bin. They were working silently, though Billy looked up and smiled at her approach.
“Miss, ’ow are you, then? Any luck findin’ out about George’s boys?”
Maisie noticed that Doreen had turned away from Billy, as he began to speak, and had her back to him now. She had only issued a brief smile upon greeting Maisie, yet her demeanor did not suggest she thought ill of her husband’s employer, rather that she was more than a little annoyed with her spouse.
“They’re being held on remand, currently at the boys’ reformatory school outside Maidstone. They will be charged with the theft of valuables from the Sandermere estate, malicious damage, and breaking and entering. At the moment, the fact that they have no ’previous’ will stand them in good stead—if you can call it that—and they will serve, if found guilty, only three to six months.”
Billy frowned and threw down the hop-bine that he’d been picking. “But I thought you could get them out!”
“Not so fast, Billy.” She held up her hand. “They stand accused of a crime for which there is evidence of their guilt, and though we believe there is cause for doubt, we have to prove them innocent, which takes time. I should add that they seem well represented, as far as it goes. We must, however, do all we can to locate the stolen goods and find out who might have conducted the burglary in the first place.”
Maisie looked at Doreen Beale, who was biting her bottom lip as she picked hops into the bin with short, sharp movements, ignoring both her sons, who were much too quiet, and her mother-in-law, with whom she had always enjoyed a warm companionship. It was clear that the couple had exchanged harsh words, though the discord might be the result of a minor squabble that had escalated in tone or some act or retort on behalf of one that was seen as more than a minor infraction by the other.
“Billy, I’d like to talk to the boys’ father again and, if your family can spare you, I’d like you to come.” Maisie smiled at Doreen, who looked back at Billy and nodded.
“He can do as he likes,”
said Doreen, a bladelike edge to her reply.
Billy ignored the comment, passed his half-picked hop-bine to his sons, and motioned for Maisie to follow him. “Over ’ere, Miss. George is this way.”
They had walked only a few yards when Maisie whispered to her assistant, “Look, Billy, I know it’s none of my business, really, but may I ask—is Doreen upset about something?”
They passed the last cadre of pickers and walked on through untouched hop-bines draped like rich green curtains across the rows. Though no one could hear them, Billy kept his voice low. “I had to put me foot down, Miss. You know, about Doreen talkin’ to them gyppos.”
Maisie frowned, and though she understood the folly of coming between man and wife, she could hear her annoyance as she replied, “What did you do that for?”
Billy stopped and looked at her. “Not you too? What with me mum, and now you.” He plucked a single hop from an overhanging bine and crushed it between his fingers. “I was alright, like, when it came to Doreen stoppin’ to ’ave a chat with that woman, Paishey Webb, what with ’er ’avin’ the little girl. I was worried, mind, because I could see Doreen was sort of making their paths cross—she was always there when the woman went over to the tap or back up the road. And you never know when someone might turn, might reckon there’s somethin’ wrong with my Doreen.” He shook his head. “I know what it means to ’er, bein’ able to hold the litt’lun every now and again, but you never know what people might think.”
“You’re worried about other people?”
“Well, you’ve got to be, ’aven’t you? It’s all very well sayin’ what others think ain’t important, but you’ve got to get along, got to live with people. Them gyppos will be gone in a few weeks, off back to Wimbledon Common or wherever it is they go when there’s no more work down ’ere. But it turns out I know most of the people pickin’ around us after all, grew up with ’em; they come from round our way. And what with this business with George’s boys, and ’im reckonin’ it was really the gypsies—nah, ain’t worth it, puttin’ up with the talk.” He barely paused to take breath. “And what else you’ve got to consider is that them old pikeys might take a funny turn to it, you know, ’er stoppin’ to look at one of their babies. You never know what they might do to Doreen.”
Maisie sighed. “I do wish you wouldn’t call them gyppos and pikeys. They’re people, you know. They might look a bit different, dress a bit different, and sound nothing like you or I, but they’ve got their own codes of behavior, and it may interest you to know that by their standards we do things that are considered beyond the pale.”
“I don’t know about that, Miss.”
They had stopped walking by now and were conducting their conversation in the middle of the hop-garden.
“Well, I do. Take that enamel bowl in your hut. Use it for water to wash the boys in the evening, do you?”
“Yes, but—”
“And then you rinse it out and fill it with water to clean the plates after you’ve eaten?”
“Yes, but—”
“And I bet you fill that bowl again when there’s a bit of laundry to be done.”
“What’re you gettin’ at, Miss?”
“Gypsy folk think that’s disgusting beyond measure. They have a different bowl for each task, and they never mix them up. You’d never see a gypsy filling a bowl to have a shave and then use it later to wash some clothes.”
Billy looked at his feet. “That’s all very well, but there’s more.”
“Yes?”
“Doreen’s ’eard about that woman, the one they call Aunt Beulah. Says she wants to go to ’ave her fortune told, that the woman knows all about what’s going to ’appen—you know, in the future.”
“I see.” Maisie was calm now. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
“It can only end in tears, Miss. I don’t reckon that woman can see any farther than you or me, and I don’t want Doreen goin’ there for false hopes, wantin’ to know if we’ll ’ave another little girl, wantin’ to know if we’ll ever leave for Canada, wantin’ to know if we’ll ever . . . get over it.”
“Doreen is grieving, Billy. Your Lizzie hasn’t even been gone a year, and both of you have gone through hell. She’s looking for a light at the end of her tunnel, and the other women’s stories have given her a glimmer of hope, the possibility that there might be good news on the horizon.”
“I know that, Miss, but I don’t want ’er led up the garden path, neither.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked at a clod of earth. “What makes people think that gypsies can tell the future anyway? What do they know that we don’t?”
Maisie held out her hand to indicate that they should walk on. “I’m not sure they do know more than anyone else, though here’s the difference—they spend a lot of time out here in the country. Their ways are simpler. I know this might sound fey, but they are more inclined to pay attention to the thoughts and feelings that herald an event than we are—even if they don’t know they’re doing it. You could say they use that particular muscle a bit more than we might. That trust in what they perceive to be a mark of what is to come means they are more inclined to intuit events than you or I.”
Billy shrugged. “Well, more than me, anyway. You’re more like them, in that way, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.” He paused. “D’you reckon I should give Doreen me blessing, let ’er go?”
“That’s not for me to say, Billy.” She paused, thoughtful. “However, I do have two observations. First, you and Doreen have gone through too much for this discord to drive a wedge between you. And second, perhaps it would be a good idea for you to have a chat together, about whether you really want to know what might happen in the future.” Maisie waved to George in the distance, who had seen them walking in his direction; then she turned to Billy. “How much better it would be for you both, to sit down and talk about what you would like to see happen in your family and then go about discovering what might be done to point your ship in that direction, if you know what I mean.”
“All very well, if you’ve got the money.”
“It doesn’t take money to use imagination, Billy.”
“It does if you want to go to Canada.”
GEORGE WAS VISIBLY relieved when Maisie informed him that his sons were not being held at His Majesty’s pleasure in Maidstone Prison, though the thought of them in a boys’ reformatory kept him unsettled.
“So now all we’ve got to do is prove they didn’t do it.”
“That’s more or less what needs to be done. There must be a cache of stolen goods somewhere—the question is where?” Maisie turned to Billy. “Normally, I would refrain from the widespread search of a property—it can be time-consuming at a point when manpower might be better utilized elsewhere. However, in this case I think it’s better than nothing. Billy, the boys found the silver close to the chestnut tree where they were collecting conkers. If we make an assumption that whoever made off with the goods leaped over the wall and then dropped the locket and paperweight as he landed and ran, more items might have been lost or a trail might still exist.”
“I doubt that, Miss.”
“Any better ideas?”
Billy shook his head.
“Right, so you and George—not now, when the sun’s still high; wait for dusk—map out a trail from the chestnut tree, across the road, and then see if you can get a sense of which way the thief might have run.”
“Better than nothin’, eh, George?’
George seemed doubtful but nodded accordance. “Can’t do any harm.”
Maisie checked the watch pinned to her jacket lapel. “I’ve just enough time to try to see Alfred Sandermere. Then I have an appointment to join a friend for a nice cooked tea.” She paused before proffering a word of advice to Billy “Oh, and when you cross the road, try to suspend what you think for a moment and see if you can just go where you feel might be the right direction.”
“Alright, Miss.”
Maisie left the two men, who
watched her walk away before speaking.
George frowned toward Billy. “What’s she mean, Bill?”
“Nothin’. Come on, let’s get back to work for an hour or two.”
MAISIE PROCEEDED OUT onto the farm road, then back toward the MG, parked at the entrance of Dickon’s Farm. Starting the motor without delay, she pulled out onto the main thoroughfare in the direction of the Sandermere manor house. She didn’t think Billy and George would have any luck today, but there was a lot to be said for keeping people busy when they might otherwise get in the way.
“MISS DOBBS, DELIGHTED to meet you. The solicitors acting for Viscount Compton informed me that you would be visiting, though I thought I might have a little more notice.” Alfred Sandermere descended the staircase and held out his hand toward Maisie as he walked across the black-and-white checkered tile hallway. As they stood facing each other, Maisie thought they must look rather like chessmen, each waiting for an opportune move. She was surprised not to be shown into a reception room to meet her host, but it seemed that Sandermere had responded to the news of her presence with speed, coming straight from his study on an upper floor to greet her.
Sandermere was dressed as if he had only just dismounted his horse. He was wearing beige jodhpurs, Viyella shirt, and waistcoat, with a rich tweed hacking jacket and a silk cravat at the neck. His hair had been flattened by a hat, the ridge along his forehead suggesting he wore a flat cap when out riding. His brown leather boots, clearly polished to a shine before the ride, were now dusty—she could not help but feel sorry for the maids who cleaned the house of a man who tramped dirt into the carpets, though such a habit could be attributed to many of his station. She wondered if James Compton was any different.
“I have been in the village for two days and thought I would drop by, on the off chance that you might be able to accommodate a meeting for a few moments. I am most grateful to you for seeing me.”
Sandermere looked Maisie up and down, rather as he might judge a hunter. “Let’s adjourn to the drawing room.” He turned to his butler. “Mason. Tea in the drawing room.” The instruction was punctuated with neither please nor thank you.
An Incomplete Revenge Page 8
