An Incomplete Revenge

by Jacqueline Winspear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Marchant. Mrs. Marchant.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “You seem pretty sure, Miss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Are you refusing to serve me?”

  Maisie recognized the voice straightaway. It was Sandermere.

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

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

  “Now, Mr. Sandermere—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You saw enough, then.”

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

  He sighed and shook his head.

  “Are you alright, Fred?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And you’ve nothing I can print?”

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

  “Of course.”

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

  “Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “I can find out for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “As long as—”

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

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

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

  “Alfred Sandermere?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You say that with an air of regret.”

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

  “Thank you, you’ve been most kind.”

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