“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.”
&nb
sp; “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.�
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“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.
An Incomplete Revenge Page 24
