An Incomplete Revenge jw-3

by Jacqueline Winspear

  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 w
ay 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.”