Two gypsy women emerged into the clearing, their tambourines flying, their feet barely touching the ground as they leaped in dance. Children banged sticks together, or rattled stones in a can, and soon most of the company were yipping and pounding their feet to the rhythm set by Webb. There was no pause, no lingering between this tune and the next, just a glance from Webb to his band, who were now playing and dancing along. Only Beulah and Maisie remained seated, the old lady clapping her hands on her knees, while Maisie felt the beat seep up from the ground and into her soul. The music was raw and tumultuous, swollen with the rhythm of passion, the taut scream of exhilaration. Oh, how she wanted to dance, how she wanted to feel each note in every cell of her being as she stamped her feet and clapped her hands. How she wanted to belong to the moment, as the gypsies did with their dance.
She saw Webb meet his wife’s eyes with his own and, still dancing, Paishey made her way around the fire to Maisie. With leaping flames reflected in her eyes, she took Maisie’s hands and tried to pull her to her feet, into the group of gypsies. Maisie shook her head, protesting that she could not dance and was happy just to listen, to watch, but her words were drowned by the music. With the gypsy still grasping her hands, and on the verge of panic, she looked around to Beulah, who motioned with her hand that she should join the dance. She felt the barrier of fear paralysing her, fear of what might happen if she gave herself to the music, to the power of the gypsy dance.
Paishey pulled on Maisie’s hands again, this time drawing her into the throng. There was no going back without causing offense, nothing to do but allow all reticence to fall away. She felt the throbbing pulse of the music echo up from the forest floor into her bones, making its way straight to her heart as she danced a dance that was primitive and unreserved. This was no gentle fox-trot, no metered modern swing, and she gave herself to it. Time and again she danced, for even when the tempo changed, the music did not stall but went on and on, to the edge of night.
Later, when Beulah looked up to the stars and motioned to her son, the gaiety came to an end and it was time for Maisie to leave. Knowing they needed to rest now, Maisie insisted that she did not need a chaperone to accompany her to her motor car. Two gypsies would have had to leave the group, for they did not hold with a woman being alone with a man who was not her husband, nor with a gypsy woman returning to the tribe alone. Smiling and still a little breathless, Maisie thanked one and all, for her meal and for being included in the evening’s dancing, and then made to leave. As she turned, Beulah whistled and then pointed to the lurcher, who came to Maisie’s side. She raised her hand in acknowledgment and left the clearing, the dog at heel.
Across a field damp with evening dew, a sign of tomorrow’s looming showers, Maisie walked on, the lurcher’s paws soft on the ground, her cold nose reaching up to touch Maisie’s hand every few steps. Soon they reached the MG, the dog standing back as Maisie unlocked the door and took her place behind the steering wheel.
“Go on now, jook, go home.” Maisie pointed toward the field they had just crossed. The lurcher turned and slinked away into the night, though as Maisie drove to the road and glanced back, she could see the animal’s eyes, glistening like crystal beads in the darkness as she waited until Maisie was gone.
WAKING IN THE middle of the night from a deep and dreamless sleep, her eyes heavy, her heart slow, Maisie was sluggish in establishing her bearings, and it was some seconds before she remembered that she was in her room at the village inn. But what had woken her? She turned and then sat up, now wakeful and alert in her pitch-black room. She raised her nose to smell the air. Smoke. She drew back the covers and ran across to the window to see whether the smell might be lingering in her clothes, which had absorbed the aroma of the gypsies’ campfire. She’d washed her blouse and left it to hang by an open window, along with her skirt, hoping the night breeze would blow away all traces of wood smoke. Reaching for the fabrics, she pressed her nose to them—barely a memory of the evening lingered within the threads.
The acrid odor became stronger now, and as she leaned out of the window, she saw flames at the back of the inn. This was not a cozy campfire, controlled and alluring, but a ravaging conflagration borne of deliberate combustion. The coal shed was on fire, close to two outbuildings, including the one in which barrels of beer were stored. And in the distance, running from the inn’s long garden to the fields beyond, Maisie saw a man—or perhaps a woman.
Without wasting a moment, she grabbed her dressing gown and opened the door. “Fire! Fire! Wake up and get out! Fire!” There was not a moment to lose. Down the corridor she ran, banging on doors, and through another door that she supposed led to the quarters of the landlord and his family. “Fire! Fred—where are you? The inn’s on fire!”
There were voices behind her as she found the stairs by touch and made her way down. Light from the flames outside now illuminated her way, and she ran straight to the kitchen, then out to the scullery. A heavy mop bucket stood in the sink. Maisie twisted the tap and left it to run as she searched for another bucket. Fred was soon behind her, along with his wife.
“Get everyone out, Mary! Out to the front, and raise the alarm!”
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur, as she and the landlord, soon joined by villagers summoned by the tolling of the church bell, came to help, buckets in hand. Back and forth they ran, then, when enough people had gathered, a chain was formed, passing buckets of water to the flames. At first, it seemed as if the fire would never abate, as if Loki, the god of fire and mischief, were dancing among them, taunting and snickering, igniting the flames as soon as they were doused. Then they began to win, and the water chain was drenching the blackened smoking ruin.
Exhausted, spent, Maisie, the landlord and the villagers who had come to help stood in silence in front of the remains of the coal shed and an outbuilding. Waterlogged wood hissed and sizzled, and no one moved.
After first allowing the stillness to temper emotions that she knew would follow such an attack, Maisie touched the innkeeper on the arm. “Fred. We’d better not let this linger. It should be checked, then we should clean up.”
“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.” He looked around, then up at the inn. “I would’ve lost the lot if it weren’t for you. I owe you everything.”
“You would have smelled the fire soon enough.”
“A fire can do a day’s work in a minute.” He pursed his lips. “No, you’ve got a calm head on your shoulders, and we owe you. The men will help now, you go on back indoors. Mary will get a bath out for you.” He gave a half laugh. “She’s banking up the stove for more hot water now. Better tell her to go easy with the logs, eh?”
Maisie was silent for a moment longer. Still no one moved. “Why wasn’t the fire brigade called?”
“Takes too long. No station here—they would have had to come over from Paddock Wood.”
“But that’s not far. Who has a telephone in the village? The damage should be inspected, to ensure all traces of fire are gone, and the police must be called so that the person who did this is caught.”
“You go in to Mary, miss. We’ll look after it all now. These things happen. I’ve been building up the path here at night, with ashes from the fireplaces inside the inn. Like as not, it’s my fault for not making sure the embers were dead. Only takes a spark to get a fire going, especially near a coal bunker.” He stood straighter and squared his shoulders. “No, I blame myself. I should have known better.”
“But I saw someone, running down to the end of your garden, then off across the field.”
The innkeeper shook his head. “No, miss, I doubt you did. There’s a vixen that comes a-hunting for food at night, around our dustbins at the back. She’s a right one, that fox-bitch, and what with this moon”—he pointed to the sky with the forefinger of his blackened right hand—“the shadows would’ve made her look like a person.”
“No, I don’t think—”
“You go on in now, miss. There’s Mary at the door, s
he’s got a nice hot bath waiting. We’re grateful to you, all of us. But we can do what needs to be done now.”
Maisie looked at the villagers standing by, men and women listening to the conversation. She nodded, acquiescing, and walked to the back entrance to the inn. Just as she dipped her head to avoid the low-beamed back door, she turned. The women were moving away but the men were clustered, looking at the waterlogged and smoking ruins, their heads drawn together as they spoke of the fire.
IN A ROOM next to the kitchen, decorated with floral wallpaper and white wainscoting, Mary had filled a tin bath with piping hot water and, on a chair next to the bath, set two white towels still infused with the memory of the warm breeze that had dried them on the washing line outside. The innkeeper’s wife had also left a freshly ironed flannel nightgown on a chest of drawers in the corner, along with a dressing gown. As she was about to remove her clothes, Maisie caught sight of herself in the oval mirror hanging from an olive-green picture rail. Her face was almost black, her hair was slicked against her cheek, and her eyes were red and stinging from soot and heat. She looked down at her pajamas and dressing gown and saw that they were fire-soiled beyond repair. Sighing, she undressed and eased herself into the bath, reaching for a brick of green Fairy household soap that Mary had placed upon the towels.
The fire had been ignited deliberately, of that she had no doubt. But why was her observation of the person running away across the field denied by the landlord? Why did he decline to summon the fire brigade? The church bells ringing in the middle of the night should at least have alerted people in the next village that there was something amiss. Why did no one come? There had been fires before, one a year for some years, according to James Compton’s report. Were the people of nearby villages immune to the call for help? Or did they offer help once, only to have it turned away?
Questions filled Maisie’s head as she soaped away the soot and sweat of the night. Her nails were broken and her knuckles grazed from filling the buckets with water, then running back and forth before the chain was formed. All those silent, ashen-faced people. Maisie closed her eyes and imagined their collective demeanor again, saw the message written in their eyes. There had been no surprise registered, no shock at a tragedy averted by a hair’s breadth of time. Instead, she had once again seen the emotion she was becoming familiar with in the course of her work in Heronsdene: fear. And something else: resignation, acceptance. As if the events of the evening were expected.
EIGHT
Breakfast was a quiet affair. The other guests had left as early as possible, their curiosity regarding the fire far outweighed by their desire to depart from the site of a troubled night. Maisie understood that, though they were not consciously aware of such a sensation, the mood of the village and the nature of the “accident” had driven them away. But she was hungry for the plate of eggs and bacon served by Mary, and relaxed as she tucked into toast and marmalade and poured another cup of tea. She was also waiting. Waiting to speak to Fred Yeoman again, to gauge, if it were possible, the depth of his silence on the matter of the fires. She heard him in the cellar, changing the barrels of beer and grumbling to himself as he made his way back to the bar, where he began preparing the inn for opening time.
“Hello, Fred,” Maisie called out, turning toward the bar.
Fred’s hobnail boots clattered on the stone floor as he came along to the bar in the residents’ sitting room.
“Morning, Miss Dobbs. You don’t look any the worse for wear. I hope we didn’t keep you awake with our clearing up out there.”
Maisie dabbed the corners of her mouth with a table napkin and shook her head. “That hot bath worked wonders. I slept like a log as soon as my head hit the pillow.” She paused. “How bad is the damage?”
“Not as bad as it would have been if you hadn’t raised the alarm. I won’t be charging you for your stay here, on account of that.”
She was about to shake her head and protest, then reconsidered. The innkeeper wished to thank her in a tangible way, and this was likely his only means of doing so. It would be foolish to decline the offer. “Thank you, Fred, that’s very kind of you.”
“Not at all.” He remained at the bar, wiping a cloth from left to right across varnished oak that centuries of beeswax polish had brought to a rich hazelnut-hued shine.
“Don’t mind me saying so,” said Maisie, as she reached for the teapot, “but even if they are accidents, you seem pretty unfortunate in Heronsdene when it comes to fires. Didn’t you say that Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s conservatory was destroyed last year?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Whyte. It was the Whytes,” he replied, as if looking into the flames once more. “And it was their summer house.” He looked up again, shaking the memory from his mind. “I wasn’t aware that we had more accidents here than anywhere else, and I didn’t know it was anything to talk about.”
Maisie shrugged. “I know there’s been at least one fire for each of the last ten years or so.” She lifted her teacup to her lips and let it remain there without sipping from the rim as she continued. “And always at this time of year.”
Fred rested his hands on the bar and shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind betting them Londoners—or the gypsies—have been up to some mischief over the years. I don’t allow the gyppos to come in here, shady buggers if you ask me. We let the Londoners in, but I don’t know—they’re just as bad, looking for trouble.” He paused, then continued running the cloth across the bar. “The truth is, no matter how much I don’t like them, this fire was down to me, and like I’ve said before the other fires have been on account of carelessness. It’s not as if there have been that many, not when you look at it, and certainly not every year, like you said.”
Maisie pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’d better get going now, or I’ll be late.” She walked to the bar. “Are you sure I can’t pay for last night?”
“Positive.”
“Well, thank you again. I’ll be seeing you next week, I daresay.” Maisie smiled, opening the door that led upstairs to her room, where she collected her belongings and walked out into a morning of showers. With one hand she pulled the collar of her tweed jacket up around her neck and held on to her hat as she ran across the road to the MG and stowed her bag. Lifting the bonnet, she went through the motions of starting the motor and took her seat behind the wheel. The innkeeper had not realized that in the midst of their conversation, when Maisie had mentioned last year’s fire, she had not known who had suffered a loss of property and had used the name Smith, because most villages have a family of that name. Without thinking, Fred had corrected her. She would find out where to find the Whyte family from someone else.
HER FIRST STOP this morning would be the hop-gardens, to tell Billy she was leaving for Maidstone, followed by Chelstone and London, and planned to be back on Tuesday. There was the visit to see Simon, and there were questions to put to James Compton. In the back of her mind, something about this assignment was bothering her. James claimed his reason for retaining her was to ensure a clean sale, that events in the village and the estate were investigated to reveal their importance or lack thereof. However, though she could see why a company accorded utmost respect in the world of commerce would want to do nothing to besmirch a fine reputation, it occurred to her that the very same events that might give rise to controversy in the city would reduce the value of the property On the one hand, an owner such as Alfred Sandermere would now be in a position to make repairs and improvements financed by insurance claims, but on the other hand, the mere fact of the fires and acts of delinquency could bring down the selling price—so the Compton Corporation would be positioned to make a pretty penny by purchasing property from a financially compromised owner and then selling at a later date.
She drove through the village toward the war memorial and was about to turn left toward Dickon’s Farm when a flash of color caught her eye. She wound down the window and looked across to the waste ground where the Zeppelin’s bomb had fal
len. There, among the weeds, was a bouquet of flowers. She stopped the motor, reversed back to a safe parking place, then stepped out from the MG and crossed the road.
The shower was not cold but, instead, added to a sticky morning humidity. Yet once more Maisie felt chilled by her proximity to this piece of land. She closed her eyes and, as she had done many times before to ensure her protection in such circumstances, she imagined a white circle of light enveloping and protecting her from spiritual harm. Opening her eyes, she took a deep breath, stepped forward, and felt as if she had entered a house built with bricks of ice. Moving toward the bouquet, she knelt down to inspect the flowers, searching for a message, a sign, something to indicate who had left the blooms. Judging from softness in the stems, and limp petals, the collection of dahlias and chrysanthemums had been there for some time. Overnight, perhaps. There was no message. Maisie looked up and around; coming to her feet, she walked farther into the waste ground, stopping where the foundations and low remains of walls long fallen stood proud from the ground. She pulled back weeds and reached out to touch fire-blackened stone, the telling remains of the blaze that had taken the lives of a family.
Maisie turned to leave and realized she had an audience. Three children stood watching her, their eyes wide. There were two boys, each wearing short trousers with braces over cotton collarless shirts too big for them, battered leather lace-up boots, and flat caps that made them appear like old men. The girl wore a floral dress and old leather sandals that were a size too large, likely hand-me-downs from an older sibling. Her fair hair was tangled, as if she had been playing in the woods, and a long forelock had been pulled to the side and tied with a ribbon to keep it from her eyes. As Maisie made her way to the pavement, walking toward them, they screamed and ran, with the little girl almost left behind, squealing, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me. It’s a ghost, it’s a ghost. Pim’s come to haunt us, Pim’s come to haunt us.”