She logged the dates of Alfred Sandermere’s boyhood suspensions from school alongside a list of dates germane to the case, then read through the notes taken shortly after her visit to meet him. He had made a point of informing her that he was away at the time of the Zeppelin raid on Heronsdene, yet according to the tally of dates, he was very much at home, as Cottingham had said, “languishing at his parents’ estate” soon after the term had begun. She wondered what a boy of fifteen, almost sixteen, might do with time on his hands in a place where there was little to amuse him. Some boys were joining up at this age, and even younger, though it appeared that Sandermere, A. was not one of them.
Maisie worked for a short while longer, making plans to meet more of the villagers in the days to come, taking into account that she was waiting for additional information from Beattie Drummond. The reporter was an interesting woman, thought Maisie, someone who searched high and low for news and who worked ten times harder than her fellow newspapermen to get the story. And of course Beattie wanted the big story, the scoop that would jettison her to The Daily Express or even The Times. As she packed up the case map and gathered her belongings for the trip, Maisie wondered to what lengths B. T. Drummond might go to get what she wanted.
She was about to leave, when she set down her bags and went again to the dining table at which she’d been working. She drew a box of fine vellum and matching envelopes toward her and took out her fountain pen, tapping the end of the barrel on the blotting paper as she mentally composed her letter. Once satisfied she had the words in her mind—though she would eventually compose and discard several versions of the letter—she began: Dear Margaret . . .
IT WAS AGAIN suppertime when Maisie arrived at her father’s cottage at Chelstone Manor and, as before, Frankie had prepared a hearty repast for his daughter. Maisie remained concerned about her father’s health, though his recovery from an accident some eighteen months earlier had been considered excellent by the local doctor. But he was getting on in years. It had often occurred to Maisie that, with the exception of Priscilla, those closest to her were in their twilight years, and she dreaded the losses that might come in quick succession. Her attempts to broaden the scope of her friendships were, in part, due to such fears.
Frankie dished up dinner almost as soon as Maisie walked in the door.
“Been a man here asking for you.” He ladled a hearty helping of stew into the broad-lipped soup bowls, while Maisie cut and buttered bread in the thick slices her father favored.
“Me?” She held the knife suspended above the bread.
Frankie nodded. “Not what I would call a nice chap, either. What was that man’s name? S . . . Son . . . San—”
“Sandermere?”
Frankie pointed the ladle at her. “That’s it. Sandermere. The one you asked about the other day, and I said I’d heard of him. Well, he came here on a big bay hunter. Fair sweating it was. I offered to walk the horse around, cool it down while he had a cup of tea—don’t like to see a horse in a state like that—but he just went off again, cantering down the road like a highwayman. I thought to myself, Who does he think he is? Coming in here like he’s Dick Turpin, all steamed up and having had a few, if I’m not mistaken.”
Maisie frowned. “I wonder how he knew where you lived. And that I might be here.” She began to cut the bread again. “More to the point, I wonder what he wanted.”
“Well, I didn’t like the man. A fella who treats an animal like that is a man to keep clear of, as far as I’m concerned.” He lifted up his knife and fork. “And Dr. Blanche didn’t take to him either.”
“Maurice?” Maisie sat down, picked up her spoon, and began to sip the broth before starting on the thick wedges of brisket.
“He was walking back from the manor when that bloke turned up. I saw him, just watching, taking it all in. Then, when he rode off on that poor horse of his, Dr. Blanche came over and asked me about him.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Frankie reached for a slice of bread and looked at Maisie directly. “As a matter of fact, he did. Said that, if you’ve time, he’d like to see you. Seemed very . . . concerned, I think is the word. Yes. Didn’t like what he saw. And to tell you plain, neither did I.”
Maisie looked at the big round clock on the wall and then back toward her father. “If it’s alright with you, Dad, I think I might wander over to see him after we’ve had supper.”
“Don’t mind me, love. In fact, if you’ve to deal with the likes of that man who came today, and Dr. Blanche can give you a spot of advice, I reckon you should go and see what he has to say”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I’ll do that.” She smiled. “The stew’s lovely, Dad.”
WHEN FATHER AND daughter had cleaned the kitchen following their meal, and Frankie was seated by a fire with his newspaper, Maisie pulled on her jacket and walked toward Maurice’s house via the garden entrance. She made her way up to the house and saw Maurice silhouetted against the windows of the conservatory. He would have seen the torch she carried.
The main door was already open by the time she arrived at the front of the house, and Maurice himself was waiting for her on the threshold.
“Ah, Maisie, I am so glad you have come.” He reached out to her with both hands, which she took in her own.
“It has been a long time, hasn’t it, Maurice?”
“Come, let us go to the drawing room—a fire’s just been lit. We’ll have an after-dinner drink together, and we can talk.” He turned to her as he walked, “Like old times.”
Even as they walked the few steps from the door to the drawing room, Maisie knew that Maurice Blanche was gauging her emotional well-being, was mirroring her pace, her stance, her demeanor, to ascertain—what? Her stability? Her strength? She knew he would want to know exactly how she was feeling, as that information would dictate how he opened their conversation. Only this time she would be the one to begin speaking.
“I have some news, Maurice.” She sat down as he pulled a cord to summon his housekeeper. “Some sad news.”
“Yes, I know. You carry the weight of bereavement, of loss.”
She nodded. Though she had also carried, for almost a year now, a resentment regarding Maurice, this animosity was rendered weak under the weight of her desire to speak of the events of last night. “Simon is dead, Maurice. He’s gone.”
Maurice handed her a glass of port and sat opposite her in his favorite wingback chair. He set a crystal glass with two fingers’ worth of single-malt whisky onto a small table at his side and reached for his pipe, which he tapped against the brick of the fireplace before taking up his tobacco pouch. Then he responded to her announcement. “It was past his time, the poor man.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, it was.” She spoke quietly. “I don’t know how I feel, Maurice.”
Her former employer and mentor regarded her, then turned to his pipe, pressing the bowl against the tobacco in the pouch and filling it so as not to waste even a strand. “Do not expect to know how to feel, Maisie. You buried your grieving for years, not only for Simon but for your own lost innocence. And the death you saw as a girl in France—that is the most terrible loss of innocence.” He paused while he held a match to his pipe and drew against the flame. Then he looked at Maisie. “Last year was a watershed for you, your collapse in France reflecting a weight of emotion, of remembrance, that could not be borne any longer. Do not try to second-guess your responses. Otherwise you will encounter guilt if you have reason to embrace laughter, or you will draw away from those things that bring you joy, because you will be trying to feel a certain way, a way expected by a broader society.”
“I was with Priscilla today, and we were laughing at her boys. When it came time to write to Margaret Lynch, I found I was taking myself to task for those moments of lightness.”
“The challenge with death is that it can lift a burden, and we feel those two sensations—the lightness you speak of, along with melancholy, of loss. You have already suffered one, Maisie, so do not
be taken aback when there is only one remaining and it is the one that brings with it moments of levity.” He paused, as if taking care to look for stepping-stones as he negotiated difficult terrain. “Cast your mind back to the time when you were seeing Andrew Dene.” Maisie sat straighter in her chair, as if to brace herself, but Maurice continued. “Though you had happy times, and he certainly could make you laugh, you always carried the obligation you felt toward Simon. Of course, I understand that there were other difficulties, but do not underestimate your feelings, and don’t draw back from doors that open, now that the one closed for years has locked forever. Simon’s spirit is at peace. Allow yours to be free as you live.”
Maisie sighed. She would consider Maurice’s words later, in her room in her father’s house. For now, though she had opened the subject, she wanted to deflect the conversation away from Simon, for his death was ground upon which she, too, stepped with care. “My father said you saw the man who came looking for me today.”
Cradling the pipe by its bowl in one hand, Maurice reached again for his single malt. “Not a particularly nice character, if I may say so.”
“Far from it, I’d say. I wonder how he might have known my father lives at Chelstone.”
“You’re working for James Compton, I take it?”
“Yes, but—”
“That man came here to see James. He came to the front of the house. I had been visiting Lady Rowan and was about to leave when he arrived, looking for James. When informed the Viscount was out on his hunter, the man mounted his horse and made for the back of the house. I can only assume one of the groundsmen confirmed that James was out and, when asked when he’d left, said ’Mr. Dobbs would know’ Then the horseman of course realized that there was some connection between the Dobbs who was the groom and the Dobbs who had been breathing down his neck.”
“I wouldn’t say that I was breathing down—”
“The man kept running his fingers around his collar, which was not tight. It suggested an outward demonstration of his state of mind.” Maurice sipped the malt and placed the glass back on the table. “Can you tell me more about the case? Would you like to discuss your findings?”
Maisie saw that Maurice was again treading with care lest he cause offense. She had claimed a measure of independence since last year, and knew her mentor anticipated that she would not be willing to concede significant ground. However, she valued a dialogue that would help marshal her thoughts on the case.
“James is about to purchase a large estate in Heronsdene, about ten or so miles from here.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He’s really interested in the brickworks, to take advantage of the increase in building, despite the slump. The only parts of the estate that will remain in the owner’s hands—and that was him who came to Chelstone today, a man called Alfred Sandermere—are the house and the immediate gardens, plus the stables. James is concerned about instances of petty crime that have been plaguing the area for years, especially a spate of fires set deliberately.”
“Fires?”
“Yes. And there’s a mood in the village, a sort of scar formed following a tragedy that happened in the war. Three people were killed in a Zeppelin raid, and that event, as much as the loss of their young men, seems to have been a catalyst—for a change of heart, if you like. Of course, one expects such a thing to leave a mark, to lead to different behaviors, but that was fourteen years ago.”
“The heart does not know chronos time, Maisie.”
“Yes, I understand.” She paused. “I don’t trust Sandermere, even though I know I should refrain from such conclusions. I believe he’s embezzling his insurers, and I have a sense that he’s trying to pull a fast one on this deal with James. Perhaps with more bad publicity, the news of a likely lower price on the estate will bring in more potential buyers, which will drive up the price again. It’s counter to what one might otherwise believe, but we both know that once people are bent on acquisition, they continue, even if it comes close to breaking them.”
“Yes, indeed. Tell me more about the villagers and what you’ve sensed.”
“It’s hard to get a clear reading at this time of year. The hop-picking brings in the Londoners, plus a tribe of gypsies, so there’s no cohesive community, just different camps all filled with mistrust. The locals hate the incomers, but they don’t mind the extra business, while the Londoners think the villagers are all turnip bashers who get up to goodness knows what and put the blame on them. And then there are the gypsies, who keep to themselves and who are actually not bad people, though no one wants to pick near them. The women go out, selling flowers and clothes pegs door-to-door, and the villagers buy goods from them, then turn their backs—but there’s a few who go find the old matriarch to have their fortunes told.”
Maurice’s laugh was short, and he shook his head. “The double standard.”
“Yes.” Maisie sipped her port, set down the glass, then went on.
“And the land where the bomb killed three people has no marker. It’s overgrown, and—cold.”
“Oh, dear.”
Maisie nodded. “Michaelmas daisies grow wild there. As far as I can tell, it’s the source of supply for the gypsy women who make bouquets for sale.”
“Purple flowers, the color of mourning.”
“Yes, but these are wild. No one planted them.”
“Not that you know of.”
“Indeed, not that I know of.”
There was silence between them. Maisie knew that Maurice did not want to offer advice that might be unwelcome and was cradling their reunion gently, like sand in cupped hands, in case she left, offended, not to return for some months. Thinking again of those she loved who would be taken from her by time’s passage, and how close she had once been to her mentor, Maisie began to soften, though she was not yet ready to relinquish the feeling of being slighted.
“What will you do next, if I may ask, Maisie?”
She inclined her head and stared into the fire. “I will keep the counsel of our earlier years together, Maurice. I will ask questions and more questions, for as you’ve always maintained, the power is in the inquiry, not necessarily in the answer.”
“Good.”
Maisie set down the glass of port. “You’ve a heavy hand with the decanter this evening, Maurice. I can’t finish my drink.”
“No matter.” He stood to see her to the door. “You will contact me if . . .”
“Of course.”
“And you will visit again?”
Maisie allowed him to take her hands in his, as she had when she entered the house. “Yes, I will.”
As Maurice was about to close the door, Maisie called to him. “Maurice?”
He opened the door and squinted, to better see her in the dark. “Do you happen to know anyone who is knowledgeable about violins?”
“Actually, I do. He’s in London, has a small music shop in Denmark Street. He’s an expert on stringed instruments and has a particular interest in violins. I’ll send my housekeeper around with his name and address tomorrow morning, if you wish.”
“Thank you. I am much obliged to you.”
Maurice watched as Maisie switched on her torch and made her way back to the Groom’s Cottage. He knew he was not quite forgiven.
TWELVE
Maisie left Chelstone soon after Maurice’s housekeeper came to the cottage bearing an envelope for her, with a note from Maurice and the name of the luthier in Denmark Street who would, she hoped, be able to tell her more about the violin she had witnessed Webb playing with great skill.
The showers had abated, and morning once more held the pepper-and-herb fragrance that seemed to be ingrained in the breeze at hop-picking time. Verges alongside the road were still full of hogweed, showing off cream-colored fronds of tiny petals, interspersed with the delicate shepherd’s purse, its fragile heart-shaped leaves shimmering as the motor approached, as if to hide behind the last of summer’s pink common mallow. She had the road to
herself, which offered an opportunity to plan her visit to Sandermere’s brickworks, her first stop.
According to James Compton’s notes, the foreman was Pete Bracegirdle, who had been employed at the works since he was twelve, starting as an apprentice. He was a master craftsman who could fashion any type of brick or tile and, before he became foreman, could turn out peg tiles—used in the repair of the many cottages built in medieval times—at a fair clip and with fewer breaks or seconds than any other artisan, making him a valuable worker. In addition to Bracegirdle, the brickworks employed some twenty-four men, a few of them apprentices.
Maisie drew the MG to a halt just inside the main gate to the works. In appearance, the factory itself looked more like a farm, with timber-framed outbuildings with tiled roofing, but minus the many smells and sounds of a farm. The entrance itself was not grand, a simple wooden five-bar gate of the type that might be found at the opening to a field of sheep or cattle. To the left, a sign, crooked and misspelled, pointed the way to the “Ofice.”
The door was open, and two men stood behind a dust- and paper-laden desk, poring over an order. At first they did not see her.
“They definitely said they wanted the bricks by the end of October, so if we get them to Paddock Wood by—”
“Good morning.”
Both men looked up, simultaneously wiping their hands on their mustard-colored workmanlike heavy cotton coats.
“I’m looking for Mr. Bracegirdle.”
The shorter worker thumbed toward the man holding the order, who tucked a pencil behind his right ear and set down the sheet on top of a pile of papers. “I’m Mr. Bracegirdle.” He was about to hold out his hand to greet her when he noticed the dirt ingrained in his palm. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”
Maisie shook her head. “That’s alright. Do you think you might be able to spare me ten or fifteen minutes of your time?”
Without inquiring as to the purpose of her visit, the foreman looked at his deputy, who touched his flat cap. “Right you are, Pete. I’ll get the boys working on that order.”