The Reverend Staples opened the door, calling out to his wife, “It’s alright, Jane, I’ve answered it myself.” He turned to Maisie. “May I help you?”
“Reverend Staples? My name is Maisie Dobbs.” She paused to hand him a calling card. “I am working for the company currently in the process of purchasing a large tract of land, plus the brickworks, from Alfred Sandermere in Heronsdene.”
The vicar, who still wore his white clerical collar, along with a V-necked maroon cardigan that had been darned at the elbows, frowned as he read her card. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how—”
“I’m completing a report on the village’s recent history, a factor the purchaser always takes into account, as a local business is so much a part of the adjacent community. Given your very close association with the village, I thought it would be a good idea to seek your opinion on a few points.”
He stepped aside, holding out his left hand. “Of course, do come in.” He closed the door behind her. A woman came from the drawing room, through which Maisie could see French doors leading to the garden, where whitewashed cast-iron furniture was set on a lawn. The woman wore her silver-gray hair in a tight permanent wave and looked very much the quintessential vicar’s wife, clad in a simple knitted cardigan with a string of pearls at her neck and a skirt that brushed her calves just above the ankle. “Ah, Jane, this is Miss Maisie Dobbs. She represents the company buying most of Sandermere’s estate. Wants to find out a bit more about the village.”
The woman clasped her hands in front of her waist as she replied. “I’m glad to hear it. That brickworks needs to be properly run, and the interests of the village in the business that employs most of the men should be taken seriously” She paused and smiled. “Might I bring some tea to your study, dear?”
The vicar replied that tea would be very nice indeed, and Maisie suspected that Mrs. Staples had spent much of her married life making tea for those who came to see her husband.
Reverend Staples led Maisie to his study and held out his hand toward a chair as he closed the door behind him. “Please, take a seat.”
Once more, Maisie was seated on the guest’s side of a wooden desk more suited to a room three times the size. With a ream of unused paper to one side of the blotting pad, and a scribbled-upon haphazard collection of notes on the other, it seemed that the vicar was working on a manuscript of some sort.
“You’re a writer, Reverend Staples?”
He waved his hand as if to dismiss the thought, then used an arm to sweep the written-upon papers to one side. “I thought I might be. I’ve been working on an autobiography of sorts, a recollection of my days as a country vicar. I thought I might blend witty anecdotes with a treatise on the pastoral care of a small community. However, I have discovered that I am not a born writer, and that those little scenes of rural humor do not stand the test of time. But the work gives the impression of getting on with something and assuages the guilt that accompanies a stroll across the road to watch the cricket.”
Maisie smiled. She was glad the conversation had mellowed, so much the better for her questioning. “I think I should come to the point. My client has been concerned regarding the instances of petty crime in Heronsdene over the past—say—ten years or so, including a spate of fires. Have you any . . .“ She paused, seeking the right word. “Have you any insight that might shed light on the causes of such vandalism? I should add that the fires—which seem to happen on an annual basis—are of particular concern.”
The vicar ran his finger around his collar and rubbed his chin. Hot around the collar, thought Maisie, as Maurice’s words echoed in her mind. The door opened, and Jane Staples brought in a tea tray. She made a comment about the garden while pouring, then passed cups of tea, to Maisie first and then her husband, who seemed relieved at the interruption.
As the door clicked behind her, Maisie repeated her question. “Your thoughts on the vandalism, sir?”
“Of course, I’ve heard about the petty crime, as you call it. You no doubt know the lion’s share of those incidents were after my time, so I cannot exactly lay claim to having my finger on the village pulse. Certainly, such events do seem to coincide with the hop-picking, and the coincidence cannot be ignored. High jinks by London boys in particular.”
“And the fires?”
His cheeks became pink once more. “Yes, the fires. I’m sure that, to an outsider, the fires might look suspicious—generally the same time of year and so on. However, you people really mustn’t make a mountain out of a molehill. It’s a busy time of year. People are working in the fields all day—if not in the hop-gardens there’s often a second threshing of the hay, then the apples and pears, and that season follows the picking of summer fruit, strawberries, cherries, blackcurrants—so workers are tired, they ache from the day’s labor, and they make mistakes. A chimney’s set on fire because the stove’s been banked up for more hot water, a saucepan alight on the hob because someone’s fallen asleep, or a paraffin lamp’s been left untended—no one in the village has the convenience of electricity, my dear.”
“So you believe ten or more small fires, generally at the same time of year, are the result of household accidents?”
Staples leaned forward and began folding the edge of a sheet of paper, first one fold, then another, until the paper was triangular in shape. He spoke while his hands were busy. “Yes, I do, Miss Dobbs. If you list them it seems hard to believe, but Heronsdene is a rural farming community, with the addition of a factory. The people are not strangers to accidents. They take them in their stride, help one another out. They are very close-knit, as you have no doubt discovered. It is a blessing that no one has been hurt.”
“Some weeks ago a fire almost took the lives of Mr. Sandermere’s hunters.”
“Well, that might be one fire to take a second look at.”
“I have already.”
“I’m sure.”
Maisie smiled, encouraging Staples to soften before presenting another question she knew would challenge him. “Can you tell me about the Martins?”
He scratched his right ear and reached for his hitherto untouched cup of tea. “Of course. Very nice people. Churchgoers. Musical family—Mrs. Martin played the church organ, Anna was a pianist, and Jacob quite a respectable violinist.”
“A violinist?”
“Yes, tragic loss, with the Zeppelin.”
“Indeed. You were of course in the village when the tragedy happened, weren’t you?”
He cleared his throat. “I had just returned from London earlier in the day. I had church business at the archbishop’s office at Westminster. While I was there, I was also on an errand for Jacob Martin.”
“What sort of errand?”
“Well, he’d told me several weeks earlier that he had taken his violin to be repaired by an expert in Denmark Street. He was a very busy man, so when I knew of my appointment, I offered to collect it for him. I arrived back in the late afternoon and had not had an opportunity to return the instrument before the bombing.”
“Do you still have the violin?”
He shook his head. “No, unfortunately not. It was stolen from the rectory in Heronsdene.”
“I thought you said the petty crime came after your time.”
He deflected the question. “The thieves were probably London boys, inexperienced in their trade. Had they been less callow, they would have known that the items taken—the violin, a small clock, a brass toasting fork—were of almost no consequence. There were more valuable ornaments in a display case that was left untouched.”
“London boys? So the burglary took place at hop-picking time?”
“Yes. As I suggested, if something untoward is going to happen, it will be during the hopping.”
“What did the police say?”
He shook his head. “We did not summon the police. There’s no local constabulary, so the police have to come some distance, and seeing as it really was very petty, with no great loss, we thought best simply to
let it go and let God be the judge of the perpetrators.”
Maisie was about to speak when there was a light knock at the door and Jane Staples came into the study. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Miss Dobbs.” She turned to her husband. “Telephone for you. It’s the bishop’s office.”
“Oh, dear.” Staples stood up. “Do excuse me, Miss Dobbs. I shall have to bring our conversation to a close. One doesn’t keep the bishop waiting, and—between us, please—he can go on a bit.”
“Thank you for your time, Reverend Staples.”
The vicar’s wife showed Maisie to the door, while her husband walked toward the drawing room.
Maisie returned to her motor car and drove a short distance, to park again close to the pub. She doubled back toward Easter Cottage on foot and, careful not to be seen, walked around the perimeter of the vicar’s house and gardens before making her way back to the MG once again. As she passed the pub, a beery warmth wafted out, along with patrons leaving, having been turned out following the afternoon’s last orders. She was thirsty, having taken but one sip of tea, and could almost taste an ale rich with hops and barley teasing her tongue. Pulling onto the road, she drove toward Hawkhurst’s white-painted colonnade of shops, where she bought a cherry-red Vimto to quench her thirst. And for a while she sat to consider why a man of the cloth had lied to her—for as she had suspected, there was no telephone connection at Easter Cottage.
BY THE TIME Maisie returned to Heronsdene, it was mid-afternoon. Several hours of daylight remained, so there was no time to be wasted in contemplation. She had work to do. She engaged in a cordial conversation with Fred Yeoman, then went to her room to change into her walking skirt and brogue-like leather shoes. She had remained in Hawkhurst only long enough to drink her bottle of Vimto and make notes on the wad of index cards, which she now placed in her leather case. She put several fresh cards into her knapsack, along with binoculars and her Victorinox knife, reached across the dressing table to pick up her nurse’s watch—but stopped. Her fingers lingered over the watch and then she took it up, placing it in the front pocket of her knapsack instead of pinning it to her jacket, next to her heart. She would heed Beulah’s warning, but she still needed to know the time.
Leaving the MG parked outside the inn, Maisie set off on foot for a walk of two miles or so, to the tree where the London boys had hoped to claim a couple of tenners—conkers that would be so strong in competition with other boys that they would smash at least ten lesser conkers to pieces. Instead they had found silver and a week in police custody.
Hiking along a woodland path, Maisie first searched for a specific tool: a slender hazel branch she could cut just below the fork, to use as a divining rod. Standing on tiptoe to take hold of a worthy branch, she drew back the leaves to better view the diameter of the still-green wood. She let the branch snap back up, took out her knife, pulled open a suitable blade, and reached up to the branch again. Cutting through the sinewy fibers, she soon brought down the section she wanted. She sliced off the leaves, tested the rod, and smiled. Now all she had to do was think silver.
She had earmarked two locations where the cache of Sandermere silver might be stowed or buried. The first, down by the stream, was less compelling, but she had to search the area to ensure her investigation was completed to the most thorough degree. For Beattie Drummond was right: It was an investigation, no less important or significant than any case she had worked on before.
Walking farther, she doubled back through the woods and up toward the horse chestnut tree. She hid her knapsack behind the tree, so as not to be encumbered on her way, then closed her eyes and envisioned a collection of silver—spoons, goblets, platters, teapots, chafing dishes. She held the hazel rod, with the fork in the branch facing in the direction of the woods opposite, and walked on.
With branches hanging low and brushing against her face and undergrowth hampering her progress, Maisie struggled to become attuned to the rod. She knew the image of silver was becoming fogged, as if shrouded in the mist of disbelief, and any powers of divination to which she might have laid claim were being drawn away, just as water is sucked from the shore by the tide’s pull. Following the rod’s direction, she came close to the stream, her brow glistening, her arms filled with ache.
“Well, I won’t find anything here!” She slumped down next to the stream. Resting the hazel rod on her lap, she watched the water run up around the roots of an ancient oak, eddying along, carving through the clay, leaving visible layers of strata in its meanderings. Maisie sighed, the water soothing her, encouraging her to go to the second place now, where the encroaching eventide shadows might camouflage her presence. She came to her feet, brushed down her skirt, which she knew was in dire need of laundering, and looked one last time at the stream before turning to go. But something stopped her, something at the edge of her vision caused her to halt, to wait, to regard her surroundings once again.
Trees overhung the rushing water, and the undergrowth was a rich green, with ferns and bindweed covering the peaty ground. Closer to the stream, the heady aroma of wild garlic tested her senses as she looked back and forth and around her. Then she saw, hidden in the greens and browns of the woodland, a collection of four or five old and rusty one-gallon cans. They had been thrown some four feet in from the bank, not carelessly, but with some speed, otherwise they would not have been found at all. Ferns had been pulled across, to disguise the rusted tin as far as could be managed. Maisie knelt down and unscrewed the top of one can, flinching as metal rasped against metal. Yes, they had once contained paraffin oil, a most flammable liquid.
Maisie spread the ferns back across her find and left the woodland, wondering who had used the liquid. She entertained the thought that its purpose might have been innocent, with, perhaps, simply a careless dumping of spent metal. But a paraffin can was useful, not something to throw away. She wondered if the liquid had been used to set the fire on Sandermere’s property. Perhaps even for those in the village. Yet each of those fires represented too small a conflagration for such an incendiary substance to have been used.
She left the wood, returning to the chestnut tree to claim her knapsack. It was still warm, and too light to do anything more, so she walked along the road, looking for a place to sit, to complete more notes. Consulting her watch, she thought it might be an efficient use of daylight to call upon one or two of those who had been the victims of arson—or merely fiery accidents—in recent years. She found a fallen tree trunk at the side of the road, its head of leaves and branches sawn away to leave a welcome seat—for a walker or for one who just wanted to rest for a while. As Maisie sat down and looked out across the land, she realized her chosen place commanded a view over the wall of Sandermere’s immediate property and on toward the house and stables. A shallow hill rose to the right, and as she continued to cast her eyes over the property, she saw Webb, his broad-brimmed hat marking him, standing on the hill, watching Alfred Sandermere’s house. He did not move for some moments, remaining still as if transfixed by the mansion. Then he turned and walked away.
FOURTEEN
Upon reflection, Maisie considered it best to confine her visits with the victims of “accidental” fires to the hours of one day, rather than begin knocking on doors in the evening. In a small village, word of her presence would doubtless travel with speed from house to house, from person to person, like a bumblebee hovering from one bloom to the next, though in this case the work at hand would not result in a honeyed sweetness.
And though she had been tempted to go to the gypsy camp, drawn by the music and dance that was still smoldering within her, she knew a pall had enveloped the tribe since Sandermere’s attack on Paishey, and a quiet stillness had descended upon their sojourn in Heronsdene. Sandermere, as far as she knew, had not been seen since the incident. She was tempted, also, to join the Beale family and the other Londoners this evening, knowing they would be preparing tea in the cookhouse before sitting around a fire to tell stories, to reflect on hop-picking in
years past—and to talk, now that there was but one week or so to go of the harvest, about returning to London, to the Smoke. Instead, she remained at the inn.
The residents’ sitting room was empty when Maisie came down for supper, other guests having not yet returned from their walks across the countryside or forays into the surrounding villages. Fred Yeoman served a plate of hearty shepherd’s pie with fresh vegetables from the garden and stopped to pass the time of day with her, to talk of the weather and how they had been lucky, with only one or two days of rain throughout the hopping. But as their talk lulled, and Fred looked out of the window to comment on a flight of ducks passing on their way to warmer climes, the conversation from the public bar became louder and within hearing.
“I’ll be glad when that property’s sold and we all know what’s what around here,” one voice piped up.
“Pity Sandermere isn’t going too, as far as I’m concerned. The war took the wrong brother, no doubt about it.”
“Can’t do nothing about that now, Sid. Twenty-five boys and men were taken from this village, half on the same day, and we can’t do nothing about that either.”
There was a general jawing, a chewing over of times past, then another comment. “We’ll breathe a bit easier when they’ve all gone: the Londoners, the pikeys—and that woman! Asking her questions about them, down the road. Wants to know a bit too much, if you ask me.”
At first, Fred Yeoman seemed paralyzed by the overheard conversation, but then he hurried to remove Maisie’s plate while raising his voice to a degree that was unnecessary in the small room, a level that ensured he would be heard in the public bar.
“Enjoy your pie, Miss Dobbs?” He barely paused while clearing her plate. “We’ve some lovely fresh apple tart with custard, made this afternoon. Got any room for just a slice?”
There was silence in the bar, as if Heronsdene itself was waiting to learn whether Maisie Dobbs, a Londoner, wanted fresh apple tart or not.