Maisie leafed through a newspaper while she waited for the reporter to come to the receptionist’s desk. She noticed that the burglary at the Sandermere estate had warranted several column inches, including a searing comment from Alfred Sandermere: “Since the war we seem to have been overrun with young ruffians, and they need to be taught a lesson! As if the gypsies aren’t enough for us to put up with!” There was another journalistic observation and then a final quote from Sandermere: “I’ll see that they are punished to the full extent of the law. Let this be a lesson to others bent on delinquency!”
“Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie turned to see a woman of average height standing before her, wearing a sensible two-piece costume of pale gray lightweight wool with a white blouse underneath. The gored skirt had fashionable kick pleats, and her black shoes demonstrated a choice based both on comfort and demand—she suspected the woman was on her feet for much of the day. Indeed, her clothing suggested nothing threatening and was simple in such a way as to extinguish any immediate rise to opinion on the part of someone she might wish to interview.
“Yes, indeed. Thank you for seeing me, Miss—”
“Just call me Beattie. My name is Beatrice Drummond and my middle name is Theresa. As much as I would have liked to be called Tricia for short instead of Beattie, the middle initial ensured my fate. Call me Beattie.” She looked up at a wooden clock that would seem more at home in a Victorian school than a newspaper office. “Would you like to step across the road for a cup of coffee? I can spare about fifteen minutes—then I have to dash.”
“Thank you for accommodating me, though I must confess at the outset that I do not have a news tip for you.”
Beattie grinned. “Oh, I am sure you do, Miss Dobbs. I am quite familiar with your work.”
Maisie maintained her smile, though the news was unwelcome. She had seldom been mentioned in newspapers and did not care for such recognition, despite the flurry of business that came in the wake of the spotlight’s glare. She would have to be doubly careful when questioning the reporter.
Open casement windows at the front of the coffee shop ensured a cool breeze to temper what promised to be a warm Indian summer day Maisie ordered two coffees, along with two fresh Eccles cakes, and joined Beattie by the window, where she had already claimed a seat.
“I’m glad to see you haven’t brought your official notepad.” Maisie was frank, though she couched the comment lightly, as she rested the corner of the tray on the table and placed the coffee and cakes at the already-set places.
Beattie reached for a cup of coffee and an Eccles cake.
“May I ask, before anything else, how you came to be a reporter, Beattie?”
Beattie smiled as she bit off a mouthful of the currant-filled pastry and wiped a crumb from the side of her mouth with her hand. Holding up one finger while she chewed, she swallowed. “I am absolutely starving. Not taken a moment for a cuppa all morning.” She reached for her coffee, sipped, and placed the cup back on its saucer. “I came to work at the newspaper in 1916—sixteen years old at the time. Most of the lads in the printing room had enlisted and they had to keep the presses running, so they took on women to do the job. Of course, the print room was run by the older men who were too long in the tooth to wield a rifle, and after a while I ended up as a compositor. I’d always loved books and writing, so I kept asking if I could work in the newsroom, which of course they laughed at, every single time. I even began looking for news, coming in with stories for them to print, but the editor just looked me in the eye and threw my words in the bin.”
“How dreadful.”
“Ah. I was not to be deterred. I applied for a copyediting assistant’s job when it came along, and again, due to staff shortages, got the position. But still they threw my news stories in the bin. Finally, one day when all the reporters were out—and a right old lot they are, they’ll be over in the pub until after closing today, I wouldn’t mind betting—I happened to find out about a young woman who had taken her life when she was told her husband had been killed at Passchendaele. I got the whole story in the bag before anyone even knew it had happened—and as you might imagine, this was when it wasn’t considered so very bad if you wrote something less than laudatory about the war. But I didn’t spend time on the actual war, just the man who had died and his very young wife.”
“So you got your break.”
“In a manner of speaking. They decided I was good at ’people’ stories, which meant I was in grave danger of being relegated to covering flower shows and jam-making contests, to say nothing of Pancake Day races, but I sidestepped a lot of that sort of thing and sniffed out meatier leads. When one of the old boys turns in a big story, they print his name, but they’ll only print my initials: B. T. Drummond. They haven’t quite grasped that the world has changed in the last ten years. No one cares if it’s a man or woman writing the news, just so long as it’s written.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I’m sure you do.” Beattie squinted at Maisie through a wisp of steam curling up from the still-hot coffee. “Now then, you didn’t come to Maidstone to hear my life story, did you? What can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?” She reached for the remains of her Eccles cake without taking her eyes off the investigator.
“I’m interested in the village of Heronsdene. You’ve worked at the newspaper since the war, and it sounds as if you’ve kept your finger on the pulse of the county, so to speak. I know you can’t be everywhere, but I wondered if you’ve any”—Maisie considered her words with care—“if you’ve any thoughts about the village, any stories or leads that have come your way regarding events there, since about, say, 1916?”
Beattie licked her forefinger and tapped at the remaining crumbs on her plate, then brushed her tongue across her crumb-encrusted finger again before responding to Maisie’s question. “Are you working on a case?”
“In confidence, until I say otherwise?”
Beattie tapped again at her now-clean plate. “As long as I get first dibs on the story—if it’s a big one—before anyone else pips me to the post.”
“My, my, you’re anxious to move up.”
“Anxious to move out, Miss Dobbs. I want to work on one of the London rags, and I need a big story to open the door. Will I get word from you so I can scoop?”
Maisie nodded. “I’m not sure it will turn out to be anything of note, Beattie, but I assure you that whatever happens I will let you know in plenty of time.”
Beattie held out her hand, and the women shook on their agreement. “How can I help?”
“First of all, is it my imagination or is there something amiss about Heronsdene?”
The reporter blew out her cheeks. “Straight to the bull’s-eye with question one.” She sat up straight. “I would say that you’ve hit the nail on the head there. I do—despite my better judgment—report on local fairs and shindigs, so I know most of the villages across the Weald of Kent, and I would agree with you: There’s a different . . . a different . . .”
“Mood?”
“Yes, there’s a different mood in Heronsdene. Now, I can’t speak of what it was like before—I’m Kent born, by the way, in Headcorn—and I can’t think of any reason for it, but outsiders say the village hasn’t been the same since 1916.”
“The Zeppelin raid?”
“Ah, you have another source.”
“My father.”
“That’s alright then.” Beattie finished her coffee with one gulp. “Yes, if anything, the raid is the event that seems to have changed the people there, one way or another. I mean, other villages, other towns, had their cross to bear—all the boys lost on one day, families left without a breadwinner—but Heronsdene is different. If that village were a human being, you’d tell it to get on with it, snap out of the malaise. When I go there to report on the annual fete, I feel like an interrogator simply for asking who made the Victoria Sponge at the end of the cake-baking competition table.”
“Any idea why th
ey have such a lack of trust?”
She looked thoughtful, for a moment gazing out of the window, watching passersby as if she were memorizing every detail of the scene. “Yes, it’s a lack of trust.” She turned back to Maisie. “It could be the petty crime that’s been going on there for some years now—probably ten years. And they’ve got a local landowner who thinks he’s the squire of all he surveys, but he’s a dreadful businessman—not good news at all when you think of how the village depends on the brickworks. I’m waiting in the wings to report on his financial ruin, to tell you the truth.”
“I know about the petty crime. But what about Sandermere? How much does he have to do with the village?”
“Ah—good question, but a better one would be: ’How much does he want to do with the village?’”
“What do you mean?”
“Being the landowner, he holds enormous power on a local level, despite what I said earlier. But the people really can’t stand him, just cannot abide him, and yet they’re careful not to do anything that might rub him up the wrong way. His ownership of the brickworks doesn’t explain the acquiescence, to be perfectly honest with you. Frankly, we all gave up trying to get a story about the crime there—especially the fires—because the villagers don’t report them to the police. Of course, Sandermere is always calling the police for this or that at the mansion, which doesn’t go down well with the Tunbridge Wells constabulary, but he’s the only one. You get the impression that the locals would prefer it if he showed half their stoicism when it comes to these acts of delinquency.”
“You can’t ignore crime, though.”
“They do, most of the time. Mind you, we’ve got a nice little story with those two London boys. The readers love that sort of thing, mainly because in every village they think the Londoners are better off up there in London—though they don’t mind the custom in the shops and the pubs. And at least they’re not gypsies. Nobody wants the gypsies, so any story where a pikey gets pulled by the boys in blue is worth a string or two.”
Maisie looked at her watch, as did the reporter. “One more question for you, Beattie. Do you know who was killed when the Zeppelin bombed Heronsdene?”
The woman squinted, as if looking at newspaper columns stretching back years. “It was a shopkeeper, if I’m not mistaken. I can check on the details for you.”
Maisie stood up. “Don’t worry I can look into it myself.”
Beattie laughed. “Yes, I am sure you can.” They walked out into the sunshine. “But if you’re at the inn, talk to Fred Yeoman, the landlord. Go easy with him, perhaps buy him a half of light and bitter, and he may just remember a thing or two.”
“Right you are. Thank you, Beattie.”
“Remember—I’ve got the scoop, alright?” She waved and turned, walking with an assured purpose back to her office. As she watched, Maisie saw the reporter take a small notebook from her pocket and begin to make notes. She was not concerned, though, as she made her way back to the MG, for she was sure that B. T. Drummond would not have gained the confidence of ordinary people across the county, or maintained her place on the newspaper’s roster of reporters, without some level of honesty, some degree of trustworthiness.
MAISIE REACHED HERONSDENE just after lunch, idling the MG as she drove through the village, where she parked opposite the inn. Last orders had not been called, though she guessed the inn would be open all day for residents to come and go, even if drinks were not served.
Opening the ancient oak door and dipping her head to avoid the low beam, Maisie entered where a sign read RESIDENTS, which led into a small, comfortable sitting room where an extension of the main bar allowed the landlord to respond to calls from both regular patrons and visiting guests alike. Leaning across the wooden counter, Maisie saw the landlord serving pints in the noisy public bar, where a group of men were playing darts. The air was thick with smoke, filtering into the saloon bar, situated between the residents’ sitting room and the public bar. The womenfolk who accompanied men to the inn would usually sit in the saloon bar. A sign behind the bar mirrored one that Maisie noticed outside: NO GYPSIES.
“Excuse me.” Maisie waved to the landlord, who nodded and smiled, to let her know that he had seen her waiting.
“Sorry to keep you . . . miss.” He wiped his hands on a towel and glanced at her ring finger. “They’re all trying to get a round in before last orders. Can I help you?”
“I’m touring the area and wondered if you might have a vacancy for two nights.”
He reached under the counter and took out a ledger. “Two guest rooms still vacant—not that we have that many, mind, just the four.”
“I’ll take one, if I may.”
“Right you are.” He reached for the pencil balanced behind his ear. “Lovely time of year to come down to Kent. From London, are you?”
“Yes, though I know the county well.”
“Just sign here, miss, and put in your details.” He continued speaking as she wrote. “See a lot of young women these days, touring like yourself. Specially since the government brought out them billboards telling everyone to get out into the fresh air and hike for health! Don’t see so many traveling alone, though.”
Maisie was not fond of using her past to gain an ally, but sometimes she found it was a valuable tool. “After I was in France, during the war, I thought that if I could face that trial I was up for anything in my own country. And what could there possibly be to cause me fear or harm in your delightful village?”
The innkeeper nodded, looking at Maisie with a regard he had not exhibited before. “Nurse, were you?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Fred Yeoman, at your service.” He reached behind the bar for a key, which he dangled in front of him as he looked down at the register. “Best room in the house. Follow me please, Miss Dobbs.” Yeoman lifted the counter’s wooden flap, stepped through to the sitting room, and pointed toward another small door between the inglenook fireplace and the diamond-paned windows. He unlatched the door to reveal a narrow staircase snaking toward a landing lit by a shaft of light from a dormer window set into the roof.
Maisie followed and was shown into a room with windows looking out to the back of the inn.
“The bed’s soft but comfortable. You’ll find it might be noisy of an evening—the hoppers can get a bit rowdy at the end of the day—but it’s quiet by eleven. We’re not what you’d call a drinking pub, if you know what I mean, so we don’t attract the Londoners anyway.” He rested his hand on the door handle. “My wife serves a hot breakfast in the residents’ sitting room at eight, and if you want a supper put out for you, just let us know. She’ll pack up some sandwiches as well, if you want.”
“Thank you, Mr. Yeoman. I’ll be having a cooked tea later on, so I doubt I’ll be hungry. This is a lovely room.”
“My wife made the curtains and counterpane.” He surveyed the room with pride. “Now then, the WC is along the landing, to the right, so there’s no going outside to an earth closet in the middle of the night. Will you need towels?”
“I’ve brought my own, thank you, Mr. Yeoman.”
He passed the key to her. “Fred. You can call me Fred, miss.”
“Thank you, Fred.” Maisie smiled as Yeoman left the room, closing the door with barely a sound.
The room was neither small nor spacious, and the rug-covered wooden floorboards creaked under her footfall as she stepped toward the window. From the outside, she had dated the inn at around 1350, of typical medieval hall-house construction. The upper floors would originally have been simply a galleried landing where people slept; she suspected the division into rooms probably took place in the seventeenth century, with water closets and gaslights being added during Edward VII’s reign. Electricity would likely be next, and she thought Fred Yeoman might look to adding a bathroom for guests, so they weren’t completely dependent on a single washbasin in the room for their personal hygiene.
The window provided a perfect vista across the farmlan
ds beyond, and in the distance Maisie could see the roofline of the Georgian manor house at the center of the Sandermere estate. If she craned her neck, she could also view the hop-gardens and even the train chugging toward Paddock Wood. The room, she thought, would be perfect for a couple of nights. She locked the door behind her as she left, slipping the key into her jacket pocket. Waving to Yeoman as she departed the inn, she decided to walk along the High Street to get her bearings.
To the right, as she walked, there was just one shop, a general store selling all manner of goods, from groceries to oil for lamps, from kitchen cutlery to baby clothes. A few houses followed, then a common where, she thought, cricket would be played in summer and the local fete set up on a sun-filled June day. She imagined Beattie Drummond walking back and forth, trying to get even the most mundane story from the locals, to no avail. Considering the villagers, she looked about her and realized that few people were out and about on such a fine afternoon. Early closing was yesterday, so perhaps the shopkeepers had only just opened again following their midday meal.
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL was set at the far end of the common, and the muffled but high-pitched singing of a folk song signaled a music lesson in progress. Beyond the common, farther down the street, an old outbuilding with smoke belching from the chimney suggested a blacksmith at work, and as she walked closer she saw two draft horses waiting to be shod, flicking flies from their hefty rumps with their long tails or occasionally turning to nip an insect from their flanks. She watched for a while, then walked on. A strip of fallow land came next, with neither house nor sign of recent harvest, and there was no indication that it was used for grazing, which she thought strange, for country folk are not given to wasting land.
Maisie retraced her steps and reached the smithy just as the farrier came out to collect one of the drafts, reaching up and taking it by the halter.
“Excuse me,” Maisie called, taking advantage of the farrier’s being outside, away from the clanking bellows.
The man cupped his ear with his free hand as he looked around the horse to see who had spoken.