IN HER FIFTH OUTING, MAISIE DOBBS, THE EXTRAORDINARY PSYCHOLOGIST AND INVESTIGATOR, DELVES INTO A STRANGE SERIES OF CRIMES IN A SMALL RURAL COMMUNITY.
With the country in the grip of economic malaise, and worried about her business, Maisie Dobbs is relieved to accept an apparently straightforward assignment from an old friend to investigate certain matters concerning a potential land purchase. Her inquiries take her to a picturesque village in Kent during the hop-picking season, but beneath its pastoral surface she finds evidence that something is amiss. Mysterious fires erupt in the village with alarming regularity, and a series of petty crimes suggests a darker criminal element at work. As Maisie discovers, the villagers are bitterly prejudiced against outsiders who flock to Kent at harvesttime—even more troubling, they seem possessed by the legacy of a wartime Zeppelin raid. Maisie grows increasingly suspicious of a peculiar secrecy that shrouds the village, and ultimately she must draw on all her finely honed skills of detection to solve one of her most intriguing cases.
Rich with Jacqueline Winspear’s trade-mark period detail, this latest installment of the bestselling series is gripping, atmospheric, and utterly enthralling.
Also by Jacqueline Winspear
Maisie Dobbs
Birds of a Feather
Pardonable Lies
Messenger of Truth
AN INCOMPLETE REVENGE
AN INCOMPLETE REVENGE
A Maisie Dobbs Novel
JACQUELINE WINSPEAR
Henry Holt and Company, LLC
Publishers since 1866
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, New York 10010
www.henryholt.com
Henry Holt® and
of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
Copyright © 2008 by Jacqueline Winspear
All rights reserved.
Distributed in Canada by H. B. Fenn and Company Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Winspear, Jacqueline, 1955-
An incomplete revenge : a Maisie Dobbs novel / Jacqueline Winspear.—1st ed. p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-8050-8215-9
ISBN-10: 0-8050-8215-8
1. Dobbs, Maisie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—England—London—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—George V, 1910-1936—Fiction. 4. Kent (England)—Fiction. 5. City and town life—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6123.1575153 2008
823’92—dc22 2007040639
Henry Holt books are available for special promotions
and premiums. For details contact: Director, Special Markets.
First Edition 2008
Designed by Victoria Hartman
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedicated to my parents,
Albert and Joyce Winspear
With All My Love
“Of all the gifts that people can give to one another,
the most meaningful and long lasting are
strong but simple love and the gift of story.”
Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D., The Gift of Story:
A Wise Tale About What Is Enough
If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.
—Niccolò Machiavelli (1469-1527)
There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness.
—Josh Billings, US. humorist (1818-1885)
AN INCOMPLETE REVENGE
PROLOGUE
Early September 1931
The old woman rested on the steps of her home, a caravan set apart from those of the rest of her family, her tribe. She pulled a clay pipe from her pocket, inspected the dregs of tobacco in the small barrel, shrugged, and struck a match against the rim of a water butt tied to the side of her traveling home. She lit the pipe with ease, clamping her ridged lips around the end of the long stem to draw vigor from the almost-spent contents. A lurcher lay at the foot of the steps, seeming at first to be asleep, though the old woman knew that one ear was cocked to the wind, one eye open and watching her every move.
Aunt Beulah Webb—that was the name she was known by, for an older gypsy woman was always known as aunt to those younger—sucked on her pipe and squinted as she surveyed the nearby fields, then cast her eyes to the hop-gardens beyond. The hops would be hanging heavy on the bine by now, rows upon rows of dark-green, spice-aroma’d swags, waiting to be harvested, picked by the nimble hands of men, women and children alike, most of whom came from London for a working late-summer holiday. Others were gypsies like herself, and the rest were gorja from the surrounding villages. Gorja. More house dwellers, more who were not gypsies.
Her people kept themselves to themselves, went about their business without inviting trouble. Aunt Beulah hoped the diddakoi families kept away from the farm this year. A Roma would trust anyone before a diddakoi—before the half-bred people who were born of gypsy and gorja. As far as she was concerned, they looked for trouble, expected it. They were forgetting the old ways, and there were those among them who left the dregs of their life behind them when they moved on, their caravans towed by bone-shaker lorries, not horses. The woman looked across at the caravan of the one she herself simply called Webb. Her son. Of course, her son’s baby daughter, Boosul, was a diddakoi, by rights, though with her shock of ebony hair and pebble-black eyes, she favored Roma through and through.
About her business in the morning, Beulah brought four tin bowls from underneath the caravan—underneath the vardo in the gypsy tongue. One bowl was used to wash tools used in the business of eating, one for the laundering of clothes, one for water that touched her body, and another for the cleaning of her vardo. It was only when she had completed those tasks, fetching dead wood from the forest for the fire to heat the water, that she finally placed an enamel kettle among the glowing embers and waited for it to boil for tea. Uneasy unless working, Beulah bound bunches of Michaelmas daisies to sell door to door, then set them in a basket and climbed back into her vardo.
She knew the village gorja, those out about their errands, would turn their backs when they saw her on the street, would glance away from her black eyes and dark skin now rippled with age. They would look aside so as not to stare at her gold hoop earrings, the scarf around her head, and the wide gathered skirt of thread-bare deep-purple wool that marked her as a gypsy. Sometimes children would taunt.
“Where are you going, pikey? Can’t you hear, you old gyppo woman?’
But she would only have to stare, perhaps point a charcoal-blackened finger, and utter words in dialect that came from deep in the throat, a low grumble of language that could strike fear into the bravest bully—and they would be gone.
Women were the first to turn away, though there were always a few—enough to make it worth her while—who would come to the door at her knock, press a penny into her outstretched hand, and take a bunch of the daisies with speed lest their fingers touch her skin. Beulah smiled. She would see them again soon enough. When dusk fell, a twig would snap underfoot as a visitor approached her vardo with care. The lurcher would look up, a bottomless growl rumbling in her gullet. Beulah would reach down and place her hand on the dog’s head, whispering, “Shhhh,jook” She would wait until the steps were closer, until she could hold the lurcher no longer, and then would call out, “Who’s there?” And, after a second or two, a voice, perhaps timid, would reply, “I’ve come for my fortune.”