“George, you tell Miss Dobbs ’ere what went on with your Arthur and Joe.”
George placed his cap on one knee and reached for the tin cup filled with strong scalding tea that Billy passed to him. He blew across the top to cool the liquid, then set the mug on the ground at his feet. As Maisie watched him, she knew he was buying time, perhaps composing the story in such a way as to shed the light of innocence on his sons—she assumed the boys in question were his.
” ’appened Monday. Only been down ’ere three days, we ’ad. We finished pickin’ at four on the dot, after the last tally, then come back to wash and start a bit o’ grub going.” He pointed to a low brick building with a chimney at one end intersecting the hopper huts. “Me and the wife, Audrey, we was in the cook ’ouse—we’d both ’ad a bit of a sluice to get the dust off our ’ands and faces and left the boys to do the same. They’re good boys, but they’d been talking all day about the chestnut trees this side of the fence around the Sandermere place—you know what boys are when it comes to a game of conkers. All they want to do is find the biggest conker, polish it up, bake it ’ard, polish it again, and see ’ow many times it’ll last when it’s whacked by another lad’s conker.” He picked up his tea, blew across the rim of the mug again, and sipped. Then he drank several more gulps before turning to Maisie once more. “Me missus calls ’em for their tea. No answer. Then again. So out I went lookin’ for the little whatsits—they’re twelve and thirteen, out of school and workin’, but that don’t make no difference, they’re still young lads.” He sat upright, held out one hand, palm up for emphasis, and continued. “Next thing I know, I’m standin’ under a tree full of conkers, and there they are, in the old cuffs, off with two coppers who’re sayin’ they’re bein’ nicked for breakin’ and enterin’, theft and malicious damage. The poor little sods are in tears, but that don’t make no difference. And there’s that Sandermere, mister ’igh-and-bleedin’-mighty, sayin’ it’ll be a lesson to them, bein’ put away, goin’ down for a few years.” George pressed his chest before speaking again. “My Audrey took a turn, dropped to ’er knees when I broke the news. All we want is to go back to the Smoke now, get away from all this—but we need the money, and we can’t get away with the boys in clink.”
Maisie nodded, remaining silent for a moment, mainly to gather her thoughts but also to allow the man to say more, if he should need to. When she spoke, it was with a soft voice, measured and slow. “George, I must ask you this question, so please do not be offended, but what evidence do you have that it was not your sons and what evidence do the police have that it was?”
“I know my sons, miss!” The man stood up, dropping his tea as he came to his feet.
“Steady, George. Miss Dobbs’s got to ask, got to get the lay o’ the land, you know, to ’elp.” Billy took up the cup, replenishing it half full with tea.
The man settled himself again. “You’re right. Best to tell you everything. They’ve got some local bloke, a solicitor, brought in to speak for ’em, but the man don’t look like ’e cares tuppence.” He sat down, drank the tea straight back, then threw the dregs out across the sun-baked clay earth. “When the boys were caught, they were searched, and a silver paperweight was found in Joe’s pocket and a locket in Arthur’s.”
“What did the boys say?” Maisie inquired, taking her notebook from the knapsack and beginning to write.
“That they found the silver under the chestnut tree.”
“And the police?”
“They say the boys ’ad an accomplice on the other side of the wall, but they couldn’t resist keepin’ a bit o’ what they’d taken with them—and the business of lookin’ for conkers was made up when they saw they’d been nabbed.”
Maisie nodded. “I see.” She reached for the cup of tea she’d placed at her feet when she began to write. “And what do you think, George?”
“Me?” He looked at Maisie, then at Billy, who nodded. “I reckon it was them bleedin’ pikeys. Bloody vermin, they are.” He turned to Billy again, “And you should watch it, mate, what with your missus gettin’ in thick with that Webb woman.”
Billy reddened. “It’s only the baby, George. Reminds ’er of our little Lizzie. Breaks my ’eart, it does.” He looked away.
“It’s not as if we don’t all know what you’ve been through, but nothin’ good will come of that sort of goin’-on, I tell you.” George wagged a finger at Billy, then brought his attention back to Maisie, who had said nothing during the exchange between the two men. “I’ve seen ’im, the one what don’t ’ave no proper name—they just call ’im Webb. I’ve seen that gyppo over on the hill, looking down toward Sandermere’s mansion. Just stands there and watches. And I’ve seen ’im walkin’ around the place, alongside of the fencing. If you want to know who burgled the place, that’s where you want to look. Police reckon they’ve got no evidence, say they can’t nick Webb or move the gyppos on, that they ain’t doin’ anybody any ’arm.” He folded his arms and kicked his boot out toward a stone.
Maisie completed a note, nodding her head as she underlined a word, then looked up at the men. “The thing one has to be careful with, in such cases, is rushing in with all guns blazing, so to speak. It’s best to take care, though time is obviously of the essence. Where are the boys being held?”
“Maidstone nick—but they’re only boys, in with all them villains.”
“Don’t worry. I would imagine they will probably not be in with the prisoners, just in temporary cells. Not comfortable, but not as bad, either. And where are the gypsies encamped?”
Billy turned around and pointed. “You go back out of these hop-gardens to the farm road, past four more hop-gardens and a field of cows, and you’ll see their caravans up on the ’ill close to the wood. There’s a sort of clearing in the wood where they’ve got a big fire. They all sit around at night and ’ave a bit of a sing-song. That Webb plays the fiddle—so do a couple of the other blokes—and they make a right racket up there of a night.”
“And who’s the matriarch?”
“The what?” Billy and George spoke in unison.
“The eldest woman in the tribe. She’ll probably have a caravan set slightly apart from the others.”
“The older Webb woman, mother of that dirty thief? I’d watch that one if I was you. Wouldn’t go creepin’ over there.”
Maisie smiled and packed up her things. “I’ll go to Maidstone tomorrow, George. And I’ll visit the woman today. Do you know her name? Or have they just called her aunt?”
Billy and George looked at each other, then back at Maisie. Billy answered. “I can ask Doreen, but I don’t think she knows. The woman with the baby girl they call Boosul, that one’s name is Paishey—short for Patience, I reckon.”
“Yes, that sounds right.” She continued to speak as she stood, handing her cup to Billy. “Gypsies tend to have names that are almost biblical—you’ll hear Charity, Patience, Faith, that sort of thing.” She placed a hand on George’s shoulder. “I’ll also speak to Mr. Sandermere, though I am not yet sure how I might make his acquaintance. We’ll get to the bottom of this soon enough. And I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Billy—I’ll be out here early.”
The men watched as she walked away, stopped to get her bearings, then made her way toward the farm road.
“You sure she can do right by my boys, mate?”
Billy nodded. “Yeah, sure I’m sure. If anyone can find out what went on, Miss Dobbs can.” But he wasn’t sure that talking to a tribe of gypsies was the right way to go about the job.