Turning into Week Street, Maisie’s next stop was the offices of the local newspaper, which brought word of events in Kent, whether significant or trivial, to the broad population of the county. A woman receptionist proved helpful, and when Maisie asked if she could speak to one of the reporters who had been at the newspaper for, say, fifteen years or so, she was told that they rarely changed staff, so that would be anyone.
“I reckon the best thing, miss, is for you to speak to Beattie. She’s been here since the war and knows what’s gone on all over Kent.” She paused. “I’d say to speak to one of the men, but they’re all over at the King’s Arms at the moment.”
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 . . .”