Sandermere raised an eyebrow, sipping his tea with an audible slurp. Maisie bristled but continued. She already felt slighted by his manner and fought the pressure to descend into immediate mistrust.
“I am, however, interested in incidents of small-time crime that seem to have beset the estate, with particular acts of vandalism at the brickworks and in the stables here—I understand you were lucky not to lose your horses.” Maisie looked down at papers she had drawn from her black bag. “I take it, though, that you were recompensed by insurances.”
“Indeed, Miss Dobbs, without which I would not have been able to bring the brickworks back to full output or provide shelter for my horses.”
“And your insurers are Lloyds.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Now I also know something of the unfortunate burglary that took place last week.”
“Blasted Londoners! Lord, I know the farmers need them for the hop-picking, but what do you expect when a tribe of ruffians from the East End of London is set loose in the country? I’m amazed I didn’t lose more—but at least the two louts who broke in are in custody now.”
“Yes, that must be a weight off your mind, Mr. Sandermere.” Maisie paused. “Two small items were recovered—the culprits were caught with the goods on them—but I understand a significant haul is still missing.”
“Yes, all family heirlooms, not the easy-to-carry trinkets those London boys kept on them. A list has been submitted to the police and also to Lloyds.”
“It’s unfortunate that such family treasures cannot be replaced by money alone.”
“Yes, indeed. I am saddened beyond measure at their loss.”
Maisie reached for her tea, which she had set down when the interview began. She sipped; then, continuing to rest the saucer in her hand, she held the cup to her lips but did not drink. When she sipped again, she looked directly at Sandermere. “You do appear to have been victimized. I must ask if you have any idea, any thoughts as to who might have initiated the fires? The theft is more easily explained, as you have said yourself, a couple of London ne’er-do-wells. But what about the fires? There have been a number of fires in Heronsdene over the years. Do you think they are connected?”
“To be frank, I believe each fire in the village has an explanation. Perhaps a saucepan left on a stove for too long, or a chimney fire as a result of an overzealous villager loading up the logs—probably cut from my forests without permission! No, I’d be willing to bet those fires in the village are all coincidence, with nothing to draw them together at all. And the fires here?” Sandermere leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “To be honest with you, Miss Dobbs, I own everything you see when you stand at that window. In years gone by, my ancestors owned Heronsdene itself—owned every man, woman and child.” He leaned back, smiling, though it was not a warm smile of grace and inclusion, but one of arrogance. “Of course, feudalism died centuries ago, but most of the people who live in the village have their roots as intertwined with this house as with their own humble cottage. In fact, with a few exceptions, most of the villagers pay rent to me.”
“I see.” Maisie put down her cup and brought her attention back to her notes, then to Sandermere. “So what you are saying is that the fires on the estate are really the result of history’s follies seeping into the present. Bad blood from the past finding an outlet here, in 1931.”
“If you want to put it like that, yes.”
“Would you envisage that, should a sale go through, there would be no cause for the new owners to be concerned about continued delinquency?”
“No, no cause whatsoever. Once the act of retribution has had the desired result—for whatever the perceived infraction on the part of some long-lost ancestor—the need for more of the same is negated.”
Maisie pushed the clutch of papers into her black bag and stood up. “Thank you, I think that’s all for now, Mr. Sandermere.”
Sandermere came to his feet, pushed his hands in his jacket pockets, and walked to the door with her. “I suppose that when you’ve completed your reports, I will hear from Viscount Compton’s solicitors to move forward with the purchase.”
“I am not privy to the details of the purchase, Mr. Sandermere. As you have already been informed, my role is to complete a more informal report on the area and, indeed, to look at recent events in the vicinity of the estate and brickworks that might have an effect on the smooth takeover of a considerable acreage and a vital manufacturing asset.”
“Very good.” Sandermere nodded.
The butler stepped forward to escort Maisie to the door, and she bid good afternoon to Sandermere. She was about to cross the threshold but turned, calling to Sandermere, who had just set foot on the staircase. “Oh, Mr. Sandermere—one quick question.”
“Yes?”
“I’m curious—were you at all familiar with the Martin family, Jacob, Bettin and Anna?”
He shrugged. “I am familiar with them only because their lives were lost when the village was bombed by a Zeppelin during the war, Miss Dobbs. I was not in situ at the time, having returned to school.” He turned and continued walking up the stairs.
Maisie made her way back to the MG, settled into the driver’s seat, and shut the door. She chewed the inside of her cheek while surveying the mansion, then drove toward the main road, halting at a place she thought would not be visible from the house. Stepping from the motor car, she walked around the perimeter of the landscaped grounds toward the stable block. The stables, with stalls for seven horses, were quiet when she entered. There was no sign of the groom. Maisie suspected that he was probably in a tack room, applying saddle soap to deep brown leather or preparing buckets of bran mash for the horses—she’d counted three bay hunters and two gray carriage horses. One of the hunters glistened with sweat and smelled of liniment. She laid her hand to his flank and knew he had been galloped to the point of exhaustion. She could see that a groom had walked him cool, then covered him with a soft flannel sheet packed with dry hay to absorb the moisture that still ran from his body. The horse searched for a sweet treat in her hand as she touched his nose, and she whispered to him while reaching up to rub his ear, “He wouldn’t dare do that if Frankie Dobbs were his groom—he’d soon see who’s boss!”
She walked on until she came to the part of the structure damaged by fire, passing the tack room on the left. The groom was not there. A tarpaulin was drawn across a gaping hole in the roof and down the side of the building, where repairs had yet to be completed. She looked up into the rafters, then closely at the remains of a wooden stall, now charcoaled and splintered. The detritus left by fire was not something about which she claimed to be an expert. However, she did know when she’d been told a deliberate lie—or two.
SEVEN
Maisie walked up the hill toward the gypsy encampment and stopped, as she had before, to survey her surroundings. The horses were clustered in a corner of the field, and when she looked up, she saw clouds in the distance, moving in from the coast. The pickers would not be put off by rain but would soldier on through any downpour, sheltering under tarpaulins drawn capelike across their shoulders as they worked.
Gypsy vardos were not the gaily painted horse-drawn caravans of common fairy-tale mythology but more workmanlike in appearance, of deep and earthen colors. This tribe’s vardos, with their accompanying tents, were all maintained well, and even now, close to teatime—not the afternoon tea of ladies in well-to-do homes but the more common hearty after-work repast—the rom, gypsy men, were tinkering with wheels and repairing roofs.
Maisie came closer and saw the lurcher emerge from the clearing, sit back on her haunches, and stare in her direction, nose held up to a breeze that gave notice of the visitor. When she reached a boundary visible only to the lurcher, the dog stood up, moved forward, and, without giving voice, walked silently alongside Maisie as she entered the clearing.