BEATTIE DRUMMOND CAME as soon as she was summoned to the inquiries desk. “I’m the only one here—Friday afternoon, and the boys have gone home. You never know, that scoop I’ve been waiting for might come in. Got one for me?”
“Not yet, Beattie. I’m hoping you can help me again.”
“And you’ve nothing I can print?”
Maisie shook her head. “Nothing—yet. But I do have a question for you, that I think you may be able to answer, though it will probably take some time for you to go through your notes. I take it you keep all your notebooks.”
“Of course.”
“It’s about the fires in Heronsdene over the years. You said you could not write much of a story on them, given the less-than-helpful attitude of the villagers.”
“Yes?”
“Do you happen to have a list of names of those who suffered damage, and the dates? I have some general reports, but they do not give specific times.”
Beattie raised her eyebrows. “That’s about all I did manage to get on each of them, and it was like pulling teeth from a horse. But date, time and name doesn’t make much of a story without a comment here, an aside there, some real meaty background on Granny’s heirloom china lost or a portrait burned to a cinder.”
“I’d like those names and dates. The information I have from my client isn’t as full as I would like. Also, if it’s possible, can you find out anything more about the family who were lost in that Zeppelin raid in the war?”
Beattie nodded, making notes as she did so. “Anything else?”
“Not at the moment—oh, yes, one more thing. Is there a vicar in the village, do you know?”
“Ah, I can answer that one—already been down that road myself. The village can’t support a vicar of its own anymore; the diocese concluded it’s far too small, so there’s a sort of locum who does the rounds, comes in every Sunday morning and for the usual hatch, match and dispatch work. I should write about the state of English churchgoing, shouldn’t I? It’s not as if he can draw a crowd as soon as the bell tolls.”
“I thought so. Has he been there for a while?”
She shook her head. “No, not very long. Old Reverend Staples, the last vicar, moved on a few years ago, which was when this new chappie came in.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“I can find out for you.”
“Thank you.”
“As long as—”
Maisie interrupted the reporter. “Yes, I know. I won’t forget your scoop.”
SITTING BEHIND AN ancient oak desk in an office lined with shelves of law books, the solicitor’s clerk with whom Maisie had spoken previously, regarding the two London boys who stood accused of breaking into the Sandermere estate, had some promising news.
“It looks like the police might have a problem making the case stick, despite the fact that the boys are outsiders and the influence that the Sandermere name carries—or, I should say, once carried.”
“Alfred Sandermere?”
“Yes, brought the family’s reputation into disrepute.”
Maisie guessed the solicitor probably had as much, if not more, information as either Beattie Drummond or even James Compton when it came to Sandermere. “Bit of a ne’er-do-well, isn’t he?”
“Bit of one? That’s an understatement. He was never an angel, even as a boy, and now he’s become something of a boorish opportunist who appears to believe in an England that hasn’t existed for years.”
“Why are the police having trouble with their case?”
“There’s no other evidence to show the youngsters were ever in the house. They had the sense—the police—not to take the stolen goods in the Londoners’ possession at face value, and sent in the lab boys to gather fingerprints from the mansion, which they compared to the accuseds’ dabs taken when they were charged. We could get them out of custody within twenty-four hours, if we’re lucky. Mind you, they may have to remain in the area—they were still in possession of stolen goods, and the judge might not believe they thought it was manna from heaven.”
“That’s good news indeed. Sandermere will be beside himself if they’re released, though.”
The young man looked at Maisie over half-moon spectacles, an accessory, she suspected, worn to underline a certain gravitas. “Put it this way: I wouldn’t want to be on the estate when he blows his top. That temper’s been his downfall since he was a boy.”
“How do you know so much about him, if I may ask?”
The clerk smiled. “I was at the same school, though he was a few years older than me. Alfred Sandermere would have been at home in Tom Brown’s Schooldays—and not as one of the nice lads, either. He was eventually kicked out for good, expelled for bullying. He’d had numerous suspensions, and I believe—not exactly sure, because it was before my time—that he was once sent home, then got up to some mischief with a local lad. Of course, his father pulled strings, ensured the Sandermere name was kept above the mud, but the other boy carried the can, so to speak, all the way to a reformatory. I think he was too young for borstal.”
Maisie chewed the inside of her lip. “Where were you at school, if I may ask?”
“Smaller school, in London. St. Anselm’s. Excellent academic reputation, which is why parents send their boys there, along with their so-called emphasis on the arts as well as Oxbridge entrance.” He paused. “I suppose it all builds character.”
“You say that with an air of regret.”
The man shook his head. “It was alright, really. I just kept my head down and tried not to attract the attention of bullies—there are always bullies in a boarding school. Wonder what kind of men they become, don’t you? Look at Sandermere.” The man pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Now, Miss Dobbs, I know your questions are in the best interests of the boys concerned, however, I shouldn’t have revealed quite so much—though the papers will have it soon enough, especially with Beattie Drummond snooping around. I really must go now—work to do.”
“Thank you, you’ve been most kind.”
Maisie opened her umbrella as she left the solicitor’s office. She decided not to drive back to the farm to give George the news that his sons might be released as soon as tomorrow—it was always best not to tempt Providence. She was more keen, now, to be in touch with Priscilla. Though the revelation that Alfred Sandermere attended the very school now charged with educating Priscilla’s three boys was something of a surprise, it did not take her aback. There are only so many boarding schools to which the landed gentry, the men of commerce, the aristocracy, foreign diplomats, and reigning monarchs of Europe and Asia might send their sons to be educated, and if one preferred a smaller school, the list became shorter. It may not have been a startling coincidence, but it was a stroke of luck.
NINE
Frankie Dobbs was not at home when Maisie arrived at Chelstone, so, after settling her bag into her old room, she dressed in worn corduroy trousers, a pair of stout walking shoes, a white shirt that had seen better days, and carried an aging cardigan, along with her umbrella. Rain at this time of year tended not to be the cold drops that fell needle-like on the skin in winter but a warmer shower, what her father called a clearing rain to take the edge off an end-of-summer humidity.
Frankie was exactly where she thought he might be: in the stable yard, walking a mare and her foal back into their stall. The mare seemed to lean toward Frankie, while her foal followed, keen not to lose sight of his mother. Maisie loved to watch her father with his charges: the precision of his movements when he was working, the way he used different brushes, the flat of his hand, and a scarf-sized scrap of velvet to bring a gleam to the most mud-encrusted coat. Horses would lift their feet willingly to be picked clean, and Frankie rarely had to raise his voice, except perhaps to a mischievous colt feeling his oats. And that one reprimand was all that was needed when Frankie Dobbs laid down the law.