“Jacob Martin?”
“Yes.” He paused, stirring his still-untouched tea. “Then of course there was the tragedy, the Zeppelin—you would have been in France when it happened—and they were all gone.” Carter lifted his cup to his lips, then set it down, continuing to speak before Maisie could ask another question. “Terrible thing to say, but I reckon it was just as well the son was killed too, over there in France. Imagine having to come back and find all your family gone. Terrible. Terrible.”
“There was a son?”
Carter nodded. “Yes, he used to talk about his children to Mrs. Crawford, did Mr. Martin. Can’t say as I knew much myself.”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door, which then opened to reveal James Compton. “Apologies for intruding on your domain, Carter, but I thought I would find Miss Dobbs here.” He looked at Maisie. “I’ve booked a telephone connection to Canada for half-past seven, so perhaps we can have that chat now. If I’m going to get my directors to talk to me, I had better be on time—Toronto’s a few hours behind us here in England, you know.”
Maisie stood up. “Of course.” She turned to Carter. “Thank you very much for the tea, Mr. Carter. It was lovely to see you.”
Leaving Carter’s belowstairs fiefdom, Maisie smiled when she heard the new cook complain. “I’ve never worked in such a house, where no one knows their place. First there’s a maid who’s come up in the world, with such a fine idea of herself she thinks she can just walk in here and march upstairs. Then there’s the Viscount, coming down here and looking for gingersnaps—gingersnaps! Coming into my kitchen without a by-your-leave and saying Mrs. Crawford always made them for him. Well, I’m not Mrs. Crawford and I don’t know if I can stick this. I like a position where people know their station and stay there.”
Carter’s reply was simple. “Beg your pardon, Cook, didn’t quite hear you.”
MAISIE FOLLOWED JAMES into the library a less grand room than the library at the now-mothballed London home of the Compton family at number 15 Ebury Place. The ceilings were lower, and the room had a warmer, more welcoming sense to it, though the tomes held within were no less impressive, especially as many had been transferred from the London home.
James motioned to a chair adjacent to a mahogany secretaire, while he sat down in front of the pulled-down writing surface that was laden with full-to-overflowing folders. “Sorry about this.” He waved his hand across the pile of work, tipped in the chair, and balanced it on its two back legs. As he spoke to Maisie, he tilted forward to grab a manila folder, then teetered back again.
The motion interested Maisie, for it suggested a familiarity with imbalance, a comfort when the status quo was just out of reach, or a propensity to create such a lack of stability. She had come across such a trait before in men of commerce and thought it akin to generating a constant wager, wherein the thrill of the chase, the tumult of a less than smooth business deal, was more compelling than an effortless negotiation.
He spoke again, interrupting Maisie’s thoughts. “I am anxious to close this deal in about ten days. Perhaps you can bring me up to date with your progress—and I take it you have some questions for me.”
Maisie recounted details of her investigation into the issues of vandalism and crime in Heronsdene and suggested that indications as to the source of the troubling acts were both close at hand and, at the same time, hidden from view. She added that she was confident that she would get to the root of the problem in the time allotted.
“However,” added Maisie, “as you said, I do have some questions for you.”
“Go on.” James tilted the chair back and forth within a narrow margin of error, outside of which the chair would most certainly have crashed backward or fallen forward.
“The first is an issue of insurance. Sandermere is insured, as one might expect, by Lloyds, but looking at the stables, it would seem to me that repairs to the standard required by the terms of a compensatory payment have not been met. Are you aware of this?”
James held the edge of the desk, then reached for a file, coming back to his teetering position while he flicked through a few pages. “When our surveyors visited the estate, Sandermere’s insurers had already given him permission to begin repairs, which were expected to commence within a couple of days. They should have been completed by now.”
“I have yet to visit the brickworks,” said Maisie, “but as far as the stable block is concerned, virtually nothing has been done and there are tarpaulins spread to keep out the rain. Fortunately, there has been little in the way of inclement weather in the past month or so, but I would imagine that’s about to change.”
James nodded. “Of course, the stables will remain in Sander-mere’s possession. The boundary of sale, as I explained before, extends from the immediate gardens and what we would call domestic outbuildings, to the perimeter of the mapped estate.”
“But surely you do not want any ambiguity in the final transaction, which may occur if questions remain regarding the integrity of Sandermere’s dealings with his insurers.”
James reached for a pen. “Good point.”
“Also, James, I have another question that is outside the purview of my work with you but about which I would like to have some clarity in any case.”
“Yes?”
“I completely understand the need for, as you said, a clean sale. Yet is it not also true that the estate’s compromised reputation, along with that of the village, renders the selling price even more negotiable than before?” She inclined her head. “Don’t you have more bargaining power, in consideration of events at the Sandermere estate and in Heronsdene?”
James tilted his chair forward, almost but not quite to the floor. “Yes, that’s true, to a point. But it’s not something we would set out to do.”
Maisie deliberately relaxed her shoulders and allowed her hands to rest in her lap, crossing one leg over the other as she did so. “No, I wasn’t suggesting you would. I have undertaken work for the Compton Corporation before, and understand the integrity inherent in your procedures. However, you will negotiate a lower selling price, won’t you?”
James paused. “Of course. I’m a businessman, and even though we will not court controversy, there is an opportunity here for a revised deal to be brokered.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I thought so.”
“Does your question pertain directly to the brief?”
Maisie leaned forward. “In a way it does. If I am to reach any conclusions, or present a comprehensive report, I must understand the nature of the relationship between the Compton Corporation, your representatives, and the Sandermere estate. Your answers have simply raised more questions in my mind about Sander-mere’s actions.”
“What do you mean?”
Maisie sighed. “In military terms, James, I have a sense that he is in the process of shooting himself in the foot.”
“Good for us!”
Maisie stood up. “Ah, not if you want that clean sale, it isn’t—and certainly not in the period of time you’d like.” She held out her hand to James. “I will be in touch. In the meantime, it’s a bit late to see Lady Rowan now, I expect she’s with Lord Julian in the drawing room, sipping sherry.” She stepped forward, placing her hand on the back of James Compton’s chair. “You know, you really must be careful, James, you’ll come a cropper if you keep teetering back and forth.” She smiled. “Don’t summon Carter. I’ll see myself out.”