“You’re working for James Compton, I take it?”
“Yes, but—”
“That man came here to see James. He came to the front of the house. I had been visiting Lady Rowan and was about to leave when he arrived, looking for James. When informed the Viscount was out on his hunter, the man mounted his horse and made for the back of the house. I can only assume one of the groundsmen confirmed that James was out and, when asked when he’d left, said ’Mr. Dobbs would know’ Then the horseman of course realized that there was some connection between the Dobbs who was the groom and the Dobbs who had been breathing down his neck.”
“I wouldn’t say that I was breathing down—”
“The man kept running his fingers around his collar, which was not tight. It suggested an outward demonstration of his state of mind.” Maurice sipped the malt and placed the glass back on the table. “Can you tell me more about the case? Would you like to discuss your findings?”
Maisie saw that Maurice was again treading with care lest he cause offense. She had claimed a measure of independence since last year, and knew her mentor anticipated that she would not be willing to concede significant ground. However, she valued a dialogue that would help marshal her thoughts on the case.
“James is about to purchase a large estate in Heronsdene, about ten or so miles from here.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He’s really interested in the brickworks, to take advantage of the increase in building, despite the slump. The only parts of the estate that will remain in the owner’s hands—and that was him who came to Chelstone today, a man called Alfred Sandermere—are the house and the immediate gardens, plus the stables. James is concerned about instances of petty crime that have been plaguing the area for years, especially a spate of fires set deliberately.”
“Fires?”
“Yes. And there’s a mood in the village, a sort of scar formed following a tragedy that happened in the war. Three people were killed in a Zeppelin raid, and that event, as much as the loss of their young men, seems to have been a catalyst—for a change of heart, if you like. Of course, one expects such a thing to leave a mark, to lead to different behaviors, but that was fourteen years ago.”
“The heart does not know chronos time, Maisie.”
“Yes, I understand.” She paused. “I don’t trust Sandermere, even though I know I should refrain from such conclusions. I believe he’s embezzling his insurers, and I have a sense that he’s trying to pull a fast one on this deal with James. Perhaps with more bad publicity, the news of a likely lower price on the estate will bring in more potential buyers, which will drive up the price again. It’s counter to what one might otherwise believe, but we both know that once people are bent on acquisition, they continue, even if it comes close to breaking them.”
“Yes, indeed. Tell me more about the villagers and what you’ve sensed.”
“It’s hard to get a clear reading at this time of year. The hop-picking brings in the Londoners, plus a tribe of gypsies, so there’s no cohesive community, just different camps all filled with mistrust. The locals hate the incomers, but they don’t mind the extra business, while the Londoners think the villagers are all turnip bashers who get up to goodness knows what and put the blame on them. And then there are the gypsies, who keep to themselves and who are actually not bad people, though no one wants to pick near them. The women go out, selling flowers and clothes pegs door-to-door, and the villagers buy goods from them, then turn their backs—but there’s a few who go find the old matriarch to have their fortunes told.”
Maurice’s laugh was short, and he shook his head. “The double standard.”
“Yes.” Maisie sipped her port, set down the glass, then went on.
“And the land where the bomb killed three people has no marker. It’s overgrown, and—cold.”
“Oh, dear.”
Maisie nodded. “Michaelmas daisies grow wild there. As far as I can tell, it’s the source of supply for the gypsy women who make bouquets for sale.”
“Purple flowers, the color of mourning.”
“Yes, but these are wild. No one planted them.”
“Not that you know of.”
“Indeed, not that I know of.”
There was silence between them. Maisie knew that Maurice did not want to offer advice that might be unwelcome and was cradling their reunion gently, like sand in cupped hands, in case she left, offended, not to return for some months. Thinking again of those she loved who would be taken from her by time’s passage, and how close she had once been to her mentor, Maisie began to soften, though she was not yet ready to relinquish the feeling of being slighted.
“What will you do next, if I may ask, Maisie?”
She inclined her head and stared into the fire. “I will keep the counsel of our earlier years together, Maurice. I will ask questions and more questions, for as you’ve always maintained, the power is in the inquiry, not necessarily in the answer.”
“Good.”
Maisie set down the glass of port. “You’ve a heavy hand with the decanter this evening, Maurice. I can’t finish my drink.”
“No matter.” He stood to see her to the door. “You will contact me if . . .”
“Of course.”
“And you will visit again?”
Maisie allowed him to take her hands in his, as she had when she entered the house. “Yes, I will.”
As Maurice was about to close the door, Maisie called to him. “Maurice?”
He opened the door and squinted, to better see her in the dark. “Do you happen to know anyone who is knowledgeable about violins?”
“Actually, I do. He’s in London, has a small music shop in Denmark Street. He’s an expert on stringed instruments and has a particular interest in violins. I’ll send my housekeeper around with his name and address tomorrow morning, if you wish.”
“Thank you. I am much obliged to you.”
Maurice watched as Maisie switched on her torch and made her way back to the Groom’s Cottage. He knew he was not quite forgiven.
TWELVE
Maisie left Chelstone soon after Maurice’s housekeeper came to the cottage bearing an envelope for her, with a note from Maurice and the name of the luthier in Denmark Street who would, she hoped, be able to tell her more about the violin she had witnessed Webb playing with great skill.
The showers had abated, and morning once more held the pepper-and-herb fragrance that seemed to be ingrained in the breeze at hop-picking time. Verges alongside the road were still full of hogweed, showing off cream-colored fronds of tiny petals, interspersed with the delicate shepherd’s purse, its fragile heart-shaped leaves shimmering as the motor approached, as if to hide behind the last of summer’s pink common mallow. She had the road to herself, which offered an opportunity to plan her visit to Sandermere’s brickworks, her first stop.
According to James Compton’s notes, the foreman was Pete Bracegirdle, who had been employed at the works since he was twelve, starting as an apprentice. He was a master craftsman who could fashion any type of brick or tile and, before he became foreman, could turn out peg tiles—used in the repair of the many cottages built in medieval times—at a fair clip and with fewer breaks or seconds than any other artisan, making him a valuable worker. In addition to Bracegirdle, the brickworks employed some twenty-four men, a few of them apprentices.
Maisie drew the MG to a halt just inside the main gate to the works. In appearance, the factory itself looked more like a farm, with timber-framed outbuildings with tiled roofing, but minus the many smells and sounds of a farm. The entrance itself was not grand, a simple wooden five-bar gate of the type that might be found at the opening to a field of sheep or cattle. To the left, a sign, crooked and misspelled, pointed the way to the “Ofice.”