The door was open, and two men stood behind a dust- and paper-laden desk, poring over an order. At first they did not see her.
“They definitely said they wanted the bricks by the end of October, so if we get them to Paddock Wood by—”
“Good morning.”
Both men looked up, simultaneously wiping their hands on their mustard-colored workmanlike heavy cotton coats.
“I’m looking for Mr. Bracegirdle.”
The shorter worker thumbed toward the man holding the order, who tucked a pencil behind his right ear and set down the sheet on top of a pile of papers. “I’m Mr. Bracegirdle.” He was about to hold out his hand to greet her when he noticed the dirt ingrained in his palm. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”
Maisie shook her head. “That’s alright. Do you think you might be able to spare me ten or fifteen minutes of your time?”
Without inquiring as to the purpose of her visit, the foreman looked at his deputy, who touched his flat cap. “Right you are, Pete. I’ll get the boys working on that order.”
“I’ll come out to the kilns as soon as I’ve had a word with this lady, Bert.” He turned to Maisie, then came around to the other side of the desk, removed a pile of papers from a chair, flapped the papers back and forth across the seat to remove the dust, and held out his hand. “Take a seat, miss.”
Maisie was grateful that she’d worn her heavy linen skirt, which, being khaki, would not show any dust lingering on the chair.
“What can I do for you?” Bracegirdle leaned back against the table and folded his arms. “You haven’t come here for bricks or tiles, I’m sure.”
“You’re right. I’m working for the Compton Corporation, who are—as you’ve probably heard—in the process of finalizing arrangements to buy the business side of the Sandermere estate.”
“Yes, we were all told when the works and the land went up for sale. Bit worrying, in these times. You never know whether you’ll still have a job.”
“I think I can say with a relative degree of confidence that, should the sale progress to completion, the Compton Corporation wishes to expand the works here, develop the range of bricks and tiles, and make a significant well-considered investment in new equipment and practices.”
“Well, we’ll wait and see. That all sounds very nice, but you do hear about these—what do they call them?” He rubbed his chin.
“Asset strippers?”
“That’s it. They take a business, sell it lock, stock and barrel, and then everyone’s out of a job.”
“Not a brickworks, and not when there’s so much building going on.”
“We can hardly keep up with the orders.”
“Which is good news, for you and for buyers.”
“Well, it’s not all good news. We need investment to make sure we meet those orders. In fact, we’ve needed the right investment for a long time.”
Maisie frowned. “I understood that Mr. Sandermere put a lot into the brickworks, more than could comfortably be afforded.”
Bracegirdle pulled a cloth from his pocket and began rubbing his hands. “Not for me to speak out of turn, but to be honest with you, there are people who buy something new just for the sake of it. And half of what he paid good money for isn’t what we wanted. I told him, I said, ’Here’s what we need.’ But he went for the goods the fast talkers pushed—with more than a dose of toadying up to him, I shouldn’t wonder—which is why he bought, feeling like the big businessman. Lot of what we really want, you can get secondhand. I hope I manage to have a serious word with whoever buys the place so we can get what we need—and a bit more in the wage packets wouldn’t go amiss, either.”
“Quite.” Maisie paused. “Mr. Bracegirdle, wasn’t some of the expenditure on the works to replace equipment damaged in a recent spate of malicious destruction at the estate?”
“No, the spending came before the shop was got at. We’ve managed to repair a fair bit, and of course we lost a lot of inventory, but I got the boys working round the clock and we were able to fill our orders. Of course, Mr. Sandermere said he’d ordered some new parts, but I’ve yet to see them. We make do and mend when we have to, don’t we?”
“Of course.” Maisie shifted on the seat. “Have the insurers come to view the works?”
“Mr. Sandermere had them in straightaway, and of course they were interested, being as the stables went up in flames as well. They insisted a police report be made. Mr. Sandermere hadn’t called the police, saying it was probably some local lads out on the beer and the police couldn’t do anything anyway. And he wasn’t wrong there—they came, had a sniff around, took a few measurements, paced back and forth from the door to make it look like they knew what they were about, and then off they went.”
“I see.”
“ ’Course, it would have been different if his brother was the boss.”
“I understand he was a different kettle of fish altogether.”
“Very fair. Knew the business. I remember him coming in here when he was just a lad, wanting to learn how to make bricks. Took him round myself, I did. And he knew the farmers, made it his business to know about farming. We have a bookkeeper from the village, a Mr. Soames, who comes in of a Friday.” He laughed. “I have to do a bit of tidying up on Thursday night, so he don’t get upset on account of the mess we’ve made.” He smiled. “Anyway, Mr. Henry came every Friday, even when he was back from his school in the summer, to sit with Mr. Soames and make sure he understood what went on here.”
“And Alfred’s not the same.”
Bracegirdle gave a half laugh that came out as a derogatory snort. “Oh, he’s interested in the bottom line, alright—because he likes to spend anything that isn’t spoken for.”
Maisie nodded. “Have there been any other incidences of vandalism?”
“We get the odd nipper from the village with a pot of paint who reckons himself an artist with a bit of a flair for walls, but other than that, no, just that one.”
“But when you add it to the vandalism in the village and the fires, it all mounts up.”
Bracegirdle moved around to the other side of the desk. Maisie watched, curious, for his move had placed a substantial piece of furniture between them at the mention of the problems in the village.
“Don’t know much about the village, not specifically.”
“Oh? I assumed you lived in the village, Mr. Bracegirdle.”
“I do, yes, but I don’t know much about the fires.” He shrugged. “Mind you, there was the accident at Fred Yeoman’s the other night—silly bugger threw out the ashes and started it himself.”
Maisie knew there was little to be gained from the conversation, though she wanted to press the foreman just a little more. “Do you remember the Zeppelin raid?”
“Don’t forget a thing like that.”
“No, I shouldn’t wonder. I understand the local baker and his family were killed when a bomb hit their shop, for of course they lived upstairs.”
“That’s right.”
“And no one has ever built on the land. Or even put up a memorial.”
He shrugged again. “Best left as it is. They’re buried in the churchyard.”
“I know, but I thought—”
Bracegirdle looked at the clock on the wall behind him. “Well, I haven’t got the time to sit about, got work to do. If that’s all, miss—”
“Of course.” Maisie stood up, brushing her hand across the fabric at the back of her skirt to remove dust. “Thank you for seeing me.”
He nodded and turned to leave, via the door leading into the works.
MAISIE HAD NOW confirmed the impression she had of Sandermere, a spendthrift who was likely entranced by the thrill of expenditure and the attention that accompanies the impression of having considerable wealth. He liked spending money. He liked being a man of commerce, of land, but he had no aptitude for either and no wise counsel to direct him—if he had cared to listen. She was in no doubt, now, that her suspicion—as put to James Compton—that Sandermere was embezzling his insurers was correct. He had probably received compensation for both the stable fire and for the damage to the brickworks. And what of the items lost when the mansion was burgled? Had he claimed already for that loss? There was a police report, though the suspects were probably released by now, so there might be a lapse of time before he received those funds. How desperate was he? Maisie suspected that the man’s weakness was akin to those who are unaware of their limits with alcohol, except his addiction was to money and, more particularly, to the thrill of profligacy and to the attention such behavior garnered. If he had nothing, he would be like the addict deprived of his drug—what, then, might he do next? Would his craving for attention, which she thought might be the root of his character deficiencies, lead him to set fires, to pyromania? Or would other aspects of his life suffer a descent, due to lack of control?