Leaving the MG parked outside the inn, Maisie set off on foot for a walk of two miles or so, to the tree where the London boys had hoped to claim a couple of tenners—conkers that would be so strong in competition with other boys that they would smash at least ten lesser conkers to pieces. Instead they had found silver and a week in police custody.
Hiking along a woodland path, Maisie first searched for a specific tooclass="underline" a slender hazel branch she could cut just below the fork, to use as a divining rod. Standing on tiptoe to take hold of a worthy branch, she drew back the leaves to better view the diameter of the still-green wood. She let the branch snap back up, took out her knife, pulled open a suitable blade, and reached up to the branch again. Cutting through the sinewy fibers, she soon brought down the section she wanted. She sliced off the leaves, tested the rod, and smiled. Now all she had to do was think silver.
She had earmarked two locations where the cache of Sandermere silver might be stowed or buried. The first, down by the stream, was less compelling, but she had to search the area to ensure her investigation was completed to the most thorough degree. For Beattie Drummond was right: It was an investigation, no less important or significant than any case she had worked on before.
Walking farther, she doubled back through the woods and up toward the horse chestnut tree. She hid her knapsack behind the tree, so as not to be encumbered on her way, then closed her eyes and envisioned a collection of silver—spoons, goblets, platters, teapots, chafing dishes. She held the hazel rod, with the fork in the branch facing in the direction of the woods opposite, and walked on.
With branches hanging low and brushing against her face and undergrowth hampering her progress, Maisie struggled to become attuned to the rod. She knew the image of silver was becoming fogged, as if shrouded in the mist of disbelief, and any powers of divination to which she might have laid claim were being drawn away, just as water is sucked from the shore by the tide’s pull. Following the rod’s direction, she came close to the stream, her brow glistening, her arms filled with ache.
“Well, I won’t find anything here!” She slumped down next to the stream. Resting the hazel rod on her lap, she watched the water run up around the roots of an ancient oak, eddying along, carving through the clay, leaving visible layers of strata in its meanderings. Maisie sighed, the water soothing her, encouraging her to go to the second place now, where the encroaching eventide shadows might camouflage her presence. She came to her feet, brushed down her skirt, which she knew was in dire need of laundering, and looked one last time at the stream before turning to go. But something stopped her, something at the edge of her vision caused her to halt, to wait, to regard her surroundings once again.
Trees overhung the rushing water, and the undergrowth was a rich green, with ferns and bindweed covering the peaty ground. Closer to the stream, the heady aroma of wild garlic tested her senses as she looked back and forth and around her. Then she saw, hidden in the greens and browns of the woodland, a collection of four or five old and rusty one-gallon cans. They had been thrown some four feet in from the bank, not carelessly, but with some speed, otherwise they would not have been found at all. Ferns had been pulled across, to disguise the rusted tin as far as could be managed. Maisie knelt down and unscrewed the top of one can, flinching as metal rasped against metal. Yes, they had once contained paraffin oil, a most flammable liquid.
Maisie spread the ferns back across her find and left the woodland, wondering who had used the liquid. She entertained the thought that its purpose might have been innocent, with, perhaps, simply a careless dumping of spent metal. But a paraffin can was useful, not something to throw away. She wondered if the liquid had been used to set the fire on Sandermere’s property. Perhaps even for those in the village. Yet each of those fires represented too small a conflagration for such an incendiary substance to have been used.
She left the wood, returning to the chestnut tree to claim her knapsack. It was still warm, and too light to do anything more, so she walked along the road, looking for a place to sit, to complete more notes. Consulting her watch, she thought it might be an efficient use of daylight to call upon one or two of those who had been the victims of arson—or merely fiery accidents—in recent years. She found a fallen tree trunk at the side of the road, its head of leaves and branches sawn away to leave a welcome seat—for a walker or for one who just wanted to rest for a while. As Maisie sat down and looked out across the land, she realized her chosen place commanded a view over the wall of Sandermere’s immediate property and on toward the house and stables. A shallow hill rose to the right, and as she continued to cast her eyes over the property, she saw Webb, his broad-brimmed hat marking him, standing on the hill, watching Alfred Sandermere’s house. He did not move for some moments, remaining still as if transfixed by the mansion. Then he turned and walked away.
FOURTEEN
Upon reflection, Maisie considered it best to confine her visits with the victims of “accidental” fires to the hours of one day, rather than begin knocking on doors in the evening. In a small village, word of her presence would doubtless travel with speed from house to house, from person to person, like a bumblebee hovering from one bloom to the next, though in this case the work at hand would not result in a honeyed sweetness.
And though she had been tempted to go to the gypsy camp, drawn by the music and dance that was still smoldering within her, she knew a pall had enveloped the tribe since Sandermere’s attack on Paishey, and a quiet stillness had descended upon their sojourn in Heronsdene. Sandermere, as far as she knew, had not been seen since the incident. She was tempted, also, to join the Beale family and the other Londoners this evening, knowing they would be preparing tea in the cookhouse before sitting around a fire to tell stories, to reflect on hop-picking in years past—and to talk, now that there was but one week or so to go of the harvest, about returning to London, to the Smoke. Instead, she remained at the inn.
The residents’ sitting room was empty when Maisie came down for supper, other guests having not yet returned from their walks across the countryside or forays into the surrounding villages. Fred Yeoman served a plate of hearty shepherd’s pie with fresh vegetables from the garden and stopped to pass the time of day with her, to talk of the weather and how they had been lucky, with only one or two days of rain throughout the hopping. But as their talk lulled, and Fred looked out of the window to comment on a flight of ducks passing on their way to warmer climes, the conversation from the public bar became louder and within hearing.
“I’ll be glad when that property’s sold and we all know what’s what around here,” one voice piped up.
“Pity Sandermere isn’t going too, as far as I’m concerned. The war took the wrong brother, no doubt about it.”
“Can’t do nothing about that now, Sid. Twenty-five boys and men were taken from this village, half on the same day, and we can’t do nothing about that either.”