There was a general jawing, a chewing over of times past, then another comment. “We’ll breathe a bit easier when they’ve all gone: the Londoners, the pikeys—and that woman! Asking her questions about them, down the road. Wants to know a bit too much, if you ask me.”
At first, Fred Yeoman seemed paralyzed by the overheard conversation, but then he hurried to remove Maisie’s plate while raising his voice to a degree that was unnecessary in the small room, a level that ensured he would be heard in the public bar.
“Enjoy your pie, Miss Dobbs?” He barely paused while clearing her plate. “We’ve some lovely fresh apple tart with custard, made this afternoon. Got any room for just a slice?”
There was silence in the bar, as if Heronsdene itself was waiting to learn whether Maisie Dobbs, a Londoner, wanted fresh apple tart or not.
She shook her head, blowing out her cheeks. “I’m fit to pop, Fred, thank you. Tell Mary the shepherd’s pie was the best I’ve ever had—bar none.”
“Right you are, miss. Anything else we can get for you? I expect you’ll want to turn in, what with you being so busy. Think you’ll be finished soon?”
“With my report for the buyers? I daresay I will, Fred. I daresay I will.” And with that Maisie left the residents’ sitting room. As she ascended the narrow staircase, she heard the buzz of conversation strike up again in the public bar, though she could discern no more references to “that woman.”
In her room, Maisie reread a postcard that had arrived for her earlier. It was from Priscilla, confirming that Simon would be laid to rest in two days, and they would need to meet to discuss the arrangements. Maisie shook her head, for her friend, as always, could not resist offering an opinion as to how Maisie should travel, suggesting she come by train to avoid tiring herself in advance of a long and difficult day. But essential work in London, together with the fact that she could only afford a short time away from Heronsdene, meant that Maisie would be driving back and forth despite a mounting fatigue every time she thought about the funeral.
She worked on the case map for a while, noting points she had gathered but had not previously added to the map. Using colored pencils, she joined words, circled a name, and drew a line to another name, making connections, crossing them out, then making them again. If Billy were with his employer at their office in Fitzroy Square, he might have smiled at exactly this stage. Then he would look at Maisie and say, “You’ve known all along, haven’t you, Miss?” And she would comment, in return, “But there’s more to do, Billy—still more pieces to slot into place.”
As she rolled up the case map and placed it in her bag, she knew her work was almost, but not quite, done. There were still questions and, as she knew only too well from her years of apprenticeship with Maurice, just one question could lead to many responses, and each one of them was part of the story. Tomorrow she would uncover more threads to be woven into the picture that was forming.
The image of threads played on Maisie’s mind that night as she lay in bed. She thought of Marta, her weaving teacher, and the fact that she bore a name that denied her origins, denied her the color and texture of her people. She had become a Jones, a name her father chose, like a cape with which to cover a garish costume. She was a Jones to fit in, the truth of her heritage enveloped in someone else’s name.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Maisie’s first stop was to a “two-up-two-down” terraced house close to the village school. Mr. and Mrs. Pendle lived alone, though Maisie suspected that Mr. Pendle would be out at work when she called. She had only to knock once, and the door was opened by a woman in her early sixties, wearing a gray skirt with a blue cardigan and a floral sleeveless wraparound housecoat fastened with a length of cord around the waist. She wore knitted stockings that had gathered at the ankle and black lace-up shoes. Her hair was tied back in a bun so tight it seemed to pull at the corners of her eyes. In her hand she wielded a feather duster. She reminded Maisie of the women who worked at the coffee shop she sometimes frequented on Oxford Street, the one she always said was more caff than café. They were women who called you dearie while wiping the table in front of you, lifting your cup and saucer, and paying no mind to the fact that you were still eating toast as they went about their business of wiping, lifting, and tuttutting about the way some people leave a mess behind them.
“Mrs. Pendle?”
The woman frowned. “Yes?” Her response came out as Yerse.
“My name’s Maisie Dobbs. I represent the company in negotiations to purchase a large tract of land on the Sandermere estate. The buyer is very keen to know more about Heronsdene, especially as men from the village are employed at the brickworks, so I’m taking the opportunity to speak to a few of the people who live here. Could you spare me a moment or two?”
The woman stepped forward and looked both ways on the street. “I should think you’d be best to come when my husband gets home.”
“Is he employed at the brickworks?”
“No, he’s a plumber, working over in Paddock Wood.”
“But I am sure you can still help me, Mrs. Pendle.”
The woman looked back and forth again and stepped aside. “You’d better come in then.”
Maisie entered a shadowed passage, with dark brown wainscoting and brown and pink faded floral wallpaper. A brown picture rail some nine inches from the ceiling ran the length of the passage, with family photographs of different sizes hanging from it like marionettes. On the opposite wall, three plaster mallard ducks were positioned to give the effect of flight into the sky, though one had come loose and was poised for a nosedive toward the polished floor. Maisie suspected the wavering mallard might be the source of some nagging by Mrs. Pendle toward her husband.
“To the right, Miss Dobbs, into the parlor, if you don’t mind.”
Maisie stepped into the parlor, which smelled of lavender and beeswax polish. A piano stood against the wall just inside the door, and a settee with two matching armchairs, covered in a prickly brown wool fabric with patches darned along the arms, were situated in front of the fireplace. In the bay window, a mahogany table was set with a lace doily, on top of which an aspidistra drooped, its pot settled in a saucer overfilled with water.
The wallpaper was the same as that which decorated the passageway, and a mirror hung over the fireplace from the picture rail, along with several more photographs on each wall. On the mantelpiece, three pewter frames held sepia photographs of two young men and a girl.
“Do take a seat, Miss Dobbs.”
“Thank you.” Maisie sat down on the settee, while her hostess perched on the edge of the chair next to the fireplace, as if not quite happy to be using the room, which was no doubt only occupied on Sundays, and perhaps at Christmas and Easter.
“Now then, what can I do for you?”
“My employers, the company who hope to complete purchase on the estate, have been somewhat concerned about petty crime in Heronsdene and about the fires that seem to occur here with some regularity. I understand you and your husband had a fire here a year or so ago.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, that! Nothing untoward about that, I can tell you. Chimney fire, caused by my husband.”
“How did it happen?”
“He thought he’d be clever and collect coal along the railway lines. Lot of people from round here do it—walk along the lines, pick up coal dropped when they’re filling the engines. Saves a bob or two, I can tell you, and we all need to do that, don’t we?” The woman laughed. It was a short laugh, dismissive in its way. “Anyway, he came back with a big sack of coal over his shoulder, dumped it in the bunker out the back, and then we used it for the stove in the kitchen.” She leaned forward as if drawing Maisie into a family secret. “But clever boots, my husband, didn’t stop to think that boiler fuel that can pull a locomotive from here to London, would probably cause an almighty blaze in our chimney—and that’s what happened!”