“Is Billy here, Mrs. Beale?”
“Him and Doreen are in the cookhouse.” She pointed toward the whitewashed brick building and went back to her task.
Maisie stopped to talk to Doreen, noting the gaunt pallor that had clung to her skin since the death of her daughter was now disguised by sun-kissed cheeks. Billy walked outside with Maisie, where she told him about Beulah’s death.
“Well, that’ll put the tin lid on that, won’t it?”
Maisie nodded. “It certainly makes things a little trickier.” She paused. “You know, there’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, Billy. I want to know what you heard after Sandermere attacked Paishey, when you restrained Webb. He said something that appeared to flummox you—then you seemed thoughtful, as if what he’d said wasn’t quite right.”
Billy nodded. “It was when ’e said mornin’ hate.” Billy pronounced the h—a consonant that was usually absent in his cockney accent. He was emphasizing the word hate.
“What does it mean?”
He shrugged his shoulders. Maisie understood that he did not care to speak about the years of his soldiering. “It’s what we used to say, in the war.” He kicked his foot against the clay-like earth, folded his arms, and looked down as he spoke, staring at the sandy patterns left by his boot. “There was times we knew the Hun didn’t want to be there any more ’n we did, and they knew we didn’t want to be there either. These weren’t the big shows but the sort of in-between times. We’d be in our trench, like ants, and they’d be in theirs. Bein’ a sapper, I was with the lads what ’ad to get out there and mend the wires, lay communication lines, that sort of thing. But of course, the ’igher-ups, theirs and ours, didn’t like us all just sittin’ there, not doin’ anythin’ but brewing up a cup o’ char, so we ’ad to fire off a few rounds every mornin’ and again at night, just to show we were still after the enemy.” He shook his head. “And it was as if we all knew what we ’ad to do, them and us. Someone would call out to us, ’Guten Morgen, Britisher,’ or we’d call out to them, ’Wakey, wakey, Fritz,’ and then we’d go at it for a while, prayin’ that no one copped it. Don’t know what they called it, but we called it the mornin’ hate and the evenin hate. Sort of summed it up, shootin’ at each other to show—to prove—that we hated.”
Maisie nodded.
“And for what? That’s the big question, ain’t it? For what?” Billy shrugged.
She placed her hand on his arm. “I’d better go, Billy I’ll leave you in peace with your family. Not long to go now, eh?”
He looked up at the spent hop-gardens. “Next year’ll soon roll round, and we’ll all be out ’ere again.” He pulled a packet of Woodbines from his trouser pocket, along with a box of matches. “Puttin’ the money away, we are.”
“Your passage to Canada?”
“If we can do it, Miss. I used to just say it but didn’t reckon I’d ever want to go, not really, not being a Londoner born and bred. Now, what with Lizzie gone and Doreen not gettin’ over it at all, we need a new start.” He lit a cigarette, closing his right eye against a wisp of smoke that snaked upward. “Don’t know whether me old mum will come with us, but I won’t want to leave ’er. And I don’t know what sort of work I can do, but—well, I’ll ’ave a go at anything.”
Maisie nodded. “I know you will.” She smiled encouragement. “But in the meantime, I need a good assistant, so don’t think of going anywhere too soon, will you? Now then, I’m off, back to the inn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
ARRIVING AT THE inn, Maisie stopped to greet Fred Yeoman before climbing the stairs to her room. She was not hungry and had declined supper, saying she would have some bread and cheese and an ale on a tray, for later if she was hungry. At least the ale would help her sleep.
She opened the curtains wide, the better to see out to the clear night sky as darkness descended. Pulling her chair to the window, Maisie sat down and closed her eyes. How would she ever bring the case to completion now? She could point to Sandermere as being responsible for much of the petty crime in the village, but without the evidence of confession she could not throw light on her other suspicions.
A knock at the door caused Maisie to start.
“Sorry to bother you, miss, but there’s a man to see you.”
Man, not gentleman, thought Maisie.
Yeoman cleared his throat. “It’s one of the travelers, the pikeys. Don’t know what the fellow wants, but I told him to wait outside. Name of Webb. Wears a big hat.”
Maisie nodded. “Right you are, Mr. Yeoman. I’ll come down straightaway.”
Closing the door behind her, Maisie held on to the banister as she hurried down the winding, narrow staircase and through the doorway to the street, lowering her head as she went to avoid the beam.
“Webb, what a surprise.”
He nodded and touched the brim of his hat. It was almost dark, and she could only just see his eyes as he turned toward her and was bathed in warm amber light from the inn’s outside lantern.
“Beulah would have wanted me to come. I talked to Paishey—she’s with the women—and she said I should.”
Maisie frowned. “Is it alright for us to speak without one of your womenfolk with us?”
“Because of how it is, and that we’re here in the street, we can talk.”
“Would you like to walk, just down to the church perhaps?” Maisie knew such a stroll would entail passing the site of the old bakery, which was opposite the memorial and the church.
“Beulah said you were expected. That she’d asked for help, and you came.”
“And do you believe that?”
He turned to walk, and Maisie fell into step alongside him.
“You mean, do I believe that, seeing as I’m gorja?”
“Yes.”
Webb pushed his hands into his pockets and, as they walked, spoke with an eloquence not apparent when he was with the gypsy tribe. “I do believe. Beulah saved me, looked after me, so I’d have done anything for her, and I’ve seen enough to believe her.” He looked sideways at Maisie. “You know who I am, don’t you?”
“I do, yes, but I’ll still call you Webb, if you like.”
“Yes, that is my name now.”
“And I’d like to know your story.”
“But you know it already. I’ve seen it in your eyes. And you saw me leaving the inn’s garden. And there are the questions you’ve been asking.”
“I know your story, Pim van Maarten, only inasmuch as I have facts. I would like to hear it told in your words.”
Webb looked down at the ground and shook his head as they continued walking. “Haven’t been called by that name in over ten years.” He stopped as they reached the waste ground, then turned toward the church, where a gaslight was glowing over the gate, and to the side was a bench. “Let’s sit down over there.”
When they were settled, he began to speak again.
“We came down here when I was a baby, because my sister couldn’t breathe right, not up there in London. To tell you the truth, I don’t reckon she breathed right down here, but she grew out of it anyway. My grandfather was from the Netherlands, where he was a baker, like my father, though he came to London after he was married and before my father was born. They spoke Dutch at home, and we did too. It was my father who dropped the van from our name and changed the spelling. He said he didn’t want us to be different, he wanted us to sound English. My mother—who came over from the Netherlands to marry my father—worked hard to lose her accent, but we kept to some of the old traditions, like celebrating the visit of Saint Nicholas and Black Peter in December.”