FRED YEOMAN GREETED her as she opened the door from the street into the residents’ sitting room.
“Good afternoon, Miss Dobbs. On your way this evening?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“We’ll be sorry to see you go. Not very busy for the next couple of days—mind you, when I saw the police driving through the village, I thought we might see some more outsiders, though we don’t welcome newspaper reporters and the like in Heronsdene.”
“Quite right. Are the police still up at the Sandermere estate?”
“According to one of the regulars who works in the gardens, they’ve been up in Sandermere’s rooms talking to him, and there’s been some sacks taken out of the stables.”
“I see. I wonder what’s in them.”
“I reckon it’s that missing silver. Probably them London boys hid it under his nose, thinking they’d come back for it later.”
“You still think it could be the London boys? Even though they’ve been absolved of the crime?”
“Well, they can unabsolve them, can’t they?”
Maisie realized she was shaking. “Have you considered that it might be someone other than a Londoner or a gypsy who has committed a crime? That the person might be at the house? Or in the village?”
“Well, I—”
“You, of all people, should know what Alfred Sandermere is like. The whole village knows what he’s like. He’s had every one of you in the palm of his hand for years.”
The man flushed. “I better be getting on. I’m sure the police will sort it all out, whoever took the silver.”
Maisie admonished herself for taking such a position, but she had felt her frustration rising to the surface. She packed her bag, checked the room to ensure she had collected all her belongings, and came back downstairs, where she rang the bell to summon Fred Yeoman. He stepped through from the kitchen, where he had been talking to his wife.
“I must apologize, Mr. Yeoman. I should not have snapped.”
“And I shouldn’t have tarred all Londoners with the same brush. I keep forgetting that you’re one of them, if you know what I mean.”
Maisie ignored the implication. “I’ve enjoyed staying here, at the inn. Thank you.”
“And thank you again, miss, for saving our bacon on the night of that fire.”
Maisie smiled and said goodbye. She packed her belongings in the motor car and drove toward the farm, once again passing the two police motor cars as they left the village. She saw no silhouettes in the back seats and guessed that Alfred Sandermere had not been taken into custody yet.
For the last time, Maisie parked by the oast house and walked out along the farm road toward the hop-gardens. Only a few gypsies were out today, but a full complement of Londoners were still picking, as were some locals. She breathed in the spicy air and reached out to take a solitary hop from a spent bine. As she crushed it between her fingers to release its fragrance, she thought of Webb and of his younger self, Pim van Maarten, and how it must have been for him to return to the village only to discover his family gone. The time of year must torment him so, for in the Weald of Kent it is in late September that the senses are teased more than at any other time, with the hops, sweet apples, and earthy hay. And it is in the senses that memories are summoned, so that a sound, a scent, or the way the wind blows brings a reminder of what has happened and when.
The Beales asked Maisie to stay awhile, to lean on the bin, to pick hops, and to pass the time of day before she left. As the sun began to slip down on its journey toward the horizon, she said she should be leaving, and after saying her farewells, she turned to leave. It was a departure that would be curtailed only too soon.
A sudden cry went up from a Londoner working at the top of the hop-garden, who pointed toward clouds of smoke belching from the just-visible roof of the Sandermere mansion.
“Fire! Up at the big house. Look, fire!”
EIGHTEEN
Women with children remained behind, as the hop-pickers ran en masse toward the estate house, some stopping only long enough to pick up an old bucket or other receptacle that might be needed.
“Quick, Billy, the motor. We’ll cut across on the estate road.”
They pulled out of the farm and sped toward the entrance to the Sandermere mansion, where they parked outside the gates and ran toward the house. They saw the groom struggling to lead two of the horses from the stables, in case the fire should spread and leap to the outbuildings.
“I’ll go and give him a hand.” Billy moved with as much speed as he could muster toward the groom.
Villagers soon began arriving, and when she looked up at the hill where, days ago, she had seen Webb gazing down on the mansion, she saw the gypsies clustered, watching. She stopped for mere seconds and saw Webb come to the fore, the silhouette of his hat distinguishing him from his people. Then, raising his hand to the tribe, he led them toward the house to help.
Staff were clustered outside the property, as flames licked up from the windows of the upper floors like giant tongues seeking sustenance. One side of the roof was ablaze and crackling, the flames that had caught the onlookers’ attention leaping up in a fiery dance.
“Is everyone out?” asked Maisie.
The butler shook his head, his eyes glazed. “N-no. Mr. Sandermere locked himself in those rooms. He went up there in a black mood after the police came.”
“Was he drinking?”
The man nodded. “Yes, yes, he was drinking. Called down twice for more wine and brandy”
“God!”
“Did anyone telephone the fire brigade?”
The man nodded. “Just before we all got out, on account of the smoke. The house may be made of stone, but there’s the paneling, the curtains, the upholstery—it’s all smoldering, giving off fumes, and burning like tinder.”
Maisie ran back to the gathered crowd, who were already forming a line down to the water tap by the stables. This was how it had been at every fire, the villagers working together to extinguish the flames, thought Maisie. Every fire except one. They’ll never do it. They’ll never stem this inferno.
She looked back at the mansion, and as she scanned the windows, her eyes squinting against the smoke, she saw Alfred Sandermere standing, looking at the throng below as if in a trance. Then he fell forward and slowly began to slide down the panes of glass.
Together the Londoners, the villagers and the gypsies passed buckets of water back and forth. Maisie was close to the house, next to the butler, who was pointing up to the window, when Webb broke away and ran toward her.
“Is he still in there?”
Maisie nodded, coughing. “Yes, he’s up in his rooms, on the first floor.”
The butler explained what had happened and pointed to the windows.
Webb held his breath, his face contorting as he understood that Alfred Sandermere was likely unconscious, and would burn to death if not helped. Then he took off his jacket and his shirt. “I cannot let a man die like that, no matter how much hate I bear for him.”
Paishey ran to her husband’s side, and as others came closer, seeing the gypsy remove his clothes above the waist and begin to douse himself with water, Webb turned to his wife.