Maisie wrote the word Fire on the case map. There was something about even the smallest fire that was more unsettling than other crimes of a similar caliber. The match idly thrown on tinder can become an all-consuming blaze, while sparks ignored can envelop a mansion if left unchecked. And flame ignited for the sake of malicious damage strikes at the very heart of individual and collective fear, for isn’t fire the place where the devil resides?
TO ADD TO a minor but growing unease concerning the case, Maisie wondered about the commission from James Compton. Was it his mother, Lady Rowan Compton, original supporter and sponsor of her education, who had suggested he contact her regarding this latest purchase of land? Fiercely independent, Maisie had long been both heartened and uncomfortable with the former suffragette’s patronage. Certainly the gulf between their respective stations contributed to her feelings, although people were generally pressed to place Maisie when it came to conversation, for she was more often taken for a clergyman’s daughter than for the offspring of a Lambeth costermonger. But Frankie Dobbs no longer sold vegetables from his horse-drawn barrow. Instead, he had lived at Chelstone since the war, when Lady Rowan’s grooms enlisted and he was brought in to tend the horses, a job that was still his, along with a tied cottage.
Maisie decided simply to get on with the work, rather than troubling herself with considerations of its origin. She pressed on with her notes, disturbed only when the black telephone on her desk began to ring. At first, she looked at the instrument without answering, wondering who might be calling; after all, most people still sent letters, postcards and telegrams with their news, requests and demands. She reached for the receiver.
“Fitzroy five—”
“Oh, Lord, Maisie, I don’t need you to recite the number, I’ve just bloody dialed the thing.”
“Priscilla! Where are you?” Maisie stood up to speak to her old friend.
“I’m in London, having finally settled—and I use that word loosely—my three toads into their new school. We thought long and hard about it, Maisie, and we’re still wondering if we’ve done the right thing—they’ve had such a wild sort of life in Biarritz. But they do need a bit of discipline, or heaven knows what sort of men they’ll become. And having just had a long meeting with the headmaster—my dear eldest has already been in a scrap, coming to the defense of his brother—I am sorely in need of a gin and tonic. Care to join me? I’m at the Dorchester.”
“The Dorchester?”
“Yes, it’s my new quest, to try each new London hotel in turn. This one has been open for six months and is quite spectacular—a telephone in every room, no less. I might well cease my exploration here and now. I’m quite enjoying this, a perfect way to end a day during which I’ve had to bang heads together. Not literally, you understand, though if I’d had five minutes with them on their own. . . .”
Maisie looked at her watch. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I just have to complete a couple of tasks here at the office, and I must nip home and change. Shall I see you at half-past six?”
“Lovely. You do that and I’ll go and complete the task of languishing in a hot bath to ward off the desire for a slug of mother’s ruin.”
“See you then.”
Maisie hurriedly finished her work and was about to leave the office when a postcard arrived via special delivery It was from Billy.Dear Miss,
You must come to thefarm. Urgent.
Telephone you Tuesday from the kiosk up the road. Eight.
Billy.
Maisie tapped the card against the palm of her left hand. It’s Tuesday today. She looked at her watch. An hour or so with Priscilla would be plenty of time for them to catch up with their news, so she could easily return to the office in time for the telephone call. She knew Billy well enough to understand that he would not be sending such a card unless the situation really was urgent. And according to the map supplied by James Compton, the telephone kiosk was a fair walk from the farm, closer to the next village, and could hardly be described as just up the road. Indeed, it would be a fair jaunt at the end of a hard working day.
WHENEVER MAISIE WENT anywhere to meet Priscilla, she only had to find a knot of people to locate her friend’s exact whereabouts. It wasn’t that Priscilla invited conversation, or even knew those around her, but people gravitated toward her, perhaps standing close while speaking with a colleague or waiting for a guest. This evening was no exception, with Priscilla seated in the bar sipping a cocktail and a clutch of guests close to her, each one stealing an occasional glance in her direction.
Priscilla was wearing evening dress, a garment possibly more suited to an al fresco dinner at her home in France. A cream tunic with a wide sash at the hip drew attention to her fashionably tanned skin, and wide navy blue silk trousers with turned-up cuffs enhanced a slender figure. She wore navy shoes of the softest leather and a long white scarf edged with navy around her neck. Though the late summer weather supported lighter clothing, Priscilla was the only guest who would have looked at home on a ship in tropical climes.
“Good Lord, Maisie, darling, you look like Christmas. I don’t think I have ever seen you in a color—well, not unless it’s something I’ve insisted you wear. A red dress? I must say, it rather suits you.” She was effusive in her affection for Maisie, whom she loved dearly, and was loved in return, though such regard did not prevent Priscilla from giving advice without her counsel being sought. “Now all you need is a black hat with a red band, some daring red shoes, and—if I were you—a black belt to enhance your waist. Waists, Maisie, are coming back in, despite what you see before you.”
Maisie rolled her eyes. “I suit myself, Pris. It’s so lovely to see you. Please don’t start trying to sort out my wardrobe.”
“What wardrobe? I don’t know how you manage with such a meager collection. By the way, did you dye that yourself?”
Maisie blushed. “Frankly, I couldn’t justify a new dress, so, yes, I simply dyed an old one—I’ve learned how to do it.”
“Hmmm, thought I’d seen that cut before. You’ve made a good job of it, you know.”
A waiter approached and Maisie requested a cream sherry, while Priscilla ordered another gin and tonic.
“Tell me about the boys. Which school did you settle on? In your last letter, you said it was St. Anselm’s—did you change your mind?”
“No, I didn’t change my mind, but I may yet. We’ll have to see how they get on.” She sipped her cocktail and shook her head as she placed her glass on the low table alongside them. “Three boys—triple trouble. Mind you, I’d take those toads over three girls any day. My parents had three boys, and one girl, and they always said I caused more angst than my brothers put together.”
Maisie smiled. There was a time when Priscilla could not speak of her brothers, for they were all lost to the Great War. Priscilla, like Maisie, had also served, though she had been an ambulance driver. That role, along with her loss, had marked her for years.
“As you know, we—Douglas and I both—dragged our feet when it came to the boys’ education. They’ve been so happy in Biarritz; you saw yourself. School in the morning and the beach in the afternoon. It made for all manner of adventures and more than a little freedom. Of course, they mind their manners and can be perfect gentlemen, but any academic or intellectual gifts they may be harboring are definitely still hidden.” She reached for her drink again, swirling a single cube of ice around in the cool liquid without lifting the glass to her lips. “Part of it was me wanting them to have the education and upbringing that my brothers had. You know, the rough-and-tumble world of little men, coming home to the country at weekends, lots of friends over for big old-fashioned bread-and-jam nursery teas. But since last week’s little fiasco—”