“You were killers,” said Webb, breaking his silence. “You took my family, and they were good people. They came here to be part of this village, part of you, and you murdered them.” He sighed and took up a tot of brandy. “But—” He paused and looked around the room, his gaze alighting upon each villager in turn. “But I have come to know something in the past few days, something I learned from my father when I was a child, except that somewhere in the middle I forgot. I have learned, I hope, that revenge can only take more lives, and this life of mine—my wife, my daughter—is too precious for me to give it over to vengeance.”
“Do you forgive us?” A voice barely more than a whisper asked the question.
Webb shook his head. “That is not for me to do.” He finished his drink and rapped the glass back on the bar. “This business of forgiving yourselves is your work.” He turned to Maisie. “Beulah was right; she said you would set me free. I thank you for your kindness—to her, to me, to my people.”
Webb picked up his hat and left the inn, the cluster of villagers parting to allow him to reach the door, which he closed, gently, as he stepped outside.
Fred Yeoman turned to Maisie. “He won’t come back, will he, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie shook her head. “The gypsies will move on after Beulah’s funeral, and they won’t be back. They rarely return to a place where one of the clan has died. It’s bad luck.”
“I’m glad we talked to Pim. Can’t call him Webb, not with him being the image of his father, now that I’ve had a good look at him.”
“It’s done now. It’s out in the open and we’ve told of what went on, but it won’t make us sleep easier in our beds,” added Whyte.
The room was quiet once more, as if all assembled here were trying on their memories of that night to see how they fit, only to realize that they would wear their guilt forever.
Maisie was thoughtful before speaking again. “Think of what Webb said, that there’s no time for vengeance. I can’t help you with your shame, your remorse, but I can make one small suggestion.”
“What’s that?” Fred Yeoman leaned forward.
“You’ve let their land grow wild. In law it belongs to Webb, and you never know—he may come to claim it one day or he may wish to sell. Look after it for him. Keep it well. People died there, so it deserves to be cherished.” Maisie stepped away from the bar, reaching across to shake Fred Yeoman’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Yeoman. I have to be off now.”
Once again the villagers stepped aside as Maisie left the inn. She stood outside for a few moments, and as she pulled her collar up she heard the sound of sobbing coming from inside and the low muffled voices of the villagers. She walked back to the MG, stopping alongside the land that once held the bakery where Jacob and Bettin van Maarten worked to raise a family and be part of a community. She thought she saw movement on the other side of the lot and stepped aside, so that the light from the church gate could illuminate the land. Michaelmas daisies had been strewn where once the threshold had been, where Jacob Martin, the baker, had been photographed holding a loaf of bread baked in the shape of his adopted country, surrounded by her flags flapping in the wind.
SOON SHE WAS on her way to Chelstone, but stopped when she reached the next village, to place a call from the telephone kiosk.
“B. T. Drummond speaking.”
“I guessed you’d be there, waiting by the night phone.”
“Maisie Dobbs! I thought you had gone to ground and I’d never get my story. If this is about that fire, then you’re late. I already know, the story’s mine, and I’m coming out as soon as it’s light—with a photographer.”
“The fire is only part of why I’m calling. I have your scoop for you, if you want it, though I don’t think you’ll be able to print it—but a promise is a promise and I said I would let you know.”
Maisie heard a notebook flipping open.
“Right, then, go ahead.”
“It’s too long a tale, Beattie. Can we meet before you come down to Heronsdene tomorrow? I can see you in Paddock Wood, if you like.”
“Right you are. Nine o’clock at the station?”
“Nine o’clock it is.”
Maisie set the telephone receiver back on the cradle and returned to the MG. Settled into the work of driving, she sighed. No one, not even Webb, had asked why Alfred Sandermere had been so anxious, even in his impaired state, to see an end to the Dutch family. It was an omission that allowed her a measure of relief. She had been cautioned by Maurice Blanche during her apprenticeship to take care when handling truth, and she knew that such knowledge would have brought nothing but added distress to a man who had lost so much.
NINETEEN
Maisie arrived at her father’s home late and tired, with black smudges on her forehead, her hair matted and slicked to her face. The odor of disinfectant and smoke was still clinging to her as she dragged her bag from the motor car and entered the cottage.
Frankie banked up the kitchen fire and brought the old tin bath from the scullery, setting it on the floor in front of the coal stove. As soon as the water was hot, Maisie filled the bath while her father walked across to the stables for his customary final check on the horses stabled at Chelstone. She opened the stove door so that heat from the blaze would keep her warm as she bathed, washing away the stench of fire and several livid red smears of Alfred Sandermere’s blood that remained on her arm above the wrist. She was exhausted, the muscles of her neck and shoulders were taut and aching, and though she was keen to return to London, she knew that a day under her father’s wing would be solace indeed. She would remain in Kent until Beulah Webb was buried and the ritual of the final farewell done.
Finishing her bath, Maisie dressed in a pair of old tweed trousers and one of her father’s worn collarless shirts—not garb she would wear on the London streets but comfortable in his home and while she was at Chelstone. They shared a stew of rabbit and vegetables, and later, while Maisie dozed in an armchair by the fire, her father touched her shoulder.
“Better go up, love, you look all in.”
She agreed, knowing that tomorrow she would have to be awake early, and on her way to Paddock Wood station to meet Beattie Drummond. She wanted to see Maurice, but the day had been too long already. She would see him tomorrow.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Maisie collected Beattie from the station, and from there they went to a small tearoom in Paddock Wood. The shop, constructed of white overlapping weatherboard in the Kentish style, offered low-beamed comfort as they entered, with a counter to the right filled with plates of cakes and pastries baked to tempt even the most sated appetite. There were drop scones and cheese scones and melt-in-the-mouth butterfly cakes decorated with marzipan leaves. There was tea bread, malt loaf, and walnut cake; chocolate sponge, rich fruit cake, shortbreads, filled rolls, and cream horns, as well as Maisie’s favorite, Eccles cakes.
They chose a seat in the corner by the window and, when the waitress came, asked for a large pot of tea and two Eccles cakes, an order to which Beattie added a slice of malt loaf before the waitress left the table.
“I was at the newspaper until late—didn’t have supper or breakfast. I am famished.”
When the tea was poured and the cakes divvied out, they leaned forward to talk. Beattie flipped open her notebook.