“And when the Zeppelin bomb hit, even in his drunken state Alfred saw an immediate means of dispensing with an embarrassing situation, an unwelcome claim to the Sandermere name.”
“Yes. Shock can give new energy to even the most addled brain.”
Maurice nodded. “An interesting case, Maisie. You must be glad it’s over.”
She gave a half laugh and was thoughtful before replying. “Yes, I’m glad it’s over, all of it. But at least it gave me something to chew over after Simon passed and following his funeral. Now his death seems as if it were something in the distance behind me, as if we were at sea and he is vanishing into the mist.”
“Yes, time is strange in that way, is it not? You will be glad to get back to London, won’t you.”
“But not until after the gypsy’s funeral tomorrow. Then I’ll go back.”
They sat in silence for a while, comfortable in the quietness and solitude of their renewed friendship. Maisie had wanted to ask Maurice about his work, a question or two to follow his comments when she entered the conservatory, but she was aware of the fragility of their reconciliation. It was his secrecy—understandable, she now realized—that had led to their discord last year. Now, as time and the thread of forgiveness drew them together again, it was Maurice who began to speak.
“In some ways, Maisie, similar work has engaged us of late. We—my contacts overseas and my colleagues in London—are most concerned with a growing frustration on the other side of the Channel. The depression we find ourselves in here, and which is causing havoc in America, is allowing people to give weight to that which divides them, rather than to the shared experiences and elements of connection they see mirrored in their fellow man. There are those in Germany who would use discrimination to elevate their politics, which gives us cause for disquiet. And on the continent in Spain, inequities threaten to become incendiary There are many people, Maisie—and I confess, I am among their number—who believe our peace to be only so resilient and who fear another war.”
“I pray it doesn’t come to that, Maurice.”
“Yes, pray, Maisie. Do pray.”
And as her beloved mentor regarded the vista before him, his hands clenched on the arms of his chair, Maisie reached across and placed her hand on his.
LATER, IN THE library at Chelstone, Maisie gave James Compton a complete briefing according to the case assigned to her when they met in London. She explained new facts she had gathered and recapped those elements already reported, concluding that there would be no more petty crime, and the fires would now cease. Webb—Pim van Maarten—would most likely never return to Heronsdene following the funeral of the woman who adopted him.
“Well, we know Alfred Sandermere won’t be committing any more acts of burglary, on his own property or anyone else’s.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh dear, of course, you wouldn’t have heard.” James sat forward. “He died in Pembury Hospital this morning.”
“Oh, poor man.”
“Poor man?”
“Yes, to be troubled, haunted in that way, since childhood. What a dreadful way to live—and to die.”
James sat back in his chair. “I don’t know if I can be that forgiving. The man was a liability, a menace. The village will be better off without him, and—I hate to admit it—so will we.”
Maisie frowned. “I would have thought his death might make purchase of the brickworks and the estate rather difficult.”
He shook his head. “Following Henry’s death, his father added codicils to the trust that would enable their solicitors to go ahead with a sale of the property if anything should happen to Alfred and he was sole heir at the time of his death, without a son to inherit. Essentially, the whole estate is now for sale and we are the buyers.”
“What will you do with the house?”
“Demolish, then apply for permission to build several new houses on the site.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those who doesn’t like to see new houses go up.”
“They can be such a blight on the land.”
“We’re in the business of construction, Maisie. And we’ve got a brickworks right there, ready to be improved with investment and an injection of new practices.”
She nodded. “What about the horses?”
“We’re selling all but one.”
“Sandermere’s bay?”
“How did you guess?”
“I’m my father’s daughter. I know a good horse when I see one.”
“He’ll certainly have a better life. And I’m bringing the groom over to Chelstone. Your father will be his boss. I’m sure he’ll teach the boy even more than he knows already.”
“I’m glad. He was kind to the horses.” Maisie paused. “James, when are you returning to Canada?”
“In a month or so. There’s a lot to do here, so I expect I’ll sail at the beginning of November—don’t want to leave it too late. Those bloody icebergs make me nervous.”
“Of course.” Maisie nodded, then cleared her throat.
James Compton looked at her across the desk. “I’ve known you a long time now, Maisie, since before Enid died. And I think I know when you have a thing or two on your mind.”
“It’s something you said, days ago, about expanding the Compton Corporation in Canada, about looking at security for your company and your sites over there.”
“Yes, it’s all on the agenda. We have to prepare the company for expansion when the economy gains enough momentum to get out of this slump, and the surprising increase in house-building will help us. Why?”
“It’s my assistant, Mr. Beale. He and his wife lost their small daughter earlier this year, and what with one thing and another he wants to emigrate to Canada, to give their boys a better way of life.”
“You want to help him, even though you’ll lose him?”
Maisie nodded. “They aren’t getting over it. His wife looks more drawn each time I see her, and I know they are saving for passage.”
James picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. “Nothing’s going to happen overnight, I can tell you that. The markets are still depressed, so even though I have spoken of future developments, we cannot hurry that chain of events.”
“I see.” Maisie bit her lip.
“However, I have made a note here, and I know you can vouch for him. Wasn’t he rather good with telephonic engineering?”
“Yes, he was a sapper in the war. He’s been working for me for two years now, so he understands matters of investigation and security. And as he’ll tell you, he can turn his hand to anything.”
James nodded. “A fine reference, Maisie. I believe I might have a position for him in a year, perhaps two. I can speak to one of my staff about it.”
Maisie smiled and nodded. “Thank you, James. I won’t mention it to him, as I wouldn’t want to get his hopes up, but I will write to you again next year.”
“Good.” James held out his hand. “I expect you have a bill for me.”
“And my written report.” She handed him a manila envelope.
James pulled her notes out of the envelope, glanced at the bottom line of the invoice, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for his checkbook. He unscrewed the top of his gray and black marbled fountain pen and began to write, using a wooden-handled blotter to dry the ink. “There you are. Good work. I am sure the company will use your services again.”
Maisie took the proffered check. “James, I’m curious. What will happen to the Sandermere money? There must be a fortune there.”
“Oh, the old man was very specific in terms of establishing a trust and how it should be used. He made it watertight so even Alfred couldn’t change it. There’s to be a new school built in the village, with a generous annual allowance for books and materials. A fund is to be set up to provide scholarships for those children who show promise either academically or in music. And there is to be provision made for improvements to the village, though there are protections in place to avoid overconstruction on the High Street. It wouldn’t surprise me if you saw electricity in every house and on the streets of Heronsdene within a year or two. And of course there’s the usual stipend for the church, to pay for repairs and to keep the war memorial in good condition. After the story you’ve just told me, and considering how Sandermere made the villagers’ lives a misery, I don’t know whether this is the perfect end or whether they don’t deserve such luxuries.”