All around them conversations could be heard, but little passed between the pair. Dene was about to try another tack, start another conversation, when he noticed Maisie looking across the Stade at one of the fishing boats. She was squinting, holding a hand across her forehead to shield her eyes from the light.
“What is it, Maisie? Seen one of the boys unload a fish you’d like?” quipped Dene.
She barely moved, still staring in the direction of the boat, then looked back at him. “Sorry, Andrew, what did you say? I was rather preoccupied.”
Dene replied in a clipped manner. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Maisie, you have been rather preoccupied since you arrived. What’s the matter? Can’t we even have one afternoon together without you seeing something that sparks a thought that clearly takes you back to your work—or to somewhere other than here, with me, in any case?”
Maisie did not address his comment, but instead asked a question. “Andrew, do you know the fishermen here? Are their names familiar?”
Dene suspected that Maisie had barely even heard him. “I—I…yes, I do, Maisie. I know most of the families, simply because I’m a doctor and I choose to live close to Bourne Street, where the ordinary people live.” He felt tension rise as he spoke, a mixture of annoyance at her avoiding his observation and fear that she might have used the moment to speak of her feelings—feelings he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear. He was relieved when she laced her arm through his and continued to walk in the direction of the men she’d been watching.
“Come on, let’s wander back to the tea shop. I’d love a cup before I leave for Tenterden.” With that she smiled, though Dene was quick to notice that, although she continued speaking, her attention had been drawn to three fishermen now standing alongside their boat. They were deep in discussion, backs against the wind, heads almost touching. As the couple passed by, Dene saw the men look up in unison, then turn back to resume their talk. Maisie was facing him now, as if, he thought, she did not want them to know she had seen them. They crossed the road.
“So, do you know who those men were, Andrew?”
“Look, what’s going on, Maisie? I know it’s none of my business, but—”
“Just their names, Andrew.”
Dene sighed, not for the first time today. “I don’t know the one in the middle with the red ponytail, but the other two are brothers. The Drapers: Rowland and Tom. They run Misty Rose, the boat they were all leaning against.”
Maisie walked faster now, unentwined her arm and faced Dene again. “Andrew, do you know anything about smuggling along the coast?”
Dene laughed, shaking his head as they reached the tea shop. “Oh, the things you ask, Maisie, the things you ask.” Placing coins on the counter for two cups of tea, Dene waited until they were served and had secured two seats at a table before replying. “Of course, smuggling has flourished along the coast from the Middle Ages, you know. Once upon a time it was cloth, fine wool or silk. Spice was valuable enough to be smuggled, then alcohol or even the fruits of piracy. It’s all a bit cloak-and-dagger and Dr. Syn-ish.”
“Dr. Syn?”
Dene took a sip of his tea before replying. “You should read a few more adventure stories, Maisie, then perhaps you wouldn’t look for trouble.” He paused to see if she would rise to the bait, but she continued to listen, without comment. “Dr. Syn, the Romney Marsh vicar and smuggler—a tale of devil riders and witches, me ’earties!” He mimicked the voice of a pantomime pirate and was delighted when Maisie laughed at his joke, but she soon became serious again.
“And what about now? What do they smuggle now?”
Dene leaned back. “Oh, I don’t know if there is smuggling nowadays, Maisie. Of course, there’s talk that those caves up on the cliffs all lead to tunnels that in turn wind their way into Old Town cottage cellars—so you know the smuggling went on, and they had a way out with the spoils, so to speak.”
Maisie was thoughtful. “But if you had to hazard a guess, what do you think people might smuggle, if they could?”
Dene shook his head, and shrugged. “I really don’t know. I mean, I suppose people smuggle things that are hard to get, and that you can get a good price for. I’m not sure that means alcohol anymore, or spices, or silks and wools.” He thought for a moment. “People probably smuggle things for different reasons….” He paused, shaking his head. “Now you’ve got me at it, Maisie. Speculating over something of little consequence.” It was Dene’s turn to consult his watch. “You’d better be getting on if you want to arrive at your appointment in Tenterden on time.”
They reached the MG in silence. Maisie turned to Dene before taking her seat and starting the engine. “I’m sorry, Andrew. I don’t seem to be able to give you what you want, do I?” She looked into his eyes, as if to gauge the effect of her admission, her assessment of their situation.
“We’re probably the kind of people who end up wanting the same thing at different times.” He smiled, though as his shoulders sagged and he looked down at the ground, it was the smile of a man resigned to a situation, rather than one who knew how he might change it.
Maisie touched his cheek with her hand but did not kiss him. It was just as she was about to drive away, her face framed in the side window of the motor car, that Dene leaned down and kissed her. He drew back, then spoke again. “Oh, and about those smugglers—I would imagine that the only reason for smuggling now is if someone is prepared to pay handsomely for something they desire, something that’s hard or impossible to get here. There are people who will do almost anything for something they really want, you know.” Dene patted the roof of the car as he stepped back to watch Maisie drive off.
THERE ARE PEOPLE who will do almost anything for something they really want, you know. Maisie repeated the words as she drove toward Tenterden. The third man on the beach, the one Dene didn’t know, was Amos White, the Dungeness fisherman. Maisie wondered whether it was usual for the fishermen to meet in this way. Of course, it must be. Surely the fishermen all know one another, they fish the same territory, probably trade together. But they had seen her, had found it necessary to comment to one another as she passed. Though they whispered, the tension in their bodies, the way they clustered as if to protect a secret, all served to speak directly to Maisie, as if they had uttered their very thoughts to her, or shouted their conversation above the wind. Yes, she had seen them all before, and so had Nick Bassington-Hope. She knew that now.
THE SKY HAD become lightly overcast by the time Maisie reached Tenterden, but instead of being a portent for rain, the cloud cover shimmered, backlit by a low sun that served to render the fields greener, the bare trees more stark against their surroundings. The conditions were ideal for ice on the roads, perhaps snow later. She had allowed more than enough time to drive from Hastings and had enjoyed a clear journey, so there would now be an opportunity to complete a couple of errands. At the florist she bought a small bouquet of flowers for Mrs. Bassington-Hope. Blooms were scarce at this time of year, but greenhouse flowers from the Channel Islands of Jersey and Guernsey were available, though expensive. As she left the florist, Maisie wondered how long the shop might remain in business, as expenditure on items such as flowers was becoming increasingly difficult for everyone—not that the poor ever had money for frivolous extras.
The local bookshop was another business run from premises with limited space. She was curious to see a copy of Dr. Syn, the book mentioned by Andrew Dene. There were two copies in stock, and Maisie settled into a chair to read the first few pages. If the novel had in some way inspired the artist, Maisie wanted to know more about the story. Before leaving the shop, she made a notation or two on an index card, then slipped it into her shoulder bag as she approached the bookseller to thank him for allowing her to look at the book.