An Incomplete Revenge jw-3
Page 19
There was silence in the bar, as if Heronsdene itself was waiting to learn whether Maisie Dobbs, a Londoner, wanted fresh apple tart or not.
She shook her head, blowing out her cheeks. “I’m fit to pop, Fred, thank you. Tell Mary the shepherd’s pie was the best I’ve ever had—bar none.”
“Right you are, miss. Anything else we can get for you? I expect you’ll want to turn in, what with you being so busy. Think you’ll be finished soon?”
“With my report for the buyers? I daresay I will, Fred. I daresay I will.” And with that Maisie left the residents’ sitting room. As she ascended the narrow staircase, she heard the buzz of conversation strike up again in the public bar, though she could discern no more references to “that woman.”
In her room, Maisie reread a postcard that had arrived for her earlier. It was from Priscilla, confirming that Simon would be laid to rest in two days, and they would need to meet to discuss the arrangements. Maisie shook her head, for her friend, as always, could not resist offering an opinion as to how Maisie should travel, suggesting she come by train to avoid tiring herself in advance of a long and difficult day. But essential work in London, together with the fact that she could only afford a short time away from Heronsdene, meant that Maisie would be driving back and forth despite a mounting fatigue every time she thought about the funeral.
She worked on the case map for a while, noting points she had gathered but had not previously added to the map. Using colored pencils, she joined words, circled a name, and drew a line to another name, making connections, crossing them out, then making them again. If Billy were with his employer at their office in Fitzroy Square, he might have smiled at exactly this stage. Then he would look at Maisie and say, “You’ve known all along, haven’t you, Miss?” And she would comment, in return, “But there’s more to do, Billy—still more pieces to slot into place.”
As she rolled up the case map and placed it in her bag, she knew her work was almost, but not quite, done. There were still questions and, as she knew only too well from her years of apprenticeship with Maurice, just one question could lead to many responses, and each one of them was part of the story. Tomorrow she would uncover more threads to be woven into the picture that was forming.
The image of threads played on Maisie’s mind that night as she lay in bed. She thought of Marta, her weaving teacher, and the fact that she bore a name that denied her origins, denied her the color and texture of her people. She had become a Jones, a name her father chose, like a cape with which to cover a garish costume. She was a Jones to fit in, the truth of her heritage enveloped in someone else’s name.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Maisie’s first stop was to a “two-up-two-down” terraced house close to the village school. Mr. and Mrs. Pendle lived alone, though Maisie suspected that Mr. Pendle would be out at work when she called. She had only to knock once, and the door was opened by a woman in her early sixties, wearing a gray skirt with a blue cardigan and a floral sleeveless wraparound housecoat fastened with a length of cord around the waist. She wore knitted stockings that had gathered at the ankle and black lace-up shoes. Her hair was tied back in a bun so tight it seemed to pull at the corners of her eyes. In her hand she wielded a feather duster. She reminded Maisie of the women who worked at the coffee shop she sometimes frequented on Oxford Street, the one she always said was more caff than café. They were women who called you dearie while wiping the table in front of you, lifting your cup and saucer, and paying no mind to the fact that you were still eating toast as they went about their business of wiping, lifting, and tuttutting about the way some people leave a mess behind them.
“Mrs. Pendle?”
The woman frowned. “Yes?” Her response came out as Yerse.
“My name’s Maisie Dobbs. I represent the company in negotiations to purchase a large tract of land on the Sandermere estate. The buyer is very keen to know more about Heronsdene, especially as men from the village are employed at the brickworks, so I’m taking the opportunity to speak to a few of the people who live here. Could you spare me a moment or two?”
The woman stepped forward and looked both ways on the street. “I should think you’d be best to come when my husband gets home.”
“Is he employed at the brickworks?”
“No, he’s a plumber, working over in Paddock Wood.”
“But I am sure you can still help me, Mrs. Pendle.”
The woman looked back and forth again and stepped aside. “You’d better come in then.”
Maisie entered a shadowed passage, with dark brown wainscoting and brown and pink faded floral wallpaper. A brown picture rail some nine inches from the ceiling ran the length of the passage, with family photographs of different sizes hanging from it like marionettes. On the opposite wall, three plaster mallard ducks were positioned to give the effect of flight into the sky, though one had come loose and was poised for a nosedive toward the polished floor. Maisie suspected the wavering mallard might be the source of some nagging by Mrs. Pendle toward her husband.
“To the right, Miss Dobbs, into the parlor, if you don’t mind.”
Maisie stepped into the parlor, which smelled of lavender and beeswax polish. A piano stood against the wall just inside the door, and a settee with two matching armchairs, covered in a prickly brown wool fabric with patches darned along the arms, were situated in front of the fireplace. In the bay window, a mahogany table was set with a lace doily, on top of which an aspidistra drooped, its pot settled in a saucer overfilled with water.
The wallpaper was the same as that which decorated the passageway, and a mirror hung over the fireplace from the picture rail, along with several more photographs on each wall. On the mantelpiece, three pewter frames held sepia photographs of two young men and a girl.
“Do take a seat, Miss Dobbs.”
“Thank you.” Maisie sat down on the settee, while her hostess perched on the edge of the chair next to the fireplace, as if not quite happy to be using the room, which was no doubt only occupied on Sundays, and perhaps at Christmas and Easter.
“Now then, what can I do for you?”
“My employers, the company who hope to complete purchase on the estate, have been somewhat concerned about petty crime in Heronsdene and about the fires that seem to occur here with some regularity. I understand you and your husband had a fire here a year or so ago.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, that! Nothing untoward about that, I can tell you. Chimney fire, caused by my husband.”
“How did it happen?”
“He thought he’d be clever and collect coal along the railway lines. Lot of people from round here do it—walk along the lines, pick up coal dropped when they’re filling the engines. Saves a bob or two, I can tell you, and we all need to do that, don’t we?” The woman laughed. It was a short laugh, dismissive in its way. “Anyway, he came back with a big sack of coal over his shoulder, dumped it in the bunker out the back, and then we used it for the stove in the kitchen.” She leaned forward as if drawing Maisie into a family secret. “But clever boots, my husband, didn’t stop to think that boiler fuel that can pull a locomotive from here to London, would probably cause an almighty blaze in our chimney—and that’s what happened!”
“That’s an extraordinary story, Mrs. Pendle. Who would believe such a thing?” Maisie leaned forward too, allowing the impression of being drawn into the tale. “And you never reported the blaze? Not even to your landlord?”
The woman waved her hand. “No, no point. We sorted it all out ourselves and made repairs. Good as new in next to no time. We all help each other in Heronsdene, you can depend on that. People came. It’s not as if the fire got out of hand and hurt anyone.”
“Well, I’m glad the whole house didn’t go up.” Maisie paused. “Can you tell me about the night of the Zeppelin raid, Mrs. Pendle?”
The woman sat back. “Whatever do you want to know about that for?”
“Oh, not for the sale of the estate. No, I heard about it from
the smithy and became interested. I understand it took a whole family—the Martins. Dutch, weren’t they? You must have all been terrified when it happened.”
Mrs. Pendle had rested her hands in her lap and now she wrung them together, her fingernails grazing paper-thin flesh and swollen veins. “Terrible thing, it was. Not that I ever knew they were Dutch beforehand, though I knew they came from somewhere over there.” She faltered, leaning forward again. “The airship came over just a day after we found out about the boys, you see.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, half the men and boys in the village had joined up together and were with the West Kents, and we lost them in 1916. The Somme, it was. Then, just one day—or it might’ve been two; it all runs together now, when I think back—before the raid, six or seven more families had word that their sons were gone, killed in action. Brought it all back, you know, to those still mourning. It was like they went all at once, us all being so close.” She looked up at Maisie. “We’re not a big town, just a small village, and look at how many we lost, boys and men born here, who worked here and would have died here, at home. Men who had families or sweethearts, boys you’d’ve seen grow into men, who would’ve had families of their own. Instead they were dead, in France, killed by them Germans.”
Maisie began to speak again, but the woman went on.
“I mean, it must have been the same, over there in Germany—I know that now, don’t I? But then, all I could think about—all anyone could think about—was how our village had lost so many. And then, to add insult to injury, along comes that Zeppelin.”
“It must have been dreadful for you all. Especially to see the Martin family killed.”
The woman picked at a loose thread in the arm of the chair. “Yes, well, it was very sad, yes.”
“And their boy gone too.”
She nodded, her face flushed.
“Did you lose a son, Mrs. Pendle?”
She nodded again. “That’s why I can’t tell you much about the Zeppelin raid. We still couldn’t believe our Sam had gone. His brother was at home, wounded, when we heard, and our daughter was working at the hospital in Maidstone. I can’t say as I remember as much as some might be able to.”
Maisie nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Pendle, you’ve been very kind to answer my questions.”
“Yes, well . . .“ She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and stood up. “I’d better get on. No peace for the wicked, eh?”
Maisie stood up and moved toward the door. “The people here must have been very angry when the Zeppelin went over.”
“Oh, yes, we were angry alright. But it’s sometimes like that, isn’t it? Instead of feeling heartache, all you are is filled with temper.”
MAISIE MOVED ON to the next house on her list, on the opposite side of the street to the smithy. A man recently widowed lived at the cottage, which was another example of medieval architecture, with low beams and a thatched roof. Once again, the door was opened following the first knock, and Maisie explained why she was calling. This time she was led into a small kitchen not unlike her father’s. A black cast-iron stove was set into an inglenook fireplace, beside which a threadbare armchair with several worn cushions—to make up for a sagging seat—provided a convenient resting place for an ample cat with a neck as wide as its girth. The cat looked up at Maisie, yawned to reveal every needle-like tooth in its head, and went back to sleep.
“Better not disturb Mildred there. You wouldn’t want to sit on that chair, on account of the hair, and she’d only want up on your lap anyway.”
Instead, the man, George Chambers, pulled out two wooden chairs from a pine block of a table that was bowed in the middle from decades of use, dusted off the seat of one chair with the palm of his hand, and beckoned Maisie to sit down.
“Now then, what do you want to know from me? I can’t see as an old fella like myself can be of any use to one of those concerns in the city bent on buying from his nibs over at the estate.”
Maisie smiled. She liked Mr. Chambers, though she suspected he knew—probably the whole village knew by now—that she would come to see him. But though she understood that no one person would ever tell her the whole truth, if at each house she came away with one small nugget of information, it would help her color the story that had already been outlined, in her mind and on her case map.
“Mr. Chambers, would you be so kind as to tell me about the fire you had here, about five years ago?”
“Fire?”
“Yes, I understand a fire broke out in your living room under suspicious circumstances, yet you did not inform the police.”
“Suspicious circumstances? Where did you hear that?” His laugh was phlegm-filled, as if something were caught in his chest. Maisie thought he would be well advised to spend fewer hours sitting beside a stove fueled by anthracite. “We got it so quick, it wasn’t worth even calling out the fire brigade—I daresay you know by now that the nearest is in Paddock Wood.”
“So what started the fire?”
“Boys. Always the same. The little blighters start collecting or making fireworks about now, in time for Guy Fawkes night.”
“But that’s not until November fifth.”
“That it might be, but those nippers think ahead when it comes to Bonfire Night.”
“And you think they—what? Threw a banger or a Catherine wheel through the window?”
“That’s about the sum of it, miss.”
“I have to say, Mr. Chambers, that you seem rather sanguine about it. Why, where I grew up you would have had your hide tanned for such antics and been called upon by the constabulary.”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, not for a bit of high jinks. And the neighbors came quickly, and everyone helped put it right.”
“And you never caught the children responsible?”
The man shook his head. “Per’aps we were a bit soft on them, but that’s how we’ve come to be here, us who lost our sons in the war. My wife passed on last year and was glad to go, to be with her boys—neither of them came back, you know.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Chambers.” Maisie paused. “I was a nurse in France.”
“Then you know, don’t you. You know.”
“Yes. I know.”
The man’s eyes grew moist, and he pulled a soiled handkerchief from the pocket of his corduroy trousers.
“I’ve heard from some of your neighbors about the Zeppelin raid. Can you tell me about it?”
He blew his nose, sniffed, and inspected the contents of his handkerchief before crumpling it again and returning it to his pocket. “I reckon it was either going toward London, and for some reason had to turn back and so dumped its bomb here, or it was on its way out of London, hadn’t found the target it wanted, saw a light—even though we had the blackout—and then dropped it.”
“And it happened just after some of you had received word that your boys had been killed in France?”
“That’s right. We lost Michael and Peter early in 1916, but it was still here.” He pressed his fist to his chest. “And of course you’d learn about this one gone, and that one. But then came the telegrams telling of more, on the same day. And we all see the nippers grow up, so it’s like losing your own all over again. Then that balloon went over and we copped it. Insult to injury, like I said.”
“And you lost the Martin family.”
“Yes. Though they were outsiders, you know, not born and bred here. Only been in the village about twelve-thirteen years. They were from over there, you know—Europe.”
“They were English, as I understand it. At least the children were born here.”
“But not here.’ He pointed to the ground. “Not in Heronsdene. But it was bad, all the same.”
Maisie was just about to ask another question when a knock at the door interrupted her.
“I’d best get on now, miss, if you’ve nothing else to ask me.”
Maisie shook her head. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Chambers.”
“Oh, hello, Miss Dobbs. Didn’t know you were here. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all, I’m just leaving.” Maisie turned to Mr. Chambers, thanked him again, and went on her way. As she stepped back onto the pavement, she heard Mrs. Pendle announce in a loud voice, “It’s a nice oxtail soup today, with dumplings.” When she looked around to wave goodbye, she saw Mrs. Pendle hand over the tray and step inside the cottage, her arms folded. She smiled to herself. Her grandmother had once said that you always knew when a neighbor woman was about to stay for a chat, because she’d fold her arms, ready to lean on your fence. But time spent with the villagers had been more than worthwhile, especially the conversation with Mr. Chambers. He’d given more than two nuggets’ worth of value with just one unguarded comment, as she suspected he might.
Considering the list again, Maisie decided that at this stage she would visit only one more house, the home of Phyllis Wheeler, nee Mansell, the girlhood friend of Anna Martin. It was located about a quarter of a mile past the smithy, on the right. An Edwardian villa set back from the road, the house was shabby despite being younger, by several hundred years, than many in the village. Two bay windows flanked an olive-green front door, the color of the house reflecting the livery of the local railway company who owned the property, so Maisie concluded that Phyllis’s father worked at a local station. She hoped Phyllis would be at home, seeing as she had two children and a new baby.
She was walking along the path toward the door when it opened and a woman began struggling to maneuver a perambulator across the threshold.
“Here, let me give you a hand.” Maisie stepped forward and pulled the front of the baby carriage, while the woman pushed from inside the door.
“Thank you very much. I usually leave it outside, but with all these Londoners and gypsies about, you never know, do you?”
Maisie smiled. “Mrs. Wheeler?”