An Incomplete Revenge jw-3 Page 5

  “Steady, George. Miss Dobbs’s got to ask, got to get the lay o’ the land, you know, to ’elp.” Billy took up the cup, replenishing it half full with tea.

  The man settled himself again. “You’re right. Best to tell you everything. They’ve got some local bloke, a solicitor, brought in to speak for ’em, but the man don’t look like ’e cares tuppence.” He sat down, drank the tea straight back, then threw the dregs out across the sun-baked clay earth. “When the boys were caught, they were searched, and a silver paperweight was found in Joe’s pocket and a locket in Arthur’s.”

  “What did the boys say?” Maisie inquired, taking her notebook from the knapsack and beginning to write.

  “That they found the silver under the chestnut tree.”

  “And the police?”

  “They say the boys ’ad an accomplice on the other side of the wall, but they couldn’t resist keepin’ a bit o’ what they’d taken with them—and the business of lookin’ for conkers was made up when they saw they’d been nabbed.”

  Maisie nodded. “I see.” She reached for the cup of tea she’d placed at her feet when she began to write. “And what do you think, George?”

  “Me?” He looked at Maisie, then at Billy, who nodded. “I reckon it was them bleedin’ pikeys. Bloody vermin, they are.” He turned to Billy again, “And you should watch it, mate, what with your missus gettin’ in thick with that Webb woman.”

  Billy reddened. “It’s only the baby, George. Reminds ’er of our little Lizzie. Breaks my ’eart, it does.” He looked away.

  “It’s not as if we don’t all know what you’ve been through, but nothin’ good will come of that sort of goin’-on, I tell you.” George wagged a finger at Billy, then brought his attention back to Maisie, who had said nothing during the exchange between the two men. “I’ve seen ’im, the one what don’t ’ave no proper name—they just call ’im Webb. I’ve seen that gyppo over on the hill, looking down toward Sandermere’s mansion. Just stands there and watches. And I’ve seen ’im walkin’ around the place, alongside of the fencing. If you want to know who burgled the place, that’s where you want to look. Police reckon they’ve got no evidence, say they can’t nick Webb or move the gyppos on, that they ain’t doin’ anybody any ’arm.” He folded his arms and kicked his boot out toward a stone.

  Maisie completed a note, nodding her head as she underlined a word, then looked up at the men. “The thing one has to be careful with, in such cases, is rushing in with all guns blazing, so to speak. It’s best to take care, though time is obviously of the essence. Where are the boys being held?”

  “Maidstone nick—but they’re only boys, in with all them villains.”

  “Don’t worry. I would imagine they will probably not be in with the prisoners, just in temporary cells. Not comfortable, but not as bad, either. And where are the gypsies encamped?”

  Billy turned around and pointed. “You go back out of these hop-gardens to the farm road, past four more hop-gardens and a field of cows, and you’ll see their caravans up on the ’ill close to the wood. There’s a sort of clearing in the wood where they’ve got a big fire. They all sit around at night and ’ave a bit of a sing-song. That Webb plays the fiddle—so do a couple of the other blokes—and they make a right racket up there of a night.”

  “And who’s the matriarch?”

  “The what?” Billy and George spoke in unison.

  “The eldest woman in the tribe. She’ll probably have a caravan set slightly apart from the others.”

  “The older Webb woman, mother of that dirty thief? I’d watch that one if I was you. Wouldn’t go creepin’ over there.”

  Maisie smiled and packed up her things. “I’ll go to Maidstone tomorrow, George. And I’ll visit the woman today. Do you know her name? Or have they just called her aunt?”

  Billy and George looked at each other, then back at Maisie. Billy answered. “I can ask Doreen, but I don’t think she knows. The woman with the baby girl they call Boosul, that one’s name is Paishey—short for Patience, I reckon.”

  “Yes, that sounds right.” She continued to speak as she stood, handing her cup to Billy. “Gypsies tend to have names that are almost biblical—you’ll hear Charity, Patience, Faith, that sort of thing.” She placed a hand on George’s shoulder. “I’ll also speak to Mr. Sandermere, though I am not yet sure how I might make his acquaintance. We’ll get to the bottom of this soon enough. And I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Billy—I’ll be out here early.”

  The men watched as she walked away, stopped to get her bearings, then made her way toward the farm road.

  “You sure she can do right by my boys, mate?”

  Billy nodded. “Yeah, sure I’m sure. If anyone can find out what went on, Miss Dobbs can.” But he wasn’t sure that talking to a tribe of gypsies was the right way to go about the job.

  MAISIE STOOD AT the bottom of a gentle hill looking up at the knob of trees spread over the brow. As clouds scudded across the sky casting shadows below, the woodland was at once in shade and then as brightly lit as if it were a prop on the London stage. The caravans were drawn close together; she counted five, each with a tent pitched next to it. Then, to the left, another caravan was set apart. Lower on the hill, six stocky cobs grazed on lush grass. Maisie raised her hand to shield her eyes and watched them amble a few yards to a fresh patch, then run together for no reason at all, kicking up their heels before coming back to graze once more. She remembered going with her father to buy a horse at Stow-on-the-Wold, during the gypsy horse fair. Her mother did not come, and later, as she came of age, Maisie realized it was a journey her father would probably have preferred to make alone, but the respite from their daughter’s childish energy provided rest for his wife, who was ill, and delight for a girl who had begun to understand that her mother was failing.

  As they had walked along the rows and rows of horses and ponies, her father stopping to ask a question or reaching down to run his hands up and down the legs of a cob, she asked, “How do you know which one’s the right horse?” And he replied, “Well, we’re looking for a thick, strong, hairy leg at each corner and a twinkle in the eyes—and we’re waiting for one of ’em to choose us.” They came home with Persephone in the goods wagon of the train, then rode her from Paddington to her new home in a warm, cozy stable under the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge.

  The horses looked up as Maisie passed, then went on with their grazing. She approached the gypsy camp, calling out, “Hello,” though she did not expect an answer, with everyone picking until at least four o’clock. She took care, as she walked past each caravan, and did not pry, for that was not her purpose—not in the way of picking through belongings while the owner was absent, anyway. To her right, just before she reached the caravan set apart, the one she knew belonged to the gypsy matriarch, a path led into the wood. She checked her watch—it was still barely past one o’clock—and walked along the path, emerging in a clearing, with sunlight glinting through tree fronds overhead. A single wisp of smoke snaked up from the ashes of this morning’s fire, and with each gentle murmur of breeze the embers radiated their red heat and then grew dim, as if breathing their last before finally crumbling to ash.

  Logs had been cut and positioned around the fire, and a black pot with long iron utensils had been pulled to one side. Remembering her dream, Maisie was not moved, nor did she feel fear, remaining in place while she considered the case, which had now developed into more than a simple fact-finding exercise for James Compton. Were the gypsies guilty of breaking into the Sandermere estate? How was the crime linked to other events, as described to her by James and also detailed in his notes? And what of Heronsdene, this place where people were so tight-knit they did not report damage to their property by fire? Yes, she would have to find a way to broach that subject, while at the same time acquiring an understanding of the people. More than anything, she wanted to know why driving through the village had caused her to shiver and the hair on her neck to bristle. Could it simply be a
mood of dissent between the landowner and the village, or was it caused by the incoming workers from London and the gypsies?

  Maisie turned and shivered again, only this time she felt as if she were being watched. Looking around, she saw no one, so, throwing her knapsack over one shoulder, she moved without haste to the mouth of the clearing, to the sunlit field beyond the canopy of trees. As she stepped out, close to the single caravan set apart from the rest, she felt a clench around her free hand and looked down. A lurcher held Maisie in a viselike grip, yet the bitch had drawn her lips across her sharp teeth, as if she had chosen to do no harm, only to keep the interloper in place until her mistress returned. Maisie breathed in and out slowly, then spoke to the dog.

  “There’s a good girl. I’ll be no trouble to you. But if you’re to hold me hostage, then I want to sit down.”

  No growl issued from the dog, but her small, sharp, glistening eyes did not move from looking up, straight into the eyes of her catch. Maisie had recognized the dog to be a lurcher, the mongrel they called the dog of the gypsies, a first cross between a greyhound and a collie. It was a dog, they said, with the speed of the one and the canniness of the other. Lur, as she knew already, means thief in the ancient Romany language. And it was no good breeding two lurchers to get a litter either, for only that first cross produced the true lurcher—the gypsies knew their dogs and horses.

  The dog allowed Maisie to edge toward the steps of the lone caravan, where she sat to wait, using her free hand to take out her sandwiches. Of course, she could have used her knife or taken tools from the small pouch with an intention to wound the animal, but she knew that, however fast her reflexes, the dog would be faster—and the animal meant her no harm as long as she did not try to move farther. There was no escape to be had, which was likely just as well. She thought she might be expected here, in any case. Leaning back against the caravan door, Maisie lifted the sandwich to her lips to eat, and felt a single wet stream of drool issue from the lurcher’s jaws to trickle across her captured hand.

  IT MUST HAVE been when the dog released her grip that Maisie awoke. She did not start when her eyes met the eyes of the gypsy woman, standing with her long gray hair drawn back in a patterned scarf, hoop earrings, dark ridges of lines above and between her eyes, and ripples of skin where her cheeks had sagged with age. Instead, Maisie came to her feet and, looking down—for the woman just reached Maisie’s shoulder—she simply inclined her head and smiled.

  “My name is Maisie Dobbs, and I have come to see you.”

  The woman nodded and placed a wicker basket filled with freshly picked Michaelmas daisies on the ground. “They call me Beulah.” She looked Maisie up and down. “Get away from them steps so’s I can get to me vardo.” She turned to the other gypsy folk who had gathered around when they returned to find a gorja woman waiting.

  “It’s kushti.” It’s good. “She’s alright. Now get on.” Her language was thick on her tongue, her words barely mumbled, yet her instruction resonated though she had not once raised her voice. Without looking at Maisie, she took her kettle out from under the caravan, along with the bowl for washing her hands.

  “Carry this for the old auntie you’ve come all this way to see. You’d better come sit and talk.” And with that she whistled for the lurcher, who walked behind her into the clearing, moving from side to side so that Maisie remained in third place and could neither walk beside nor in front of the dog’s mistress.

  FOUR

  Maisie emerged from the clearing as the late-afternoon sun began to give way to a dusky early evening light, the mellow echo of horses nickering as she passed by on her way down the hill. Billy might have expected her to drop in to see the family before she left the farm, but though she could see hoppers gathered around the cookhouse, she was late already and did not want Frankie Dobbs to worry.

  Easing the MG out onto the road, Maisie thought the village seemed quiet for a September evening, when folk might be expected to be walking along to the local inn for an ale to talk of the day, the weather, the harvest just in, or the hop-picking. It was the time of year for ease, as barley was cut to form sheaves across the sundrenched stubble that remained and hay was rolled into bales or set in stooks; for easy ambles along narrow country lanes and memories exchanged of years gone by. It was a time for bottling and drying vegetables for the winter table, and for rich summer pudding filled with berries to be set in a cold larder, the juices to mingle. But there seemed to be little of the season’s joy in Heronsdene, a mood, as she’d reflected earlier, that might be connected to the influx of outsiders.

  Her thoughts turned to the gypsy encampment and her time spent with Beulah next to the fire. The woman had led her into the clearing and bade her sit on the log next to her. The lurcher nestled at the woman’s feet but kept Maisie in her line of vision, lifting her head if she moved even an inch. The animal had no name, and was called, simply, jook, the gypsy word for dog.

  While Maisie and the woman spoke, heads drawn close so that conversation could be kept low, she knew the attention of the rest of the tribe was upon her, particularly that of the man she understood to be Webb, Beulah’s son. He was tall, with eyes of blue and long hair that was not as dark as the others. Maisie knew that many Roma had deep copper glints in their hair, and some were redheads, though most had rich black locks like Beulah or Paishey Webb’s wife. Indeed, they had hair like her own. Webb wore an old shirt and dark corduroy trousers, a waistcoat, and a blue scarf around his neck. A hat with a broad brim partially obscured his face, and he too wore earrings, though not as wide in circumference as those of Beulah or Paishey. Even baby Boosul wore tiny earrings.

  From the way he moved, Maisie estimated Webb’s age to be about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, just a few years younger than herself, yet in the features she was able to discern he seemed much older. His wife was about nineteen, perhaps twenty. Webb glanced up at his mother every few minutes, as he stooped to light the fire, or when dragging over the heavy cast-iron pot for the women to make a stew of rabbit, with vegetables bought in the village and tasty greens from the forest that anyone other than a gypsy might ignore. Without making her interest obvious, Maisie could tell much about the man from his demeanor. Though she could not emulate his carriage from her seat on the log, she could see the feelings he carried within him, as if a weighted sack were tethered to his body. Webb was not only enraged, he was fearful. Maisie could see both emotions as plain as day. And when she turned to Beulah, she realized the old woman had been watching as the visitor took the measure of her son, and it was clear in her narrowed gypsy eyes that she had seen the conclusion the investigator had reached.

  “You here about them gorja boys, from up there.” It was a statement put to Maisie with a wave of the hand in the broad direction of London.

  Maisie nodded. “That’s one of the reasons, yes.”

  “We di’n ’ave nothin’ t’do with it.” Beulah took a mouthful of tea and winced as she swallowed the scalding liquid.

  “Do you think the London boys did it?”

  Beulah looked into the fire. “Not my place t’say. What they do is their business, what we do is ours.”

  “Your son was seen close to the house on the day of the burglary. Did he see anything?”

  “Not my place.” She nodded toward Webb, who was splitting logs with an axe. Two other men with him sawed trees that the wind had blown down last winter, wood that would crackle and burn easily, seasoned by nature and a hot summer. “Talk to ’im if you like.”

  Webb looked up from his work at just that moment, and Beulah beckoned to him. “The rawni—woman—wants to talk to you, Webb.”

  Without first putting down the axe, and with just a few easy steps, Webb came to stand in front of Maisie. Instinct instructed her to come to her feet, for in height she was almost a match for the matriarch’s son and she would not be unsettled by him. Her own eyes of the deepest blue could flash a look as intimidating as any glance in her direction.

  “Mr.
Webb, I am looking into the burglary at the Sandermere house on behalf of the parents of the boys who stand accused of the crime. Though it appears there is more than enough evidence to charge them, I understand that you were in the area of the estate and might have seen what happened.”

  The man did not move, either to shake his head or nod in accordance with her supposition. He stared for every second of one minute before responding. Maisie did not break connection with his stare, nor did she add any comment to encourage him to speak. Eventually, he chewed the inside of his lip, then began.

  “I didn’t see anything. I was just walking along, with the dog.” His voice was unlike his mother’s, lacking the rough guttural low-gypsy dialect.

  “He bin to school.” Beulah’s voice caused Maisie to turn, as the woman deflected her thoughts with an unsolicited explanation. “Learned your words, he did. And Webb can write. He does our letters, our doc’ments, and reads for us, so we ain’t ignorant of what’s said and what’s been writ.”

  “A useful man to have in the tribe, eh, Aunt Beulah?” Maisie smiled, then turned back to Webb. “Do you think the boys did it? Do you think they broke into the house, stole the silver, and made off with it?”

  Again Webb waited, steady with his reply. “Lads are from the streets of London. They’re not stupid, even if they are boys. If they did what the police said, they wouldn’t’ve been caught. Boys like that are light on their feet. I remember when I was that age. I was quick. Had to be.” Then he turned and walked back to his task—set a large log on top of another, raised the axe high above his head, and swung it down with force, so that the splitting of wood in one fell swoop echoed throughout the forest.

  Beulah sipped her tea, elbows resting on knees set wide as she watched her son in silence. Then she turned to Maisie.

  “You from up there?” Again she nodded in the broad direction of London.

  “Born and bred.”

  The woman smiled. “Born but not bred, girl.”