An Incomplete Revenge Read online

  “And the daughter?”

  “My mother died when I was twelve, going on thirteen.”

  Beulah sipped her tea again, then bent to stroke her dog’s head. “Come tomorrow, as the sun goes down. A bit of tea will be here for you.”

  DURING THE DRIVE to her father’s house, Maisie reflected upon her dismissal. She had been asked questions of her life with honesty, without guile, and she had answered in kind. The invitation for tea the following day was more than a request, it was a summons. She would be able to ask more questions, delve more deeply, during the second visit.

  Reaching the village of Chelstone, Maisie slowed the motor car and turned left into the grounds of Chelstone Manor, where she turned left again down a small gravel thoroughfare that led to her father’s cottage. She had a plan for the following day in mind now: In the morning she would go to Maidstone, to the solicitors acting for the two boys. While there she would visit the local newspaper office, to check on old stories about the village. Then she would come back to Heronsdene, simply to walk along the High Street and gain a sense of the community—and perhaps gather a clue as to why such a dour mood prevailed. Much of what she planned to do revolved around legwork that Billy might have done if they were in London, but Maisie looked forward to getting back to some of the nuts and bolts of investigation that had so immersed her when she was an apprentice to Maurice Blanche.

  She made a few notes on her pad before emerging from the MG, wondering, in particular, why Webb had been watching the Sandermere mansion with such interest, what it held for him, and what was at the root of his curiosity, if that’s what it was. She put her pencil and pad away and gathered up her knapsack; as she stepped from the motor car, her father was already walking toward her, ready to embrace the daughter he loved so dearly.

  LATER, AFTER THEY had eaten a tea of corned beef, carrots and potatoes and had washed and put away the china and cutlery, the pair sat together in the small beamed sitting room.

  “Soon be time to light a fire of an evening, won’t it, love?”

  “Oh, let’s not rush the summer away, Dad. Winter’ll come before we know it.”

  Frankie leaned back in his armchair and closed his eyes.

  “Tired, Dad?”

  “No, love. I was just thinking of your mother. She’s been dead—what, twenty-one years now, come April? Sometimes it feels like just yesterday that she was with us, eh?”

  Maisie fidgeted. If it was Time’s task to diminish the yearning for one who has passed, then Time had done a poor job, for Maisie could still see the ache of loneliness for his wife’s company reflected in her father’s eyes. It was a sadness that caused her to think of Simon again, though she had been determined to push all thoughts of him to the back of her mind until she visited the hospital in Richmond, a journey she expected to make on Sunday. A brief sojourn away from Kent in the midst of her work would also allow her to reflect upon her findings thus far in what she had come to think of as the Compton case, an investigation that now extended beyond the brief given her by James Compton. During the drive she would also be able to consider evidence regarding the recent burglary at the Sandermere estate.

  “Working hard, love? Got much coming in?” Frankie was sometimes uneasy when it came to sparking conversation with his daughter. He was never sure whether such a question might not be prying, or whether she could tell him what she was doing anyway. Sometimes he thought that everyone would have been better off altogether if she’d married and settled down or taken up an ordinary position, something he understood. But on the other hand, he loved Maisie for her individuality and was fiercely proud of her accomplishments.

  “It was a bit touch and go over the summer, Dad, but now there’s work coming in at a more respectable clip. I’m working for James Compton, looking into matters for him over in Heronsdene. And a couple of other jobs have come in, which will keep us busy for a while.”

  “Nothing dangerous, I hope.”

  Maisie laughed. “No, in fact they’re all more than safe, so please don’t worry.” She paused, then added, “I have to say, though, Heronsdene’s a funny place. I have a sense that all is not as it should be in the village.”

  “Can’t say as I’ve ever really been there, not to stop. No reason to go unless you know folk or you’re passing through, I’d say. It’s not like you’d go there to do a bit of shopping.”

  “That’s what I thought. Ever heard of this man Sandermere?”

  Frankie shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I know he hunts, because I’ve heard talk about him, and I remember hearing there’s folk who think the estate is going to rack and ruin since he inherited. Had some fancy ideas and spent money on expensive machinery that wasn’t needed at the brickworks and got on the wrong side of a couple of big customers—your big building firms. Not a businessman like they said his brother was, even as a young man.”

  Maisie sighed and was about to ask Frankie about the horses in his care when he began speaking again.

  “Of course, they had it rough in the war, a bit of a close shave, over in the village.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t’ve known about it, being as you were over in France, but there was a Zeppelin raid—I reckon the old Boche come over too low on their way to London and thought they’d have a bit of target practice. Anyway, they dropped a couple of bombs—three people killed, far as I know. You never heard much about it, though, not once it was done. Just that it’d happened, and then they just got on with it. I remember thinking it was a bit odd that there wasn’t more said at the time—you know how any news is big news in these villages—but I s’pose that was all they could do, really. Just get on with it.” Frankie shook his head. “First of all they thought the brickworks was the target—looks a bit like it could be some other sort of factory from the outside—but then, as I said, you didn’t hear much more about it.”

  “When did it happen?”

  Frankie shook his head. “Can’t say as I remember, rightly—though I think it was during the ’opping season, so probably September 1916.” He looked up and nodded. “Yes, it must’ve been about then, because there was one shot down over London just a week or two before that—you could see the fire for miles and miles—and this wasn’t so big, not by comparison.”

  “I’m going to Maidstone tomorrow, so I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Frankie nodded, and there was silence between them for a few moments.

  “Dad, I’ve been thinking about Nana.”

  “Your mother’s mother? Once seen, never forgotten, old Bekka.”

  “Didn’t you like her? I’ve only a few memories of her, but they’ve stuck in my mind.”

  “She scared the daylights out of me when I first met ’er.” He smiled and appeared to look into the distance, as if in squinting down Time’s shadowy tunnel he could pluck out memories. “But she loved your granddad, and he liked me, so we were alright, your mother and me, when it came to getting permission to be wed.” He laughed. “There she would be, hands on her hips, complaining about this or that, and your granddad would just grin, with a twinkle in his eye, and let her get on with it. Roma, she was, of the water gypsies. She loved your mother, and you were her favorite—even called you Little Bekka when you were a nipper, or Boosul, or one of them names.”

  “Do you think she missed her people—you know, when she married Granddad?”

  “Your mother would’ve been the one to answer that question, but I remember Granddad saying once that when the water gypsies came through the lock her eyes’d light up and she’d often take a ride with them to the next lock; she’d trail the horse on the tow-path behind the barge horse and ride him back home again.”

  “Did they ever have people turn on them, because of her blood?”

  “Oh, yes, according to your mother they did, though Bekka stopped wearing the old gypsy clobber and dressed more like one of us, if you know what I mean. She wouldn’t let go of them earrings, though. And your
mother said that, when she was a girl, your gran would keep an eye on her all the time, in case she was set upon for her looks. Your mother did that for you, when you first went to school, on account of your hair and the way you might have been seen, but she made sure you spoke proper—she knew how a lady should speak. Mind you, it’s a wonder you weren’t tormented for that.”

  “I know, Dad. But I also knew how to use the right tone and turn of phrase at the right time. Mum might have been disappointed, had she heard me at school.” Maisie paused. “Did Nana die of old age?”

  Frankie shook his head. “No. I mean, she was getting on, but not as old as your granddad. When he went, it was as if there wasn’t anything to live for, so she just let go and died. And she was brokenhearted about your mother.” He turned to Maisie. “Your mother was poorly then. Old Bekka said she’d seen it coming, that’s why she didn’t want us to be wed at first. She reckoned it was all her fault, having a child up in the Smoke—as you know, when your granddad was a lighterman they lived in Rotherhithe, before she had her way and he got the job as a lock keeper and they went to live out in the country. She wanted to take your mother back to live with them when you were just a nipper, so she could be near the water and out in the fresh air, but your mother wouldn’t move. She took it all on herself, did Bekka, saying it was down to her your mother was ill and still so young. Of course, she didn’t say it in front of your mother, but she knew, I swear she knew, that her daughter was dying, even before the doctors said she was.”

  Maisie’s eyes filled with tears, as thoughts of Simon—banished to the back of her mind following the difficult conversation with Priscilla—claimed her once again.

  “What’s up, love? What’s pulling at you?”

  Maisie bit her lip, then left her chair to kneel at her father’s feet. “Simon’s dying, Dad.”

  Frankie enveloped her in his arms as if she were still a child.

  FATHER AND DAUGHTER spoke long into the night, first of Simon, whose demise had been expected years before, in the weeks following his wounding in France. But with the passage of time, his half-life, an existence that saw him lingering between this world and the next, became something to which both his mother and Maisie had become accustomed. Then Frankie asked Maisie if she intended to see Maurice, who was at home in the Dower House at Chelstone Manor. In response, Maisie shook her head, and Frankie chose to let the matter rest, for now.

  AT BREAKFAST, FRANKIE broached the subject again, after sliding an egg, two rashers of bacon, and a slice of fried bread onto Maisie’s plate, straight from the pan. He served himself, then sat down at the heavy wooden table across from Maisie, as she poured tea for them both.

  “I reckon Dr. Blanche would like a visit from you before you leave.” He did not look up but cut into his bread and dipped it into a fresh golden-yolked fried egg.

  “I’m busy—short on time, Dad.”

  Frankie set his knife and fork on the plate in front of him. “Maisie, I’ll speak plain. You can be a stubborn one when you like, and—I’ll give you this—you know your mind and you’re usually right. But I don’t know about this business with Dr. Blanche.”

  “Dad—”

  Frankie raised a hand. “Hear me out, love. Hear me out.” He paused while Maisie fidgeted, cutting into her bacon, then leaving it on her plate as she settled back to listen. Frankie continued. “When you first started lessons with Dr. Blanche, all them years ago when you were in service, I’ve got to admit I wasn’t at all taken with it. I was grateful to ’im and Lady Rowan for giving you the opportunity, but I—”

  He paused. A man of few words, Maisie’s father was unused to expressing himself with such candor.

  “I was a bit put out, to tell you the truth. I wondered if that man wasn’t more of a father to you than me, what with all his education. But now I’ve come to know ’im, since I came down to work at Chelstone. And after my accident, when he made sure I was well looked after, I saw that what he had was respect for you, for what you’ve done, how far you’ve come. I don’t know what this argument is all about, but though I don’t have your learning under my belt, I’m not silly and I can work a thing or two out. All I can say is, if Dr. Blanche kept something from you, it wasn’t out of not trustin’ you. No, it was for reasons of protectin’ you, right or wrong.” He lifted up his knife and fork again. “And sometimes you’ve just got to say fain-ites—you’ve got to call a truce, with yourself as much as anyone else, and then get on with bein’ mates again.”

  Maisie sighed and poked at her breakfast. “I—” she began, but realized that she was about to justify her actions, or lack thereof, again, and simply added, “Nothing. Let’s eat our breakfast before it gets cold.”

  “Right you are. I just wanted to say my piece.”

  “And I’m glad you did.” She looked up at her father, changing the subject. “I think I’ll try to stay in Heronsdene tonight, if I can get lodgings at the inn. I want to spend a bit of time closer to my work for a couple of days, but I’ll be back again on Friday night.”

  Frankie nodded and stood up, taking his plate to the sink, where he set it in a bowl of water. He washed his hands, then came to Maisie and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be off to the stables now.” He turned to take his jacket from a hook behind the door. “Mind how you drive, round these little lanes. Not like some of them new big roads you’ve got used to.”

  “Alright, Dad.”

  MAISIE DID NOT leave the table for some time. Finally, she sighed and set about tidying the kitchen before she gathered her belongings ready to set off. It was not yet seven o’clock, so she pulled on a pair of Wellington boots and stepped out the back door and into the garden. Long and narrow, the garden was almost entirely given over to vegetables, yet roses grew along the fence on all three sides. The cultivation of roses was an interest Frankie and Maurice Blanche shared, so the men had become friends of a kind across the fence that divided their respective homes, though the Dower House, situated on an incline close to the boundary of Chelstone Manor, was decidedly more grand than the humble Groom’s Cottage it looked down upon.

  Maisie went straight to the end of the garden, the heavy dew wet across her boots, and looked out at the fields and woodland beyond. She was eternally glad that her father had come to live at Chelstone in 1914 and would be allowed to remain in his cottage until the end of his days. She shuddered to think of such an event, for he was her only family, and he was past seventy.

  As she turned to leave, she stopped to look at the Dower House, where she could just about see the roofline and, to the fore, the glass-paned conservatory where Maurice would be taking breakfast, dipping freshly baked bread—his one indulgence—into the strong French coffee he favored. And as she stood there, remembering times past, when they would speak together of a case in hushed tones, she saw movement just beyond the windows of the conservatory. Maurice Blanche was watching her, his newspaper under one arm. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the searing early morning sunlight that bathed the room, then waved, and after a lapse of some seconds Maisie waved in return. She knew he waited for her to unlatch the gate and walk along the path, across the lawn, and through the rose garden up to the conservatory. He may have already asked for an extra cup and saucer to be brought, just in case she came to join him. But she wouldn’t. Not today. She wasn’t ready for fain-ites yet.

  FIVE

  Maisie stopped on the outskirts of Maidstone as soon as she saw a red telephone kiosk alongside a row of shops. The directory inquiries operator found the firm of White, Bertrand and Spelton without much ado, giving Maisie their address as well as a telephone number, though Maisie declined to be connected.

  Parking her motor close to the old Corn Exchange, Maisie soon found the solicitors’ offices on the High Street. She did not have an appointment and did not want to attempt to make one at short notice, either—such a move would have meant immediate refusal, she suspected. However, though she did not secure an audience with Mr. Spelton, who
had been assigned to represent the two boys from Shoreditch, she was able to speak with his clerk, who informed her that the young men were being held on remand at a reformatory school for juvenile criminals and would stand trial for breaking and entering, malicious damage, and theft. With luck, they would serve a sentence of between three to six months, seeing as this was a first offense, though the victim was strongly protesting such a short incarceration. The clerk noted that it was lucky they were not yet of an age—sixteen—where they would be sent to borstal. “Then they’d know all about it,” he commented.

  Maisie asked a few more questions, then left. As far as she understood, at a reformatory school the boys would not be subject to either a birching if they stepped out of line or a leather across the palm, though the punishment would not be a pleasant experience either. But no matter how seemingly lenient the sentence, her task was to prevent its being passed down.

  Turning into Week Street, Maisie’s next stop was the offices of the local newspaper, which brought word of events in Kent, whether significant or trivial, to the broad population of the county. A woman receptionist proved helpful, and when Maisie asked if she could speak to one of the reporters who had been at the newspaper for, say, fifteen years or so, she was told that they rarely changed staff, so that would be anyone.

  “I reckon the best thing, miss, is for you to speak to Beattie. She’s been here since the war and knows what’s gone on all over Kent.” She paused. “I’d say to speak to one of the men, but they’re all over at the King’s Arms at the moment.”