An Incomplete Revenge (20 page)

“I’m looking for Mr. Bracegirdle.”

The shorter worker thumbed toward the man holding the order, who tucked a pencil behind his right ear and set down the sheet on top of a pile of papers. “I’m Mr. Bracegirdle.” He was about to hold out his hand to greet her when he noticed the dirt ingrained in his palm. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Maisie shook her head. “That’s alright. Do you think you might be able to spare me ten or fifteen minutes of your time?”

Without inquiring as to the purpose of her visit, the foreman looked at his deputy, who touched his flat cap. “Right you are, Pete. I’ll get the boys working on that order.”

“I’ll come out to the kilns as soon as I’ve had a word with this lady, Bert.” He turned to Maisie, then came around to the other side of the desk, removed a pile of papers from a chair, flapped the
papers back and forth across the seat to remove the dust, and held out his hand. “Take a seat, miss.”

Maisie was grateful that she’d worn her heavy linen skirt, which, being khaki, would not show any dust lingering on the chair.

“What can I do for you?” Bracegirdle leaned back against the table and folded his arms. “You haven’t come here for bricks or tiles, I’m sure.”

“You’re right. I’m working for the Compton Corporation, who are—as you’ve probably heard—in the process of finalizing arrangements to buy the business side of the Sandermere estate.”

“Yes, we were all told when the works and the land went up for sale. Bit worrying, in these times. You never know whether you’ll still have a job.”

“I think I can say with a relative degree of confidence that, should the sale progress to completion, the Compton Corporation wishes to expand the works here, develop the range of bricks and tiles, and make a significant well-considered investment in new equipment and practices.”

“Well, we’ll wait and see. That all sounds very nice, but you do hear about these—what do they call them?” He rubbed his chin.

“Asset strippers?”

“That’s it. They take a business, sell it lock, stock and barrel, and then everyone’s out of a job.”

“Not a brickworks, and not when there’s so much building going on.”

“We can hardly keep up with the orders.”

“Which is good news, for you and for buyers.”

“Well, it’s not all good news. We need investment to make sure we meet those orders. In fact, we’ve needed the right investment for a long time.”

Maisie frowned. “I understood that Mr. Sandermere put a lot into the brickworks, more than could comfortably be afforded.”

Bracegirdle pulled a cloth from his pocket and began rubbing his hands. “Not for me to speak out of turn, but to be honest with you, there are people who buy something new just for the sake of it. And half of what he paid good money for isn’t what we wanted. I told him, I said, ’Here’s what we need.’ But he went for the goods the fast talkers pushed—with more than a dose of toadying up to him, I shouldn’t wonder—which is why he bought, feeling like the big businessman. Lot of what we really want, you can get secondhand. I hope I manage to have a serious word with whoever buys the place so we can get what we need—and a bit more in the wage packets wouldn’t go amiss, either.”

“Quite.” Maisie paused. “Mr. Bracegirdle, wasn’t some of the expenditure on the works to replace equipment damaged in a recent spate of malicious destruction at the estate?”

“No, the spending came before the shop was got at. We’ve managed to repair a fair bit, and of course we lost a lot of inventory, but I got the boys working round the clock and we were able to fill our orders. Of course, Mr. Sandermere said he’d ordered some new parts, but I’ve yet to see them. We make do and mend when we have to, don’t we?”

“Of course.” Maisie shifted on the seat. “Have the insurers come to view the works?”

“Mr. Sandermere had them in straightaway, and of course they were interested, being as the stables went up in flames as well. They insisted a police report be made. Mr. Sandermere hadn’t called the police, saying it was probably some local lads out on the beer and the police couldn’t do anything anyway. And he wasn’t wrong there—they came, had a sniff around, took a few measurements, paced back and forth from the door to make it look like they knew what they were about, and then off they went.”

“I see.”

“ ’Course, it would have been different if his brother was the boss.”

“I understand he was a different kettle of fish altogether.”

“Very fair. Knew the business. I remember him coming in here when he was just a lad, wanting to learn how to make bricks. Took him round myself, I did. And he knew the farmers, made it his business to know about farming. We have a bookkeeper from the village, a Mr. Soames, who comes in of a Friday.” He laughed. “I have to do a bit of tidying up on Thursday night, so he don’t get upset on account of the mess we’ve made.” He smiled. “Anyway, Mr. Henry came every Friday, even when he was back from his school in the summer, to sit with Mr. Soames and make sure he understood what went on here.”

“And Alfred’s not the same.”

Bracegirdle gave a half laugh that came out as a derogatory snort. “Oh, he’s interested in the bottom line, alright—because he likes to spend anything that isn’t spoken for.”

Maisie nodded. “Have there been any other incidences of vandalism?”

“We get the odd nipper from the village with a pot of paint who reckons himself an artist with a bit of a flair for walls, but other than that, no, just that one.”

“But when you add it to the vandalism in the village and the fires, it all mounts up.”

Bracegirdle moved around to the other side of the desk. Maisie watched, curious, for his move had placed a substantial piece of furniture between them at the mention of the problems in the village.

“Don’t know much about the village, not specifically.”

“Oh? I assumed you lived in the village, Mr. Bracegirdle.”

“I do, yes, but I don’t know much about the fires.” He shrugged. “Mind you, there was the accident at Fred Yeoman’s the other night—silly bugger threw out the ashes and started it himself.”

Maisie knew there was little to be gained from the conversation, though she wanted to press the foreman just a little more. “Do you remember the Zeppelin raid?”

“Don’t forget a thing like that.”

“No, I shouldn’t wonder. I understand the local baker and his family were killed when a bomb hit their shop, for of course they lived upstairs.”

“That’s right.”

“And no one has ever built on the land. Or even put up a memorial.”

He shrugged again. “Best left as it is. They’re buried in the churchyard.”

“I know, but I thought—”

Bracegirdle looked at the clock on the wall behind him. “Well, I haven’t got the time to sit about, got work to do. If that’s all, miss—”

“Of course.” Maisie stood up, brushing her hand across the fabric at the back of her skirt to remove dust. “Thank you for seeing me.”

He nodded and turned to leave, via the door leading into the works.

MAISIE HAD NOW
confirmed the impression she had of Sandermere, a spendthrift who was likely entranced by the thrill of expenditure and the attention that accompanies the impression of having considerable wealth. He liked spending money. He liked being a man of commerce, of land, but he had no aptitude for either and no wise counsel to direct him—if he had cared to listen. She was in no doubt, now, that her suspicion—as put to James Compton—that Sandermere was embezzling his insurers was correct. He had probably received compensation for both the stable fire and for the damage to the brickworks. And what of the items lost when the mansion was burgled? Had he claimed already for that loss? There was a police report, though the suspects were probably released by now, so there might be a lapse of time before
he received those funds. How desperate was he? Maisie suspected that the man’s weakness was akin to those who are unaware of their limits with alcohol, except his addiction was to money and, more particularly, to the thrill of profligacy and to the attention such behavior garnered. If he had nothing, he would be like the addict deprived of his drug—what, then, might he do next? Would his craving for attention, which she thought might be the root of his character deficiencies, lead him to set fires, to pyromania? Or would other aspects of his life suffer a descent, due to lack of control?

She brushed off the back of her skirt again, before she took her seat in the MG, and drove out of the brickworks and across to the farm where Billy and his family were working. Taking her knapsack, in which she’d placed a flask of hot tea, she locked the motor car and began walking toward the hop-gardens, following the sound of voices in the distance, like a dog nosing a scent. The hop-gardens already picked seemed desolate. Where there had been a full, rich, green crop, a hundred or so pickers hard at work, and the noise of talk, laughter and singing filling the air, the land now seemed bereft, with only the ghostly remains of a verdant harvest. There was a shallow incline on the path ahead, on the other side of which, set to one side, was a tap where people came throughout the day to fill a bottle or a kettle or to wash the knee of a child who had fallen while playing. She was surprised to come across Sandermere’s horse, grazing on the verge, and thought that perhaps the landowner had stopped to quench his thirst. But as she came over the hill, she heard a scream and was just in time to see Sandermere take Paishey Webb by the arm and pull her to him. At first, Maisie could hardly believe the scene before her or what the man was thinking to do such a thing. Each movement seemed to be in slow motion, but barely a second passed before the gypsy shrieked again and again, trying to escape Sandermere’s grasp. She kicked out at him, her scarf pulling back as he took hold of her hair, then put his finger to her hooped earring, and dragged it through the
skin of her lobe. She cried out in pain and kicked again, desperate to save herself.

Maisie lost no time in running toward the pair, shouting, “Leave her alone! Stop!” And then, louder, “Help! Help!”

But Sandermere did not stop, pulling Paishey to him as if to press his lips to her neck, even as blood ran from her torn ear to his mouth. Another voice, stronger and louder, joined Maisie’s. Billy Beale had just walked up the hill from the hop-garden toward the tap. Dropping the kettle he had brought to fill, he launched himself at Sandermere and dragged him away. Though he was not the stronger man, Billy was faster and drew back his fist before Sandermere could even curl his fingers. The punch struck home, smashing Sandermere’s nose so that blood sprayed across his shirt and down his face.

“You nasty git, you bleedin’ nasty piece of work. I don’t care who you are, you bugger off out of ’ere before I kill you! So ’elp me, I’ll kill you, you bastard!”

As Sandermere staggered away, pulled himself onto his horse, and galloped off along the farm road, Maisie took Paishey in her arms. More people, locals and gypsies alike, came running from the hop-garden, drawn by the screams and shouting. Webb was in the crowd, pushing others aside when he saw Maisie and Billy with his wife.

“You, gorja! What—”

“He saved my honor, Webb,” said Paishey. “Leave’n him and her alone.” She wiped her hand across her face, smearing the profusion of blood.

Maisie pulled a handkerchief from her knapsack, ran cold water onto it from the tap, and held the cloth to Paishey’s ear. “Come sit on the verge, and let me have a look.”

Paishey allowed Maisie to lead her, while Billy explained to Webb what had happened. Maisie saw Webb turn as if to go after Sandermere, but Billy braced himself against the gypsy. “I know
how you feel, mate, but calm down. He’ll have the law on you like a ton of bricks if you go after him now. You can’t win—you’ll end up inside for the rest of your life. Then where will your little nipper be, or your missus?”

Webb raised his hands to either side of the crown of his hat and then let them slump at his sides. He turned away from the crowd and screamed as if to a god who could not hear. It was a loud, impassioned cry that came not from the throat but from deep inside his body, and it was enough to begin to disperse the onlookers. Paishey ran to her husband and Webb held her to him, his fingernails white with the pressure of his grip. Then she pulled away, taking his hand, below which a scar crossed the inside of his wrist, and she held her own wrist, her own scar, to it, so that the place where their blood had run together on the day of their marriage was joined once more.

Billy shook his head. “I’d scream too, if I was ’im. Fine ’ow-do-you-do, this, ain’t it? Probably won’t ’ave a job come morning, me
or
’im.”

As she rinsed blood from her handkerchief, ready to hand it to Paishey once again, Maisie realized she was shaking. “I can’t believe what I just saw. That a man would act in such a way is unconscionable—and in broad daylight!”

“I better not see that bloke again, that’s all I can say.”

“I’m so glad you were here, Billy. Are you alright?”

Billy nodded. “I knew ’e could punch me into the ground with one good one, drunk as ’e was, so I ’ad to get in quick with the old one-two. I ’aven’t got enough go in the old legs to get into a bout with someone like that.” He rubbed his knuckles where they had connected with Sandermere’s nose. “Lucky I came along when I did. Doreen ’ad seen the gypsy walking to the tap and picked up the kettle to go over there. I knew what she was thinking, that she’d ’ave a word, explain why she ’adn’t been passin’ the time of day or makin’ a fuss of the baby, and thought I’d better go myself.
Not as if you can explain a thing like that, but I didn’t want any trouble.” Billy shook his head. “Found trouble alright, though, didn’t I?”

Webb and Paishey walked across to them and Webb held out his hand to Billy. “You saved my wife’s honor. I am in your debt.”

“No, you’re not, mate. You would’ve done the same, anybody would.”

Webb shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t.” He looked at his wife, then back at Billy. “Sometimes it’s like the morning hate when we come out to work.”

Billy frowned, pausing before saying more and with his head to one side, as if considering the man’s words. Then he changed his expression and reached out to grip Webb’s shoulder. “Just promise me you won’t go after ’im.” His smile was one of irony. “Not unless you take me with you, anyway.”