An Incomplete Revenge (31 page)

She stood up and reached out to close the window against the unrelenting howl of the dead gypsy’s lurcher.
We’ll do what we have to do with her vardo
. She wondered if she could bear to witness the ritual.

AS MAISIE LEFT
the village next morning, bound for Hawkhurst, she passed two police Invicta motor cars traveling in the direction of the Sandermere estate. Clearly James had made his report. She wondered what tack they would take. Would Sandermere be summoned from his room for questioning, or would there be a softly-softly approach, with the police claiming they were acting on a tip-off, perhaps, and knew where the silver was hidden? How would they link Sandermere, except by accusation? His fingerprints would be expected to be on such items as were hidden in the horse’s stall, which led her to believe that they would question him until he confessed, wearing him down with suppositions that would eventually prove to be true.

She paid little attention to the surrounding countryside today, wanting only to complete her confrontation with the retired former vicar of Heronsdene parish church, and arrived at Easter Cottage in time to see Mrs. Staples leave the house with a large basket, then continue walking toward the houses on the other side of the green. There would be no phantom telephone calls today. Parking along the street, Maisie locked the MG, walked back to the cottage, and rang the bell.

“Miss Dobbs, what a surprise.” The vicar seemed flustered, holding a copy of
The Times
which he began to fold and fold again as he spoke to her. He was wearing exactly the same garb as at
their previous meeting and seemed crumpled and uncomfortable at having his morning disturbed, especially by a woman who doubtless would broach a subject he would rather not dwell upon.

“Good morning, Reverend Staples. I was just passing and thought I would drop in to see you. I have some information you might find interesting.”

“Do come in.” He led the way to the study. “Please, be seated.” He waved the newspaper toward a chair and sat down when Maisie was settled. He leaned back, placed the newspaper in the wastepaper bin, and, as if trying to find a comfortable position in which to brook an unwelcome conversation, he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the desk. Finally, he sat up with his arms folded in front of his ecclesiastical cross. “Now then, what’s all this about?”

Maisie smiled, confident in her composure. She was used to being lied to, but not by a religious man.

“I had cause to travel up to London this week and by chance was close to Denmark Street, so I popped in to see Mr. Andersen—Senior, that is—the luthier to whom Jacob Martin always took his precious and very valuable Cuypers violin to be tuned and generally reconditioned.”

The vicar frowned. “Cuypers? Precious? You must be mistaken. And valuable? I doubt it.”

“The luthier, whom I believe to be something of an expert, said the violin was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen and that Jacob was an accomplished musician.”

“Well, I never.” The vicar shrugged.

“Reverend Staples, please do not be vague. I believe you know perfectly well why I am here. There is nothing I can do now regarding your crime—for what you have done constitutes looting and is thus a criminal act—but I can at least be an advocate for the dead and tell you that I know what you did.”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“Yes, you do. Jacob Martin—and you knew that the family’s real name was van Maarten—told you he had taken the violin to London, to his friend Mr. Andersen, in Denmark Street. After the tragedy, indeed,
after
you received the telegram with news that Willem,
Pim
, was presumed dead, you went to London to claim the violin, saying nothing to Mr. Andersen of what had happened, only that Jacob had asked you to collect his property. Weren’t you afraid he might ask what you intended to do with the instrument? Or that he might know a relative with a claim to it?”

“I—it wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, I think it was, Reverend Staples. And, as I said, what you did amounted to looting, which is beneath your calling.”

“But it would have languished there; it would have not been played. It was a beautiful thing, a work of art.”

“And it didn’t belong to you. It was meant to be passed on, father to son.”

“But the son was dead.”

“As far as you knew, he was
missing
.”

“But he—” The man stopped speaking and looked at Maisie, his eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”

“Before I try to say anything, I have one question for you.”

“And that is?”

“Why didn’t you stop it? A man of the cloth could have put a stop to what went on in Heronsdene.”

“But I—”

Maisie inclined her head, watching the white pallor of fear rise up on the vicar’s face. “Your expression has told me all I need to know.”

“You don’t know what it was like. The chaos, the fear, the terror.”

“But aren’t you supposed to walk up to that chaos and challenge
it, Reverend Staples? Isn’t that what you are called to do, rather than be part of it?”

The man leaned forward, his shoulders slumped. Then he looked up and sighed deeply. “The violin was stolen from me anyway, so what does it all matter now? It’s in the past.”

“You retired several years ago, didn’t you?” She did not allow him to reply, but continued. “I suspect because you could not stand another hop-picking season and the fires that came with it. You probably thought you were being haunted, didn’t you? Haunted by the ghost of a young man who had lost his entire family in one night. Haunted by the young man who might one day come for the violin that was rightly his.”

There was silence. Then the Reverend Staples spoke again. “You are right, Miss Dobbs. I am haunted, and I will bear that cross for the rest of my life.”

Maisie stood up. “You may wonder why I came today, to tell you what I have discovered when there is nothing I can do about it. I came because I wanted you to know that someone else knows what you have been part of, and that you had taken property from the dead before you even buried their remains. You should have been the moral anchor of the village, not of the hue and cry.”

Maisie bid the vicar good day without further ado and left Hawkhurst to return to Heronsdene, where she intended to pack her bags and make her way to her father’s house before going on to London the next day. It was unlikely that she would be able to see Sandermere this afternoon, given the police presence she had witnessed as she left the village this morning. She was looking forward to getting home now, to the city with its self-important bustle. If she were to remain faithful to her practice of ensuring that all ends of a case were tied before leaving, she would have to admit that there was more to do, but James Compton had not required her to bring all the guilty to account. He had asked her only to find out
what was amiss in the village, and she knew more than enough to make her report. Yet such considerations did not sit easy with her, and she hoped, even now, that she might find a way to usher her work to a more fulfilling close.

FRED YEOMAN GREETED
her as she opened the door from the street into the residents’ sitting room.

“Good afternoon, Miss Dobbs. On your way this evening?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“We’ll be sorry to see you go. Not very busy for the next couple of days—mind you, when I saw the police driving through the village, I thought we might see some more outsiders, though we don’t welcome newspaper reporters and the like in Heronsdene.”

“Quite right. Are the police still up at the Sandermere estate?”

“According to one of the regulars who works in the gardens, they’ve been up in Sandermere’s rooms talking to him, and there’s been some sacks taken out of the stables.”

“I see. I wonder what’s in them.”

“I reckon it’s that missing silver. Probably them London boys hid it under his nose, thinking they’d come back for it later.”

“You still think it could be the London boys? Even though they’ve been absolved of the crime?”

“Well, they can unabsolve them, can’t they?”

Maisie realized she was shaking. “Have you considered that it might be someone other than a Londoner or a gypsy who has committed a crime? That the person might be at the house? Or in the village?”

“Well, I—”

“You, of all people, should know what Alfred Sandermere is like. The whole village knows what he’s like. He’s had every one of you in the palm of his hand for years.”

The man flushed. “I better be getting on. I’m sure the police will sort it all out, whoever took the silver.”

Maisie admonished herself for taking such a position, but she had felt her frustration rising to the surface. She packed her bag, checked the room to ensure she had collected all her belongings, and came back downstairs, where she rang the bell to summon Fred Yeoman. He stepped through from the kitchen, where he had been talking to his wife.

“I must apologize, Mr. Yeoman. I should not have snapped.”

“And I shouldn’t have tarred all Londoners with the same brush. I keep forgetting that you’re one of them, if you know what I mean.”

Maisie ignored the implication. “I’ve enjoyed staying here, at the inn. Thank you.”

“And thank you again, miss, for saving our bacon on the night of that fire.”

Maisie smiled and said goodbye. She packed her belongings in the motor car and drove toward the farm, once again passing the two police motor cars as they left the village. She saw no silhouettes in the back seats and guessed that Alfred Sandermere had not been taken into custody yet.

For the last time, Maisie parked by the oast house and walked out along the farm road toward the hop-gardens. Only a few gypsies were out today, but a full complement of Londoners were still picking, as were some locals. She breathed in the spicy air and reached out to take a solitary hop from a spent bine. As she crushed it between her fingers to release its fragrance, she thought of Webb and of his younger self, Pim van Maarten, and how it must have been for him to return to the village only to discover his family gone. The time of year must torment him so, for in the Weald of Kent it is in late September that the senses are teased more than at any other time, with the hops, sweet apples, and earthy hay. And it is in the senses that memories are summoned, so
that a sound, a scent, or the way the wind blows brings a reminder of what has happened and when.

The Beales asked Maisie to stay awhile, to lean on the bin, to pick hops, and to pass the time of day before she left. As the sun began to slip down on its journey toward the horizon, she said she should be leaving, and after saying her farewells, she turned to leave. It was a departure that would be curtailed only too soon.

A sudden cry went up from a Londoner working at the top of the hop-garden, who pointed toward clouds of smoke belching from the just-visible roof of the Sandermere mansion.

“Fire! Up at the big house. Look, fire!”

EIGHTEEN

Women with children remained behind, as the hop-pickers ran en masse toward the estate house, some stopping only long enough to pick up an old bucket or other receptacle that might be needed.

“Quick, Billy, the motor. We’ll cut across on the estate road.”

They pulled out of the farm and sped toward the entrance to the Sandermere mansion, where they parked outside the gates and ran toward the house. They saw the groom struggling to lead two of the horses from the stables, in case the fire should spread and leap to the outbuildings.

“I’ll go and give him a hand.” Billy moved with as much speed as he could muster toward the groom.

Villagers soon began arriving, and when she looked up at the hill where, days ago, she had seen Webb gazing down on the mansion, she saw the gypsies clustered, watching. She stopped for mere seconds and saw Webb come to the fore, the silhouette of his hat distinguishing him from his people. Then, raising his hand to the tribe, he led them toward the house to help.

Staff were clustered outside the property, as flames licked up from the windows of the upper floors like giant tongues seeking sustenance. One side of the roof was ablaze and crackling, the flames that had caught the onlookers’ attention leaping up in a fiery dance.

“Is everyone out?” asked Maisie.

The butler shook his head, his eyes glazed. “N-no. Mr. Sandermere locked himself in those rooms. He went up there in a black mood after the police came.”

“Was he drinking?”

The man nodded. “Yes, yes, he was drinking. Called down twice for more wine and brandy”

“God!”

“Did anyone telephone the fire brigade?”

The man nodded. “Just before we all got out, on account of the smoke. The house may be made of stone, but there’s the paneling, the curtains, the upholstery—it’s all smoldering, giving off fumes, and burning like tinder.”

Maisie ran back to the gathered crowd, who were already forming a line down to the water tap by the stables. This was how it had been at every fire, the villagers working together to extinguish the flames, thought Maisie. Every fire except one.
They’ll never do it. They’ll never stem this inferno
.

She looked back at the mansion, and as she scanned the windows, her eyes squinting against the smoke, she saw Alfred Sandermere standing, looking at the throng below as if in a trance. Then he fell forward and slowly began to slide down the panes of glass.

Together the Londoners, the villagers and the gypsies passed buckets of water back and forth. Maisie was close to the house, next to the butler, who was pointing up to the window, when Webb broke away and ran toward her.

“Is he still in there?”

Maisie nodded, coughing. “Yes, he’s up in his rooms, on the first floor.”

The butler explained what had happened and pointed to the windows.

Webb held his breath, his face contorting as he understood that Alfred Sandermere was likely unconscious, and would burn to death if not helped. Then he took off his jacket and his shirt. “I cannot let a man die like that, no matter how much hate I bear for him.”