An Incomplete Revenge (36 page)

“I won’t be in the office for a few days, Billy. It’s time to write my final notes on the Heronsdene case and put it to rest.”

Billy nodded. He understood the importance of this time to his employer, and in his way was emulating her procedures, closing those cases she now allowed him to consider his own with a visit to each place of significance encountered along the way.

“I expect I’ll see you on Tuesday or Wednesday, then. I’ve got me ’ands full with this woman who reckons the shopkeeper is thievin’ from her, the one the police didn’t want to know about. And there’s that other woman who says her best friend is bein’ blackmailed and will pay us to find out.”

“Good work, Billy.” She tidied her desk and collected her shoulder bag and document case. “I just hope the weather holds. This sunshine is lovely, but that wind is going right through me.”

“And takin’ the leaves with it—’ave you seen the square? It looks like every leaf in London came to cover the paving stones.”

Maisie smiled as Billy opened the door for her. “You can leave word with my father, if you need me.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

HER FIRST STOP
was not in Kent but in London. At St. Anselm’s school, she remained in her motor car and watched from beyond the gates as the school’s cadet force—an extracurricular activity for those who might one day wish to join the services—marched back and forth across the quadrangle. She thought back to the headmaster, and the way he talked about the school being an army
where everyone had to fit in, play their part, and not rock the boat. As the boys clattered across the paving stones, their uniforms pressed and their boots seeming one size too big, she thought about those too young who went to war, the Pim Martins, boys treated as men when it came time to face the cannonade. After listening to the boy in charge shout, “About turn!” one last time, she pulled out into the traffic, on her way to see Priscilla.

Maisie was shown into the entrance hall of the house in Holland Park, just in time to see a gang of boys rush through in a boisterous game of tag. Tarquin, who was bringing up the rear of the unruly snake of boyhood that galloped past, greeted her in his usual manner, by leaping into her arms and kissing her on both cheeks.

“Tante Maisie, Tante Maisie, watch this! Stay where you are and watch this!” Still without his four front teeth, he clambered from her arms and ran to the top of the stairs, where he swung his leg over the banister and, holding on as if his life depended upon it, slid at some speed to the bottom of the staircase, where he promptly fell off and landed on his behind.

Soon his brothers and their friends had sprinted up to the top of the staircase, ready to slide down the banister one by one.

“Get off that banister and down those stairs immediately! You are nothing but a band of ruffians.” Priscilla walked to the bottom of the staircase, her hands on her hips, then called out, “Elinor! Do something about these horrible creatures before I have to do it myself!” She turned to Maisie, grinning. “Better not let them see me smile. I think it’s all rather fun—used to do the same thing myself.”

Elinor emerged from the upstairs rooms to inform the Partridge boys and their friends that tea was ready in the nursery.

“We’ll go into my sitting room for something a little more grown up,” said Priscilla.

Maisie accepted a glass of cream sherry, while Priscilla prepared a cocktail.

“Douglas is with his publisher this afternoon, hence the high
jinks on the staircase. I daresay Simon slid down that very banister when he was a boy.” She looked at Maisie as she sat down on the pillowed sofa next to her friend, each of them having claimed one end. Priscilla kicked off her shoes and pulled her feet up under her. “Make yourself at home,” she instructed, before continuing. “Have you seen Margaret?”

Maisie shook her head. “I saw her just before she moved from London, and I thought I would drive out to Grantchester in a day or so. I’ll be sure to call first, just in case.”

“She’d love to see you.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll go, I promise.” Maisie changed the subject. “Are the boys settling in at their new school?”

“Didn’t you see that tribe out there? The school is popular with the families of diplomats, so it’s like the League of Nations, with everyone speaking a different language—as well as English, of course. They leave school early on Fridays, and each of the boys wanted to bring a friend home for the weekend, one of the boarders.”

“Will you stay here, in London?”

Priscilla shrugged. “I’m not sure. I was planning to open up the country house for weekends, but now I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t decided if I like it here. Perhaps it wasn’t such a brilliant idea to bring the family back to England just because I wanted to relive my childhood.” She shrugged. “After all, that’s what it was all about, wanting to see my boys doing the things my brothers had done, as if I could bring them back in a different way. But the fact is, my boys are who they are, their own little people. They’ve been brought up in France, on the coast, and they are each of them different. Even though they’re in a good school, for them, we might all be better off back where we were, away from this country. Even Elinor wants to go back to France. Do you know that last week she was
telling me that when she was in school they were whipped for speaking to each other in Welsh? They were
forced
to speak English.”

Maisie sipped her sherry and was about to comment when Priscilla looked over at her, grinning. “In the meantime, before we decide whether to up sticks and scurry back to Biarritz, I am going to enjoy seeing more of you, for a start. I think I might have to take you in hand, Maisie.”

“And I think I’m doing quite well, thank you.”

“What about Simon?”

Maisie was quiet. “He’s gone, Pris. And now, even more than before, I believe cremation was the best thing. Margaret made a wise decision, though difficult. It’s over. He’s free at last.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know. I can’t say. It was as if he were imprisoned in a room where we could see him but not speak to him, as if we were caught in a vacuum of silence even if we screamed.”

“But you’ve never screamed.”

“Have you?”

“At the top of my lungs, across the Atlantic Ocean, every day for months after the war, after my brothers and parents died. I screamed all the time.”

“Oh.”

The women sat in silence, comfortable in their friendship. Then Priscilla braced her shoulders and reached toward Maisie.

“I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. The furniture we chose to bring with us was delivered last week—what a performance, I shall be hard pushed to take it back with me—and I have a piece I think you’ll love. I want you to have it as a belated housewarming gift. I’ll have it sent to your flat next week.”

“What is it?”

“Come and have a look.”

Maisie followed Priscilla to the corner of the room, where an upright gramophone stood in the corner. The cabinet was of rich mahogany, inlaid with maple.

“Douglas has bought a new one, and this one is going begging.” She bent over it. “See, you lift the lid here, and there’s where you place the gramophone record. You wind it up with the handle at the side and then pull up the arm like this. And there’s a cupboard below where you’ll keep your gramophone records.”

“I don’t have any gramophone records.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve thought of that.” She pulled out a record and placed it on the turntable, then held up the horn, ready to set the needle in the groove. “This man is one of Douglas’s favorites. His music has been all over Paris, and he’s in great demand in the
bals musettes,
you know, the small dance clubs. He’s a gypsy—one of
les Manouches
, the travelers who live in caravans just outside Paris—and his music is quite wild and clever. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

And as the music surged into the room, Maisie smiled. “Yes, you’re right, I love it.”

MAISIE HAD DELAYED
the journey to Kent until after her weaving class on Saturday. Once more, her spirits were lifted by the colors and textures around her, by swags of dyed wool that hung from the laundry racks, by the presence of Marta Jones, who had told her, in confidence, that she was considering reclaiming her family’s original name.

“I think it will release something, some passion, something here.” Whispering, she pressed her hand against her chest, then took up Maisie’s bobbin to correct an error in her weaving.

“And what
is
your name?”

“Marta Juroszek.” She smiled as she pronounced the word, rolling her tongue around the syllables as if tasting a new sweet pudding for the first time. “Yes, I am Marta Juroszek.”

And though Maisie was concerned for her teacher—the country
seemed in no mood to demonstrate tolerance for those of distant cultures—she saw a sense of belonging claim her.

“It’s a good name, Marta, a strong name. And it’s yours.”

A SURPRISE WAS
in store for Maisie as she left Marta’s studio. Leaning against the wall inside the entrance to the building, a visitor waited for her.

“Beattie, what on earth are you doing here?”

“Your assistant told me where to find you. He said you would be finished by twelve.”

“Come on, let’s walk to my motor car. Why are you in London?”

“I’ve been here for a couple of days. I’m going back to Maidstone today.”

Maisie pointed to the MG and opened the doors. Once they were both seated, she turned to Beattie.

“Do you want a lift to Charing Cross?”

“Thank you.”

“So, do you have that job yet?”

Beattie shook her head. “No, still at the newspaper, I’m afraid.”

“Then what have you been doing in London—hot on a scoop?”

“Not quite. I’ve been seeing a few publishers.”

Maisie changed gear to pass a horse and cart. “Go on.”

She shrugged. “I knew I couldn’t write the story—the one you told me about Heronsdene—for the newspaper. It was as if I had a lot of fabric and no sewing machine or pattern. So I racked my brains until they hurt, and I decided what to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“I decided that this newspaper woman would become an authoress. I took the story and wrote it as a novel—embellishing it a bit, you understand.”

“And will it be published?”

“I went through several typewriter ribbons and eight fingernails
to provide manuscripts for three publishers, and—you will never guess what—I think one of them will buy it!”

“Congratulations, Beattie, that’s wonderful—and it might help you get a job on a bigger newspaper.”

She shook her head. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Don’t rule it out. And you can always write more novels. I’m sure your work has provided you with more than enough
fabric.”
Maisie smiled at her passenger. “Here you are. Charing Cross.”

Beattie thanked Maisie for the lift and for keeping her promise. As the newspaperwoman closed the passenger door and walked away, Maisie wound down her window and called out to her.

“What will you call the book, so I know what to look for?”

Beattie Drummond cupped her hand around her mouth and shouted her answer above the throng of passengers going in and out of the station, then she turned away and ran for her train, the book’s title caught up in the melee. The only word Maisie heard was
revenge
.

HERONSDENE WAS QUIET
as she drove through the village and parked the MG. She stepped out of the motor car, changed her shoes for a pair of Wellington boots, pulled out her umbrella in case it rained, and set off on a walk across the hop-gardens and up to the clearing. A moment later she saw the lurcher, standing by the entrance to the farm, watching her every move.

“Jook, what are you doing here?”

The dog loped toward Maisie, her head low, her tail tucked under, brushing close as if to feel the warmth of a human being.

“You should have gone with your people.” Maisie looked up and around her. The dog must have recognized the distinctive rumble of her motor car and followed her from the village. “Do you want to come with me, then?”

The dog’s ears flattened back, so Maisie leaned down, stroked her neck, and set off across the hop-gardens, which were muddy
now, the spent bines heaped in brown, brackenish piles ready to be burned. She cut through the wood, across the field where the gypsies had grazed their horses, and up the hill toward the clearing. Everything around her was silent, with the bright silver sky a portent for stormy weather.

Blackened soil marked the place where Beulah’s vardo had burned, and with it evidence of her sojourn on earth. All that remained was that which was carried in the heart. Maisie touched the ground, while the lurcher sniffed, pawed the soil, and then began to slink away to the clearing as if called. Maisie followed, almost expecting to hear the gypsies, but it was silent, with only the wind sifting through the branches and light reflecting off the bark of silver beech trees and muted by giant oaks. Walking to the center of the circle where the gypsies’ fire had once crackled with life, Maisie remembered the night she danced with the women, the color and energy of their celebration reverberating through her bones, along with the sound of Webb’s violin as his bow scorched back and forth across the strings, teasing out sounds she had never heard and might never hear again. Soon, the lurcher touched her hand with its nose, as if knowing there was nothing more to be said or done in this place.

The dog left Maisie at the MG, vanishing into the bushes on a shortcut to the village. Maisie knew she would see her soon enough. Pulling up outside the inn, she waved to Fred Yeoman, who was sweeping the street outside the residents’ entrance.

“Miss Dobbs, didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“How are you, Mr. Yeoman?”

“Mustn’t grumble. Bit quiet now, not so many day-trippers passing through.”

Maisie nodded. “Stormy, today, isn’t it?” She looked back at clouds gathering in the distance, then at the innkeeper. “Tell me, where does the gypsy’s dog stay?”