An Incomplete Revenge (25 page)

Considering the list again, Maisie decided that at this stage she would visit only one more house, the home of Phyllis Wheeler, nee Mansell, the girlhood friend of Anna Martin. It was located about a quarter of a mile past the smithy, on the right. An Edwardian villa set back from the road, the house was shabby despite being younger, by several hundred years, than many in the village. Two bay windows flanked an olive-green front door, the color of the house reflecting the livery of the local railway company who owned the property, so Maisie concluded that Phyllis’s father worked at a local station. She hoped Phyllis would be at home, seeing as she had two children and a new baby.

She was walking along the path toward the door when it opened and a woman began struggling to maneuver a perambulator across the threshold.

“Here, let me give you a hand.” Maisie stepped forward and pulled the front of the baby carriage, while the woman pushed from inside the door.

“Thank you very much. I usually leave it outside, but with all these Londoners and gypsies about, you never know, do you?”

Maisie smiled. “Mrs. Wheeler?”

“Yes.”

Maisie explained the purpose of her visit, at the same time concerned that it might be met with a negative response. Instead the woman agreed to answer a few questions, especially if it helped to get the brickworks in better hands, because her husband worked there.

’Are you going shopping or just for a walk?”

“Bit of both, if I’ve time before this one wants his feed. The elder two are in school, and by the time I’ve cleaned up the kitchen, I’m dying to get out of the house for a bit. My father leaves early,
working on the railway, and my mother’s up at the Sandermere place, so I’m alone all day until the children come home.”

“Well, shall we walk down to the crossroads and then back toward the village again? It’s turning quite warm now, isn’t it?”

The woman agreed, and they began strolling away from the village. The baby slept, the pram’s white summer canopy casting shadows on his sleep-blushed cheeks. For a moment or two, Maisie spoke of the weather, of the apples hanging heavy on the trees, and of the beauty of Heronsdene. She was grateful to be walking, not least because it gave her the opportunity to gain a deeper understanding of the woman. In mirroring her gait, the way she moved and held her hands—even though she was pushing a pram—Maisie would absorb, for a moment, some of the emotions the woman experienced as she answered her questions. And with movement of the body came movement of the mind and of the voice, so Maisie thought the conversation might be fruitful.

At first they spoke of the estate and of the brickworks, with Phyllis repeating stories of the daily ups and downs of his trade that her husband brought home, especially criticism regarding Sandermere’s ownership. In the set of her shoulders, her jaw, even the manner in which her walk became brisk, she indicated dislike of Sandermere and perhaps something even deeper. Maisie pressed her to reveal her feelings.

“To tell you the truth, I can’t stand him. He’s the one who should have died in the fire, not Anna.”

“You mean the fire following the bombing?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Was he in the village, then?”

“Everyone was in the village, we were all there.”

“How old was he at the time, fifteen, sixteen?”

“I can’t say as I know, exactly.”

“But you were about the same age, and from what I’ve seen of Alfred Sandermere he would have paid attention to a pretty girl in
the village—especially as any other suitors a young woman might have, had all enlisted.”

“Well, I didn’t like him, but Anna did.”

“She did?”

The young woman stopped, reached into the perambulator to pull a soft white blanket up around the baby’s chubby legs, and then crossed her arms, allowing the handle of the carriage to rest against her hip.

“Oh, make no mistake, Miss Dobbs, man and boy he could be all sweetness if he wanted. To tell you the truth, she’d set her hat for Henry, the elder son. Mind you, it’s not as if the likes of them would ever look at the likes of us, not for anything but a—you know—not a serious courting.”

“I understand.”

The baby whimpered in his sleep, so they began walking again.

“Bit of a Sarah Bernhardt, was Anna, very given to being dramatic. She was besotted with Henry, but she wasn’t much more than a girl when he left for war. He’d come into the village in the dogcart and tip his hat to her. ’Good morning, Miss Martin,’ he’d say, and she would swoon. He did the same thing to every woman in the town, out of being polite, but she thought it was all for her.” She shook her head. “She was a funny one, Anna, made me laugh. And I loved her for it.” Phyllis reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, and when she couldn’t find it, Maisie took one from her black shoulder bag and handed it to her.

“So”—she sniffed, dabbing her nose—“after Henry went back over there, along came Alfred—and you have to remember, Anna was a very, very pretty girl.”

“I see.”

“Well, there’s more to see yet.”

A change in the woman’s movement caused Maisie to pay more attention. She moved ahead with an urgency to her step.
She wants to be free of a burden
, thought Maisie.

“She was a bit of a will o’ the wisp,” Phyllis continued. “Couple of times, Mr. Martin sent Pim round to—”

“Who?” Maisie rested her hand upon Phyllis’s arm. “What did you say?”

“Pim. That was her brother. That was his nickname.” She shrugged. “It’s what the Dutch call someone with the name of Willem.”

Maisie nodded, slowly. “So Mr. Martin sent Pim round. Why?”

“Because they didn’t know where she was. Called high and low for her. And I couldn’t lie, could I? But Anna had lied. She’d told them she was coming to see me of an evening, when she was out.” She shook her head. “Later on, when we’d had word that Henry was dead and she was seeing a lot of Alfred, I told her, I said, ’You’ll get into trouble if you’re not careful.’ She said he wanted to marry her, and I told her not to be so silly, he would never marry below him, never marry someone who wasn’t a toff like him, who wasn’t his sort.”

Maisie smarted, trying not to think of Simon, of Mrs. Lynch.

“I told her that the likes of Alfred Sandermere would never marry one of us. No, he’d marry one of his own.”

“Then what happened?”

She sighed. “Doesn’t do any harm to tell it, now she’s dead and gone. But she came over one day, about a week before the Zeppelin, and we went for a walk, like we’re doing now, down to the crossroads, and she told me she’d got herself into trouble. She was in the family way.”

Maisie nodded. “She must have been terrified of anyone finding out, in a small village like this. Of the shame.”

“Oh, you might have thought as much, and first off she was a bit scared. But you know the silly thing? She thought he would marry her. She thought that baby would put her in the big house and give her the—I don’t know, the . . . what did she call it?—
belonging,
that’s it, the belonging she wanted.”

Maisie understood. “Then what happened?”

“Next thing, Alfred’s telling her he knows of a woman in Tun-bridge Wells who does for girls in her condition. He had the name from a friend. But what friend? That’s what I wanted to know. I begged her not to do it, to tell her parents and get it over with. I told her she could go away until after the baby was born and no one would know, not for definite. But instead she told him she wanted the baby, she wanted them to get married, and according to what she said to me, the last time I spoke to her, he said something would have to be done if he had to do it himself.”

“He said that?”

She nodded. “And that was that. Then she was dead anyway.”

“Did Alfred . . . ?”

“I’d better turn back now, Miss Dobbs. The baby’s stirring and he’ll be wanting his feeding soon.” She stopped for a moment, pulling her dark blue coat across her still-swollen stomach, and flicking back chestnut hair that had come loose from the combs used to push it back into a twist. “I can’t tell you any more than that. That’s all I can tell you about Anna. The Martins were very nice to me. I was always welcome in their home, up above the bakery—I remember how it smelled, all warm and sweet. Doughy.” Phyllis shook her head. “She was my best friend since I first went to school, and we stayed that way right until the day she died.”

They walked in silence until they reached the house. Maisie offered to help maneuver the perambulator through the doorway, but she declined.

“What was Pim like, Phyllis?”

“What’s any younger brother like? He was a little toe-rag when we were girls, always sneaking up on us, teasing, pulling ribbons from our hair. The other children tormented him at school, more than they did Anna, it being she was so lovely. Not that Pim was ugly, mind, but you know what boys are like. It was his name, and
the fact that he and Anna would speak in Dutch to each other. They didn’t do it to be sneaky or anything like that, it was just their way. But people eavesdropped on them all the same.” She nodded, looking down toward the school. “Yes, he took a fair bit of it, when I think back. Then, when that Alfred Sandermere was sent home from school a few times—oh, there were other stories told to the servants, so it would get around the village, but we all knew the truth—he started looking for friends around here, and Pim became his little companion. He was younger than Alfred, and talk about look up to him! Mr. Martin didn’t like it at all. We all saw that Pim changed, you know, started getting up to mischief, on account of Sandermere pushing him to do this and that. It was through Pim that he and Anna met, though it wasn’t long before Pim was sent away.”

She paused, placing her little finger between the baby’s gums as he began to wriggle. “I put it down to all that teasing, all that trouble in school, and then Sandermere, a nasty evil boy, he was.” The child stirred, wimpering, as if working up steam to wail.

“The long and the short of it was that they got up to something serious, and it was Pim who went down for it, to the reformatory. The next thing you know, he was in the army—and only thirteen at that. Then he was killed. Vicar said the telegram arrived the day after the Martins died, so it was just as well they didn’t know, none of them, what had happened.”

“The vicar?”

“Yes. When the postman came with the Regret to Inform telegram, he didn’t know what to do, so he went to see the vicar, being as we all knew each other here.”

The baby wailed, pitching his scream to meet the grumble in his stomach. Phyllis moved to push the perambulator away. Even though she had accomplished far more in her questioning than Beattie Drummond predicted, Maisie needed to press her with just one more question.

“I’ve heard village children talking about seeing Pim Martin’s ghost. Do you know why?”

Phyllis shook her head. “It’s just kids, trying to scare each other. But if he did have a ghost, it would haunt Heronsdene. Goodbye, Miss Dobbs, I hope the walk was worth it.”

“Yes, it was, and I think for you too.”

Phyllis pressed her lips together, and as she turned, bending over to soothe her infant, Maisie saw the tears running down her cheeks.

FIFTEEN

Maisie went straight to the hop-garden to see Billy. She passed the gypsies, waving to Beulah, Webb and Paishey. As she walked by, she thought the scene would not be out of place in a Thomas Hardy novel—the women’s long skirts and Webb, with the broad-brimmed hat he always wore when he was out working, and his loose uncollared shirt, rendering the image more akin to a Victorian pastoral tableau. All that was needed was the tragic character—a Jude or a Tess—to complete the story.

She found Billy and his family working hard, with the usual banter between the Londoners in full swing.

“ ’allo, Miss, we was just wonderin’ where you’d got to, didn’t see you yesterday.”

“I’ve been busy, Billy Have you got a minute for a quick chat?”

“Right you are.” He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “Won’t be long, love.”

Maisie and Billy walked back toward the farm road, heads bowed as they spoke.

“ ’aven’t seen that Sandermere since I bopped him one. Thought we’d be kicked off the farm, we did.”

“I think he’s gone to ground at the mansion, probably nursing a broken nose, if that swing was anything to go by.”

Billy shook his head. “No, if ’is
breath
was anything to go by, ’e’ll be in ’is cups. Anyway, one of the locals came across yesterday—they didn’t mind seein’ ’im knocked over, that’s a fact—and told me that, according to someone who works up at the ’ouse, ’e’s not been out of ’is rooms since ’e got back there. Bet that ’orse is enjoying a rest.”

Maisie nodded. “Billy, I wanted to let you know how I’ve been getting on with the investigations, even though you’re on holiday. And I’m going back to London later today.”

“Blimey, you’re goin’ back and forth for this one, ain’t you?”

Maisie nodded. “I know, but it won’t be for much longer. Now, let’s walk along here. There’s something I want you to do while I’m away.”

An onlooker might have been intrigued by the pair as they strolled on. The man, revealing a slight limp, his wheaten hair rendered almost white-blond by the sun, leaned toward the woman as she spoke. And the woman, tall, slender, wearing a straw hat to protect her skin, would sometimes use her hands to emphasize a point. Some might have thought them conspirators, though a more acute observer would have seen the man nodding his head—and on two occasions wide-eyed surprise registered on his face.

“Right, Miss, don’t you worry, I’ll find a way to get what you want, without anyone givin’ it a second thought. You said her name was Beattie Drummond?”

“Yes, that’s right. And be careful—she’s sharp and she’s after a big story. I’d go to Phyllis again, but I believe her to be overwhelmed, especially having a babe-in-arms.”

“Poor woman. Mind you, she told you as much as she could, didn’t she?”

“It was enough, in a roundabout way, along with the other grains of knowledge. As usual, there’s that leap of the imagination, which is why there’s more to do. Now then, I must be on my way.”