An Incomplete Revenge (35 page)

“What will you do with the house?”

“Demolish, then apply for permission to build several new houses on the site.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those who doesn’t like to see new houses go up.”

“They can be such a blight on the land.”

“We’re in the business of construction, Maisie. And we’ve got a brickworks right there, ready to be improved with investment and an injection of new practices.”

She nodded. “What about the horses?”

“We’re selling all but one.”

“Sandermere’s bay?”

“How did you guess?”

“I’m my father’s daughter. I know a good horse when I see one.”

“He’ll certainly have a better life. And I’m bringing the groom over to Chelstone. Your father will be his boss. I’m sure he’ll teach the boy even more than he knows already.”

“I’m glad. He was kind to the horses.” Maisie paused. “James, when are you returning to Canada?”

“In a month or so. There’s a lot to do here, so I expect I’ll sail at the beginning of November—don’t want to leave it too late. Those bloody icebergs make me nervous.”

“Of course.” Maisie nodded, then cleared her throat.

James Compton looked at her across the desk. “I’ve known you a long time now, Maisie, since before Enid died. And I think I know when you have a thing or two on your mind.”

“It’s something you said, days ago, about expanding the Compton Corporation in Canada, about looking at security for your company and your sites over there.”

“Yes, it’s all on the agenda. We have to prepare the company for expansion when the economy gains enough momentum to get out of this slump, and the surprising increase in house-building will help us. Why?”

“It’s my assistant, Mr. Beale. He and his wife lost their small daughter earlier this year, and what with one thing and another he wants to emigrate to Canada, to give their boys a better way of life.”

“You want to help him, even though you’ll lose him?”

Maisie nodded. “They aren’t getting over it. His wife looks more drawn each time I see her, and I know they are saving for passage.”

James picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. “Nothing’s going to happen overnight, I can tell you that. The markets are still depressed, so even though I have spoken of future developments, we cannot hurry that chain of events.”

“I see.” Maisie bit her lip.

“However, I have made a note here, and I know you can vouch for him. Wasn’t he rather good with telephonic engineering?”

“Yes, he was a sapper in the war. He’s been working for me for two years now, so he understands matters of investigation and security. And as he’ll tell you, he can turn his hand to anything.”

James nodded. “A fine reference, Maisie. I believe I might have a position for him in a year, perhaps two. I can speak to one of my staff about it.”

Maisie smiled and nodded. “Thank you, James. I won’t mention it to him, as I wouldn’t want to get his hopes up, but I will write to you again next year.”

“Good.” James held out his hand. “I expect you have a bill for me.”

“And my written report.” She handed him a manila envelope.

James pulled her notes out of the envelope, glanced at the bottom line of the invoice, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for his checkbook. He unscrewed the top of his gray and black marbled fountain pen and began to write, using a wooden-handled blotter to dry the ink. “There you are. Good work. I am sure the company will use your services again.”

Maisie took the proffered check. “James, I’m curious. What will happen to the Sandermere money? There must be a fortune there.”

“Oh, the old man was very specific in terms of establishing a trust and how it should be used. He made it watertight so even Alfred couldn’t change it. There’s to be a new school built in the village, with a generous annual allowance for books and materials. A fund is to be set up to provide scholarships for those children who show promise either academically or in music. And there is to be provision made for improvements to the village, though there are protections in place to avoid overconstruction on the High Street. It wouldn’t surprise me if you saw electricity in every house and on the streets of Heronsdene within a year or two. And of course there’s the usual stipend for the church, to pay for repairs and to keep the war memorial in good condition. After the story you’ve just told me, and considering how Sandermere made the villagers’ lives a misery, I don’t know whether this is the perfect end or whether they don’t deserve such luxuries.”

“Let’s just assume, James, that for Heronsdene it’s all for the best.”

AUTUMN HAD JUST
begun to finger the trees, sending cool breezes to sway branches and cast leaves scudding down the street, on the
day Beulah Webb, matriarch of her tribe, was laid to rest in Heronsdene churchyard.

When Maisie arrived in the village at half past ten, the High Street was already narrowed by vardos from near and far, jostling for position, lined up almost to the crossroads at the edge of town. Some gypsies came in old lorries, swaying from side to side along the country roads, while others walked across fields from farms close to Heronsdene. The women clustered together, clad in black, all color banished from their clothing. The ritual of a funeral, as at so many gypsy gatherings, demanded that the women and the men be parted, each to their own, for the duration of the day. As she walked closer to the church, Maisie could hear the cries and lamentations of those directly related to Beulah. Grief was expected to be voiced aloud, the pitch of each gypsy’s wail in direct proportion to the mourner’s relationship to the departed one. Paishey was surrounded by women, who held her by the arms as she cried to the heavens for Beulah to come again.

On the street, villagers stood and watched, most from doorways, standing back into the shadows to diminish their presence in deference to the gypsy throng. There were no complaints, no mutterings that they should go, or speculation as to what they thought they were doing, taking over the street. Word had gone round that young Pim Martin, the baker’s son, who they’d all thought had died in the war, was with
them
now, had been taken in by the travelers, and the gypsy being laid to rest was the one who had saved him. Knowing their debt, the people stood back, giving their streets up for just one day, all signs warning NO GYPSIES having been removed for the duration.

Soon the crowd outside the church began to quiet, with one or two pointing to the road. The descending silence allowed the gentle clip-clop of horses’ hooves to reverberate toward the church, as Beulah’s vardo came into view, with Webb at the reins, dressed all in black and without a hat, his hair swept back. Next to him, Beulah’s
lurcher lay with her head across his thighs. As he drew up alongside the church, opposite the place where his family had met death in a fiery hell, men came forward to help unhitch the vardo, one of them taking the horse away until after the funeral. The weeping began again as Beulah’s coffin was taken from her traveling home. With Webb leading the pallbearers, the rom, shoulders braced to hold her weight, carried her into the church for the service, which would be followed by removal of the coffin to the burial site. She would be committed to earth next to the graves of Jacob, Bettin and Anna van Maarten.

Maisie remained at the back of the church. Though she knew gypsies who were not of Beulah’s tribe questioned her presence, she would see one of those she knew nod in her direction, to explain, and thought they might be saying,
Beulah made her welcome; she’s a diddakoi, one of us on her mother’s side
. And staring up at the stained glass windows, Maisie remembered, just, her grandmother’s funeral. When she died, her father had given word of her passing to a band of water gypsies, who had taken the news along the rivers and canals. On the day of her funeral, narrow boats came from near and far, her people coming to bid her Godspeed.

With the burial over, Webb hitched Beulah’s horse to her vardo once more and led the gypsies back to the clearing, where a feast of
hotchi-witchi
—hedgehog—stew had been prepared. Maisie walked across the empty hop-gardens and saw, at the bottom of the hill, the Londoners waiting, as the locals had in the village, to watch the gypsies gather. Billy Beale waved out to Maisie and came to greet her, with Doreen at his side.

“We just wanted to pay our respects to the old girl. We’ll go, once they know we’ve come. Most of us are packed up now, ready to catch the milk-train to Paddock Wood in the morning, then a hoppers’ train to London from there.”

“Webb will be glad that you’re all here. I’m pleased you stayed.”

Maisie turned toward the field where the gypsy horses grazed
and watched one of the men move them down and into a corner, where he tied each halter to the fence to keep them in place. Webb maneuvered Beulah’s vardo into the field away from the clearing, and as he alighted from the driver’s seat and unhitched the horse for the last time, he looked down toward the Londoners. He remained still for a moment before raising a hand to acknowledge their respect, at which sign the outsiders began to walk back to the huts to complete their packing for the journey home, back to the bustle of London.

Paishey came to Maisie, taking her by the hand and bringing her into the clearing to sit with the women and partake of the funeral meal. Though the clearing was full of people, the talk was low, the natural throatiness of the language tempered in respect for the dead.

When the eating was done, and with no announcement, the gypsies started to make their way to the center of the field where Beulah’s vardo had been left. A group of women remained behind, bringing out the bowls dedicated to the washing of china and cutlery, pots and pans.

Maisie looked for the lurcher and realized the dog was not with the gypsies—in fact, she had not seen her since the funeral. Webb seemed unconcerned, and as the gypsies gathered, he began to pour paraffin around the perimeter of the vardo, which contained everything the gypsy woman had owned: her clothes, her crockery, her bed linens, her crystals, the dowsing rod, and the last bunches of Michaelmas daisies she had tied, ready to sell door-to-door. Another man came forward, running with a burning branch from the fire. He handed it to Webb, who held the torch up high for all to see, then threw it upon the vardo with a scream of despair. Maisie flinched at the eruption, as flames tore through the wood, paint peeled back, and the china, glass and metal inside crackled and spat back at the inferno.

As they watched, Paishey brought Webb’s violin to him. Once more he gently opened the case and removed the instrument from its nesting place of golden velvet. He placed the violin under his chin, drew back the bow, and began to play, each soulful note of the lament carried up on the wind and cast across the fields and along the byways that Beulah had ambled for many a year. Maisie stared into the flames as Webb played, the music growing in intensity, the rhythm changing time and again in the way that life changes, so that, as the fire leaped and scurried around and through the vardo, each refrain became a tribute to Beulah from girlhood to crone. This was the gypsy way, this fire that marked the end of a life, when all that was owned and all manner of ties to an earthly existence were destroyed. Tomorrow, when the vardo’s iron chassis was cold, the gypsies would take it with them, to rebuild. Another traveling home would rise from the remains like a phoenix from the ashes.

When the flames abated, Maisie said goodbye to Webb and Paishey. She did not tarry long with the gypsies. It was time for her to leave because, in truth, though a trickle of blood from the traveling folk ran in her veins, she knew she was not one of them. She was a Londoner, and it was time for her to go home.

As she walked through the village, she stopped at the church, where, as she expected, the lurcher was with her mistress, lying on top of the fresh earth and bounty of blooms that covered her final resting place. Maisie knelt down by the animal, who did not move but remained with her pointed nose between her front paws, eyes open wide, guarding.

“You can’t stay here, jook. Your people are moving on.”

The dog still did not even flinch, so Maisie remained awhile, stroking her coat and lulled by the sounds of the village—the birds on high, a horse being ridden along the High Street, children playing in the fields. Soon, though, Maisie stroked the lurcher once
more, remembering the time when Beulah’s dog had walked with her to the MG, her glistening diamond-like eyes reflecting the moonlight.

As she drove through Heronsdene, Maisie saw Beattie Drummond, notebook in hand, interviewing Fred Yeoman outside the inn. She did not stop, to talk or pass the time of day. She was going home.

EPILOGUE

In early November, Maisie decided that the ritual she referred to as her final accounting was long overdue on the Heronsdene case. In the interim, work had come in at a more pleasing pace, although the economic slump that gripped the country showed no signs of improvement, with evidence of a deepening crisis. Those of a certain station were able to retain the illusion that nothing had changed since the heady days of the early 1920s, and the increase in house construction remained baffling to economists. But for the poor, life became even more desperate, with labor lines growing, soup kitchens struggling to feed more mouths, factories closing, and the country in the grip of despair.

Along with that mood of hopelessness came the search for a scapegoat, with the finger pointed toward those who appeared not to belong, who were not considered “one of us.” Oswald Mosley’s particular brand of fascism was feeding upon the discontent, and it appeared to Maisie that people were beginning to take to their corners, ready for a fight. Thus she would not allow herself to breathe easy, feeling the weight of responsibility she had assumed, not only
for her own financial security—as had many women of her age who would remain spinsters due to a war that had claimed a generation of young men—but for the weekly wage that kept the Beale family from want. Only when she had cleared her desk of urgent matters would she take time to reflect upon the month’s worth of events that still caused her heart to ache.