“Don’t mind me saying so,” said Maisie, as she reached for the teapot, “but even if they are accidents, you seem pretty unfortunate in Heronsdene when it comes to fires. Didn’t you say that Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s conservatory was destroyed last year?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Whyte. It was the Whytes,” he replied, as if looking into the flames once more. “And it was their summer house.” He looked up again, shaking the memory from his mind. “I wasn’t aware that we had more accidents here than anywhere else, and I didn’t know it was anything to talk about.”
Maisie shrugged. “I know there’s been at least one fire for each of the last ten years or so.” She lifted her teacup to her lips and let it remain there without sipping from the rim as she continued. “And always at this time of year.”
Fred rested his hands on the bar and shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind betting them Londoners—or the gypsies—have been up to some mischief over the years. I don’t allow the gyppos to come in here, shady buggers if you ask me. We let the Londoners in, but I don’t know—they’re just as bad, looking for trouble.” He paused, then continued running the cloth across the bar. “The truth is, no matter how much I don’t like them, this fire was down to me, and like I’ve said before the other fires have been on account of carelessness. It’s not as if there have been that many, not when you look at it, and certainly not every year, like you said.”
Maisie pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’d better get going now, or I’ll be late.” She walked to the bar. “Are you sure I can’t pay for last night?”
“Positive.”
“Well, thank you again. I’ll be seeing you next week, I daresay.” Maisie smiled, opening the door that led upstairs to her room, where she collected her belongings and walked out into a morning of showers. With one hand she pulled the collar of her tweed jacket up around her neck and held on to her hat as she ran across the road to the MG and stowed her bag. Lifting the bonnet, she went through the motions of starting the motor and took her seat behind the wheel. The innkeeper had not realized that in the midst of their conversation, when Maisie had mentioned last year’s fire, she had not known who had suffered a loss of property and had used the name Smith, because most villages have a family of that name. Without thinking, Fred had corrected her. She would find out where to find the Whyte family from someone else.
HER FIRST STOP this morning would be the hop-gardens, to tell Billy she was leaving for Maidstone, followed by Chelstone and London, and planned to be back on Tuesday. There was the visit to see Simon, and there were questions to put to James Compton. In the back of her mind, something about this assignment was bothering her. James claimed his reason for retaining her was to ensure a clean sale, that events in the village and the estate were investigated to reveal their importance or lack thereof. However, though she could see why a company accorded utmost respect in the world of commerce would want to do nothing to besmirch a fine reputation, it occurred to her that the very same events that might give rise to controversy in the city would reduce the value of the property On the one hand, an owner such as Alfred Sandermere would now be in a position to make repairs and improvements financed by insurance claims, but on the other hand, the mere fact of the fires and acts of delinquency could bring down the selling price—so the Compton Corporation would be positioned to make a pretty penny by purchasing property from a financially compromised owner and then selling at a later date.
She drove through the village toward the war memorial and was about to turn left toward Dickon’s Farm when a flash of color caught her eye. She wound down the window and looked across to the waste ground where the Zeppelin’s bomb had fallen. There, among the weeds, was a bouquet of flowers. She stopped the motor, reversed back to a safe parking place, then stepped out from the MG and crossed the road.
The shower was not cold but, instead, added to a sticky morning humidity. Yet once more Maisie felt chilled by her proximity to this piece of land. She closed her eyes and, as she had done many times before to ensure her protection in such circumstances, she imagined a white circle of light enveloping and protecting her from spiritual harm. Opening her eyes, she took a deep breath, stepped forward, and felt as if she had entered a house built with bricks of ice. Moving toward the bouquet, she knelt down to inspect the flowers, searching for a message, a sign, something to indicate who had left the blooms. Judging from softness in the stems, and limp petals, the collection of dahlias and chrysanthemums had been there for some time. Overnight, perhaps. There was no message. Maisie looked up and around; coming to her feet, she walked farther into the waste ground, stopping where the foundations and low remains of walls long fallen stood proud from the ground. She pulled back weeds and reached out to touch fire-blackened stone, the telling remains of the blaze that had taken the lives of a family.
Maisie turned to leave and realized she had an audience. Three children stood watching her, their eyes wide. There were two boys, each wearing short trousers with braces over cotton collarless shirts too big for them, battered leather lace-up boots, and flat caps that made them appear like old men. The girl wore a floral dress and old leather sandals that were a size too large, likely hand-me-downs from an older sibling. Her fair hair was tangled, as if she had been playing in the woods, and a long forelock had been pulled to the side and tied with a ribbon to keep it from her eyes. As Maisie made her way to the pavement, walking toward them, they screamed and ran, with the little girl almost left behind, squealing, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me. It’s a ghost, it’s a ghost. Pim’s come to haunt us, Pim’s come to haunt us.”
Maisie laughed to herself as the children ran, and even called out, “It’s alright, I’m a person, not a ghost!” Returning to the MG, she was sorry they had not stopped, for she was curious to know who Pim might be. An immortal of local legend, perhaps? A storybook character akin to Scrooge or Magwitch? Or perhaps a presence conjured up by parents trying to keep curious children away from dangerous waste ground, where a fall on debris might cause a deadly infection? Or was the ghostly Pim someone far more important?
MR. AND MRS. Whyte were not hard to find. They lived in a Georgian villa with a front garden accessible from the High Street. Maisie knocked at the door, which was answered by a housekeeper, and upon asking for the residents, the housekeeper informed her that they were out for the day.
“When might they be home, if I may inquire?”
The housekeeper paused before answering. “They will probably be back late tonight. They’ve gone down to the coast for the fresh air.” She nodded toward the inn. “They both went straight over to the inn last night, to see if they could help, and this morning, Mrs. Whyte said their constitutions needed a good old clean out and the sea air would do it.”
“Quite right.” Maisie frowned, showing concern. “It was terribly brave of them to lend a hand, especially after what happened to them last year.”
The woman crossed her arms and moved closer. “That’s what I thought. Takes a lot of gumption, that. Mind you, they know what it’s like, fire. And in a village like this, we all pull together.”
“Of course you do,” said Maisie, edging forward as if sharing in a conspiracy. “How did their fire happen?”
“Accident. Left a paraffin stove in the summer house on a chilly night, on account of the plants, and it caught one of them fancy blinds. Got too hot, it did, and then
