“It was where you left it, miss, on the side table in your room. Mary came down as soon as she found it, saying it looked important, not your ordinary watch.” His eyes met hers. “Been through a lot, has that, judging by the date on the back.”
Maisie nodded and reached for the watch, which she began to pin to her lapel. “Yes. It’s been with me since I was a nurse in France. I was at a casualty clearing station.”
“You saw enough, then.”
“Yes, I saw more than I want to see ever again.” She paused. “Bit like living through your Zeppelin raid for twenty-four hours each day.”
He sighed and shook his head.
“Are you alright, Fred?”
“Just thinking.” Another sigh, then he looked up at her. “How do you feel now? You know, about
Maisie paused. “We treated many of them in the clearing station. In fact, we had two German doctors working alongside us—prisoners of war. Doctors who were captured always went to work straightaway, just as our Allied doctors who were POWs went to work for the Germans.” She shrugged. “If your calling is to save life, it takes precedence over killing.” Another pause. “But here’s what I saw, Fred. I saw wounded soldiers who cried for their loved ones, wherever they were from. I held the hands of dying young men, whether they were British, Allies, or German. It’s war itself that I have an opinion about, not the origin of those who fight.”
“Even now, even with some of the business we’re hearing about, you know, going on over there? There’s them as says we’ll be at war again before this decade’s out.”
“Perhaps not if it were down to the ordinary people, Fred.” Maisie smiled. “Now then, I must be on my way. I have to go into Maidstone again today.”
“Right you are, miss. I daresay we’ll see you again next week, like you said.”
MAISIE LEFT THE village with two more pieces to add to her puzzle. That Mr. and Mrs. Whyte had not left for the coast today but were very much ensconced in Heronsdene. Secondly, she now understood that Sandermere wielded some leverage, some coin of influence, in his relations with the villagers. Of course, in a feudal system— and many small villages still resonated with the echoes of times past—he would be very much the country squire. “He who must be obeyed” seemed an apt description, and Maisie had already deliberated upon his aura of entitlement, of ownership, when it came to the town. But she sensed something deeper, a mutual connection that went beyond an imagined master-servant relationship. She sensed that whisper of fear once again, a dependence, perhaps, on a shared truth.
AS SHE CAME to the outskirts of the village, she passed a woodland that had been newly coppiced, the trees thinned and pruned, with the younger branches and twigs bound together and leaning in stooks, waiting to be gathered by the farmer. It was there she saw Beulah, walking with the lurcher, the dog stepping with care in her wake, for the woman was making her way deliberately, step by step, where only days ago men had worked with saws and axes. In her hands she held a forked branch, each hand holding an end, with the fork in the middle. Maisie slowed the MG, knowing Beulah could not see her, though the lurcher looked up in her direction, then back at the heels of her mistress. As she watched, the fork dipped, and Beulah stopped, bent over to squint at the ground, and then reached down to brush fallen leaves aside. She picked up something, perhaps a threepenny-bit, possibly a lost trinket, which she rubbed on her skirt and scrutinized, holding it sideways to better catch the light. Then she put it in her pocket and began again, dowsing for coins lost when a handkerchief was taken out, or a small treasure dropped as a forester bent over to gather up twigs.
Maisie watched for a moment more, then pressed the motor car into gear again and drove on her way.
BEATTIE DRUMMOND CAME as soon as she was summoned to the inquiries desk. “I’m the only one here— Friday afternoon, and the boys have gone home. You never know, that scoop I’ve been waiting for might come in. Got one for me?”
“Not yet, Beattie. I’m hoping you can help
“And you’ve nothing I can print?”
Maisie shook her head. “Nothing—yet. But I do have a question for you, that I think you may be able to answer, though it will probably take some time for you to go through your notes. I take it you keep all your notebooks.”
“Of course.”
“It’s about the fires in Heronsdene over the years. You said you could not write much of a story on them, given the less-than-helpful attitude of the villagers.”
“Yes?”
“Do you happen to have a list of names of those who suffered damage, and the dates? I have some general reports, but they do not give specific times.”
Beattie raised her eyebrows. “That’s about all I did manage to get on each of them, and it was like pulling teeth from a horse. But date, time and name doesn’t make much of a story without a comment here, an aside there, some real meaty background on Granny’s heirloom china lost or a portrait burned to a cinder.”
“I’d like those names and dates. The information I have from my client isn’t as full as I would like. Also, if it’s possible, can you find out anything more about the family who were lost in that Zeppelin raid in the war?”
Beattie nodded, making notes as she did so. “Anything else?”
“Not at the moment—oh, yes, one more thing. Is there a vicar in the village, do you know?”
“Ah, I can answer that one—already been down that road myself. The village can’t support a vicar of its own anymore; the diocese concluded it’s far too small, so there’s a sort of locum who does the rounds, comes in every Sunday morning and for the usual hatch, match and dispatch work. I should write about the state of English churchgoing, shouldn’t I? It’s not as if he can draw a crowd as soon as the bell tolls.”
“I thought so. Has he been there for a while?”
