were no longer at St. Anselm’s. She didn’t like a place where prejudice was tolerated, and violence between boys, who would one day be men, explained away as the result of not hearing the drumbeat of one’s peers.
CHECKING HER WATCH as she entered her flat, Maisie decided to add a few notes to the case map before collecting her bags and setting off for Kent. Once more she would stay with Frankie this evening, and then at the inn until the end of the week, by which time, she hoped, her work would be done and some sort of explanatory report could be submitted to James Compton.
She logged the dates of Alfred Sandermere’s boyhood suspensions from school alongside a list of dates germane to the case, then read through the notes taken shortly after her visit to meet him. He had made a point of informing her that he was away at the time of the Zeppelin raid on Heronsdene, yet according to the tally of dates, he was very much at home, as Cottingham had said, “languishing at his parents’ estate” soon after the term had begun. She wondered what a boy of fifteen, almost sixteen, might do with time on his hands in a place where there was little to amuse him. Some boys were joining up at this age, and even younger, though it appeared that Sandermere, A. was not one of them.
Maisie worked for a short while longer, making plans to meet more of the villagers in the days to come, taking into account that she was waiting for additional information from Beattie Drummond. The reporter was an interesting woman, thought Maisie, someone who searched high and low for news and who worked ten times harder than her fellow newspapermen to get the story. And of course Beattie wanted the big story, the scoop that would jettison her to
She was about to leave, when she set down her bags and went again to the dining table at which she’d been working. She drew a box of fine vellum and matching envelopes toward her and took out her fountain pen, tapping the end of the barrel on the blotting paper as she mentally composed her letter. Once satisfied she had the words in her mind—though she would eventually compose and discard several versions of the letter—she began:
IT WAS AGAIN suppertime when Maisie arrived at her father’s cottage at Chelstone Manor and, as before, Frankie had prepared a hearty repast for his daughter. Maisie remained concerned about her father’s health, though his recovery from an accident some eighteen months earlier had been considered excellent by the local doctor. But he was getting on in years. It had often occurred to Maisie that, with the exception of Priscilla, those closest to her were in their twilight years, and she dreaded the losses that might come in quick succession. Her attempts to broaden the scope of her friendships were, in part, due to such fears.
Frankie dished up dinner almost as soon as Maisie walked in the door.
“Been a man here asking for you.” He ladled a hearty helping of stew into the broad-lipped soup bowls, while Maisie cut and buttered bread in the thick slices her father favored.
“Me?” She held the knife suspended above the bread.
Frankie nodded. “Not what I would call a nice chap, either. What was that man’s name? S . . . Son . . . San —”
“Sandermere?”
Frankie pointed the ladle at her. “That’s it. Sandermere. The one you asked about the other day, and I said I’d heard of him. Well, he came here on a big bay hunter. Fair sweating it was. I offered to walk the horse around, cool it down while he had a cup of tea—don’t like to see a horse in a state like that—but he just went off again, cantering down the road like a highwayman. I thought to myself,
Maisie frowned. “I wonder how he knew where you lived. And that I might be here.” She began to cut the bread again. “More to the point, I wonder what he wanted.”
“Well, I didn’t like the man. A fella who treats an animal like that is a man to keep clear of, as far as I’m concerned.” He lifted up his knife and fork. “And Dr. Blanche didn’t take to him either.”
“Maurice?” Maisie sat down, picked up her spoon, and began to sip the broth before starting on the thick wedges of brisket.
“He was walking back from the manor when that bloke turned up. I saw him, just watching, taking it all in. Then, when he rode off on that poor horse of his, Dr. Blanche came over and asked me about him.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Frankie reached for a slice of bread and looked at Maisie directly. “As a matter of fact, he did. Said that, if you’ve time, he’d like to see you. Seemed very . . .
Maisie looked at the big round clock on the wall and then back toward her father. “If it’s alright with you, Dad, I think I might wander over to see him after we’ve had supper.”
“Don’t mind me, love. In fact, if you’ve to deal with the likes of that man who came today, and Dr. Blanche can give you a spot of advice, I reckon you should go and see what he has to say”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I’ll do that.” She smiled. “The stew’s lovely, Dad.”
WHEN FATHER AND daughter had cleaned the kitchen following their meal, and Frankie was seated by a fire with his newspaper, Maisie pulled on her jacket and walked toward Maurice’s house via the garden entrance. She made her way up to the house and saw Maurice silhouetted against the windows of the conservatory. He would have seen the torch she carried.
The main door was already open by the time she arrived at the front of the house, and Maurice himself was waiting for her on the threshold.
“Ah, Maisie, I am so glad you have come.” He reached out to her with both hands, which she took in her own.
“It
“Come, let us go to the drawing room—a fire’s just been lit. We’ll have an after-dinner drink together, and we can talk.” He turned to her as he walked, “Like old times.”
Even as they walked the few steps from the door to the drawing room, Maisie knew that Maurice Blanche was gauging her emotional well-being, was mirroring her pace, her stance, her demeanor, to ascertain—what? Her
