gypsies, so there’s no cohesive community, just different camps all filled with mistrust. The locals hate the incomers, but they don’t mind the extra business, while the Londoners think the villagers are all turnip bashers who get up to goodness knows what and put the blame on them. And then there are the gypsies, who keep to themselves and who are actually not bad people, though no one wants to pick near them. The women go out, selling flowers and clothes pegs door-to-door, and the villagers buy goods from them, then turn their backs—but there’s a few who go find the old matriarch to have their fortunes told.”
Maurice’s laugh was short, and he shook his head. “The double standard.”
“Yes.” Maisie sipped her port, set down the glass, then went on.
“And the land where the bomb killed three people has no marker. It’s overgrown, and—cold.”
“Oh, dear.”
Maisie nodded. “Michaelmas daisies grow wild there. As far as I can tell, it’s the source of supply for the gypsy women who make bouquets for sale.”
“Purple flowers, the color of mourning.”
“Yes, but these are wild. No one planted them.”
“Not that you know of.”
“Indeed, not that I know of.”
There was silence between them. Maisie knew that Maurice did not want to offer advice that might be unwelcome and was cradling their reunion gently, like sand in cupped hands, in case she left, offended, not to return for some months. Thinking again of those she loved who would be taken from her by time’s passage, and how close she had once been to her mentor, Maisie began to soften, though she was not yet ready to relinquish the feeling of being slighted.
“What will you do next, if I may ask, Maisie?”
She inclined her head and stared into the fire. “I will keep the counsel of our earlier years together, Maurice. I will ask questions and more questions, for as you’ve always maintained, the power is in the inquiry, not necessarily in the answer.”
“Good.”
Maisie set down the glass of port. “You’ve a heavy hand with the decanter this evening, Maurice. I can’t finish my drink.”
“No matter.” He stood to see her to the door. “You will contact me if . . .”
“Of course.”
“And you will visit again?”
Maisie allowed him to take her hands in his, as she had when she entered the house. “Yes, I will.”
As Maurice was about to close the door, Maisie called to him. “Maurice?”
He opened the door and squinted, to better see her in the dark. “Do you happen to know anyone who is knowledgeable about violins?”
“Actually, I do. He’s in London, has a small music shop in Denmark Street. He’s an expert on stringed instruments and has a particular interest in violins. I’ll send my housekeeper around with his name and address tomorrow morning, if you wish.”
“Thank you. I am much obliged to you.”
Maurice watched as Maisie switched on her torch and made her way back to the Groom’s Cottage. He knew he was not quite forgiven.
TWELVE
Maisie left Chelstone soon after Maurice’s housekeeper came to the cottage bearing an envelope for her, with a note from Maurice and the name of the luthier in Denmark Street who would, she hoped, be able to tell her more about the violin she had witnessed Webb playing with great skill.
The showers had abated, and morning once more held the pepper-and-herb fragrance that seemed to be ingrained in the breeze at hop-picking time. Verges alongside the road were still full of hogweed, showing off cream-colored fronds of tiny petals, interspersed with the delicate shepherd’s purse, its fragile heart-shaped leaves shimmering as the motor approached, as if to hide behind the last of summer’s pink common mallow. She had the road to herself, which offered an opportunity to plan her visit to Sandermere’s brickworks, her first stop.
According to James Compton’s notes, the foreman was Pete Bracegirdle, who had been employed at the works since he was twelve, starting as an apprentice. He was a master craftsman who could fashion any type of brick or tile and, before he became foreman, could turn out peg tiles—used in the repair of the many cottages built in medieval times—at a fair clip and with fewer breaks or seconds than any other artisan, making him a valuable worker. In addition to Bracegirdle, the brickworks employed some twenty-four men, a few of them apprentices.
Maisie drew the MG to a halt just inside the main gate to the works. In appearance, the factory itself looked more like a farm, with timber-framed outbuildings with tiled roofing, but minus the many smells and sounds of a farm. The entrance itself was not grand, a simple wooden five-bar gate of the type that might be found at the opening to a field of sheep or cattle. To the left, a sign, crooked and misspelled, pointed the way to the “Ofice.”
The door was open, and two men stood behind a dust- and paper-laden desk, poring over an order. At first they did not see her.
“They definitely said they wanted the bricks by the end of October, so if we get them to Paddock Wood by —”
“Good morning.”
Both men looked up, simultaneously wiping their hands on their mustard-colored workmanlike heavy cotton coats.
