school. Mr. and Mrs. Pendle lived alone, though Maisie suspected that Mr. Pendle would be out at work when she called. She had only to knock once, and the door was opened by a woman in her early sixties, wearing a gray skirt with a blue cardigan and a floral sleeveless wraparound housecoat fastened with a length of cord around the waist. She wore knitted stockings that had gathered at the ankle and black lace-up shoes. Her hair was tied back in a bun so tight it seemed to pull at the corners of her eyes. In her hand she wielded a feather duster. She reminded Maisie of the women who worked at the coffee shop she sometimes frequented on Oxford Street, the one she always said was more caff than cafe. They were women who called you dearie while wiping the table in front of you, lifting your cup and saucer, and paying no mind to the fact that you were still eating toast as they went about their business of wiping, lifting, and tuttutting about the way some people leave a mess behind them.
“Mrs. Pendle?”
The woman frowned. “Yes?” Her response came out as
“My name’s Maisie Dobbs. I represent the company in negotiations to purchase a large tract of land on the Sandermere estate. The buyer is very keen to know more about Heronsdene, especially as men from the village are employed at the brickworks, so I’m taking the opportunity to speak to a few of the people who live here. Could you spare me a moment or two?”
The woman stepped forward and looked both ways on the street. “I should think you’d be best to come when my husband gets home.”
“Is he employed at the brickworks?”
“No, he’s a plumber, working over in Paddock Wood.”
“But I am sure you can still help me, Mrs. Pendle.”
The woman looked back and forth again and stepped aside. “You’d better come in then.”
Maisie entered a shadowed passage, with dark brown wainscoting and brown and pink faded floral wallpaper. A brown picture rail some nine inches from the ceiling ran the length of the passage, with family photographs of different sizes hanging from it like marionettes. On the opposite wall, three plaster mallard ducks were positioned to give the effect of flight into the sky, though one had come loose and was poised for a nosedive toward the polished floor. Maisie suspected the wavering mallard might be the source of some nagging by Mrs. Pendle toward her husband.
“To the right, Miss Dobbs, into the parlor, if you don’t mind.”
Maisie stepped into the parlor, which smelled of lavender and beeswax polish. A piano stood against the wall just inside the door, and a settee with two matching armchairs, covered in a prickly brown wool fabric with patches darned along the arms, were situated in front of the fireplace. In the bay window, a mahogany table was set with a lace doily, on top of which an aspidistra drooped, its pot settled in a saucer overfilled with water.
The wallpaper was the same as that which decorated the passageway, and a mirror hung over the fireplace from the picture rail, along with several more photographs on each wall. On the mantelpiece, three pewter frames held sepia photographs of two young men and a girl.
“Do take a seat, Miss Dobbs.”
“Thank you.” Maisie sat down on the settee, while her hostess perched on the edge of the chair next to the fireplace, as if not quite happy to be using the room, which was no doubt only occupied on Sundays, and perhaps at Christmas and Easter.
“Now then, what can I do for you?”
“My employers, the company who hope to complete purchase on the estate, have been somewhat concerned about petty crime in Heronsdene and about the fires that seem to occur here with some regularity. I understand you and your husband had a fire here a year or so ago.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, that! Nothing untoward about that, I can tell you. Chimney fire, caused by my husband.”
“How did it happen?”
“He thought he’d be clever and collect coal along the railway lines. Lot of people from round here do it—walk along the lines, pick up coal dropped when they’re filling the engines. Saves a bob or two, I can tell you, and we all need to do that, don’t we?” The woman laughed. It was a short laugh, dismissive in its way. “Anyway, he came back with a big sack of coal over his shoulder, dumped it in the bunker out the back, and then we used it for the stove in the kitchen.” She leaned forward as if drawing Maisie into a family secret. “But clever boots, my husband, didn’t stop to think that boiler fuel that can pull a locomotive from here to London, would probably cause an almighty blaze in our chimney—and that’s what happened!”
“That’s an extraordinary story, Mrs. Pendle. Who would believe such a thing?” Maisie leaned forward too, allowing the impression of being drawn into the tale. “And you never reported the blaze? Not even to your landlord?”
The woman waved her hand. “No, no point. We sorted it all out ourselves and made repairs. Good as new in next to no time. We all help each other in Heronsdene, you can depend on that. People came. It’s not as if the fire got out of hand and hurt anyone.”
“Well, I’m glad the whole house didn’t go up.” Maisie paused. “Can you tell me about the night of the Zeppelin raid, Mrs. Pendle?”
The woman sat back. “Whatever do you want to know about that for?”
“Oh, not for the sale of the estate. No, I heard about it from the smithy and became interested. I understand it took a whole family—the Martins. Dutch, weren’t they? You must have all been terrified when it happened.”
Mrs. Pendle had rested her hands in her lap and now she wrung them together, her fingernails grazing paper- thin flesh and swollen veins. “Terrible thing, it was. Not that I ever knew they were Dutch beforehand, though I knew they came from somewhere over there.” She faltered, leaning forward again. “The airship came over just a day after we found out about the boys, you see.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, half the men and boys in the village had joined up together and were with the West Kents, and we lost them in 1916. The Somme, it was. Then, just one day—or it might’ve been two; it all runs together now, when I think back—before the raid, six or seven more families had word that their sons were gone, killed in action. Brought
