An Incomplete Revenge

the horse out to pasture.

She continued with her endeavor, finally easing away the slab and using all her strength to pull it aside and lean it against the wall that separated the hunter from his stablemate. She had no torch with her, so was dependent upon the shaft of light that came in through the archway and was now being blocked by the horse.

“Move over, lad. Come on.” Maisie stood and pushed the horse back once again, reaching into her pocket for more sugar lumps, which she hid in the hay remaining in his manger. “There, that’ll keep you busy.”

Kneeling down next to the water trough, Maisie peered into the space revealed by the slab she’d removed, feeling with her hands for something loose, unexpected. Soon her fingers alighted on fabric of rough texture; using one hand to brace against the side of the trough, she pulled it out. The sack was dirty and damp, tied with string at the top. She lost no time in untying the closure to inspect the contents. Silver. The sack was filled with so much silverware that Maisie thought it looked like a priest’s ransom. There were goblets, decanters, cutlery, all manner of goods marked with the etched insignia of the Sandermere family: a large “S” set in a shield with a heart in the center and a single sword across.

She reached in again and found another sack, this time containing items indicating theft from places other than the estate. There was an empty wallet, a watch, a roll of money, jewelry. Maisie stood up, took off her hat, and wiped her hand across her forehead. Instead of taking the sacks with her, she secured them as she had found them and heaved the slab back into place. The groom was no thief, of that she was sure. She replaced her hat, while the hunter, who had eaten all the sugar, nuzzled her for more.

She pushed him aside. “If you’re not careful, I’ll have a soft spot for you, you big lug.”

Maisie checked the stall and, listening for the groom’s return, let herself out and latched the half door once again. The hunter’s blanket had been hung over a bar on the outside of the door, obscuring his nameplate.

“Well, well, well. Merlin. I should have known.” She patted him once more. “Only you and I know that your master is a thief.”

MAISIE GATHERED UP her knapsack, relieved that the groom had not even noticed it in the shadows, and made haste back toward the woods, once more climbing the iron fence and claiming her MG. She drove away from Heronsdene, into the next village to find the telephone kiosk, and lost no time in placing the call.

“James?”

“Maisie—gosh, you sound out of breath.”

“Just a bit. I have some information for you that I believe you must act upon without delay.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve found the missing Sandermere silver and a few other things besides. And I know the culprit.”

“Who?”

“Alfred Sandermere.”

There was a pause. “I might have known. I never trusted that man, from our first meeting. And the fires?”

Maisie took a deep breath. “That’s something different. But I will have news about them for you shortly. In the meantime, I should recount the events of the past week, concerning Sandermere.”

When she had finished giving him all the necessary information, James sighed. “What do you think should be the next move?”

“Call the police, James. You now know where the silver and the other items are hidden. I suspect he was waiting for a while before selling his hoard via underworld contacts. It was likely a scheme to keep his creditors at bay. Do warn the police that he is a volatile man and may need to be restrained.”

“Of course. I shall also speak to my solicitors.”

“Indeed. Now I must go, James. I have no doubt I shall see you soon.”

Maisie allowed herself a short time alone in the MG, leaning her head back against the seat. Her stomach grumbled, and a warmth rose up in her chest that took her breath away. Was she sickening for something? Beads of perspiration trickled down the side of her nose, and she reached for her handkerchief to wipe her brow and cheeks. I am on fire. She opened the door to allow a breeze to waft into the motor car and recognized that she was unsettled about the feelings rising within her.

Soon the sensations subsided, the inferno that had gripped her insides extinguished by logical consideration and fresh air. In some way she thought the lingering image of Simon’s cremation had played a part in her indisposition. She shook her head and once again set off for Heronsdene and the farm.

THE PICKERS WERE only two hop-gardens from the end of their work on the farm, and many were already talking of the packing up, the journey back, and welcoming autumn’s snap, then winter’s chill. Billy saw her approaching from a distance, waved, and came toward her, stopping to pick up his jacket on the way. They dispensed with the pleasantries of greeting.

“I went into Maidstone on the train yesterday mornin’ to see Beattie Drummond. Blimey, she’s a bit of a one, eh?”

“Push you for a story, did she?”

“Not ’alf, but I was ready for ’er when she said you’d promised she’d be the first to know when you’ve done your bit.”

Maisie nodded. “So, did she find anything?”

Billy pulled an envelope from his pocket and passed it to Maisie. “She came out and gave me some photographs taken in the village before the war. I didn’t let on, didn’t say what we was lookin’ for—or who.”

“Right.” Maisie opened the envelope and flicked through each photograph with some speed, until she came to one image in particular.

“Here we are.”

“I can smell the bread from ’ere. I reckon that was taken on Empire Day, what with the flags and bunting