An Incomplete Revenge

Maisie nodded.

“And for what? That’s the big question, ain’t it? For what?” Billy shrugged.

She placed her hand on his arm. “I’d better go, Billy I’ll leave you in peace with your family. Not long to go now, eh?”

He looked up at the spent hop-gardens. “Next year’ll soon roll round, and we’ll all be out ’ere again.” He pulled a packet of Woodbines from his trouser pocket, along with a box of matches. “Puttin’ the money away, we are.”

“Your passage to Canada?”

“If we can do it, Miss. I used to just say it but didn’t reckon I’d ever want to go, not really, not being a Londoner born and bred. Now, what with Lizzie gone and Doreen not gettin’ over it at all, we need a new start.” He lit a cigarette, closing his right eye against a wisp of smoke that snaked upward. “Don’t know whether me old mum will come with us, but I won’t want to leave ’er. And I don’t know what sort of work I can do, but—well, I’ll ’ave a go at anything.”

Maisie nodded. “I know you will.” She smiled encouragement. “But in the meantime, I need a good assistant, so don’t think of going anywhere too soon, will you? Now then, I’m off, back to the inn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

ARRIVING AT THE inn, Maisie stopped to greet Fred Yeoman before climbing the stairs to her room. She was not hungry and had declined supper, saying she would have some bread and cheese and an ale on a tray, for later if she was hungry. At least the ale would help her sleep.

She opened the curtains wide, the better to see out to the clear night sky as darkness descended. Pulling her chair to the window, Maisie sat down and closed her eyes. How would she ever bring the case to completion now? She could point to Sandermere as being responsible for much of the petty crime in the village, but without the evidence of confession she could not throw light on her other suspicions.

A knock at the door caused Maisie to start.

“Sorry to bother you, miss, but there’s a man to see you.”

Man, not gentleman, thought Maisie.

Yeoman cleared his throat. “It’s one of the travelers, the pikeys. Don’t know what the fellow wants, but I told him to wait outside. Name of Webb. Wears a big hat.”

Maisie nodded. “Right you are, Mr. Yeoman. I’ll come down straightaway.”

Closing the door behind her, Maisie held on to the banister as she hurried down the winding, narrow staircase and through the doorway to the street, lowering her head as she went to avoid the beam.

“Webb, what a surprise.”

He nodded and touched the brim of his hat. It was almost dark, and she could only just see his eyes as he turned toward her and was bathed in warm amber light from the inn’s outside lantern.

“Beulah would have wanted me to come. I talked to Paishey—she’s with the women—and she said I should.”

Maisie frowned. “Is it alright for us to speak without one of your womenfolk with us?”

“Because of how it is, and that we’re here in the street, we can talk.”

“Would you like to walk, just down to the church perhaps?” Maisie knew such a stroll would entail passing the site of the old bakery, which was opposite the memorial and the church.

“Beulah said you were expected. That she’d asked for help, and you came.”

“And do you believe that?”

He turned to walk, and Maisie fell into step alongside him.

“You mean, do I believe that, seeing as I’m gorja?”

“Yes.”

Webb pushed his hands into his pockets and, as they walked, spoke with an eloquence not apparent when he was with the gypsy tribe. “I do believe. Beulah saved me, looked after me, so I’d have done anything for her, and I’ve seen enough to believe her.” He looked sideways at Maisie. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

“I do, yes, but I’ll still call you Webb, if you like.”

“Yes, that is my name now.”

“And I’d like to know your story.”

“But you know it already. I’ve seen it in your eyes. And you saw me leaving the inn’s garden. And there are the questions you’ve been asking.”

“I know your story, Pim van Maarten, only inasmuch as I have facts. I would like to hear it told in your words.”

Webb looked down at the ground and shook his head as they continued walking. “Haven’t been called by that name in over ten years.” He stopped as they reached the waste ground, then turned toward the church, where a gaslight was glowing over the gate, and to the side was a bench. “Let’s sit down over there.”

When they were settled, he began to speak again.

“We came down here when I was a baby, because my sister couldn’t breathe right, not up there in London. To tell you the truth, I don’t reckon she breathed right down here, but she grew out of it anyway. My grandfather was from the Netherlands, where he was a baker, like my father, though he came to London after he was married and before my father was born. They spoke Dutch at home, and we did too. It was my father who dropped the van from our name and changed the spelling. He said he didn’t want us to be different, he