An Incomplete Revenge

“And she told you everything.”

“Yes, everything. And she told me who was involved. I knew I would never forget them.”

“How did you meet Beulah?”

“I told Phyllis not to say a word about seeing me. Then I ran. I ran, my kit bag across my shoulder, until I couldn’t run anymore. I half walked, half fell into the woods and collapsed. I have no memory of the days and nights that followed. I do not know what happened. When I awoke it was to the smell of broth and wood smoke. I was laid out in that clearing up on the hill. It was summertime, 1919, and they had come for the fruit-picking and the hop- picking.”

“And Beulah claimed you for her son.”

“Her real son had died as an infant and would have been about my age, so, yes, she took me for her son. And I was willing to be adopted, for I had no one, nothing except a need to make them pay.” He turned to Maisie. “You see, I understood revenge. And I understood that if that was what they had wanted—revenge—then the job was left half done, because I was still alive. Pim van Maarten was alive, and I wanted my pound of flesh, from them”—he pointed back toward the center of the village—“and from Alfred Sandermere, because my father, mother and sister would still be alive if it hadn’t been for him.”

“Yes, I know.” Maisie paused. “So you hounded the villagers with fires, each year, on the anniversary of your family’s death.”

“I surprised myself, you know. I thought I would be able to take the life of every one of them, make them feel what my family felt. But I must have seen too much killing in France. All I could do was scare them. I only caused damage to bricks and mortar.”

There was silence, broken when Maisie spoke again.

“Your father would have been proud of your mastery of the violin. You are a worthy successor—and you favor him, though not with the hair.”

Webb smiled. “Yes, he would be proud. And though I look like him, I am not half the man. He would have found it in his heart to understand.”

Maisie allowed a few seconds to pass. “How did you know the Reverend Staples had the violin?”

“Stroke of luck, it was, going to the vicar’s house with Beulah, selling flowers. When he opened the door I saw it there, lying on a table. So I went back later and took what was rightly mine. I remembered some things from Sandermere, such as how to break into a house or just walk in while the doors to the garden were open.”

“And what will you do now, Webb?”

He looked again toward the waste ground that was once his home. “We’ll bury Beulah, do what we have to do with her vardo, her belongings, and then we’ll go.” He turned to Maisie. “Will you come? To her funeral, and to the afterwards?”

She nodded and said she would go, though she did not reveal how much she dreaded the afterwards.

After bidding Webb farewell and returning to her room, Maisie leaned back in her chair and looked out into the blackness. A faint light rose up from the kitchen below, and she could hear the bubbling of talk in the public bar. She knew that Webb would not rest until he had received some acknowledgment from the villagers, and she understood that secrets long buried were not easily brought to the surface. She would try to see Sandermere tomorrow, but first she would visit the Reverend Staples.

She stood up and reached out to close the window against the unrelenting howl of the dead gypsy’s lurcher. We’ll do what we have to do with her vardo. She wondered if she could bear to witness the ritual.

AS MAISIE LEFT the village next morning, bound for Hawkhurst, she passed two police Invicta motor cars traveling in the direction of the Sandermere estate. Clearly James had made his report. She wondered what tack they would take. Would Sandermere be summoned from his room for questioning, or would there be a softly-softly approach, with the police claiming they were acting on a tip-off, perhaps, and knew where the silver was hidden? How would they link Sandermere, except by accusation? His fingerprints would be expected to be on such items as were hidden in the horse’s stall, which led her to believe that they would question him until he confessed, wearing him down with suppositions that would eventually prove to be true.

She paid little attention to the surrounding countryside today, wanting only to complete her confrontation with the retired former vicar of Heronsdene parish church, and arrived at Easter Cottage in time to see Mrs. Staples leave the house with a large basket, then continue walking toward the houses on the other side of the green. There would be no phantom telephone calls today. Parking along the street, Maisie locked the MG, walked back to the cottage, and rang the bell.

“Miss Dobbs, what a surprise.” The vicar seemed flustered, holding a copy of The Times which he began to fold and fold again as he spoke to her. He was wearing exactly the same garb as at their previous meeting and seemed crumpled and uncomfortable at having his morning disturbed, especially by a woman who doubtless would broach a subject he would rather not dwell upon.

“Good morning, Reverend Staples. I was just passing and thought I would drop in to see you. I have some information you might find interesting.”

“Do come in.” He led the way to the study. “Please, be seated.” He waved the newspaper toward a chair and sat down when Maisie was settled. He leaned back, placed the newspaper in the wastepaper bin, and, as if trying to find a comfortable position in which to brook an unwelcome conversation, he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the desk. Finally, he sat up with his arms folded in front of his ecclesiastical cross. “Now then, what’s all this about?”

Maisie smiled, confident in her composure. She was used to being lied to, but not by a religious man.

“I had cause to travel up to London this week and by chance was close to Denmark Street, so I popped in to see Mr. Andersen—Senior, that is—the luthier to whom Jacob Martin always took his precious and very valuable Cuypers violin to be tuned and generally reconditioned.”

The vicar frowned. “Cuypers? Precious? You must be mistaken. And valuable? I doubt it.”

“The luthier, whom I believe to be something of an expert, said the violin was one of the most beautiful he had