or two at the bakery. By the time his leave was over, she was with child. In July, shortly after his return to duty, he was killed by a sniper.” Maisie sighed. “I suspect she panicked. Her brother had already caused much distress in the household on account of a Sandermere, and she probably wanted to spare her parents further anguish if she could. She was seen spending some considerable time with Alfred, who pursued her relentlessly—to him she was even more alluring because his brother had fallen for her.”
“Despite her station.”
“Yes,
“And that signed her death certificate, though she didn’t know it at the time.”
“I doubt whether Alfred knew it at the time either, but he soon would have seen the writing on the wall, the possibility that his father would recognize the right of the child to the Sandermere name, which would put Alfred out of the line of inheritance. Henry’s fondness for Anna was well known, and the family must have been aware that they were spending a great deal of time together during his leave—enough to fall in love.”
Maurice nodded. “And in a time of war such parents would perhaps turn a blind eye to the girl’s lowly standing, imagining that after the war the chasm that divided their circumstances would drive them apart, and everyone would be in their place again.”
Maisie flushed and pressed her lips together, her eyes filling with tears as his words struck a resonant chord. “Yes, that’s probably exactly what happened.” She wiped her eyes. “Alfred must have known that, for his grieving parents, such considerations—that chasm, as you say—would diminish with the prospect of their beloved older son’s son growing up at the Sandermere estate, with a beautiful young woman whom they could mold, even though she would not have been their choice. Or they could have adopted the son, another recognition of his status.” She paused, remembering the attack on Paishey. “The rank that went along with being heir to the estate was crucial to Alfred. He had stepped into the shoes of the popular and much-liked Henry and could not bear to risk the loss of what was, in effect, his foundation.”
“And when the Zeppelin bomb hit, even in his drunken state Alfred saw an immediate means of dispensing with an embarrassing situation, an unwelcome claim to the Sandermere name.”
“Yes. Shock can give new energy to even the most addled brain.”
Maurice nodded. “An interesting case, Maisie. You must be glad it’s over.”
She gave a half laugh and was thoughtful before replying. “Yes, I’m glad it’s over, all of it. But at least it gave me something to chew over after Simon passed and following his funeral. Now his death seems as if it were something in the distance behind me, as if we were at sea and he is vanishing into the mist.”
“Yes, time is strange in that way, is it not? You will be glad to get back to London, won’t you.”
“But not until after the gypsy’s funeral tomorrow. Then I’ll go back.”
They sat in silence for a while, comfortable in the quietness and solitude of their renewed friendship. Maisie had wanted to ask Maurice about his work, a question or two to follow his comments when she entered the conservatory, but she was aware of the fragility of their reconciliation. It was his secrecy—understandable, she now realized—that had led to their discord last year. Now, as time and the thread of forgiveness drew them together again, it was Maurice who began to speak.
“In some ways, Maisie, similar work has engaged us of late. We—my contacts overseas and my colleagues in London—are most concerned with a growing frustration on the other side of the Channel. The depression we find ourselves in here, and which is causing havoc in America, is allowing people to give weight to that which divides them, rather than to the shared experiences and elements of connection they see mirrored in their fellow man. There are those in Germany who would use discrimination to elevate their politics, which gives us cause for disquiet. And on the continent in Spain, inequities threaten to become incendiary There are many people, Maisie— and I confess, I am among their number—who believe our peace to be only so resilient and who fear another war.”
“I pray it doesn’t come to that, Maurice.”
“Yes, pray, Maisie. Do pray.”
And as her beloved mentor regarded the vista before him, his hands clenched on the arms of his chair, Maisie reached across and placed her hand on his.
LATER, IN THE library at Chelstone, Maisie gave James Compton a complete briefing according to the case assigned to her when they met in London. She explained new facts she had gathered and recapped those elements already reported, concluding that there would be no more petty crime, and the fires would now cease. Webb—Pim van Maarten—would most likely never return to Heronsdene following the funeral of the woman who adopted him.
“Well, we know Alfred Sandermere won’t be committing any more acts of burglary, on his own property or anyone else’s.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh dear, of course, you wouldn’t have heard.” James sat forward. “He died in Pembury Hospital this morning.”
“Oh, poor man.”
“Poor man?”
“Yes, to be troubled, haunted in that way, since childhood. What a dreadful way to live—and to die.”
James sat back in his chair. “I don’t know if I can be that forgiving. The man was a liability, a menace. The village will be better off without him, and—I hate to admit it—so will we.”
Maisie frowned. “I would have thought his death might make purchase of the brickworks and the estate rather difficult.”
He shook his head. “Following Henry’s death, his father added codicils to the trust that would enable their solicitors to go ahead with a sale of the property if anything should happen to Alfred and he was sole heir at the time of his death, without a son to inherit. Essentially, the whole estate is now for sale and we are the buyers.”
