CHAPTER TEN
During the hour-long drive from London down to Chelstone, Maisie took the opportunity to consider what had come to pass in recent weeks, and in the early nighttime darkness with little traffic on the road, she asked herself question after question, though the most obvious – the identity of Jonathan Hawkin-Price's killer – was one she skirted around, as if it were the final stepping stone across a rushing river, the largest in a line of landing places extending from one side to the other, a rock from which she might slip and tumble if she hurried or looked down.
The telephone conversation with Caldwell was a relief, because she now knew there was indeed a body, and it was that of Hawkin-Price. Until then, there was only the word of four adolescents – four tired, unsettled young people suffering from their own kind of war fatigue. Each one alternated in mood between confusion and determination, and had a strong will to bring order to their lives 186because, it seemed, so much had fallen away that might otherwise have sustained them. And if their story about the stability and security – such as it was – of the children's home coming to an end was correct, what might happen next presented a terrifying prospect. But now Maisie had the proof that they had indeed witnessed a murder – which meant they had fair reason to believe they would be sought out and silenced.
But inconsistencies troubled her.
Who found the body? Who alerted the authorities to enable the deceased to be removed to the medical examiner for post-mortem? And how had word travelled to those who would ensure the death would remain under wraps until they were ready to reveal the demise of an important local man? With Lord Julian's passing, Maisie understood only too well the almost medieval attachment local people in a small community had to the ‘squire.' Ah yes, Lord Julian – that was another link for which she could not find a chain, though there was George. And there was another name for whom she had no fit – Sergeant Kirby. If she had more detail, she might not need to approach either of these men. She had known George for years and wanted to protect him, and she had a feeling that any attempt to reach the mysterious Kirby would get her nowhere. But she would like to have a more detailed picture in mind of the chain of communication.
‘It's like a wall with half the bricks missing in odd places,' she said aloud, as she slowed the motor car while driving down Riverhill on the outskirts of Sevenoaks. She had once been driving on this same stretch of road when her brakes failed – they had been tampered with by a murderer, a woman she had been close to bringing to justice, so she never allowed her attention to wane for 187even a second when descending the incline.
The following day was Sunday. Her ability to move along with the investigation – which she knew very well was propelled by her curiosity as much as a desire to free the four young people from their fears – was therefore limited. She hoped Mark would telephone at some point either late that evening or on the morrow. Though his position at the embassy was described as ‘political attaché,' Maisie knew his reach extended into various areas of sensitive interest, and often involved his presence at meetings with the president.
‘What my job title basically means, Maisie, is that I wear a lot of hats, and every single one might as well have "dunce" written on the front, because I was stupid enough to take on the job when I was asked to serve my country,' Mark had told her before leaving. ‘Sometimes I want to throw it all against a wall and run out of the building.'
‘Nonsense,' she had replied. ‘You thrive on it.'
‘Hmmm, not as much as I used to. My priorities have changed.'
When she pulled the Alvis into the gravel driveway alongside the Dower House, Maisie smiled as the back door opened and Anna rushed to the driver's side of the motor car. Soon she was being clutched around the waist by her child, while the tail-wagging from Little Emma seemed bound to leave a mark against her knees.
‘Come along, Anna, let your mother get into the house,' Brenda called from the kitchen door. ‘You can tell her your news later.'
‘News?' asked Maisie as her father joined them.
‘I'll carry that bag for you, love,' said Frankie, emerging from the kitchen. He kissed his daughter and went straight to the boot to take Maisie's carpet bag. ‘Don't you think it's about time you retired 188this old thing? It's frayed everywhere.'
‘That bag came to France with me, Dad – it's sentimental.'
‘Sentimental? Never mind that, it'll be weeping soon if you don't let it rest!'
‘Very funny,' said Maisie, holding her daughter's hand. ‘Now what's all this—?'
‘Grandpa and I have something very exciting to tell you,' said Anna, jumping up and down. Once again she reminded Maisie of a much younger child, though at other times, her maturity took everyone around her by surprise.
Brenda rolled her eyes. ‘What did I say about bothering your mother with that now – let's get in and have our supper, then you and your grandpa can have a word.'
‘Oh dear,' said Maisie. ‘I fear four legs, a mane and a tail.'
‘And before you sit down and get comfortable, Maisie, that nice Dr Dene telephoned – he asked if you would give him a bell at home as soon as you can.' Brenda reached into her pocket. ‘Here's the number in case you don't have it – but take a cup of tea with you along to the library. You look all in.'
Maisie kissed her stepmother and instructed Anna to wash her hands and set the table.
‘Andrew? It's me.' Maisie stood at the library desk, twirling the telephone cord around her fingers.
‘Oh good. Brenda said you were expected at the house around seven, so you're bang on time.'
‘And if I'm calling you at home, then there's something important in the offing. Is it to do with the medical examiner? I heard from a detective contact that the coroner was prevented from going any 189further with the medical examiner's report, and that a public inquest was stopped from "on high".'
‘That's indeed part of it, but there's more.'
‘Go on.'
‘Where to start? Right, both the examiner and the coroner are friends. We've known one another a long time and are part of a medics cricket team.'
‘So we're on a sticky wicket, are we?'
‘Very droll, Maisie! Anyway, it seems the deceased was shot at close range, and apparently in those cases there are often wounds to the hands, because the reflex action is to put up your hands to protect yourself. We know that won't do any good with a gun, but it's just how it is.'
‘So, no wounds on the hands. What else?'
‘The second shot wasn't needed. It was pure … pure malice, I suppose. The first one to the heart pretty much finished him off instantly, then the next one was for show.'
‘Yes, I understand,' said Maisie. ‘As if it stood for something. Is there more?'
‘There is, and we have to take a step backwards – I'll explain. Not only was the coroner instructed not to proceed with an inquest, but did your friendly copper tell you that the order was delivered personally from a … let me see, from a man named—'
‘Robert MacFarlane.'
‘MacFarlane. Yes. That's him. Anyway, he also took away the report. He instructed the coroner that death by suicide be recorded, and he presented him with a new report to sign and record, stating that the deceased took his own life – suicide due to a deterioration of his mental state. His body was found at the side of the house, 190not inside, so there is an additional note to the effect that he likely wanted his remains to be found, and given the fact that he lived alone, discovery of the body might not otherwise have happened in a timely manner. News that the poor man took his own life will find its way around the town by Monday morning – and it will be announced in such a way as to make it seem as if it were a recent occurrence, not an event of some weeks past.'
‘Yet your medical examiner friend's original report stated it was death by someone else's hand. It's a conclusion that mirrors the accounts I've received from witnesses who believe – and I emphasise "believe"— they saw the man shot.'
‘Right – indeed, but that's what I meant by taking a step backwards and, just to be clear, looking at the event again. I know you engage in a good deal of reflection in this sort of case – even though you will probably reach the same conclusion. The first shot was to the heart – though the two bullets came in quick succession, so it's hard to know with one hundred percent certainty. There are ways to direct the shot towards your own heart with the Luger, but it's a bit awkward on the hands, dependent upon how you decide to get to the organ. You can go in the side, or the front, or up through the ribs.'
‘So to make MacFarlane's replacement report make sense, Hawkin-Price would have had to turn his hand so the weapon was firing directly into his heart from the front.'
‘Yes. Ditto the entry point of the bullet to his brain. Now think about it – if you've just shot yourself through the heart, you're likely to fall, and then you have to lift and turn your hand to score a direct hit into your forehead. If you're bleeding to death from the first wound, it's much easier to lift and position the pistol for side entry 191into the temple, or through the roof of the mouth. But why bother if you know you're on your last because you've just shot yourself in the heart?'
‘Unless … unless he was so full of self-disgust that he was determined to shatter both his wounded heart and his equally sour mind.'
‘Maisie? What do you mean, "sour mind"?'
‘The man had Nazi connections.'
‘Hmmm. Then I'd say someone definitely did the deed.'
‘Who removed the body?'
‘A gardener found him and an ambulance was called. My pal told me local police and the men who collected the body were instructed to hold the information in absolute confidence until given leave to make it known in the town.'
‘Tricky, I would think – gossip travels.'
‘Unless the person laying down the law is high enough up there to send shivers down the spine of the local constabulary. Mind you, like so many other public services, they've got their hands full. Apparently squatters are moving into a decommissioned airfield a mile outside the town, plus the locals are getting upset about new houses supposedly being built. Everyone's up in arms about something.'
‘Yes, I know – I've been to the town and heard all about it. But what about the staff at the Hawkin-Price house?'
‘What about them? Apparently they had been dismissed by Hawkin-Price in advance of a party at his house on the evening prior to his demise, so no one else was on the premises, as the guests had all departed by late in the evening. The gardener lives in a tied cottage locally and came back early the following morning to check 192on the rose garden – he wanted to cover the bushes with some sort of gauze material to protect from the frost that came in.' Dene laughed. ‘Completely lost on me – I can't keep anything alive in the plant world. Fortunately, I've been known to have success with human beings.'
Maisie was silent, running the telephone cord through her fingers.
‘Maisie? Still there?'
‘Sorry, Andrew – just thinking. Nicely wrapped parcel of lies, isn't it?'
‘One more snippet – both the coroner and the medical examiner were required to sign a document to the effect that they are bound by the Official Secrets Act. As you may have gathered, the game of cricket trumps secrecy to a point, but my team pals are quite happy to wash their hands of the situation. They've also got quite enough to do without having to worry about this one, and as of now, so have I.'
‘You've been incredibly helpful, Andrew. I appreciate it – and I'm grateful for all you've done for Will.'
Maisie heard Andrew Dene sigh.
‘I've given strict instructions regarding his diet – that's most important. Small portions, working up to "little and often" in the way of meals, and then when his constitution is up to it and he's put on some more weight, he'll be able to go to a more normal diet – which is a bit of a stretch, because I don't think anyone has been on a normal diet for a while. I've recommended lots of bone broth, and I don't care which bones, so I'm sure the butcher will help them out and not need to have their ration books to give them a bone or two. Mind you, Maisie, I doubt if the poor man will ever be able to face rice again at any point in his life, even if it's dished 193up in a pudding with a dollop of jam in the middle.'
‘As long as he's on the road to recovery, that's what matters.'
‘Physically, yes, he's doing well now he's been in better quarters for a few days, and the fact that he survived at all is testament to his strength of spirit. But his mind? That's where there's cause for concern. Based upon my work with men who came through the last war, even if he seems perfectly well on the outside, he'll still be suffering nightmares decades from now.'
‘I know.'
‘Yes, you do, Maisie. More than most.' Dene paused for a moment. ‘On that subject, about your friend Priscilla – I couldn't help but notice—'
‘I know what you're going to say,' said Maisie. ‘She's had a lot of worry, what with Tim now minus an arm and Tarquin, the youngest, being pulled up for declaring himself a conscientious objector, which worried Priscilla no end. Thank goodness Tim has discovered he has his father's talent with words, and all the authorities did with Tarq was put him to work in a forest – if he had opened his mouth in such a cavalier fashion in the Great War, he might well have been shot! Priscilla was convinced he would be thrown in prison. And of course there was Tom flying and her own wounds to overcome.' Maisie sighed. ‘Pris has always enjoyed a drink, but the operations and skin grafts, plus seeing those men at the hospital – it's all mounted up. I think I know what will help her, so I've a plan for something I believe will get her through this setback.'
‘Good. Let me know if I can lend a hand.'
‘I will. Thank you, Andrew. As always – thank you.'
Maisie returned the receiver to the telephone cradle. She had been standing while speaking to Dene, so took the cup of now lukewarm 194tea and moved to one of the chairs positioned on either side of the fireplace. It was where she would have been seated so many years ago, while talking with her mentor, Dr Maurice Blanche. She had never removed the carved wooden rack with a row of his pipes and a tobacco pouch resting on top. It was still within reach, to the left of the mantlepiece; there was a comfort in knowing they were there. The empty armchair before her was the one she considered to be ‘Maurice's chair.' She would take the wingback chair opposite whenever she had a problem to mull, a detail to chew over, a case to consider, or even when weighing up the options for her daughter's education. She had become used to the quiet calm the library offered, along with an atmosphere that seemed to facilitate contemplation – and she had a certain faith that there was a lingering power in the room, a legacy from Maurice that would give her insight when she dearly needed advice.
‘This whole case had nothing to do with me, I'll admit it,' said Maisie. ‘I opened this bag of worms because I wanted to save four young squatters from ruin. I found Will – that's one good thing. But now this – and I still don't know if my four charges are safe or not.' She stared at the chair as if Maurice were seated there, listening. ‘So, yes, I have to err on the side of due care and attention, assuming they are not yet out of the woods.'
She sipped the tea, more to slake a thirst rather than for any soothing power lingering in the brew. What to do next? That was the question.
‘Alright,' she said, deciding upon her next move. ‘On Monday I'll drive over to Hallarden. I'll find out what rumours have been planted in the village, and I will go to the house.' She came to her feet and looked at the empty chair, continuing to give voice to her 195intentions. ‘I believe I have the chain of events leading to the death of Hawkin-Price settled in my mind's eye. I just have to confirm them – and as usual, Maurice, it's the "why" that might well lead me to the "who". There's also the question of George and this man named Sergeant Kirby. Anyway, it'll soon be time to see Robbie – unless he finds me first. After all, he's only doing his job.' She shook her head. ‘The trouble is – I don't know which one.'
Maisie helped Brenda dish up the evening meal, which they called ‘supper,' as it was after six in the evening. If the meal was before six, it was referred to as ‘tea.'
‘Sausages and mash! My favourite,' said Anna, reaching for her plate.
‘I'll say this for you, my girl – you are a good eater,' said Brenda, as Maisie set a plate in front of Anna, reminding her it was hot. ‘Mr Barton kept back some sausages for me, for which I was very grateful indeed,' added Brenda, who often kept a running commentary on what was available in the shops and what she was lucky to get her hands on because she had an ‘in' with the butcher.
‘I wonder how long this rationing business will go on,' said Frankie, winking at Anna, teasing her with his fork, as if to steal a sausage.
‘Grandpa!'
‘Oops, caught that time,' said Frankie.
‘It'll go on until there's enough of everything again,' said Brenda. ‘In the meantime, we've just got to get on with it. Anyway, now we have sausages, so savour them!'
Maisie felt a familial warmth envelop her. This was what she loved – those she cherished most in the world gathered 196around her, together, the worries of the day set aside. It was the opportunity she never thought she would have during those dark times when she struggled with widowhood after the death of James Compton, and when she grieved the loss of her tiny son. But now she had a daughter, a loving husband, her parents and Lady Rowan, and they were all close – with the exception of Mark until he returned.
As they were about to begin eating, Maisie noticed a silence descend when Frankie and Anna exchanged glances, and Anna raised her eyebrows in response to her grandfather's nod.
‘Alright,' said Maisie, setting down her knife and fork. ‘Let's get it over and done with, shall we? What's the big news, because I would bet it's why you two have for some strange reason ceased to make a noise.'
‘I thought the quiet was very nice, Maisie – makes a change.' Brenda looked at Anna over her spectacles. ‘And if I see even one bite of sausage make its way to that dog's lips, I will be very, very annoyed.'
Maisie noticed her father look away, stifling a grin.
‘Come on – out with it,' said Maisie.
Anna set down her cutlery. ‘Mummy,' she began. ‘Grandpa and I went over to see the horses.'
‘I know – the ones too big for you.'
‘But there was one smaller one,' said Anna.
‘Just under fifteen hands,' added Frankie.
‘Not the sort of just under fifteen hands that's actually almost sixteen hands then?' enquired Maisie.
‘He's perfect, Mummy. Just perfect. And he's for sale.'
‘That's a lot of washing up for you to do, and dusting, sweeping 197and polishing, young lady. Horses don't come cheap,' said Brenda. ‘You would have to earn the keep.'
‘Grandma's right.' Maisie tried to keep a straight face as she responded to her daughter's plea. ‘Tomorrow we'll go over with Grandpa to have a look at this perfect horse. But no decisions until your father gets home from America. He knows horses from when he was a boy living on a farm in America, and not only that, he knows how to—'
‘Do a deal,' said Anna.
‘Did he say that?' asked Maisie.
Anna nodded. ‘He said that when it comes to buying another horse, he'd do the neg … the neg …'
‘Negotiating?' suggested Maisie.
‘Yes, he said he'd do it because he's better at doing a deal and you'd pay whatever they asked because you'd feel sorry for the owner selling the horse.' Anna began to giggle.
Frankie raised his eyebrows. ‘He's got a point, love.'
‘Right, let's get on with supper. No more horses until tomorrow.'
Though she would have loved to receive a telephone call from Mark, Maisie was not surprised, knowing that along with others of equal standing, her husband would be in discussions with economists in the United States regarding Britain's request for financial support. The talks were between delegates Mark described as the ‘higher-ups' but Maisie knew his reports were of interest, given his unique perspective as a senior member of the embassy staff who not only had been stationed in London throughout the war, but was married to a British citizen and now had family in the country. Though the couple made a pact never to discuss their respective jobs – both were 198engaged in highly confidential work at times, and Mark had once been a decorated field agent involved in the security of his country – she knew her husband was feeling torn between responsibilities.
‘They like the fact that my feet are in two camps, Maisie,' he had explained before leaving for Washington. ‘But Americans think the United States has done more than enough for Britain, lost too many men and made a big enough investment in winning the war. There are "Bring Back Daddy" clubs sprouting up across the country – the people want their boys home, and they want them home now. Yes, we know Britain held back the Nazis for two long years, and probably stopped them mounting a bigger invasion on the east coast – but the war's done and America is eager to motor ahead into the good times, plus we're in a position to do just that.'
Maisie knew the preparations for economic negotiations had wearied Mark – but hadn't the war wearied everyone? People the length and breadth of the country were exhausted, no matter their station in life or their circumstances, and so many were bitter, knowing they faced a fast-approaching winter with no roof over their heads and little access to sustenance. It was clear, though, that Mark needed to voice his frustrations.
‘The trouble is, your new PM has all these big plans for his "New Jerusalem" – we've all read about them. A nice national health service, cradle-to-grave care, welfare, housing, new towns, everything to rebuild a broken country. And I know how broken it is, because I see it every single day. You Brits gave everything to keep the Nazis at bay and anyone who walks around with their eyes open can see the aftermath. Same in Germany, Poland, the Netherlands … the roll goes on. But Britain has not a dime – sorry, a couple of bob – for everything on its list, because the country is over two billion pounds 199in the red. Britain is bankrupt and America won't keep on being the bank of endless grants.' Mark shook his head, sighed and went on. ‘When the British government's economist, that guy Keynes, first came to Washington, cap in hand, he talked about justice and honour, about what Britain had done for America. I guess your government boys hadn't grasped that we believed we'd done more than enough in return. Britain asked for money – but any US response to the appeal for help doesn't have a darn thing to do with loyalty or honour. To America it's just business. Big business. Plain and simple dollars going out, then coming right back to us over time and with a mountain of interest on top. I'll cross my fingers that Britain gets the loan, but the terms will be brutal.'
Yet Mark Scott had left for Washington with a thread of optimism that negotiations would result in assistance for Britain, even at great financial cost. Maisie was sure he would telephone as soon as possible, and even though the details would not be divulged, she would know from his voice if the talks were going in the right direction.
On Monday morning, after dropping Anna at the bus stop, where she ran to join her schoolfriends with only a flap of the hand as she looked back, Maisie set off again. However, as she was driving through Chelstone, she saw Sandra – her secretary who now came to the office in Fitzroy Square only once a week to catch up with administration. When the Luftwaffe bombing of Britain's cities began, Maisie had helped Sandra and her husband, Lawrence, secure a cottage in the village, part of her quest to make sure all those she loved were safer than they might be in London. Early in their marriage, Sandra and Lawrence had rented Maisie's Pimlico flat. 200
‘Sandra!' Maisie wound down the window and called out as she drew to a halt alongside the woman who, like herself, had once worked as a maid at the Ebury Place mansion, though Sandra, too, had pulled away from the outcome her station in life predicted.
‘Hello!' said Sandra, leaning down to speak to Maisie. ‘I've just taken Martin to school. Lawrence is in London today, so I've some time to myself. I mean, I've a bit of typing to do for him, and I'll be reading through a few submissions to his magazine, but otherwise – I'm a free woman!'
‘Sandra, I've just had an idea – would you like to give me a hand today?'
‘You're working on a case?'
‘If you've a few hours, I could use your help – you'll be back in time to collect Martin from school and get your work done.' Maisie smiled. ‘Usual rates apply.'
Sandra laughed and walked around the motor car to settle into the passenger seat.
‘So, where are we going?'
‘Hallarden – you know, not far from Paddock Wood.'
‘Anything interesting?'
‘A murder – possibly a planned assassination.'
‘What do you want me to do?'
‘I'll tell you about it on the way. It's something you're good at – talking to people in the town. Finding out a few things.'
‘Oh yes, I'm good at that.' She took a notepad from her shoulder bag. ‘See, I come prepared for any eventuality! Right, fire away.'
Having dropped Sandra close to the village shop and given her directions to the garage and the small office that was home to the Hallarden Enquirer newspaper – a monthly roundup of local news 201and events – Maisie went on her way towards Sandstone Avenue. Once again she drove along the road under a canopy of trees. Only a week or so ago, she had noticed the leaves were hanging on as if they feared falling – a sure sign of a hard winter ahead. Now the tenacious brown, gold and red foliage was heaped up along the avenue and the street sweeper was hard at work, wielding his broom and shovelling leaves into the cart he would push down one side of the street, and then the other, back and forth before he set off to walk to the town compost heap, where he would empty the load before making his way towards another street filled with autumn's fallen colours. Maisie decided the man might have seen a few things in his time, so she dusted off her original story for being in the area.
She pulled up alongside the sweeper and wound down the window. ‘Good morning. My goodness, you've got your work cut out for you today.'
He touched his cap and nodded. ‘Them leaves took their time letting go, and then all fell at once – that wind we had a couple of nights ago brought them down. It'll be a bitter winter ahead, mark my words.'
‘Exactly what my father said.' She paused. ‘Anyway, I'm interested in a house along here – you might be able to help me. It's the big house at the end – I understood it was for sale.'
The man leant on his broom and pushed back his cap. ‘News spread fast and you're not even from around here.'
‘I'm not sure I understand. I thought I saw a "For Sale" sign.'
‘Oh yes, you did. Sorry, madam. Yes, that's the house next door to the big one.'
‘I see – but am I to understand the larger house is indeed for sale? 202Your comment made it seem so – has it only just come on the market?'
The street sweeper looked both ways, as if there were someone lurking nearby who might hear him. ‘Word went around that the owner of the big house has gone – passed on. Found dead by one of the staff, right outside the kitchen door.' He looked down the street and back towards Maisie. ‘I've heard talk that there's a cousin who'll inherit the lot. Apparently he's a relative who went out to Australia years ago, and hadn't been able to get over here for a long time on account of wounds from Gallipoli in the first war, and then this war stopped him sailing over.'
‘Oh, how terrible – and what a shock.'
The man shrugged. ‘I daresay you'll see the manor up for sale soon enough. I thought you'd heard something about it and wanted to get a foot in the door before anyone else.'
‘It's too big and I am sure it will be too pricey for me, but I'm interested in houses and I was looking on behalf of a friend.'
‘The gardener and the chauffeur are down there now, so you could have a word with them.'
‘They must be very upset, if their employer has died.'
‘I don't know about that,' replied the street sweeper. ‘There wasn't much love lost there.'
‘Really?'
‘Anyway, none of my business, is it? I'd better get on,' said the man, at once reminding Maisie of a snail gathering himself back inside his shell. ‘This street won't sweep itself and the sort of people here get a bit nasty if they think I'm slacking. They'll see one leaf left behind and the next thing you know, they're on to the council. It's a wonder they don't have me up in the trees picking off the dead ones before they fall.' 203
‘I know the sort.' Maisie smiled. ‘Thank you, sir.'
The man touched his cap once more as Maisie waved and set off towards the home of the deceased Jonathan Hawkin-Price. There wasn't much love lost there.
Maisie did not proceed along the drive towards the Hawkin-Price mansion, but instead parked under a tree on the avenue in an area where the sweeper had already been through – she did not want to incur his wrath by getting in the way of his cart. The small side gate was unlocked, so she entered, and as she began walking towards the property, she saw the chauffeur and gardener in discussion at the side of the house – the very place where she had tumbled out of the kitchen, and where the body of Jonathan Hawkin-Price had been discovered.
‘Good morning to you!' Maisie waved to the two men as she approached, glad she had worn her stout walking shoes, along with a woollen skirt with kick pleats for ease of movement.
Both men looked up, then at each other.
‘Morning,' they replied in unison.
‘We met before – when I made a mistake about which house on the avenue was for sale.'
‘I remember,' said the gardener.
‘It's Mr Chalmers and Mr King, isn't it?'
The men nodded.
Maisie knew she had to tread with care, so she lowered her head just a little, almost as if she were preparing to say a prayer. ‘I was in the village when I heard the terrible news. I was so sorry to learn about the passing of your employer – you must be so deeply affected by his death.' 204
There was no immediate response, though Maisie thought she saw the merest shrug from the gardener, Chalmers, as he exchanged glances with the chauffeur.
‘Rotten way to go,' said King. ‘Terrible. It was Mr Chalmers here who found him.'
‘So I heard. What a shock for you.'
‘It certainly was,' said Chalmers.
‘And I seem to remember you had been away for a few days beforehand – what an unfortunate situation. I understand the poor man took his own life.'
There was no response, though the chauffeur stepped towards Maisie.
‘Can we help you, madam? Funny, you coming back again, seeing as you said the house would be too much for your pocket, and we don't even know when it will go up for sale.'
Maisie nodded, quick with her response. ‘I'm enquiring on behalf of a friend – someone very well-heeled, I must say. The family would like to remain … would like their interest to remain confidential at the present time, so I'm on a mission to find out who might be representing a sale of the property.'
The men exchanged glances again. ‘Probably old Masters in the town, unless it's a big firm up there in London,' said King. ‘Nothing's been said to us about it, though we've been told we're to stay on for the time being, you know, keep the place in order. There's apparently a relative in Australia, but it all depends on the will.'
Maisie did not want to ask who had informed them of their continued employment, so took another tack. ‘Of course. And you say Mr Masters in the town is handling the sale of the property, when the time comes?' 205
‘Like he said, solicitor named Mr Masters looks after estate matters, so it's likely him, unless it turns out to be a London firm,' said Chalmers. ‘We don't know. Anyway, Masters and Kirby, the firm's called. Solicitors. Along the High Street, on the other side of Hallarden. Tricky to find – it's above the Westminster Bank, entrance at the side. You wouldn't know it was there unless you already had an appointment, and by all accounts you won't get past their secretary without one, so I doubt you'll be able to just swan in to show them the colour of your money. Or your friend's money. But like we said, it's nothing to do with the likes of us.'
‘Yes, I understand. Thank you, you've been most generous with your time.' Maisie smiled, knowing ‘generous' was something of an exaggeration, but mention of a Mr Kirby had rendered the visit all the more valuable.
Both men touched their caps by way of acknowledging her departure, yet as she was about to turn, she looked at one then the other, making sure her eyes met theirs. ‘I'm sorry – there is one more thing, if you don't mind.' She registered the seconds of fear betrayed in the way they regarded her. ‘I was passing by the war memorial the other day and stopped to talk to the stonemason who is working on adding names to the memorial … lest we forget.' She looked down, showing a mark of respect for the dead, then back to the unblinking stares of the two men. ‘I was a nurse, you see, in the last war – I served in France, so I … I like to pay my respects. I had a chat with the mason. Lovely man, isn't he? That's how I know you both lost a son. I wanted to say I am so sorry for your loss, both of you.'
‘They were mates,' said King. ‘From the time they were littl'uns.'
‘Our boys looked out for one another,' added Chalmers, looking 206up at the taller man and leaning towards him, almost as if there was a comfort in their shared loss.
‘So I was told,' said Maisie. ‘The mason said he'd had a chat when you came to visit.'
There was no reply, so Maisie sighed. ‘Mr King. Mr Chalmers.' She looked from one to the other. ‘I know I shouldn't have jumped at the opportunity to walk around the house when I came upon the unlocked door, but I went upstairs to see how many rooms were there – and I ventured into the study to find out what the view would be like from that room. That's when I saw the photographs, and I confess I was rather shocked to note the kind of people your employer counted among his friends.' She took a deep breath. ‘All I will say is – it must have been troubling for you, knowing the sort of men Jonathan Hawkin-Price consorted with.'
Chalmers seemed ready to anger, but King touched him on the arm. A few seconds passed, during which Maisie did not turn from the men.
‘You're right, madam, you weren't supposed to be in there – you were trespassing, and that door was meant to be locked anyway.' Maisie felt King's stare intensify, but did not step back. ‘Looks can be deceiving,' he went on. ‘Mr Hawkin-Price was a good guv'nor. He paid us well and on time. And we've both got roofs over our heads – for now, anyway, and it wouldn't surprise me if we're provided for in his will. All that matters to us and our families now is getting through every single day. We lost our boys and our grief will last until they put us in the soil. Nothing can bring them back. That's what it amounts to.'
‘You're right, of course – and as I said, I am so sorry your families have had to endure such loss.' She paused, once again looking from 207one man to the other. ‘I'll go into the town now. I'd like to talk to Messrs. Masters and Kirby about the house. Thank you.'
‘Probably should have told you – the office is closed for a week. Happen to know that,' said the chauffeur.
Maisie smiled. ‘You've saved me the trouble – thank you. I'll return next week. Good day to you.'
She began walking away but looked back once, in time to see Chalmers proceed towards a series of flower beds and the chauffeur depart in the direction of the garages. Like many a gardener before him, the years of bending over plants, pressing a shovel into hard earth, pushing lawn mowers and rollers and stretching up and leaning down for the pruning of difficult-to-reach shrubs had all taken a toll upon Mr Chalmers's spine. Or perhaps sorrow had weighed upon him, so he walked with a stoop as he ministered to the gardens he tended for his now dead Nazi-sympathiser employer.