An Incomplete Revenge

  NINE

  Frankie Dobbs was not at home when Maisie arrived at Chelstone, so, after settling her bag into her old room, she dressed in worn corduroy trousers, a pair of stout walking shoes, a white shirt that had seen better days, and carried an aging cardigan, along with her umbrella. Rain at this time of year tended not to be the cold drops that fell needle-like on the skin in winter but a warmer shower, what her father called a clearing rain to take the edge off an end-of-summer humidity.

  Frankie was exactly where she thought he might be: in the stable yard, walking a mare and her foal back into their stall. The mare seemed to lean toward Frankie, while her foal followed, keen not to lose sight of his mother. Maisie loved to watch her father with his charges: the precision of his movements when he was working, the way he used different brushes, the flat of his hand, and a scarf-sized scrap of velvet to bring a gleam to the most mud-encrusted coat. Horses would lift their feet willingly to be picked clean, and Frankie rarely had to raise his voice, except perhaps to a mischievous colt feeling his oats. And that one reprimand was all that was needed when Frankie Dobbs laid down the law.

  As soon as the mare was stabled, Maisie called out and walked toward her father. “Can I help?” She reached forward to kiss his stubbled cheek and looked around the yard. “Jester is still out. I take it James Compton is hacking.”

  Frankie nodded. “Should be back any minute, if he knows what’s good for the horse. That sun goes down fast this time of the year, and what with all his time over there in Canada he forgets.” At that moment, the sound of a horse’s hooves, echoing like slow castanets, clattered across the cobblestones. “Talk of the devil.” Frankie winked at Maisie.

  Unlike Sandermere’s horse, Jester had been given a cooling walk before being brought into the stable yard. Standing tall at the withers, the horse was a prize hunter, and James was ensuring the gelding’s fitness for the coming hunt season, for which he had decided he might remain in the country.

  “Nice ride, sir?” Frankie took hold of the reins and, out of habit, held his hand to Jester’s nose, to feel his breathing, and then to his flank. “He’s doing well, this one. Stamina good?”

  “Didn’t show any signs of fatigue, so I think you’ve got the feed just right, Dobbs. I’m amazed how he’s come along since I was last at Chelstone.” James dismounted and reached into his pocket for a sugar cube, which he held out on the flat of his hand for the horse to take. “Maisie, can’t say I’m surprised to see you here. Do you want to see me?”

  “Yes, I do.” She paused, as Frankie led the horse away to his stall. “Would it suit you if I helped my father here for a while? Then we can speak when you’ve had a chance to change.”

  James looked down at his hacking jacket, breeches and boots, all splattered with a dusty mud kicked up by fresh rain and sandlike topsoil. “Not a bad idea. Come over to the house at seven. I am sure my mother would like to see you.”

  Maisie nodded accordance, while James turned and walked across the yard toward the manor house. Frankie was using a damp cloth to clean the horse, then brushes and a soft towel. Maisie picked up a cloth and worked on the opposite flank. The horse turned to nuzzle her while she worked, and she gave him a playful tap on the nose as she brushed.

  “It still makes you feel a bit odd, me going up to the house, walking in the front door, and sitting down with the Comptons, doesn’t it, Dad?”

  Frankie sighed. “Can’t say as it sits well. Makes me wonder about my station, though I should be used to it by now, what with all they’ve done for you and, on the other hand, what you’ve done for them. Thinks the world of you, does Her Ladyship.”

  “And she’ll never forget that you saved her hunters in the war, Dad. Look how you’ve advised her on breeding racehorses. You’re not the head groom here so much as her racehorse expert, and she knows it.”

  Frankie looked up from his work. “Well, like you said yourself, it still makes me feel a bit odd. I’m best when everyone knows where they stand. Reckon most folk are like that, even if you’re able to do things differently.”

  Maisie said nothing, and soon her father stood back, rubbed his hand down the horse’s neck, and said, “Now then, mate, I’ll get your bucket and you’re done for the day.”

  FRANKIE, LIKE MOST of those who work on the land, had his tea as soon as he could eat after the day’s work was done. And, like the gypsies and those who picked the hops, tea was a hearty meal with meat and vegetables, a repast cooked to replenish energy stores for another day of toil ahead. After sharing her father’s evening meal, Maisie walked across the lawns to the back entrance of Chelstone Manor. There was no reason why she could not use the front door, for her position as a professional woman had given her the confidence and leave to make her entrance in an appropriate fashion. However, she enjoyed seeing old friends and the place where she once worked herself—though that was in her salad days when she was green and young, like a sapling that can be bent and twisted to all manner of shapes. It had taken years to find a mold that was her own. Indeed, she felt as if she were bending and twisting again, finding some truth to who she was before the juice ran from the branch and she was finally formed.

  Mrs. Crawford, who had been cook when Maisie first came to work for the Compton family, was now retired, but the butler, Carter, was still a prominent member of the household staff, though likely to leave his employer soon, for he was finally showing his age. The once-stalwart bearing now seemed burdened, the sergeant-major shoulders less able to fill his tailored jacket, and he had to lean forward and cup his hand to an ear when spoken to. Maisie knew Lady Rowan would never give him notice, for the woman who once would provoke an argument at a supper party, just to wake everyone up, had come to dislike change, feeling more comfortable with the status quo.

  “Maisie Dobbs! The stranger returns!” Carter came toward her and took both her hands in his own.

  “Mr. Carter, it’s lovely to see you. Sorry I’ve not been in to visit you, but each time I’ve come down to see my father, I’ve barely had the time.”

  He shook his head. “I still look at you and see that young girl who almost cost me my job.” He turned to the new cook, a thin woman who had none of Mrs. Crawford’s ample welcoming folds that had comforted Maisie when she returned from war, wounded and spent. “Reading in the library at two in the morning, she was—and caught by Her Ladyship,” he continued, looking now at Maisie. “But it turned out alright, didn’t it?”

  Maisie laughed and looked at her watch. “I’ve a few minutes before I have to go upstairs to see Master James, so I’ll have a cup of tea, if the kettle’s on.” James Compton was still known as Master James to the older staff at Chelstone Manor. The protocol appropriate for his position in childhood had been extended by his father when, years before and on the cusp of manhood, James had demonstrated particularly juvenile behavior. His father at once decreed that he should be known by his boyhood nomenclature until further notice. Maisie thought that James Compton, though wounded in the war, and now an accomplished businessman, still earned the title Master on occasion.

  The cook nodded to Carter and turned to the stove, and in the meantime staff came through the kitchen to greet Maisie. When the tea was ready, Carter invited her to join him in his office—a small room adjacent to his quarters—where the tea tray was set between them, and Maisie poured.

  “I still can’t get over how well you’ve done, Maisie. I suppose I should call you Miss Dobbs and be very proper.”

  “No, you shouldn’t, Mr. Carter.” She handed him a cup of tea, then thought to ask a question. “Mr. Carter, I wonder, do you know anything about Heronsdene? You’ve lived here for years now, and even before that, before the household moved to Kent, you were here on and off throughout the year, weren’t you?”

  “I should say that Mrs. Crawford would have been the one to answer that question. She knew more about the village. I was completely taken up with the estate and with the comings and goings of the house, generally over
seeing—well, you know my job. But Mrs. Crawford knew who was who on account of having to order food for the estate. She only wanted the best suppliers, the ones who delivered when they said they would, with prices you couldn’t beat if you tried, and who could come up with a miracle if Her Ladyship suddenly decided to invite the Prime Minister for supper—which as you know, she does when she wants to have one of her political arguments, with everyone talking at odds across the table and all thinking they’re the only one who’s right.”

  Maisie frowned. “I’m just curious about the village, and I thought you might know something about it.”

  Carter shrugged. He’d been leaning forward to hear Maisie, but not having quite caught her words, he continued on. “She swore by the bakery there. Swore by it. Couldn’t say enough about Mr. Martin and his breads and pastries. Remember that cake, the one we had here for your leaving party when you went up to Cambridge? Mrs. Crawford ordered it ’specially. She said she couldn’t do any better herself, that the prices were good, and he never let her down.”

  “Jacob Martin?”

  “Yes.” He paused, stirring his still-untouched tea. “Then of course there was the tragedy, the Zeppelin—you would have been in France when it happened—and they were all gone.” Carter lifted his cup to his lips, then set it down, continuing to speak before Maisie could ask another question. “Terrible thing to say, but I reckon it was just as well the son was killed too, over there in France. Imagine having to come back and find all your family gone. Terrible. Terrible.”

  “There was a son?”

  Carter nodded. “Yes, he used to talk about his children to Mrs. Crawford, did Mr. Martin. Can’t say as I knew much myself.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door, which then opened to reveal James Compton. “Apologies for intruding on your domain, Carter, but I thought I would find Miss Dobbs here.” He looked at Maisie. “I’ve booked a telephone connection to Canada for half-past seven, so perhaps we can have that chat now. If I’m going to get my directors to talk to me, I had better be on time—Toronto’s a few hours behind us here in England, you know.”

  Maisie stood up. “Of course.” She turned to Carter. “Thank you very much for the tea, Mr. Carter. It was lovely to see you.”

  Leaving Carter’s belowstairs fiefdom, Maisie smiled when she heard the new cook complain. “I’ve never worked in such a house, where no one knows their place. First there’s a maid who’s come up in the world, with such a fine idea of herself she thinks she can just walk in here and march upstairs. Then there’s the Viscount, coming down here and looking for gingersnaps—gingersnaps! Coming into my kitchen without a by-your-leave and saying Mrs. Crawford always made them for him. Well, I’m not Mrs. Crawford and I don’t know if I can stick this. I like a position where people know their station and stay there.”

  Carter’s reply was simple. “Beg your pardon, Cook, didn’t quite hear you.”

  MAISIE FOLLOWED JAMES into the library a less grand room than the library at the now-mothballed London home of the Compton family at number 15 Ebury Place. The ceilings were lower, and the room had a warmer, more welcoming sense to it, though the tomes held within were no less impressive, especially as many had been transferred from the London home.

  James motioned to a chair adjacent to a mahogany secretaire, while he sat down in front of the pulled-down writing surface that was laden with full-to-overflowing folders. “Sorry about this.” He waved his hand across the pile of work, tipped in the chair, and balanced it on its two back legs. As he spoke to Maisie, he tilted forward to grab a manila folder, then teetered back again.

  The motion interested Maisie, for it suggested a familiarity with imbalance, a comfort when the status quo was just out of reach, or a propensity to create such a lack of stability. She had come across such a trait before in men of commerce and thought it akin to generating a constant wager, wherein the thrill of the chase, the tumult of a less than smooth business deal, was more compelling than an effortless negotiation.

  He spoke again, interrupting Maisie’s thoughts. “I am anxious to close this deal in about ten days. Perhaps you can bring me up to date with your progress—and I take it you have some questions for me.”

  Maisie recounted details of her investigation into the issues of vandalism and crime in Heronsdene and suggested that indications as to the source of the troubling acts were both close at hand and, at the same time, hidden from view. She added that she was confident that she would get to the root of the problem in the time allotted.

  “However,” added Maisie, “as you said, I do have some questions for you.”

  “Go on.” James tilted the chair back and forth within a narrow margin of error, outside of which the chair would most certainly have crashed backward or fallen forward.

  “The first is an issue of insurance. Sandermere is insured, as one might expect, by Lloyds, but looking at the stables, it would seem to me that repairs to the standard required by the terms of a compensatory payment have not been met. Are you aware of this?”

  James held the edge of the desk, then reached for a file, coming back to his teetering position while he flicked through a few pages. “When our surveyors visited the estate, Sandermere’s insurers had already given him permission to begin repairs, which were expected to commence within a couple of days. They should have been completed by now.”

  “I have yet to visit the brickworks,” said Maisie, “but as far as the stable block is concerned, virtually nothing has been done and there are tarpaulins spread to keep out the rain. Fortunately, there has been little in the way of inclement weather in the past month or so, but I would imagine that’s about to change.”

  James nodded. “Of course, the stables will remain in Sander-mere’s possession. The boundary of sale, as I explained before, extends from the immediate gardens and what we would call domestic outbuildings, to the perimeter of the mapped estate.”

  “But surely you do not want any ambiguity in the final transaction, which may occur if questions remain regarding the integrity of Sandermere’s dealings with his insurers.”

  James reached for a pen. “Good point.”

  “Also, James, I have another question that is outside the purview of my work with you but about which I would like to have some clarity in any case.”

  “Yes?”

  “I completely understand the need for, as you said, a clean sale. Yet is it not also true that the estate’s compromised reputation, along with that of the village, renders the selling price even more negotiable than before?” She inclined her head. “Don’t you have more bargaining power, in consideration of events at the Sandermere estate and in Heronsdene?”

  James tilted his chair forward, almost but not quite to the floor. “Yes, that’s true, to a point. But it’s not something we would set out to do.”

  Maisie deliberately relaxed her shoulders and allowed her hands to rest in her lap, crossing one leg over the other as she did so. “No, I wasn’t suggesting you would. I have undertaken work for the Compton Corporation before, and understand the integrity inherent in your procedures. However, you will negotiate a lower selling price, won’t you?”

  James paused. “Of course. I’m a businessman, and even though we will not court controversy, there is an opportunity here for a revised deal to be brokered.”

  Maisie nodded. “Yes, I thought so.”

  “Does your question pertain directly to the brief?”

  Maisie leaned forward. “In a way it does. If I am to reach any conclusions, or present a comprehensive report, I must understand the nature of the relationship between the Compton Corporation, your representatives, and the Sandermere estate. Your answers have simply raised more questions in my mind about Sander-mere’s actions.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Maisie sighed. “In military terms, James, I have a sense that he is in the process of shooting himself in the foot.”

  “Good for us!”

  Maisie stood up. “Ah, not i
f you want that clean sale, it isn’t—and certainly not in the period of time you’d like.” She held out her hand to James. “I will be in touch. In the meantime, it’s a bit late to see Lady Rowan now, I expect she’s with Lord Julian in the drawing room, sipping sherry.” She stepped forward, placing her hand on the back of James Compton’s chair. “You know, you really must be careful, James, you’ll come a cropper if you keep teetering back and forth.” She smiled. “Don’t summon Carter. I’ll see myself out.”

  DEEP IN THOUGHT, Maisie meandered slowly back to the Groom’s Cottage, her father’s home. Carter’s knowledge of the dead Martin family in Heronsdene had piqued her interest, not least because of the tragic consequences the war had laid upon them. An entire family wiped out by conflict, three at home, one overseas. Yes, perhaps it was a blessing the son was lost. She imagined how it might have been had she returned from France, with her wounds as they were, only to find herself orphaned. Just the thought brought tears to her eyes, and she ran to the cottage, colliding with her father, who had just walked out into the night to collect wood for the fire.

  “What’s all this, what’s all this, Maisie?” asked Frankie, as she enveloped herself in her father’s embrace. “What’s happened to upset you so, love?”

  “Nothing, Dad. I was just thinking, that’s all.”

  “Well, you’re home now, so you can stop that—I never did hold with too much thinking. Now then, help me with some wood. The nights are beginning to blow up a bit chilly, ’specially with this rain coming out of nowhere. A nice fire will set you right, you’ll see.”