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are a funny lot, make no mistake. And it’s not as if I’m a stranger to this sort of goings-on, but these people are anotherthing altogether. The ones out ’ere pickin’ are sayin’ they didn’t see anything, but are pointin’ the finger at us anyway and at the same time sayin’ they don’t want the filthy pikeys on the farm neither.”
    “Sounds like rather a mess to me, and not helped by a lot of unrest among the warring tribes, so to speak.”
    “You’d’ve thought we got over that when the Vikings left.” He paused. “And it’s worse than you think, Miss. These boys could be sent down for a year or more. That Sandermere bloke is askin’ for the maximum penalty—as an example, so ’e says. And the man also said there’ve been threats sent to ’im, so the police’ve been crawling all over the place. I think you should come down, Miss. There’s no one to look out for these lads—only youngsters they are, too young to weather bein’ put away. I know their families, they’re good people, and they put in a good day’s work every day for the sake of their own. You’ve got the right words, if you know what I mean. You can talk to solicitors and the police, help speak up for the lads—and you’re a Londoner. You’ll be trusted.”
    Maisie sighed. She’d hoped the investigation for James Compton might be easier than this, but as it stood there were complications before the ink was dry on the contract. She reflected on the fact that, in her work, the seemingly straightforward cases were often anything but. “Alright, I’ll drive down tomorrow morning, straight to the farm. I can stay with my father at Chelstone for a few nights. It should only take me about three quarters of an hour to get there from Heronsdene.”
    The call ended. Maisie replaced the receiver and returned to her cushion. She decided that, on her way out of London tomorrow morning, she would leave a note for Priscilla at the Dorchester’s reception desk, apologizing for her outburst. And she would also pen something to Margaret Lynch, though she would take care with the composing of such a letter. Having made her plans, she closed her eyes, and an image of her grandmother came to mind, as it had during the conversation with Billy. She remembered her motherlaughing as her father lifted her from the horse-drawn cart that brought them from the station to her grandparents’ cottage alongside the lock. Her grandmother’s gray hair, which was once as jet as her own and her mother’s hair, was drawn back in a long braid. And though her clothes were much like those of other women of the time, she wore rings of gold in her ears, rings that Maisie’s fingers sought out as soon as she was swept into her grandmother’s arms, always to the same refrain: “Oh, my boosul girl, my boosul little girl, come to see the old old aunt.”

THREE
    Maisie loved driving, loved the feel of the wind in her hair when the weather was sufficiently fine to draw back the MG’s roof, as it was today. There might be a nip of autumn on the breeze first thing in the morning, but the days were balmy, a pleasant warmth with a low sun in the sky that glinted across newly harvested fields as she made her way toward Heronsdene.
    Taking the road from Tunbridge Wells to Lamberhurst, she turned at the sign for Heronsdene and slowed to a crawl when she came to the village, the road flanked by a variety of architecture, from medieval cottages to terraced houses built in Victoria’s reign. On her left, the beamed exterior of the local inn looked warm and inviting, and farther along to the right a Norman church stood buffeted by the wind as it whipped up the hill from Horsmonden. There was an assortment of small shops, a butcher, a general store, a hardware shop, and—in the middle of the street close to the church—a war memorial. The road had been divided and rerouted to accommodate this monument, erected to honor the men and boys of the village who lost their lives