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in the years 1914-1918.
    To the left, there was a gap at the end of a row of detached buildings where Maisie might have expected to see another house, or even a shop, but the area was overgrown with weeds and a few clumps of Michaelmas daisies. The daisies were abundant at this time of year, growing along railway lines and on waste ground, and they brought color to an otherwise dull corner of the village. The road intersected here, with a sign to Dickon’s Farm indicating a turn to the left.
    Maisie swung the car in the direction of the farm, passing freshly picked hop-gardens on her right. The overhead lines from which strings had been woven in spring, up and down, up and down, for the young hops to grow into fully fledged bines, were empty now, with perhaps a lone sprig of hops left high on the wire. Piles of spent bines lay in heaps, the pickers having moved on to the next hop-garden.
    Pulling into the farm, Maisie parked the motor car off to the side of the rough road and went ahead on foot. The last thing she wanted was an expensive repair to the underbelly of her beloved MG. She’d prepared for such an outing, wearing a walking skirt of heavy linen with kick pleats front and back, a pair of stout shoes, and a cotton blouse the color of nutmeg. She carried a knapsack in which she’d packed sandwiches, a cardigan, a wedge of index cards tied with string, and a notebook and pen. She’d tucked a small drawstring pouch containing some tiny tools into the front compartment of her knapsack, and her Victorinox knife was nestled in the pocket of her skirt.
    She walked on along the sandy farm road, stopping when she came to the oast house. A trailer of filled-to-the-brim hop-pokes was being unloaded, carried in one by one for the hops to be dried in the kiln before being packed in pokes once again and sent to the breweries. The “reek”—a pungent aroma of fresh and drying hops mixed with sulfur—filled the air, and Maisie watched for a few minutes before calling to one of the men.
    “Excuse me, but can you direct me to the hop-gardens being picked now?”
    The man stretched his back as he answered, taking off his flat cap and wiping his brow with a hop-stained handkerchief. “They’re in Railway and Folly—all the hop-gardens have names. Railway runs alongside the railway lines, as you might have thought. Follow this road on for another half a mile, walk through the unpicked garden on your left, and you’ll find it. Folly is on the other side of this road. Pass two hop-gardens on your right, and it’s the third one you come to.” He replaced his cap while taking her measure as he continued. “Looking for anyone in partic’lar?”
    “Yes, I am, Mr. and Mrs. Beale and their family—Billy Beale.”
    “Fair-headed going on ginger? Got a bit of a gammy leg?”
    “That’s him.”
    “Railway. He’s working there with some other Londoners at the top. Gyppos are at the bottom working their way up, so mind where you go.”
    Maisie was about to speak but, reflecting upon yesterday’s meeting with Priscilla, thought better of it, adding, “I have nothing to fear—and thank you. I am sure I shall find Mr. and Mrs. Beale with no trouble at all.”
    The man shrugged and shook his head as she walked on, raising her face to the sun to feel the soft warmth on her skin. The hop-garden named for the railway was easy to locate, helped, in this instance, by a train passing. Puffs of coal-laced steam bursting up through the trees provided a marker for Maisie to follow, and soon she was walking along a row of hop-pickers, whole families gathered around a stretcher-length bin made of wood and sacking that could be moved on as they picked. Normally, she would expect to hear laughter, the odd voice calling out, “What about this one?” and the sing-song that followed to pass the day.
    She remembered her father’s stories of his boyhood, often told as they sat next to the cast-iron kitchen stove on her afternoon offfrom work,