An Incomplete Revenge by Jacqueline Winspear

Author:Jacqueline Winspear [Winspear, Jacqueline]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Henry Holt and Company
Published: 2008-06-28T04:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

Maisie left Chelstone soon after Maurice’s housekeeper came to the cottage bearing an envelope for her, with a note from Maurice and the name of the luthier in Denmark Street who would, she hoped, be able to tell her more about the violin she had witnessed Webb playing with great skill.

The showers had abated, and morning once more held the pepper-and-herb fragrance that seemed to be ingrained in the breeze at hop-picking time. Verges alongside the road were still full of hogweed, showing off cream-colored fronds of tiny petals, interspersed with the delicate shepherd’s purse, its fragile heart-shaped leaves shimmering as the motor approached, as if to hide behind the last of summer’s pink common mallow. She had the road to herself, which offered an opportunity to plan her visit to Sandermere’s brickworks, her first stop.

According to James Compton’s notes, the foreman was Pete Bracegirdle, who had been employed at the works since he was twelve, starting as an apprentice. He was a master craftsman who could fashion any type of brick or tile and, before he became foreman, could turn out peg tiles—used in the repair of the many cottages built in medieval times—at a fair clip and with fewer breaks or seconds than any other artisan, making him a valuable worker. In addition to Bracegirdle, the brickworks employed some twenty-four men, a few of them apprentices.

Maisie drew the MG to a halt just inside the main gate to the works. In appearance, the factory itself looked more like a farm, with timber-framed outbuildings with tiled roofing, but minus the many smells and sounds of a farm. The entrance itself was not grand, a simple wooden five-bar gate of the type that might be found at the opening to a field of sheep or cattle. To the left, a sign, crooked and misspelled, pointed the way to the “Ofice.”

The door was open, and two men stood behind a dust- and paper-laden desk, poring over an order. At first they did not see her.

“They definitely said they wanted the bricks by the end of October, so if we get them to Paddock Wood by—”

“Good morning.”

Both men looked up, simultaneously wiping their hands on their mustard-colored workmanlike heavy cotton coats.

“I’m looking for Mr. Bracegirdle.”

The shorter worker thumbed toward the man holding the order, who tucked a pencil behind his right ear and set down the sheet on top of a pile of papers. “I’m Mr. Bracegirdle.” He was about to hold out his hand to greet her when he noticed the dirt ingrained in his palm. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Maisie shook her head. “That’s alright. Do you think you might be able to spare me ten or fifteen minutes of your time?”

Without inquiring as to the purpose of her visit, the foreman looked at his deputy, who touched his flat cap. “Right you are, Pete. I’ll get the boys working on that order.”

“I’ll come out to the kilns as soon as I’ve had a word with this lady, Bert.” He turned

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