“But at least we know she has a voice,” said Maisie to Brenda, following the children’s departure for school.
After a morning catching up with her work—speaking to Billy on the telephone and reviewing her notes from the previous day—Maisie set off on her way to Etchingham to see Rosemary Hartley-Davies. As she drove along country lanes and main roads, she was giving thought to how she would present her questions—the first regarding the intensity of reaction regarding the death of Albert Durant. The second concerning the appearance of a young Frederick Addens in a photograph. Of course, the role of the association was to settle refugees, so it could have been a case of offering them work on a local farm—she might have visited the men with the intention of obtaining a photograph for the records. Or it might have been a press photograph.
Upon arrival in the village, she once again drew up to park close to the verge outside the house, and walked back to the smaller gate leading to the paved path. A sturdy padlock now hung on the gate, along with a sign cautioning against trespass. Neither had been there the day before. She turned to walk along the road, but upon reaching the second entrance, found the double gates now also secured with a padlock and chain, and another sign warning interlopers not to venture any further. Both plaques appeared homemade, as if someone had painted the message on scrap wood. As she stepped back from the gates, she heard a bell ring behind her.
“Excuse me, madam,” said a young policeman, stepping from his bicycle.
“Constable—good afternoon.” She walked back onto the lane.
“May I ask your business here, madam?”
Maisie inclined her head. “My business, Constable?”
“This is private property.”
“I’m not on the property, Constable. As you can see, the gates are closed and locked.”
“Just checking, madam. Having to be careful, on account of an invasion.”
“Rightly so, Constable, but I don’t think one woman constitutes an invasion.” She smiled. “Anyway, is this your usual beat, or did you come here especially?”
“We received a report of strange activity in the area.”
“What sort of report?”
The constable blushed. “Well, I saw you drive into the village, and I thought I would have a word, just to make sure. You might have been lost.”
“I see. No, not lost, and I’ve not seen anything strange—except the gates closed. I have an appointment to see the occupant, and now I find there’s no means of gaining entry to the property. Have you seen these gates padlocked before?”
The constable frowned. “Can’t say as I have. But they’ve probably gone away.”
“You must know everyone in the village, Constable. Do you know the owner?”
“Now the thing is, madam, the owner isn’t the woman who lives here. The owner only rented it out.”
“She’s lived here a long time, though, I’m sure.”
He shook his head. “Oh, no—only a matter of six or so months, at the most. I reckon she came from London, or . . . I don’t know, to tell you the truth. It’s not as if anyone has to tell me, is it? But it’s often people from London who come down—they want a bit of the country, then find it’s too much country for them after all. Anyway, she could have come from anywhere, couldn’t she?” His pallor changed, as if blood had drained from his face. “I’d better go back to the station and report it—after all, we’ve just had war declared, and then this one ups and goes off, locking the gates after her. She might’ve been a spy—we’ve been told to be on the lookout, which is why I stopped to talk to you. We can’t be too careful.”
“Constable, might I make a suggestion? I think we should try to gain entry to this property.” Maisie looked at the double gates, and then at the padlock and chain. She moved to the right and inspected the hinges. “I think if we pull from here, just under this second hinge, we could lever the gate out enough to squeeze past the bushes—look, the hinges here are so rusty, they will probably give.”
“I don’t know about that, madam—breaking and entering.”
“But you’re a policeman—come on, give me a hand.”
The constable set his bicycle against the wall and, following Maisie’s lead, pulled back on the gate. Three times they put all available effort into creating enough space to enter the property, until at last, on the fourth try, the middle and bottom hinges gave way, and the gate moved back to form a triangular gap just wide enough for them to clamber through.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Maisie wiped her brow. “I’ve known worse.”
Reaching the house, she leaned towards the first window and cupped her hands around her eyes to better see within. Nothing appeared to be out of place.
“Anything in there?” Maisie asked of the constable, who was peering into the second window.
“Nothing.”