“What happened to Bertrand?”
“He died.” Again Leonard Peterson looked from Maisie to Billy. “And I don’t know how he died. I don’t even know if I got the name right. I was just on the—what would you call it? The edge of it all. But they were upset, I knew that.”
“Didn’t you get close, that first summer, when you worked on the farm? Weren’t you all living in huts?”
“Yeah, a lot of the hoppers had gone home, so we went into the huts. I sort of got on with them, but—as I said—they were tight. That woman was nice to us though—she might have something to say about them, after all, she worked for the association who got us sorted out, right at the beginning. Rosemary something or other—one of those double-barreled names that seem to mean people can wear tweeds. All very lah-di-dah.”
“I swear you could come out of Shoreditch, the way you’re talking,” said Billy.
Peterson shrugged. “She was all right—good to us.”
Maisie reached into her bag and took out the photograph taken by Clarice Littleton. “Is there anything you can tell me about this photograph?”
Peterson took the photograph and studied it. “The two women—Rosemary and her friend—they brought out flagons of lemonade for us, and sandwiches. I can’t remember how many people we had out there, helping out, but there was a fair queue for it. Then the other woman got out her camera, and took a snap or two.” He shook his head. “Yeah, we lined up, the four of us with that Rosemary, and then that little toe-rag squeezed in.”
“The boy?”
“I can’t remember his name—I don’t think I ever knew it, to be honest. Far as I remember, he’d lost his mum.” Peterson looked at Maisie. “You should speak to old Rosemary.”
Maisie held his stare. “I have spoken to her. It was just before she was murdered.”
Peterson shook his head and took a step. “I’m bleeding getting out of here. I’m going to get my bride, and we’re going away for a week or two. Dorset’s supposed to be nice.”
“Mr. Peterson, are you sure you don’t know anything more—anything you can tell us that might help us identify the killer?”
“I’m sure I don’t—but whoever’s doing the killing don’t know that, does he?” He began to walk back towards the cluster of hop pickers. “Mind you, could be a she, couldn’t it? That other woman, for a start, the one with the camera. They say a woman’s temper is worse than a man’s—and that’s another thing, Dorset is well away from my mother-in-law.”
Maisie and Billy watched as Peterson half ran towards his wife.
“He was a right one, wasn’t he?” said Billy.
“Not quite what I expected, I must say,” said Maisie. “What did you think of him?”
“He’s worked on that Cockney turn of phrase. Like one of them actor types.” He squinted towards Peterson in the distance, watching as the man pulled his wife aside and was now speaking close to her ear. “I can’t say as I trust him. All that losing his accent and sounding more like me than me—it’s another sort of disguise, innit, miss? As good as putting on a wig and face paint. And then there’s the business of changing his name. What’d he do that for? No need. If he really wanted to sound a bit more English, he could have called himself Luke Peters. And it’s not as if we found out much for our trouble, coming all this way.”
“I’m not too sure about that, Billy. I think he gave us some interesting information. Anyway, let’s get you to the station. I’ll drop you in Tonbridge,” she said as they walked away from the hop garden and turned onto the farm track. “Keep an eye on him, Billy. He’ll go to his rooms first—find out where he goes after that, and if his wife is still with him.”
“I was going to do that anyway.”
“I know.”
When they reached the motor car, Billy took the passenger seat, closed the door, and wound down the window, but Maisie stopped. “Give me five minutes, Billy. I just want to have a quick word with the farmer.”
“He didn’t seem like someone you could have a quick word with. Bit of a talker, one of them who likes to have a good moan about things, if you ask me.”
“Just five minutes, Billy. Then on to the station.”
As she walked towards the farmhouse, Maisie could feel Billy watching her. There was an item of business she wanted to discuss with the farmer, and it had nothing to do with Billy, and nothing to do with murder.
Chapter 15