An Incomplete Revenge by Jacqueline Winspear Page A

red heat and then grew dim, as if breathing their last before finally crumbling to ash.
    Logs had been cut and positioned around the fire, and a blackpot with long iron utensils had been pulled to one side. Remembering her dream, Maisie was not moved, nor did she feel fear, remaining in place while she considered the case, which had now developed into more than a simple fact-finding exercise for James Compton. Were the gypsies guilty of breaking into the Sandermere estate? How was the crime linked to other events, as described to her by James and also detailed in his notes? And what of Heronsdene, this place where people were so tight-knit they did not report damage to their property by fire? Yes, she would have to find a way to broach that subject, while at the same time acquiring an understanding of the people. More than anything, she wanted to know why driving through the village had caused her to shiver and the hair on her neck to bristle. Could it simply be a mood of dissent between the landowner and the village, or was it caused by the incoming workers from London and the gypsies?
    Maisie turned and shivered again, only this time she felt as if she were being watched. Looking around, she saw no one, so, throwing her knapsack over one shoulder, she moved without haste to the mouth of the clearing, to the sunlit field beyond the canopy of trees. As she stepped out, close to the single caravan set apart from the rest, she felt a clench around her free hand and looked down. A lurcher held Maisie in a viselike grip, yet the bitch had drawn her lips across her sharp teeth, as if she had chosen to do no harm, only to keep the interloper in place until her mistress returned. Maisie breathed in and out slowly, then spoke to the dog.
    “There’s a good girl. I’ll be no trouble to you. But if you’re to hold me hostage, then I want to sit down.”
    No growl issued from the dog, but her small, sharp, glistening eyes did not move from looking up, straight into the eyes of her catch. Maisie had recognized the dog to be a lurcher, the mongrel they called the dog of the gypsies, a first cross between a greyhound and a collie. It was a dog, they said, with the speed of the one and the canniness of the other. Lur , as she knew already, means thief in the ancient Romany language. And it was no good breeding two lurchers to get a litter either, for only that first cross produced the true lurcher—the gypsies knew their dogs and horses.
    The dog allowed Maisie to edge toward the steps of the lone caravan, where she sat to wait, using her free hand to take out her sandwiches. Of course, she could have used her knife or taken tools from the small pouch with an intention to wound the animal, but she knew that, however fast her reflexes, the dog would be faster—and the animal meant her no harm as long as she did not try to move farther. There was no escape to be had, which was likely just as well. She thought she might be expected here, in any case. Leaning back against the caravan door, Maisie lifted the sandwich to her lips to eat, and felt a single wet stream of drool issue from the lurcher’s jaws to trickle across her captured hand.
    IT MUST HAVE been when the dog released her grip that Maisie awoke. She did not start when her eyes met the eyes of the gypsy woman, standing with her long gray hair drawn back in a patterned scarf, hoop earrings, dark ridges of lines above and between her eyes, and ripples of skin where her cheeks had sagged with age. Instead, Maisie came to her feet and, looking down—for the woman just reached Maisie’s shoulder—she simply inclined her head and smiled.
    “My name is Maisie Dobbs, and I have come to see you.”
    The woman nodded and placed a wicker basket filled with freshly picked Michaelmas daisies on the ground. “They call me Beulah.” She looked Maisie up and down. “Get away from them steps so’s I can get to me vardo.” She turned to the other gypsy folk who had gathered around when