Read Online An Incomplete Revenge by Jacqueline Winspear - Free Book Online

realized the old woman had been watching as the visitor took the measure of her son, and it was clear in her narrowed gypsy eyes that she had seen the conclusion the investigator had reached.
    “You here about them gorja boys, from up there.” It was a statement put to Maisie with a wave of the hand in the broad direction of London.
    Maisie nodded. “That’s one of the reasons, yes.”
    “We di’n ’ave nothin’ t’do with it.” Beulah took a mouthful of tea and winced as she swallowed the scalding liquid.
    “Do you think the London boys did it?”
    Beulah looked into the fire. “Not my place t’say. What they do is their business, what we do is ours.”
    “Your son was seen close to the house on the day of the burglary. Did he see anything?”
    “Not my place.” She nodded toward Webb, who was splitting logs with an axe. Two other men with him sawed trees that the wind had blown down last winter, wood that would crackle and burn easily, seasoned by nature and a hot summer. “Talk to ’im if you like.”
    Webb looked up from his work at just that moment, and Beulah beckoned to him. “The rawni —woman—wants to talk to you, Webb.”
    Without first putting down the axe, and with just a few easy steps, Webb came to stand in front of Maisie. Instinct instructed her to come to her feet, for in height she was almost a match for the matriarch’s son and she would not be unsettled by him. Her own eyes of the deepest blue could flash a look as intimidating as any glance in her direction.
    “Mr. Webb, I am looking into the burglary at the Sandermere house on behalf of the parents of the boys who stand accused ofthe crime. Though it appears there is more than enough evidence to charge them, I understand that you were in the area of the estate and might have seen what happened.”
    The man did not move, either to shake his head or nod in accordance with her supposition. He stared for every second of one minute before responding. Maisie did not break connection with his stare, nor did she add any comment to encourage him to speak. Eventually, he chewed the inside of his lip, then began.
    “I didn’t see anything. I was just walking along, with the dog.” His voice was unlike his mother’s, lacking the rough guttural low-gypsy dialect.
    “He bin to school.” Beulah’s voice caused Maisie to turn, as the woman deflected her thoughts with an unsolicited explanation. “Learned your words, he did. And Webb can write. He does our letters, our doc’ments, and reads for us, so we ain’t ignorant of what’s said and what’s been writ.”
    “A useful man to have in the tribe, eh, Aunt Beulah?” Maisie smiled, then turned back to Webb. “Do you think the boys did it? Do you think they broke into the house, stole the silver, and made off with it?”
    Again Webb waited, steady with his reply. “Lads are from the streets of London. They’re not stupid, even if they are boys. If they did what the police said, they wouldn’t’ve been caught. Boys like that are light on their feet. I remember when I was that age. I was quick. Had to be.” Then he turned and walked back to his task—set a large log on top of another, raised the axe high above his head, and swung it down with force, so that the splitting of wood in one fell swoop echoed throughout the forest.
    Beulah sipped her tea, elbows resting on knees set wide as she watched her son in silence. Then she turned to Maisie.
    “You from up there?” Again she nodded in the broad direction of London.
    “Born and bred.”
    The woman smiled. “Born but not bred, girl.”
    Maisie said nothing but looked into the fire, now a heap of blazing wood where there had been sleepy embers just this afternoon.
    “Which side, your mother’s?”
    Maisie nodded.
    “But not your mother.”
    “My grandmother. She was of the water folk. Her family had a narrow boat which, once, they brought into the Pool of London. My granddad was a lighterman, a youngish man, I think, though