in the library, a library that had grown over the years—though it had seemed full to overflowing even in the days of her girlhood, when she would steal downstairs at night to read and read and read, in an effort to quench her thirst for learning. She knew this library like the back of her hand. She ran her fingers over the spines of books and soon found what she was looking for. It was a tea card book, a collection of palm-size cards from boxes of tea, pasted in by James Compton when he was just a boy. “Butterflies & Moths of the World” was inscribed in his childish handwriting. She flipped through until she reached the one she was looking for: The Camberwell Beauty. She had simply wanted to look at an image of the butterfly, curious, for she could not remember what it looked like. It wasn’t a butterfly often seen in Britain, let alone London. More accustomed to the climates of Asia and North America, it was the discovery of two of the butterflies in Coldharbour Lane in Camberwell in the mid-1700s that led to the local name. With soft wings of deep purplish red decorated with small blue dots and rimmed by a yellow border, the butterfly was at once elegant and mystical. Maisie felt her skin prickle when she read the more common name for the Camberwell Beauty: the Mourning Cloak. It was not a clue, not an element of great import to her investigation, but there was something in the picture before her that touched her heart. That something beautiful was so bold, yet at once so fragile.
Chapter Four
“I promise, I won’t be home quite so late this evening, Maisie.” James Compton cut into a slice of toast, spreading it liberally with butter and marmalade. “It was that meeting with Tom Hollingford, you know, the architect working on those houses we’re building in Bromley. It just went on and on, and at the end of the day, it was all about apple trees.”
Maisie placed her table napkin beside her plate and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. She wanted to leave for the office and prepare for the meeting with Usha Pramal’s brother. “Apple trees, James?”
“Well, you know the entire area was once apple orchards—all down to Henry the Eighth and his desire for an abundant supply of fresh fruit in days of yore. Anyway, what we are trying to do is retain at least one apple tree in each garden. Keep a bit of the past lurking in the present. And it’s proving to be a bit of a pain in the neck. Hollingford wants to just plough the whole lot in, though I believe we should keep as much as we can—it’s good for public opinion. We don’t want to be seen as a raze-and-build firm, and there are some very big contracts, here and overseas, that will come our way if we get it right. It’s always so much easier when permission to build goes through the local council without too much ado, and that’s more likely to happen if people are happy about what’s going in.”
Maisie stood up, leaned forward, and kissed James on the forehead. “Keep the apple trees. People will thank you for them.”
“Shade in summer and fruit in September,” said James.
“Yes,” said Maisie. “And a tree is always handy for tying one end of the washing line.”
James laughed. “I never thought of that.”
“No, James, you would never have thought of that. Now then, I must go. Stick to your guns, James.”
As she left the room, Maisie reached out and took an apple from the bowl on the sideboard buffet. “A cox’s orange pippin is so much nicer than apples from foreign parts,” she added, closing the door behind her.
“Mr. Pramal, you must be quite busy, with the various arrangements that have to be made. I didn’t think of that when I asked you to come back so soon.” Maisie held out her hand to the chair made ready for Pramal. She nodded to Billy and Sandra to join her; Pramal waited until the women were seated before taking his place.
“Finding the truth of my sister’s death is the most important thing I have to do at the moment,” said the man, his head bending forward as a mark of respect.
“May I ask what arrangements have been made for her . . . for her funeral?”