Birds of a Feather

Birds of a Feather

ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

Maisie Dobbs

Birds of a Feather

A Novel

JACQUELINE WINSPEAR

Copyright © 2004 by Jacqueline Winspear

All rights reserved.

Published by

Soho Press, Inc.

853 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Winspear, Jacqueline, 1955–

Birds of a feather / by Jacqueline Winspear.

p. cm.

ISBN 1-56947-368-4 (alk. paper)

1. Women private investigators—England—London—Fiction. 2. Young women—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. 4. Children of the rich—Fiction. 5. World War, 1914–1918—Fiction. 6. London (England)—Fiction. 7. Missing persons—Fiction.

I. Title.

PR6123.I575 B57 2004

823'.92—dc22 2003025732

Designed by Kathleen Lake, Neuwirth & Associates, Inc.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Kenneth Leech

1919–2002

During my childhood I was lucky to have Ken Leech as my teacher. In the years of my growing up and into adulthood, I was privileged to count him among my friends.

How will you fare, sonny, how will you fare

In the far off winter night

When you sit by the fire in the old man’s chair

And your neighbors talk of the fight?

Will you slink away, as it were from a blow,

Your old head shamed and bent?

Or say, “I was not the first to go,

But I went, thank God, I went”?—from the song “Fall In,” by Harold Begbie, 1914

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

Maisie Dobbs shuffled the papers on her desk into a neat pile and placed them in a plain manila folder. She took up green marble-patterned W.H. Smith fountain pen and inscribed the cover with the name of her new clients: Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Johnson, who were concerned that their son’s fiancée might have misled them regarding her past. It was the sort of case that was easily attended to, that would provide a useful reference, and that could be closed with presentation of a timely report and accompanying account for her services. But for Maisie the case notes would not be filed away until those whose lives were touched by her investigation had reached a certain peace with her findings, with themselves, and with one another—as far as that might be possible. As she wrote, a tendril of jet black hair tumbled down into her eyes. Sighing, she quickly pushed it back into the chignon at the nape of her neck. Suddenly, Maisie set her pen on the blotting pad, pulled the troublesome wisp of hair free so that it hung down again, and walked to the large mirror hanging on the wall above the fireplace. She unpinned her long hair and tucked it inside the collar of her white silk blouse, pulling out just an inch or so around her chin-line. Would shorter hair suit her?

“Perhaps Lady Rowan is right,” said Maisie to her reflection in the mirror. “Perhaps it would look better in a bob.”

She turned from side to side several times, and lifted her hair just slightly. Shorter hair might save a few minutes of precious time each morning, and it would no longer come free of the chignon and fall into her eyes. But one thing held her back. She lifted her hair and turned her head. Was the scar visible? Would shorter hair fall in such a way as to reveal the purple weal that etched a line from her neck into the sensitive flesh of her scalp? If her hair were cut, would she lean forward over her notes one day and unwittingly allow a client to see the damage inflicted by the German shell that had ripped into the casualty clearing station where she was working, in France, in 1917?

Looking at the room reflected in the mirror, Maisie considered how far she had come—not only from the dark dingy office in Warren Street that was all she had been able to afford just over a year ago, but from that first meeting with Maurice Blanche, her mentor and teacher, when she had been a maid in the household of Lord Julian Compton and his wife, Lady Rowan. It was Maurice and Lady Rowan who had noted Maisie’s intellect and ensured that she had every opportunity to pursue her hunger for education. They had made it possible for the former tweeny maid to gain admission to Girton College, Cambridge.

Maisie quickly pulled her hair into a neat chignon again, and as she pinned the twist into place, she glanced out of the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked Fitzroy Square. Her assistant, Billy Beale, had just turned in to the square and was crossing the rain-damp gray flagstones toward the office. Her scar began to throb. As she watched Billy, Maisie began to assume his posture. She moved toward the window with shoulders dropped, hands thrust into imaginary pockets, and her gait mimicking the awkwardness caused by Billy’s still-troublesome war wounds. Her disposition began to change, and she realized that the occasional malaise she had sensed several weeks ago was now a constant in Billy’s life.

As she looked down at him from what had once been the drawing room window of the Georgian building, he stretched the cuff of his overcoat over the palm of his hand and polished the brass nameplate informing visitors that the office of M. Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator, was situated within. Satisfied, Billy straightened, drew back his shoulders, stretched his spine, ran his fingers through his tousled shock of wheaten hair, and took out his key to the main door. Maisie watched as he corrected his posture. You can’t fool me, Billy Beale, she said to herself. The front door closed with a heavy thud, and the stairs creaked as Billy ascended to the office.

“Morning, Miss. I picked up the records you wanted.” Billy placed a plain brown envelope on Maisie’s desk. “Oh, and another thing, Miss, I bought a Daily Express for you to ’ave a butcher’s ’ook at.” He took a newspaper from the inside pocket of his overcoat.“That woman what was found murdered in ’er own ’ome a week or two ago down in Surrey—you remember, in Coulsden—well, there’s more details ’ere, of who she was, and the state she was in when she was found.”

“Thank you, Billy,” said Maisie, taking the newspaper.

“She was only your age, Miss. Terrible, innit?”

“It certainly is.”

“I wonder if our friend . . . well, your friend, really—Detective Inspector Stratton—is involved?”

“Most likely. Since the murder took place outside London, it’s a Murder Squad case.”

Billy looked thoughtful. “Fancy ’avin’ to say you work for the Murder Squad, eh, Miss? Don’t exactly warm folk to you, does it?”

Maisie scanned the article quickly. “Oh, that’s a newspaper invention to sell more papers. I think they started to use it when the Crippen case became big news. It used to be called the Reserve Squad, but that didn’t sound ominous enough. And Criminal Investigation Department is a bit of a mouthful.” Maisie looked up at Billy, “And by the way, Billy, what do you mean by my ‘friend,’ eh?”

“Aw, nuffin’ really, Miss. It’s just that—”

Billy was interrupted by the ringing of the black telephone on Maisie’s desk. He raised his eyebrows and reached for the receiver.

“Fitzroy five six double 0. Good afternoon, Detective Inspector Stratton. Yes, she’s ’ere. I’ll put her on.” He smiled broadly, covering the receiver with his palm as Maisie, blushing slightly, held out her hand to take it. “Now, Miss, what was it that Doctor Blanche used to say about coincidence being a—what was it? Oh yes, a messenger of truth?”

“That’s enough, Billy.” Maisie took the receiver and waved him away. “Inspector Stratton, how very nice to hear from you. I expect you’re busy with the murder case in Coulsden.”

“And how did you know that, Miss Dobbs? No, don’t tell me. It’s probably best that I don’t know.”

Maisie laughed. “To what do I owe this call, Inspector?”

“Purely social, Miss Dobbs. I thought I’d ask if you might care to dine with me.”

Maisie hesitated, tapped the desk with her pen, and then replied, “Thank you for the invitation, Inspector Stratton. It really is most kind of you . . . but perhaps we can lunch together instead.”

There was a pause. “Certainly, Miss Dobbs. Will you be free on Friday?”

“Yes, Friday would be excellent.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at your office at noon, and we can go from there to Bertorelli’s.”

Maisie hesitated. “May I meet you at Bertorelli’s? At noon?”

Again the line was quiet. Why does this have to be so difficult? Maisie thought.

“Of course. Friday, noon at Bertorelli’s.”

“I’ll see you then. Good-bye.” She replaced the receiver thoughtfully.

“Aye-oop, ’ere’s a nice cuppa for you, Miss.” Billy placed the tea tray on his desk, poured milk and tea into a large enamel mug for Maisie, and placed it in front of her.

“Don’t mind me askin’, Miss—and I know it ain’t none of my business, like—but why don’t you take ’im up on the offer of a dinner? I mean, gettin’ the odd dinner fer nuffin’ ain’t such a bad thing.”

“Lunch and dinner are two entirely different things, and going out for luncheon with a gentleman is definitely not the same as going out to dine in the evening.”

“You get more grub at dinner, for a start—”

Billy was interrupted by the doorbell. As he moved to the window to see who might be calling, Maisie noticed him rub his thigh and wince. The war wound, suffered almost thirteen years before, during the Battle of Messines in 1917, was nipping at him again. Billy left to answer the doorbell, and as he did so, Maisie heard him negotiate the stairs with difficulty as he descended to the front door.

“Message for M. Dobbs. Urgent. Sign ’ere, please.”

“Thanks, mate.” As Billy signed for the envelope he reached into his pocket for some change to hand the messenger. He closed the door and sighed before mounting the stairs again. As he returned to the office he held out the envelope to Maisie.

“That leg giving you trouble?” she asked.

“Just a bit more than usual. Mind you, I’m not as young as I was.”

“Have you been back to the doctor?”

“Not lately. There ain’t much they can do, is there? I’m a lucky fella—got a nice job when there’s ’undreds and ’undreds of blokes linin’ up fer work. Can’t be feelin’ sorry for meself, can I?”

“We’re fortunate, Billy. There seems to be more business for us, what with people going missing after losing all their money, and others getting up to no good at all.” She turned the envelope in her hands. “Well, well, well . . . .”

“What is it, Miss?”

“Did you notice the return address on the envelope? This letter’s from Joseph Waite.”

“You mean the Joseph Waite? Moneybags Joseph Waite? The one they call the Banker’s Butcher?”

“He’s requested that I come to his residence—‘soonest,’ he says—to receive instructions for an investigation.”

“I suppose ’e’s used to orderin’ folk around and getting’ ’is own way—” Billy was interrupted once more by the ringing telephone. “Gawd, Miss, there goes the dog-and-bone again!”

Maisie reached for the receiver.

“Fitzroy five six double 0.”

“May I speak to Miss Maisie Dobbs, please?”

“Speaking. How may I help you?”

“This is Miss Arthur, secretary to Joseph Waite. Mr. Waite is expecting you.”

“Good morning, Miss Arthur. I have only just received his letter via personal messenger.”

“Good. Can you come today at three? Mr. Waite will see you then, for half an hour.”

The woman’s voice trembled slightly. Was Miss Arthur so much in awe of her employer?

“Right you are, Miss Arthur. My assistant and I will arrive at three. Now, may I have directions?”

“Yes, the address is as follows: Do you know Dulwich?”

“Ready when you are, Miss.”

Maisie looked at the silver nurse’s watch pinned to her jacket as if it were a brooch. The watch had been a gift from Lady Rowan when Maisie took leave from Girton College and became a VAD at the London Hospital, a member of the wartime Voluntary Aid Detachment of nursing staff during the Great War. It had kept perfect time since the very first moment she pinned it to her uniform, serving her well while she tended injured men at a casualty clearing station in France, and again when she nursed shell-shocked patients upon her return. And since completing her studies at Girton the watch had been synchronized many times with the pocket watch belonging to Maurice Blanche, when she worked as his assistant. It would serve her for a few more years yet.

“Just time to complete one more small task, Billy; then we’ll be on our way. It’s the first week of the month, and I have some accounts to do.”

Maisie took a key from her purse, opened the middle drawer on the right-hand side of her large desk, and selected one small ledger from the six bound notebooks in the drawer. The ledger was labeled MOTOR CAR.

Maisie had been given use of the smart MG 14/40 sports roadster belonging to Lady Rowan the year before. Recurring hip pain suffered as the result of a hunting accident rendered driving difficult for Lady Rowan, and she insisted that Maisie borrow the motor car whenever she wanted. After using the vehicle constantly for some months, Maisie had offered to purchase the MG. Lady Rowan teased that it must have been the only transaction involving a motor car in which the buyer insisted upon paying more than the owner had stipulated. A small percentage for interest had been added at Maisie’s insistence. Taking up her pen, Maisie pulled her checkbook from the same drawer and wrote a check, payable to Lady Rowan Compton. The amount paid was entered in a ledger column and the new balance owed underlined in red.

“Right then, Billy, just about done. All secure?”

“Yes, Miss. Case maps are in my desk, and locked. Card file is locked. Tea is locked—”

“Billy!”

“Just pullin’ yer leg, Miss!” Billy opened the door for Maisie, and they left the office, making sure that the door was locked behind them.

Maisie looked up at the leaden sky. “Looks like rain again, doesn’t it?”

“It does at that. Better get on our way and ’ope it blows over.”

The motor car was parked at the edge of Fitzroy Street, its shining paintwork a splash of claret against the gray April afternoon.

Billy held the door for her, then lifted the bonnet to turn on the fuel pump, closing it again with a clatter that made Maisie wince. As he leaned over the engine, Maisie observed the gray smudges below his eyes. Banter was Billy’s way of denying pain. He gave the thumbs-up sign, and Maisie set the ignition, throttle, and choke before pressing the starter button on the floor of the motor car. The engine burst into life. He opened the passenger door and took his seat beside her.

“Off we go, then. Sure of your way?”

“Yes, I know Dulwich. The journey shouldn’t take more than an hour, depending upon the traffic.” Maisie slipped the MG into gear and eased out into Warren Street.

“Let’s just go over what we already know about Waite. That Maurice had file cards on him is intriguing in itself.”

“Well, according to this first card, Dr. Blanche went to ’im askin’ for money for a clinic. What’s that about?” Billy glanced at Maisie, then looked ahead at the road. “It’s starting to come down.”

“I know. London weather, so fabulously predictable you never know what might happen,” observed Maisie before answering Billy’s question. “Maurice was a doctor, Billy; you know that. Before he specialized in medical jurisprudence, his patients had a bit more life in them.”

“I should ’ope so.”

“Anyway, years ago, long before I went to work at Ebury Place, Maurice was involved in a case that took him to the East End. While he was there, examining a murder victim, a man came rushing in shouting for help. Maurice followed the man to a neighboring house, where he found a woman in great difficulty in labor with her first child. The short story is that he saved her life and the life of the child, and came away determined to do something about the lack of medical care available to the poor of London, especially women and children. So for one or two days a week, he became a doctor for the living again, working with patients in the East End and then across the water, in Lambeth and Bermondsey.”

“Where does Waite come in?”

“Read the card and you’ll see. I think it was just before I came to Ebury Place, in 1910, that Maurice took Lady Rowan on one of his rounds. She was appalled and determined to help. She set about tapping all her wealthy friends for money so that Maurice might have a proper clinic.”

“I bet they gave her the money just to get her off their backs!”

“She has a reputation for getting what she wants and for not being afraid to ask. I think her example inspired Maurice. He probably met Waite socially and just asked. He knows immediately how to judge a person’s mood, and to use that—I suppose you’d call it energy—to his advantage.”

“Bit like you, Miss?”

Maisie did not reply but simply smiled. It had been her remarkable intuitive powers, along with a sharp intellect, that had led Maurice Blanche to accept her as his pupil and later as his assistant in the work he described as the forensic science of the whole person.

Billy continued. “Well, apparently old Dr. Blanche tapped Waite for five ’undred quid.”

“Look again, and you’ll probably find that the five hundred was the first of several contributions.” Maisie used the back of her hand to wipe away condensation accumulating inside the windshield.

“Oh ’ere’s another thing,” said Billy, suddenly leaning back with his eyes closed.

“What is it?” Maisie looked at her passenger, whose complexion was now rather green.

“I don’t know if I should read in the motor, Miss. Makes me go all queasy.”

Maisie pulled over to the side of the road and instructed Billy to open the passenger door, put his feet on the ground and his head between his knees. She took the cards and then summed up the notes on Joseph Waite. “Wealthy, self-made man. Started off as a butcher’s apprentice in Yorkshire—Harrogate—at age twelve. Quickly demonstrated a business mind. By the time he was twenty he’d bought his first shop. Cultivated the business, then outgrew it inside two years. Started selling fruit and veg as well, dried goods and fancy foods, all high quality and good prices. Opened another shop, then another. Now has several Waite’s International Stores in every city, and smaller Waite’s Fancy Foods in regional towns. What they all have in common is first-class service, deliveries, good prices, and quality foods. Plus he pays a surprise visit to at least one store each day. He can turn up at any time.”

“I bet they love that, them as works for ’im.”

“Hmmm, you have a point. Miss Arthur sounded like a rabbit on the run when we spoke on the telephone this morning.” Maisie flicked over the card she was holding. “Now this is interesting. . . .” she continued. “He called upon Maurice—yes, I remember this—to consult with him about ten years ago. Oh heavens. . . .”

“What is it? What does it say?” asked Billy, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

“This is not like Maurice. It says only, ‘I could not comply with his request. Discontinued communication.’”

“Charmin’. So where does that put us today?”

“Well, he must still have a high opinion of Maurice to be asking for my help.” Maisie looked at Billy to check his pallor. “Oh dear. Your nose is bleeding! Quickly, lean back and press down on the bridge of your nose with this handkerchief.” Maisie pulled a clean embroidered handkerchief from her pocket, and placed it on Billy’s nose.

“Oh my Gawd, I’m sorry. First I ’ave to lean forward, then back. I dunno . . . I’m getting right in the way today, aren’t I?”

“Nonsense, you’re a great help to me. How’s that nose?”

Billy looked down into the handkerchief, and dabbed at his nose. “I think it’s better.”

“Now then, we’d better get going.”

Maisie parked outside the main gates leading to a red-brick neo-Georgian mansion that stood majestically in the landscaped grounds beyond an ornate wrought iron gate.

“D’you reckon someone’ll come to open the gate?” asked Billy.

“Someone’s coming now.” Maisie pointed to a young man wearing plus fours, a tweed hacking jacket, woolen shirt and spruce green tie. He hurriedly opened an umbrella as he ran toward the entrance, and nodded to Maisie as he unlatched the gates and opened them. Maisie drove the car forward, stopping alongside the man.

“You must be Miss Dobbs, to see Mr. Waite at three o’clock.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“And your companion is . . . ?” The man bent forward to look at Billy in the passenger seat.

“My assistant, Mr. William Beale.”

Billy was still dabbing his nose with Maisie’s handkerchief.

“Right you are, M’um. Park in front of the main door please, and make sure you reverse into place, M’um, with the nose of your motor pointing toward the gate.”

Maisie raised an eyebrow at the young man, who shrugged.

“It’s how Mr. Waite likes it done, M’um.”

“Bit picky, if you ask me,” said Billy as Maisie drove toward the house. “‘Reverse in with nose pointing out’. Perhaps that’s ’ow I should walk in there, backwards, wiv me nose turned away! I wonder who ’e thinks ’e is?”

“One of the richest men in Britain, if not Europe.” Maisie maneuvered the car as instructed. “And as we know, he needs something from us, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Come on.”

They strode quickly from the car toward the main door where a woman waited to greet them. She was about fifty-five, in Maisie’s estimation, and wore a plain slate gray mid-calf length dress with white cuffs and a white Peter Pan collar. A cameo was pinned to the center of her collar and her only other adornment was a silver wristwatch on a black leather strap. Her gray hair was drawn back so tightly that it pulled at her temples. Despite her austere appearance, when Maisie and Billy reached the top step she smiled warmly with a welcoming sparkle in her pale blue eyes.

“Come in quickly before you catch your death! What a morning! Mr. Harris, the butler, has been taken poorly with a nasty cold. I’m Mrs. Willis, the housekeeper. Let me take your coats.” Mrs. Willis took Maisie’s mackintosh and Billy’s overcoat, and passed them to a maid. “Hang them on the drier over the fireplace in the laundry room. Mr. Waite’s guests will be leaving in—” she looked at her watch “—approximately thirty-five minutes, so get the coats as dry as possible by then.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Willis,” said Maisie.

“Mr. Waite will join you in the library shortly.”

Maisie sensed a mood of tension that pervaded the house. Mrs. Willis’s pace was hurried, urging them forward. At the library door she checked her watch as she reached for the brass door handle. A door opened behind them and another woman hurried to join the trio.

“Mrs. Willis! Mrs. Willis, I will take over from here and show Mr. Waite’s guests in to the library,” she panted.

Mrs. Willis relinquished them, frowning with annoyance. “Certainly, Miss Arthur. Please continue.” She turned to Maisie and Billy. “Good morning,” she said as she stepped away without looking at Miss Arthur again. Unfortunately she was prevented from making a dignified exit as the door opened once more and a rotund man strode toward them, consulting his watch as he approached.

“Right then, it’s three o’clock. We’d better get on with it.” Barely looking at Maisie and Billy, he strode into the library.

Billy leaned toward Maisie and whispered, “It’s like a three-ring-circus in ’ere!”

She responded with a brief nod.

“Sit down, sit down,” Joseph Waite pointed to two chairs on the long side of a rectangular polished mahogany table and immediately seated himself in a larger chair at its head. His girth made him seem short, though he was almost six feet tall and moved deceptively quickly. According to Maurice’s notes, Waite had been born in 1865, which meant he was now sixty-five. His navy blue pinstripe suit was doubtless constructed at great expense by a Savile Row tailor. It was complemented by a white shirt, light gray silk tie, highly polished black shoes, and light gray silk socks that Maisie could just see as she glanced down at the floor. Expensive, very expensive, but then Joseph Waite reeked of new money and of the large Havana cigar that he moved from his right hand to his left in order to reach out first to Maisie, then to Billy.

“Joseph Waite.”

Maisie took a breath and opened her mouth to reply but was prevented from doing so.

“I’ll get directly to the point, Miss Dobbs. My daughter, Charlotte, is missing from home. I’m a busy man, so I will tell you straight, I do not want to involve the police because I don’t for one minute think that this is a police matter. And I don’t want them turning this place upside down while they waste time speculating about this and that, and drawing every bored press man to my gates while they’re about it.”

Maisie once again drew breath and opened her mouth to speak, but Waite held his hand up from the table, his palm facing her. She noticed a large gold ring on his little finger, and as he placed his hand on the table, she saw that it was encrusted with diamonds. She stole a sideways look at Billy, who raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not a police matter because this is not the first time she’s left my house. You are to find her, Miss Dobbs, and bring her back before word gets out. A man in my position can’t have a daughter running around and turning up in the newspapers. I don’t have to tell you that these are difficult times for a man of commerce, but Waite’s is trimming its sails accordingly and doing very nicely, thank you. It’s got to stay that way. Now then.” Waite consulted his watch yet again. “You’ve got twenty minutes of my time, so ask any questions you want. I won’t ’old back.”

Maisie perceived that although Waite had worked hard to eliminate a strong Yorkshire accent, the occasional revealing long vowel and the odd dropped h, unlike that of the London dialect, broke through.

“I’d like some details about your daughter.” Maisie reached for the blank index cards that Billy handed her. “First of all, how old is Charlotte?”

“Thirty-two. About your age.”

“Quite.”

“And with about half the gumption!”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Waite?”

“I’ll make no bones about it; Charlotte is her mother’s daughter. A wilting lily, I call her. A good day’s work wouldn’t do her any harm at all, but of course the daughter of a man in my position has no need. More’s the pity.”

“Indeed. Perhaps you could tell us something about what happened on the day Charlotte disappeared. When was she last seen?”

“Two days ago. Saturday. Morning. At breakfast. I was down in the dining room, and Charlotte came in, full of the joys of spring, and sat down at the other end of the table. One minute she seemed as right as rain, eating a bit of toast, drinking a cup of tea, then all of a sudden she starts with the tears, sobs a bit, and runs from the room.”

“Did you go after her?”

The man sighed and reached for an ashtray, into which he tapped the smoldering end of his cigar, leaving a circle of pungent ash. He drew deeply on the cigar again and exhaled.

“No, I didn’t. I finished my breakfast. Charlotte is a bit of a Sarah Bernhardt, Miss Dobbs. An actress—should’ve been on the stage, like her mother. Nothing is ever good enough for her. I thought she’d’ve made a suitable marriage by now, but no, in fact—you should write it down there—” He waved his cigar toward Maisie’s index card. “She was jilted by her fiancé a couple of months ago. Even with my money she can’t get a husband!”

“Mr. Waite, the behavior you describe suggests that your daughter may have been in a state of despair.”

“‘Despair’? ‘Despair’? She’s always had fine food in her belly, clothes—and very good clothes, I might add—on her back. I’ve given her a good education, in Switzerland, if you please. And she had a proper coming out ball. You could’ve fed a family for a year with what I spent on the frock alone. That girl’s had the very best, so don’t tell me about despair, Miss Dobbs. That girl’s got no right to despair.”

Maisie met his gaze firmly. Here it comes, she thought, now he’s going to tell me about his hard life.

“Despair, Miss Dobbs, is when your father dies in a pit accident when you’re ten years old and you’re the eldest of six. That’s what despair is. Despair is what gives you a right good kick in the rump and sets you off to provide for your family when you’re no’ but a child.”

Waite, who had slipped into broad Yorkshire, went on. “Despair, Miss Dobbs, is when you lose your mother and her youngest to consumption when you’re fourteen. That, Miss Dobbs, is despair. Despair is just when you think you’ve got everyone taken care of, because you’re working night and day to make something of yourself, and you lose another brother down the same pit that killed your father, because he took any job he could get to help out. That, Miss Dobbs, is despair. But you know about that yourself, don’t you?” Waite leaned forward and ground his cigar into the ashtray.

Maisie realized that somewhere in his office Joseph Waite had a dossier on her that held as much information as she had acquired about him, if not more.

“Mr. Waite, I am well aware of life’s challenges, but if I am to take on this case—and the choice is mine—I have a responsibility for the welfare of all parties. If this type of departure is something of a habit for your daughter and discord in the house is at the heart of her unsettled disposition, then clearly something must be done to alleviate the, let us say, pressure on all parties. I must have your commitment to further conversation with respect to the problem when we have found Charlotte.”

Joseph Waite’s lips became taut. He was not a man used to being challenged. Yet, as Maisie now knew, it was the similarity in their backgrounds that had led him to choose her for this task, and he would not draw back. He was a very intelligent as well as belligerent man and would appreciate that not a moment more could be lost.

“Mr. Waite, even if Charlotte has disappeared of her own volition, news of her disappearance will soon attract the attention of the press, just as you fear. Given your financial situation and these difficult times, there is a risk that you may be subjected to attempts at extortion. And though you seem sure that Charlotte is safe and merely hiding from you, of that we cannot be certain until she is found. You speak of prior disappearances. May I have the details?”

Waite leaned back in his chair shaking his head. “She runs away, to my mind, anytime she can’t get what she wants. The first time was after I refused to allow her a motor car.” He looked across the lawns and waved the cigar in the direction of what Maisie expected were the garages. “She can be taken by chauffeur anywhere she wants. I don’t hold with women driving.”

Maisie exchanged glances with Billy.

“So she ran to her mother’s house, no doubt to complain about her terrible father. I tell you, where I come from, there’s women who’d give their eye teeth to have someone to drive them instead of walking five miles to the shops pushing a pram with a baby inside, a couple of nippers on top, and the shopping bags hanging off the handle!”

“And the second time?”

“Oh, she was engaged to be married and wanted to get out of it. The one before this last one. Just upped and moved into The Ritz, if you please. Nice home here, and she wants to live at The Ritz. I went and got her back myself.”

“I see.” Maisie imagined the embarrassment of a woman being frog-marched out of The Ritz by her angry father. “So in your opinion Charlotte has a tendency to run away when she is faced with a confrontation.”

“Aye, that’s about the measure of it,” replied Waite. “So what do you think of your little ‘further conversation’ when Charlotte returns now, eh, Miss Dobbs, considering the girl can’t even look her own father in the eye?”

Maisie was quick to respond. “My terms remain, sir. Part of my work in bringing Charlotte home will be to listen to her and to hear what she has to say.”

Waite scraped back his chair, pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, and walked to the window. He looked up at the sky for just a moment and took out a pocket-watch. “I agree to your terms. Send your contract to me by nine tomorrow morning. Miss Arthur will take care of any deposit required, and will settle your account and expenses upon receipt. If you need me to answer more questions, Miss Arthur will schedule an appointment. Otherwise I expect your progress report by Friday. In person and at the same time—that is, should you fail to have found her by then. I’m a busy man, as I’ve said, Miss Dobbs.” He turned to leave.

“Mr. Waite?”

“Yes?”

“May we see Charlotte’s rooms, please?”

“Miss Arthur will call Mrs. Willis to show you the rooms. Good afternoon.”

Mrs. Willis was instructed to show Maisie and Billy to Charlotte’s suite. They were escorted up the wide staircase to the second floor, where they turned right along a spacious landing. Mrs. Willis lifted her hand to knock at the door and then, remembering that there was no need, took a bunch of keys from her pocket, selected one, and unlocked the door to reveal a large sitting room with additional doors on either side that Maisie thought would lead to a bathroom and bedroom respectively. The sash windows were open to a broad view of the perfect lawns at the front of the house, with stripes of light and dark green where gardeners had worked with mowers and rollers to give an immaculate finish.

Mrs. Willis beckoned them into the rooms, which were aired by a light breeze that seemed to dance with the cabbage-rose-printed curtains, flicking them back and forth. Though appointed with the most expensive furniture and linens, Maisie felt the rooms to be cold and spartan. There was none of the ornamentation she had expected: no photographs in frames, no mementos, no books on the bedside table, no exotic perfume bottles set on top of the dressing table. Maisie walked through into the bedroom, and back into the sitting room. Like the Queen Anne chairs beside the fireplace, the rose-printed curtains were traditional, but the dressing table and wardrobe were modern, constructed of solid dark wood with geometric lines. The dressing table mirrors were triangular, a jagged icy triptych that unsettled Maisie. Her skin prickled as if pierced by tiny needles. The design of the dressing table itself was matched by that of the wardrobe, with its center mirror set into the wood. It seemed to Maisie that no rest was to be had in this room unless one stared out of the window or at the curtains.

“It’s a lovely suite, isn’t it? We only changed the draperies last week—she has pale green velvets in winter. Lined with a special combed cotton, they are, to keep the rooms warmer. The dressing table suite was made ’specially to Mr. Waite’s specifications.”

Maisie smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Willis. We may need to ask you some more questions in a while. At the moment we just need to look around.”

Mrs. Willis pursed her lips, hesitating. “Of course. I’ll come back in about twenty minutes, but if you need me in the meantime, just press this button.” She indicated one of three brass buttons on a panel beside the door.

Sensing that Waite had given instructions that they were to be escorted at all times, Maisie smiled and nodded. She suspected that Mrs. Willis had enough on her plate to worry about in the house without chaperoning private investigators.

As the door closed, Billy turned to Maisie. “It looks as if nobody ever set foot in these rooms, dunnit?”

Maisie made no reply, but set her document case down on a chair with coverings that matched the curtains and, in the bedroom, even the counterpane on Charlotte’s bed. Maisie’s work with Maurice Blanche had taught her that a person speaks not only with the voice but with those objects she chooses to surround herself. That photographs tell a story is well accepted, but the way furniture is positioned in a room tells something about its occupant; the contents of a larder reveal desire and restraint, as most surely does the level of liquid in a decanter.

“What are we lookin’ for, Miss?”

“I don’t know, Billy, but I will when we find it.”

They worked together, carefully and systematically searching through drawers, in the wardrobe, and in every nook and cranny of the room. Maisie asked Billy to search carefully under the bed and behind furniture, to pull out cushions from the chair, and to list all items in the medicine cabinet in the white-tiled bathroom. She, in turn, would investigate the contents of the dressing table, wardrobe and writing desk.

Though she was troubled by the design of the furniture, Maisie was even more intrigued by Charlotte’s clothing. Instead of suits, dresses and gowns from the houses of Worth, Schiaparelli or Molyneux, as would befit a woman of Charlotte’s station, there were just a few plain gray and brown skirts and jackets bought from Debenham & Freebody. A long black gown protected by a sheet of fine muslin was Charlotte’s one concession to evening wear, and there was also a black afternoon dress in a style fashionable several years earlier, with a low waistband and below-the-knee hemline. Charlotte’s blouses were equally plain and it seemed as if she had bought several of similar design at the same time. Had she taken more colorful and frivolous clothing with her, leaving behind a life that lacked color in search of something more vibrant?

It was in the writing desk, to the right of the window, that Maisie found an address book. At first, she thought that she would find no other personal papers, no letters, nothing that gave away anything of Charlotte Waite’s character or hinted at the cause of her distress, but as she opened the second drawer, underneath a collection of pens and stationery, Maisie found a prayer book along with a copy of The Monastic Rule of Saint Benedict, and several pamphlets on the life of a contemplative. Taking up the books, Maisie walked again to the wardrobe and touched the dark, drab fabrics of the clothes Charlotte had left behind.

“Miss, look what I’ve found.” Billy came toward Maisie with a piece of paper in his hand.

“What is it, Billy?”

“Found it shoved down the side of that chair cushion. Could’ve been put there deliberately or fallen out of a pocket.” Billy handed Maisie the small slip of paper.

“Looks like someone’s jotted down train departures. See here—” Maisie pointed to the letters and read: “‘Ch. X to App. Chg Ash’. Then there’s a list of times. Hmmm. I’ll keep it with these other things for now and we’ll look at them later.” She folded the paper and placed it inside the prayer book, then turned to Billy.

“Billy, I’d like to spend some time in here alone.”

He was now used to Maisie’s way of working and showed no surprise at her request. “Right you are, Miss. Shall I interview Mrs. Willis?”

“Yes, do that. Here’s what we need to know: First, Charlotte—her behavior over the past two or three months. Was there any change in her demeanor? Ask about even the slightest change in habits of dress, diet, recreation.” Maisie looked around the room. “She doesn’t have her own telephone, so find out who has called; the staff always know when a new name comes along. Speak to Miss Arthur about her allowance; how much, when it’s paid and how it’s paid. Does she have her own accounts—heaven knows, I hope the poor woman has some privacy— and are statements kept by Miss Arthur?”

Maisie paced back and forth, as Billy licked his pencil, ready to continue taking notes.

“Most important: Find out about Charlotte’s former fiancé, his name, profession—if he has one—and where he works. I’ll need to see him. Speak to the chauffeur, Billy, and find out where she goes, whom she sees. You know the ropes. Oh, and a recent photograph, one that really looks like Charlotte; ask different staff if it’s a good resemblance. See what you can get hold of. I want about fifteen minutes here, then I’d like to speak to Charlotte Waite’s personal maid. Find out who she is and have her come up to this room.”

“Awright, Miss, consider it all done.”

“Oh, and Billy, tread very carefully on this one. We don’t know where loyalties lie yet, though I must say, I can feel a certain chill when there’s any mention of Charlotte.”

“You know, I reckon I felt that meself.”

“Well, keep it in mind. Leave no stone unturned.”

Billy quietly shut the door behind him. Maisie sat in Charlotte’s chair and closed her eyes. She took four deep breaths through her nose, as she had been taught so many years ago by Khan, the blind Ceylonese mystic to whom Maurice had introduced her, to learn that seeing is not necessarily a function of the eyes alone. From her days of sitting with Khan, and her instruction in deep meditation, Maisie was attuned to the risks inherent in using such a tool in her work, and knew that even her strong spirit was vulnerable to the auras of the troubled soul. Maisie concentrated on her breathing, stilling both her body and her mind, and she began to feel the strength of emotion that resided in the room. This was Charlotte’s refuge while in the house and had become a receptacle for her every thought, feeling, inspiration, reflection and wish. And as she sat in meditation, Maisie felt that Charlotte had been deeply troubled and that her departure had had little to do with a broken engagement. Charlotte Waite had run away, but what was she running from? Or to? What had caused such an intense ache in her heart that even now in her room, Maisie felt Charlotte’s lingering sorrow?

Maisie opened her eyes and continued to sit in silence for some moments. Then she began to inspect the books and pamphlets that Charlotte had collected. The Monastic Rule of Saint Benedict opened immediately to the place marked with a haphazardly torn envelope fragment. She inspected the scrap of vellum closely, for it seemed heavy, then turned it over. On the reverse side was a thick smudge of red sealing wax, about three-quarters of an inch in diameter, pressed into a rose-shaped seal with a cross in the center. Maisie squinted to see the words etched into the seal above and below the cross. She shook her head, reached down into her document case and took out what initially looked like a powder compact but that, when opened, revealed a magnifying glass. Maisie leaned closer to the seal and, using the glass, read the words “Camden Abbey.” Camden Abbey. The name sounded familiar.

There was a knock at the door. Maisie quickly placed the books, pamphlets and other items in her case, ensured they were secure, then rose, breathed deeply again, and opened the door. A young woman of about nineteen bobbed a half-curtsey in front of her. Her black dress was shorter than the one Maisie had worn when she was a servant at the home of Lord and Lady Compton; a small bibbed apron to protect her dress and a delicate white lace band on top of her tightly curled hair completed the maid’s uniform.

“Miss Dobbs? I was told you wanted to see me, M’um. I’m Perkins, Miss Waite’s personal maid.”

“Oh, come in, Miss Perkins.” Maisie stood to one side to allow the woman to enter the room.

“Would you like to sit down?”

The maid shook her head. “No, M’um.”

“Well then, let’s stand by the window. It’s a blustery day now, but I do like to look out upon garden.” Maisie knew that an enclosed area encouraged an enclosed mind. Maurice had taught her: Always take the person to be questioned to a place where there’s space, or where they can see few boundaries. Space broadens the mind and gives the voice room to be heard.

Maisie sat on the low, wide windowsill, the toe of one shoe touching the floor for balance. Perkins stood at the opposite end of the windowsill, facing Maisie.

“Tell me, Miss Perkins, how long have you worked for Miss Waite?”

“Mr. Waite. I work for Mr. Waite. Mr. Waite pays my wages, so it’s him I work for. Looking after Miss Waite is what I do in his house, and I’ve been her maid for a year.”

“I see.” Maisie noticed the speed with which she had been corrected, and thought that with just one question, she had discovered where Perkins’ loyalties lay.

“And who was Miss Waite’s maid before you?”

“Well, there were lots of them, M’um. Isabel Wright left last year, then six months before her there was Ethel Day—I remember them because I’ve worked for Mr. Waite since I was twelve, M’um.”

“And do you like working here, Miss Perkins?”

“I like working for Mr. Waite. He’s very good to us here, M’um”

Maisie nodded, and looked out of the window. She was aware that the maid had leaned forward to see the gardens.

“I’ll bet you are too busy to look out of the windows, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, ’specially with the way Miss Waite keeps me running. . . . Oh, begging your pardon, M’um.”

Maisie smiled, encouraging Perkins into her confidence. “Tell me—what is it like working for Miss Waite? And I should add that everything you tell me will remain between the two of us.” She leaned forward, and though the maid did not consciously discern any alteration in Maisie’s speech, she had allowed her accent to change slightly so that she sounded just a little like the young woman in front of her. “I need to ask questions to get a sense of what has been happening in Miss Waite’s life in the past two or three months, and especially in more recent weeks.”

The young woman gazed into the distance again, chewed her inner lip, then moved closer to Maisie. She began to speak, at first tentatively, then with greater strength. “To tell you the truth, she’s not the easiest person to work for. She’d have me running up and downstairs all day. Wash this, press that, cup of tea, not too hot, not too cold, lemon—oh no, changed my mind, cream instead. First she’s going out, then she’s staying in; then suddenly, just as I’m setting my head on the pillow, the bell rings, and I have to go down and dress her for a late dinner. No thank-you’s or anything, no little something extra left on the sideboard for me, and I’m the one that has to clean up when she has a temper!”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s like being outside, you know: no climate but all weather. Hot and cold she is, never seems to know her own mind. One minute she’s all happy, the next, you’d’ve thought the moon had crashed into the stars and set light to the sky outside her window.” Perkins shrugged. “Well, that’s what Miss Harding, the cook, says.”

“And what about the past few weeks or so? More of the same behavior?”

Perkins watched the clouds for a moment before answering. “I’d say she was quieter. More . . . more distant, I think you’d say. I mean, she always went through times like that. Miss Harding said she ought to be taken to see somebody about her moods. But this was different. It sort of went on and on, and she didn’t go out much. Didn’t seem to dress up as much either. In fact, she got rid of some lovely clothes, you know, from Paris and Bond Street. Very strange for a lady, to want to walk around in them drab clothes all day, and only have one evening dress, ’specially as she used to go to the collections, you know, and have mannequins walk up and down the room for her to pick and choose what she wanted. You should have seen it in here when the boxes arrived!”

“Have you any idea what might have caused her to withdraw?”

“Not really. None of my business. I was just glad there were no bells ringing at midnight.”

“Do you think Mr. Waite noticed?”

“Mr. Waite works hard. We all know that. Far as I know, they don’t see much of each other.”

“Are you aware of discord between Miss Waite and her father?”

Perkins looked at her shoes and stepped away from the window just a little. Maisie noticed immediately. She’s closing her mind. Deliberately.

“Not my business to pry, M’um. I just do my job. What they think of each other upstairs isn’t any of my concern.”

“Hmmm. Yes. Your work is demanding enough, Miss Perkins. No reason for you to keep tabs on people. One more question, though: Do you know whom Miss Waite saw, or where she went, in the weeks preceding her departure from this house? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

The maid sighed in a way that indicated that she had said all she wanted to say, but that she would try to answer the question. “She did go up to Town a few times. I’m not sure where she went, but she mainly sees a woman called Lydia Fisher, I think. She lives in Chelsea, somewhere around there. And I reckon she was going somewhere else as well, because she took a pair of walking shoes with her on a couple of occasions. But a lot of her time was spent just sitting up here.”

“Doing what?”

“Not sure I know, Miss. Sort of in a daydream, looking out of the window.”

“I see.” The younger woman began to fidget with her hair, her lace headband, her apron, indicating to Maisie that no more valuable information would be forthcoming. As they moved toward the door, Maisie reached into her bag and took out a calling card.

“Miss Perkins, I am familiar with the workings of a house of this size, and also appreciate that the staff are usually the first to know when something is amiss. Please feel free to telephone me if you think of anything that might be useful. It’s clear that you have had some difficulties with Miss Waite, but despite everything, her father—your employer— wants her home.”

“Yes, M’um.” Perkins took the card, placed it in her pinafore pocket, bobbed another half curtsey, and left the room.

Maisie watched the maid walk along the landing, stopping briefly to curtsey as Billy approached in the company of Mrs. Willis, who was looking at her watch. It was time for them to leave.

“Have you got everything, Billy?”

“Yes, Miss. In fact, Mrs. Willis knew where to find a recent photograph of Miss Waite. ’ere.” Billy opened his notebook and took out the photograph, which he handed to Maisie.

Charlotte was sitting on a white filigree cast-iron chair set in front of a rose garden, which Maisie suspected was at the rear of the house. She seemed to be what the gentlemen of the press might have termed a “flapper.” Her hair, which framed her face, was waved and drawn back into a low chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a knee-length dress that appeared rather flimsy; a breeze had caught the hem the moment before the shutter snapped. Charlotte had made no move to press the garment down, and laughed into the camera. Maisie held the photo closer to scrutinize the face. If eyes were windows to the soul, then Charlotte was indeed troubled, for the eyes that looked at the camera seemed to be filled not with joy or amusement as the pose suggested, but with sorrow.

Maisie looked up. “Thank you, Mrs. Willis.” She turned to Billy. “If you’ve completed everything, we can talk back at the office. I’m sure Mrs. Willis has a lot to do.”

Mrs. Willis escorted them to the front door, where a maid waited with Maisie’s mackintosh and Billy’s overcoat. They were about to step outside when Maisie paused. “A quick question for you, Mrs. Willis. I have a sense that Miss Waite commands little respect in the household. Why is that?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, M’um,” said Mrs. Willis, who now seemed anxious to see Maisie and Billy inside their motor car, driving away.

“Mrs. Willis, in confidence. Tell me what you think.” Maisie inclined her head conspiratorially toward Mrs. Willis.

“Mr. Waite is respected by everyone who works for him. He gives back as much as he asks of those in his employ, and sometimes more. His loyalty to his staff earns loyalty in return. And that’s all I can say.”

Maisie and Billy thanked Mrs. Willis, left the house, and climbed into the motor car.

“Didn’t say much, did she?” said Billy, waving at the gatekeeper as they left.

“On the contrary, she told me a lot. It was an impertinent question, and, within the confines of what she could say, Mrs. Willis was quite forthcoming.”

Billy opened his notebook and began to speak, but Maisie silenced him with a hand gently placed on his arm and a finger to her lips. “No, not now. Allow the information we’ve gathered to sit and stew for a while. Just tell me one thing—the name and profession of the former fiancé.”

CHAPTER TWO

Billy was already at the office in Fitzroy Square when Maisie arrived at eight o’clock the next morning. The spring rain had at last subsided, and now the early morning sunshine was mirrored in puddles remaining from yesterday’s downpour, casting dappled shadows across the square and playing upon fresh green leaves.

“Good morning, Billy.” Maisie looked at her assistant as she came into the office. “You look a bit drawn—is everything all right?”

“Yes, Miss. Well, not really. Every day I look out as the bus passes the labor exchange and the line ain’t gettin’ any shorter. I can count my lucky stars getting this job wiv you. You know, I’ve got the missus and three nippers to think about—the eldest is in school now—and what wiv this ol’ leg of mine—”

“You mustn’t worry, Billy. Not only are we fortunate in getting new business, but Maurice’s clients now know that they can trust his former assistant. If money’s a problem, Billy—”

“Oh, no, no, my wages are better ’ere than they were round the corner with old Sharpie. I just—”

“What, Billy?”

“You’re sure you need me?”

“Absolutely sure. Time and again you have proved that you are worth your weight in gold, which I would pay you if I could. If I have any criticism of your work, I will tell you.”

Billy gave her a wary grin.

“Is that all that’s bothering you, Billy?”

“That’s all, Miss.”

“Right then. Let’s see where we are with the Waite case.”

The sound of mail being pushed through the letterbox was a signal to Billy to get up from his desk. “Back in a minute, better see if there’s anything for us.”

Maisie frowned. She knew that even as he made his way downstairs, Billy was preparing to return to the room demonstrating the old Billy, the court jester with a heart of gold. It was Billy’s loyalty to her, and the link between him and Captain Simon Lynch, that had won him the job as her assistant—as well as his willingness to help her by working all hours on some of the more tedious surveillance tasks

In 1917 Corporal William Beale had been brought into the casualty clearing station where Maisie was assisting Captain Simon Lynch, the army doctor she been introduced to by her friend Priscilla, while she was at Girton College. Simon had declared his love for her and proposed marriage, and now they were working alongside each other. Billy Beale never forgot the man who saved his leg—and his life. And he never forgot the young nurse who tended to his wounds, instantly recognizing her years later when Maisie Dobbs became a tenant at the Warren Street premises where he was caretaker. Both she and Simon had been wounded subsequently when the casualty clearing station came under heavy artillery fire. She had recovered; Simon had not.

Maisie sat down at the table by the window, opened the file she had taken from her briefcase, and gestured for Billy to join her. He sat down, taking a plain lead pencil from the jam jar, and a large sheet of paper for them to diagram evidence details, thoughts, possibilities, and projections, a technique that they referred to as their “case map.”

“First of all,” said Maisie, “Waite will receive our contract and terms”—she consulted the watch pinned to the breast pocket of her new burgundy wool suit, and continued—“in about fifteen minutes.”

“And we know ’e’s got the money!” said Billy.

“That we do. Let’s do three things this morning, then split up. I want to map what our impressions were: of the house, the four people we met, and of Charlotte’s room. We’ll also look at the items we found while we were there.”

“And the grounds, Miss. Don’t forget all that ‘nose pointing out’ nonsense, and them lawns what look like they were clipped by a pair o’ nail scissors.”

“Good. You’re right, mustn’t forget that welcome! Anyway, after we’ve made a start, you can set to work on Charlotte’s address book, just checking on who’s where, and that it’s all current.”

“Yes, Miss. Just put some flesh on the bones, no need to knock on any doors yet. Where will you be going, Miss?”

“I am going to a branch of Waite’s International Stores. I thought I’d go to the one on Oxford Street, close to Tottenham Court Road. It was his first shop in London, and it’s his most important branch, next to the one in Harrogate, of course. The main offices of Waite’s are above the premises. With a bit of luck, I’ll see the man in his element.”

“Why do you think it’s called Waite’s International Stores, Miss?”

“I looked up a file of Maurice’s, which expanded on the information noted on the index card. I was actually looking for anything that would add to the comment about the severing of contact, but there was nothing there, so I’ll have to speak to Maurice about it. Anyway, when he added fruits and vegetables, other dry goods, and more from abroad to his butchery business, he slipped ‘International’ in between ‘Waite’s’ and ‘Stores’ and never looked back.”

“It must’ve been ’ard work for ’im, eh?”

“Most certainly, and of course life wasn’t easy at home, either. You heard his little monologue yesterday.”

“And who’s ’is wife?”

“According to Maurice’s file, Charlotte’s mother was a music-hall singer and small-time actress from Bradford. He met her there at the opening of his shop. Apparently Waite’s shop openings were always big events. Charlotte was born just”—Maisie raised an eyebrow—“seven months after the marriage.”

“Miss Arthur said that Mrs. Waite spends most of ’er time up in Leeds, at the ’ouse up there. And I made a note to check on ’er information that Charlotte is not with the mother, even though Miss Arthur said she’d already made sure of that.” Billy tapped at the points with his pencil.

“Good. I got the impression that Charlotte and her mother weren’t close. What do you think, Billy?”

Billy scratched the top of his ear where his hair was in need of a trim. “Well, what I thought was that Charlotte didn’t really fit in anywhere. There she was, living with that dad of ’ers, ‘Mr. Lord High and Mighty’ running ’er life, and at thirty-two, mind you. Most of ’er friends are married by now, so they ain’t got time to go out with the other girls like they used to. She’s sort of been left be’ind, ain’t she, Miss? Like so many, really. I mean, men they might’ve married are gone, killed in the war. What’s she supposed to do with ’erself all day? That father of ’er’s don’t think much of ’er, not by the sound of it. She’s really a spinster, all on her own.”

Maisie winced at Billy’s assessment of the situation. She was, after all, a spinster herself in those terms. “Good. Yes, good point,” she replied, thought for a moment, then opened her document case and removed the books and pamphlets found in Charlotte Waite’s room. She laid them out on the table.

“What do you make of it all, Miss?”

Maisie picked up the seal, then the scrap of paper. “Well, the ‘Ch. X’ is Charing Cross.”

“And ‘Ash’ could be Ashford, couldn’t it, Miss?”

Maisie nodded. “It’s all fitting together now, Billy. Let’s say this is in connection with the trains that go from Charing Cross to Ashford, where one has to change for the trains to—”

“Gawd, I don’t know. Apples?” Billy grinned.

“Appledore!”

“Appledore?”

“Yes, I used to go there with my father sometimes. We’d go fishing on the canal near Iden Lock.” Maisie reached for the seal. “And that makes sense of this.”

“What’s that?”

“The seal from an envelope. Charlotte had probably received a letter from Camden Abbey, perhaps sent to her with the books and pamphlets, and as she began to read, she tore the seal from the envelope to mark her place.”

“So what do you think, Miss? Can you tell from this little lot where she’s gone off to?”

“It tells us that Charlotte was curious about the contemplative life. There’s something I need to look into. I may know someone who can help us.” Maisie gathered the items together and looked at her watch. “Let’s move on. We can’t allow one possibility to cloud our vision. Charlotte could have left these things to dupe her father. Or she could have left with such urgency as to forget them.” She stood up. “Right then. Charlotte’s run away before, but she’s always let her father know where she is, in one way or another. He’s assumed that she’s hiding from him this time. We have to question that assumption and consider other possibilities. Even if we take his account of her departure as truth, she may now be being held against her will, or she may have met with an accident. And of course we cannot rule out the possibility that she may have taken her own life. But let us begin by assuming that she has disappeared voluntarily, has been gone for several days and has deliberately covered her tracks. Why did she leave this time? Where is she? Has she run from something or to something—or someone? I want us to try to have a better feeling for what went on last Saturday, and how far we can believe Waite’s version of events. No need to move anything on the table, but just help me shift it over there a bit, so it’s in the middle of the room.”

Billy took one end of the table, while Maisie took the other, and they placed it where Maisie indicated.

“You can be Waite, so sit at this end.” Maisie pointed out the place where Billy should set his chair.

“I’ll need to shove me jacket up inside me cardigan, Miss, seeing as I ain’t got quite the middle that ’e ’as.”

“Pretend, Billy. Seriously, I want you to close your eyes, sit at the table, and truly imagine that you are Joseph Waite. I’ll go outside the door, give you a couple of minutes, then I’ll come in and sit down as if I’m Charlotte. For the purposes of this experiment, I am Charlotte.”

“Awright.” Billy frowned. “I’ll give it a go.”

Maisie nodded, and walked toward the door, but before reaching for the handle, she turned to her desk, took the Times from her briefcase, and dropped it on the table in front of him.

“You’ll probably be reading this.”

She left the room as Billy shifted uncomfortably in the seat. He closed his eyes, drew back his shoulders, tucked his legs underneath the chair so that his heels rode up and the balls of his feet supported the imaginary weight of his middle. His war wound nipped at his leg as he moved, but he ignored it. He puffed out his cheeks for just a few seconds, and imagined what it might be like to have built a successful enterprise to become a powerful man of commerce. Slowly he began to feel quite different, and realized he was getting just an inkling of the way in which Maisie used her knowledge of the body to gain an understanding of another person. He reached for the newspaper and snapped it open, feeling richer than he had felt in a good long while. And it surprised him that he felt a glimmer of an emotion that rarely surfaced in his being: anger.

“Good morning, Father,” said Maisie, entering the room.

“Good morning, Charlotte.” Billy reached for his pocket watch, noted the time, and placed the newspaper on the table between them. “What are you doing with yourself today?” He continued, checking his watch again, and taking a sip of tea.

“I thought I might go shopping and meet a friend for lunch.”

“Nothing better to do today, Charlotte?”

There was an edge to Billy’s voice that almost caused Maisie to break out of character and look up, but she continued, defiantly. “What do you want me to do, Father?”

Billy consulted his watch again without responding, while Maisie— as Charlotte—reached for the newspaper. She turned to the front page, read barely two lines, then suddenly gasped and burst into tears. She threw down the paper, scraped back her chair, and ran from the room with her hand covering her mouth. Billy sighed, wiped his brow, and stretched out his legs, happy to be rid of his assumed character.

Maisie returned. “That was an interesting exercise, wasn’t it?”

“It was really strange, Miss. I remembered watching ’im when ’e talked about Charlotte, so I mimicked his posture.”

Maisie nodded for Billy to continue.

“And, well, it was right peculiar, it was, ’ow I started to feel different, like another person.”

“Explain, Billy. I know this seems difficult, but it is most important and helpful.”

“I was right touchy, like a piece of tinder ready to catch fire. I started to think about the father that died down the coal pit, ’is mother and ’ow she must’ve ’ad to work ’er fingers to the bone, and then all that ’e’d gone through, ’ard graft, and all. Then I thought about the wife up in Yorkshire, sittin’ on ’er behind, and by the time you walked in the door, I felt all of what ’e’d felt—well, what I felt ’e’d felt—and, to be quite ’onest with you, I didn’t even really ’ave patience with you. I mean Charlotte.”

“ Do you believe he was in the room when Charlotte ran out?”

“I reckon so, but it was as if I was making meself sit there, because I’m determined not to let ’er annoy me. I couldn’t do any more reading of the newspaper, I was so . . . so angry! That’s why I ’anded it to ’er, I mean you. What about you, Miss?”

“You know, after seeing Charlotte’s room yesterday, in taking on her character I wasn’t exactly ‘full of the joys of spring.’ I didn’t get that feeling at all when I was in her room. Instead, I had the sense of a troubled soul. But there must have been provocation of some sort to make her leave home. I have to say, I felt other emotions, though I confess I am now drawing upon the feelings I intuited when we went into her room and when I was alone for a while.” Maisie picked up a pencil from the table and began to doodle along the bottom of the paper. She drew an eye with a single tear seeping from the corner.

“What did you ‘sense,’ then?” asked Billy.

“She was confused. As I acted her part at breakfast, I felt a conflict. I could not hate my father, though I dislike what he is and I am trying desperately not to be intimidated by him. I would like to leave his house, to live elsewhere, anywhere. But I’m stuck.” Maisie looked out of the window, allowing her eyelids to close halfway and rest as she considered Charlotte Waite. “I felt defiant when I first picked up the newspaper which, according to Waite, was the last thing Charlotte did before bursting into tears and leaving the room.”

Billy nodded as Maisie got up from her chair and walked to the window with her arms crossed.

“What this exercise suggests is that Waite’s recounting of his daughter’s departure has only a tenuous relationship to the truth. It serves to remind us that the story we heard yesterday was told through his eyes. To him, it may be exactly as it happened, but I think if you asked Charlotte, or a fly on the wall, you’d get a different account. One thing, though: We should go through Saturday’s Times to see if anything in it caused Charlotte Waite’s distress.”

Maisie flicked a piece of lint from her new burgundy suit, which she was beginning to think had been purchased in error as it seemed to attract any white fiber that happened to be passing.

“I’ll get a copy.” Billy made a note in the cloth-bound palm-size book he carried with him.

“Let’s put the table back and go over the rest of the visit carefully. Then I’ve some paperwork to do before we go our separate ways at noon. We should meet back here at about five, to exchange notes.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

“By the way, I didn’t know you could mimic a northern accent.”

Billy looked surprised as he leafed through his notebook, pencil at the ready to work on the case map. “What d’yer mean, Miss? I ain’t got no northern accent. I’m an East End of London boy. Shoreditch born and bred, that’s me.”

Billy left the office first, taking with him the address book found in Charlotte Waite’s rooms. There were few names listed, all with London addresses except for a cousin and Charlotte’s mother, both in Yorkshire. Billy had already confirmed that Charlotte had not sought refuge with either of them. As Joseph Waite supported both his wife and niece, it was unlikely that they would risk their future financial security by deceit. Billy’s next task was to confirm each name listed and also find out more about Charlotte’s former fiancé, Gerald Bartrup.

Maisie cast a final glance around the office, then departed after locking up. Once outside, she made her way along Fitzroy Street, then Charlotte Street, taking a route parallel to Tottenham Court Road. As she walked toward her destination—the Waite’s International Store on Oxford Street—she turned the contents of Charlotte’s address book over in her mind, then mentally walked through Charlotte’s rooms once more. Maisie always maintained that first impressions of a room or a person were akin to soup when it was fresh. One can appreciate the flavor, the heat and the ingredients that went into the pot that will merge together to provide sustenance. But it’s on the second day that a soup really reveals itself and releases the blending of spices and aromas onto the tastebuds. In the same way, as Maisie walked through the rooms in her mind’s eye, she was aware of the rigid control that pervaded the Waite household and must have enveloped Charlotte like a shroud.

In suggesting they recreate the scene at breakfast, when Charlotte Waite hurriedly left the room in a flood of tears, Maisie was using one of Maurice’s training techniques that had become a standard part of their investigative procedure. She knew that, as her assistant, Billy had to be constantly aware of every single piece of information and evidence that emerged as their work on a case developed. His senses must be fine-tuned, and he had to think beyond what was seen, heard and read. Useful information might just as likely be derived from intuition. He must learn to question, she thought, not to take any evidence at face value. Maurice often quoted one of his former colleagues, the famous professor of forensic medicine, Alexandre Lacassagne, who had died some years earlier: As my friend Lacassagne would say, Maisie, ‘One must know how to doubt.’

As Maisie walked purposefully toward the shop, a key question nagged at her: Where would a person who carried such a heavy burden run to? Where could she go to find solace, compassion—and herself? As she considered the possibilities, Maisie cautioned herself not to jump to conclusions.

She walked along Charlotte Street, then crossed into Rathbone Place until she reached Oxford Street. Joseph Waite’s conspicuous grocery shop was situated across the road, between Charing Cross Road and Soho Street. For a few moments, Maisie stood looking at the shop. Blue-striped awnings matching the tiled exterior extended over the double doors through which customers entered. To the left of the door, a showcase window held a presentation of fancy tinned foods and fruits and vegetables; to the right, a corresponding window held a display of meats. Whole carcasses were hooked to a brass bar that ran along the top and chickens hung from another brass bar halfway down. A selection of meats was displayed on an angled counter topped with a slab of marble to better exhibit the legs of lamb, pork chops, minced meats, stewing steaks, and other cuts strategically placed and garnished with bunches of parsley, sage, and thyme to tempt the customer.

Above the awnings was a tile mosaic that spelled out the words WAITE’S INTERNATIONAL STORES. In smaller letters underneath, the sign read: A FAMILY BUSINESS. EST. 1885.

As customers went in and out of the shop, a small group of children gathered by the window and held out their cupped hands, hoping for a coin or two from the shoppers. Such booty would not be spent on sweets or trinkets, for these children knew the stab of hunger from an empty belly and the smarting pain of a clip around the ear if they came home without a few precious pennies for the family’s keep. Maisie knew that for each child waiting there was a mother who watered down a stew to make it go farther, and a father who had walked all day from one employment line to another. Whatever else Joseph Waite might be, he was not completely without feeling. It had been reported in the newspapers that at the end of each day, any food that might spoil before the shops opened the next morning was delivered to soup kitchens in the poorest areas.

Maisie crossed the road and walked through the elegant doors. Counters ran along the walls on either side, with a third connecting them at the far end of the shop. Each was divided into sections, with one or two shop assistants working each section, dependent upon the number of customers waiting. There was an ornate brass till in each section, to receive cash for the items weighed and purchased. Of course the wealthy had accounts that were settled monthly or weekly, with the maid personally presenting an order that would be filled and delivered to the house by a blue-and-gold Waite’s delivery van.

The oak floor was polished to a shine. As she watched, Maisie noticed that a boy swept the floor every quarter of an hour. As soon as he had finished making his way, broom in hand, from one end to the other, it was time for him to start again, rhythmically directing sawdust and any debris into a large dustpan as he worked back and forth, back and forth. White-tiled walls reflected the bright glass lights that hung from cast-iron ceiling fixtures, and along the top of the walls a border of colored tiles formed another mosaic, depicting the very best foods that money could buy. A marble-topped table stood in the center of the floor, groaning with a tableau of vegetables and tinned goods. Maisie wondered if a visitor entering the store would believe that there were people in Britain wanting for a good meal.

She walked around the shop, looking first at the cheese counter, then the fruits and vegetables. Dry goods were displayed in barrels and wooden boxes, and as a customer asked for a half pound of currants or a pound of rice, the assistant, dressed in a blue cotton dress and matching cap decorated with yellow piping, would measure the amount onto the scale, then tip the currants or rice into a blue paper bag, which was then folded at the top and handed, with a smile, to the customer. Money was handed over, and as the assistant pressed the brass keys of the heavy till, the tally popped up in the glass panel. Yes, thought Maisie, listening to the tills ringing and willing assistants advising on the best way to cook this or that, Waite’s was weathering the country’s economic woes very well. She walked to the other side of the shop and stood alongside the fancy-goods counter. A woman had just pointed to the glass-topped tin of biscuits and asked for “a good half-pound of Sweet Maries, please” when Maisie became aware that the physical energy in the shop had suddenly changed. A deep blue Rolls Royce had drawn up outside the entrance, and a chauffeur was walking around to the front passenger door. As Maisie watched, the man silhouetted inside removed his Homburg and in its place set a flat cap on his head. Ah, she thought: Joseph Waite, the “everyman” of the grocery trade. The man who was so in touch with his origins that he would sit alongside his chauffeur in his grand motor car—at least when he was visiting one of his shops.

Waite dispatched the chauffeur to send the street urchins away from the store with a penny each for their trouble. Then he strode into his store, light of foot despite his extra weight. He stopped to speak to each customer on his way to the first counter, and Maisie felt the force of personality that had made him rich, famous, and loved by working-class folk and the privileged alike. Waite was the common man, in business for the people who made him what he had become, or so it seemed as he took over the cheese counter, asking the next customer what he could do for her on this bright day. As the woman gave her order, Waite made much of washing his hands at the sink situated on the wall behind the counter, then turned and took up a half wheel of English cheddar. Positioning the cheese on a marble slab, Waite drew the wire cutter across, placed the wedge of cheddar on a wafer of waxed paper, weighed it, then held the cheese out for her inspection in the palm of his hand. Maisie noticed that while washing his hands he had whispered to the assistant. Now as he said, “A nice half-pound for you exactly, Mrs. Johnson,” she realized that he had asked the customer’s name,

Mrs. Johnson blushed and nodded agreement, uttering a shy “thank-you” to the famous Joseph Waite. As he placed the cheese in a paper bag and twisted the corners to secure the item, she turned to other customers and smiled, eager to be seen basking in these few moments of attention from the man himself.

Waite moved on, working at each counter before reaching the section where he was clearly in his element: the meat counter. It was the most decorated part of the shop, with the stuffed head of an Aberdeen Angus mounted on the wall behind the counter, complete with a ring through its nose and glassy eyes that betrayed the fury the beast must have felt upon being taken to the slaughterhouse. Whole carcasses hung from a horizontal brass rod near the ceiling, which could be lowered by a pulley secured on the left-hand wall. The tills had been ringing at a steady pace until Waite walked into his domain. Now they rang even more briskly.

Waving the assistants to one side, he snapped his fingers. An apprentice appeared bearing a freshly laundered white butcher’s apron, which he unfolded and held ready. Taking off his jacket, Waite handed it to another assistant, turned and washed his hands again, drying them on a fresh white towel held at the ready by a young boy. He took the apron and placed the bib over his head, wrapping the strings around his waist, bringing them to the front, and tying a double knot. One of the apprentices had begun to operate the rope pulley, slowly inching the carcasses down to ground level, whereupon two others, wearing butchers’ white aprons, white shirts and blue-and-gold bow ties, lifted a pig carcass onto the marble slab.

Swiftly and deftly Waite wielded the cleaver and boning knife, his sausage-like fingers holding the meat steady while he separated legs, ribs, trotters, joints, and muscle. With a flourish he held up a leg of pork, explaining to the customers who had gathered to watch Joseph Waite, the famous butchers’ boy who had done so very well, yet knew what it was to be poor—that even the cheapest cuts could be cooked to provide a succulent Sunday dinner, and the leftovers minced together with a few carrots, potatoes and a little bit of onion for a pie on Monday—which would, of course, last until Tuesday or Wednesday.

Waite finished preparing the carcass for display and sale and, as he removed his apron, his customers broke into applause. Waite waved an acknowledgment, then washed his hands once more and turned to the apprentice holding out his jacket. He slipped into it, nodded to his staff, and waved to the customers one last time before leaving by a side door that Maisie assumed led to the upstairs offices. The assistants exchanged glances and exhaled, blowing out their cheeks for added emphasis, relieved that the ritual was over.

Having seen all she had come to see, Maisie turned to leave. She had taken only one step when her eyes were drawn to the wall above the doorway and another mosaic crafted at great expense. It was not its beauty that caused Maisie to catch her breath, but the sad truth inscribed there. Upon each tile was the name of an employee of Waite’s International Stores lost in the Great War. There were at least one hundred, each name accompanied by the town in which the man had worked. Above the names a banner of colored tiles formed the words: IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE—LEST WE FORGET.

Maisie’s eyes filled with tears as she was taken once again by the grief that still assailed her when she least expected it, when the sharp and dreadful memories came to her unbidden. Maisie knew the recollections were not hers exclusively. A shared grief often seemed to linger in the air, perhaps borne on a soft breeze carrying the name of one who was lost heard in conversation or remembered at a gathering, and the realization that one or two of that group were gone, their laughter never to be heard again. It was as if the sorrow of every single man and woman who had lived with the fear or reality of losing a loved one to war had formed an abyss to be negotiated anew every day.

Composing herself, Maisie approached an assistant at the cheese counter, who had no customers to serve at the moment.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes, Madam, how may I help you today?”

“I just wondered about the names on the wall.”

“Oh, yes, Miss. Tragic, we lost so many. Joined up as pals, a lot of ’em. The Waite’s Boys, they called themselves. Mr. Waite had that memorial started as soon as the first were lost. There’s one in every Waite’s shop, all the same, all the names in every shop.”

“You must all think a lot of him.” Maisie inclined her head, seeking a response.

The assistant smiled. “Yes, we all think a lot of him, Madam. And he looks after all the families.” He nodded toward the memorial tiles.

“You mean financially?”

“Yes, there’s not one of those families wants for anything. They get their groceries every Christmas, and a Christmas box—money, you know—and they get a bit off their groceries if they shop at Waite’s. Got special little cards, they have, to get the money back. And if anyone’s taken poorly, well, Mr. Waite’s office is under orders to look after them.”

“I see. Very generous, isn’t he?”

“Very.” The assistant moved to end the conversation as a customer approached, then continued. “Read through those names, Madam, and you’ll see why Mr. Waite has a personal interest in the families.”

Maisie looked above the door and read: “Gough, Gould, Gowden, Haines, Jackson, Michaels, Richards”—her eyes focused on the bottom of one column, then rose to the top of the next—“Waite . . . Joseph Charles Waite, Jr., London.” She could read no further.

CHAPTER THREE

On Tuesday afternoon, following her visit to the branch of Waite’s International Stores, Maisie telephoned the offices of Carstairs & Clifton and requested an immediate appointment with Mr. Gerald Bartrup, for whom she had received a personal recommendation. She had no doubt that her request would be granted, for new customers seeking investment advice were thin on the ground in such times. Maisie was curious about the relationship between Bartrup and Charlotte. Had theirs been a love match that had soured with time and deeper familiarity? Or had Charlotte been pressured by her father to make a suitable marriage? The engagement had ended, but was there still a connection? If so, Charlotte might well have appealed to her former fiancé upon fleeing her father’s house.

She alighted at Bank underground station, and walked to the redbrick building that housed the offices of Carstairs & Clifton. A doorman directed her to the reception desk, where her appointment was confirmed, and she was directed to a staircase, at the top of which she was met by another clerk who escorted her to Mr. Bartrup’s office.

Bartrup, a man of medium height, about thirty-eight years old, with a receding hairline and a rather florid complexion, came from behind a large mahogany desk and extended a hand. “Ah, Miss Dobbs. Delighted to meet you.”

“And I you, Mr. Bartrup.”

“Do take a seat. Would you like some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?”

“No thank you, Mr. Bartrup.”

Bartrup took his place behind the desk, and placed his hands together on the leather blotting pad in front of him.

“Now, then, you wish to discuss investment of a legacy I understand, Miss Dobbs?”

“Mr. Bartrup. I must confess immediately that investment counsel is not my reason for coming to see you today.”

“But, I thought . . . .” The flustered man reached for a file on his desk.

“Mr. Bartrup, I wanted to speak to you in confidence about a matter of urgency. I am working on behalf of Mr. Joseph Waite, who is concerned about his daughter. She has recently left her father’s home and has not since been in communication with her family.”

Bartrup threw back his head and began to laugh. “Another bid for freedom until the old man locks her up again!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t worry, I am speaking figuratively, not literally, Miss Dobbs. As you may have noticed, Mr. Joseph Waite runs a very tight ship, and will not brook any wishes counter to his own.” He leaned toward Maisie. “And I suppose I am the wicked man who caused Her Royal Waiteness to leave, am I not?”

“I’m not implying that, Mr. Bartrup, though I had hoped you might be able to shed some light on her mood of late even if you do not know her whereabouts.”

“I have no idea where she is. And Charlotte is always in a mood, Miss Dobbs. In fact, she was in quite the mood when she broke off our engagement some weeks ago.”

“She broke off the engagement?”

“Oh yes. Without a ‘by your leave’ and with no explanation whatsoever. Didn’t even look sorry about it. Was curt and to the point: ‘I’m sorry, Gerald, we cannot marry. Our engagement is over.’ And that was that.”

“Do you have any idea—?”

“Why she did it?” Bartup stood up and walked to the window. He turned to Maisie. “No, Miss Dobbs. No idea at all. But . . .” He looked down at his feet, then back at Maisie. “I can’t say I was surprised or completely sorry. Charlotte is an attractive girl and by any standards it was a good match, but our communications had been difficult for some time. It was as if she were receding into herself. She is an unhappy woman, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie looked at Bartrup intently. “Can you tell me anything about Miss Waite’s previous disappearances?”

“Not really. All I can tell you is that they occurred before we met, and apparently—I heard this from friends—they never lasted long. Frankly, she knew on which side her bread was buttered. We had been engaged for six months, with no date set for the wedding. Of course we’d come up with possibilities, but a reason was always found to eliminate that date and go back to the drawing board. Sometimes Charlotte discovered the conflicting engagement, sometimes her father. She did not do the disappearing act while we were courting, or after we became engaged, though I had been warned by others about her previous forays into freedom away from the pressures of living in Waite-shire!”

Bartrup smiled, though Maisie suspected that he still felt the sting of being cast aside by Charlotte Waite.

“Mind you,” he added, “our engagement ended some two months ago, so that couldn’t have made her bolt.” Bartrup looked thoughtful, then consulted his watch. “Good Lord! Miss Dobbs, I can manage one last question, then I must proceed to my next appointment.”

Maisie sensed that there was no other appointment, but one last question would be sufficient. “Thank you, Mr. Bartrup. It’s a simple question: Where do you think Charlotte might be? Where would she run to?”

Bartrup sighed, and leaned his chin on the fist he made with both hands, his elbows on the table in front of him. “I wish I could help you, Miss Dobbs, but I really don’t know. She certainly didn’t come to me, nor am I someone she would confide in.”

“You must have been saddened by your engagement ending, Mr. Bartrup.”

“Frankly, at first I was taken aback, but then, well, one has to just get on with it, doesn’t one?”

“I have taken a good deal of your time, Mr. Bartrup, and I must thank you.” Maisie stood and held out her hand for Bartrup, who returned her handshake.

“If I can be of any help, Miss Dobbs, please do not hesitate to call again, though afternoon is always best, given the vagaries of work in the City.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Maisie bade him farewell and was escorted out of the offices of Carstairs & Clifton. She emerged into bright mid-afternoon sunshine, and hurried to Bank underground station for the quick journey back to Fitzroy Square. Maisie knew that Billy would not return to the office before five o’clock, so she would have some time to review Maurice’s notes again and gather her thoughts. Bartrup had been of almost no help, and recollection of the conversation led her to believe that Charlotte had probably done well to break off the engagement. Marriage to such a man would have provided no comfort except financial, and Charlotte had no urgent need for economic security. Perhaps Charlotte’s curiosity about the contemplative life, that the book and pamphlets in her room suggested, stemmed from a desire for a deeper, more intimate connection than that promised by marriage to the men in her circle.

Walking across Fitzroy Square, Maisie felt an ominous chill in the air and looked up to see heavy gray cumulus clouds, which seemed to her like water-filled balloons ready to burst. She picked up her pace, keys at the ready to open the front door. She entered the room just in time to see long needles of rain slanting across the windows where sunlight had filtered in that morning.

Maisie removed her mackintosh, hung it on the hook behind the door, and went to a filing cabinet that contained more extensive information than that in the card file. She was concerned; thus far she had made no progress, had perhaps wasted time. The various elements of information gathered indicated to Maisie that finding Charlotte Waite might be even more urgent than her overbearing, yet in some ways dismissive, father believed. As Maisie unlocked the cabinet, she reflected upon the memorial tiles in Joseph Waite’s store and admonished herself: How had she missed the fact that Waite had a son?

Leafing through the manila folders, Maisie found the file she was looking for and took it to her desk. She began to remove notes and letters from it, fanning them out on the desk in front of her. Knowing that at that point Maurice might have cautioned her against anger directed at the self, Maisie quickly sat back in the chair with her eyes closed. She placed her left hand on her solar plexus to become centered, and her right hand across her heart to denote kindness, as she had been taught by Khan. She took several deep breaths, opened her eyes, and looked at the documents in front of her, with the intention of studying carefully every detail of Joseph Waite’s background. She read for some time, jotted notes and words on a sheet of paper that she would later add to the case map. The thud of the outer door being closed brought her contemplative silence to an end, followed by the unmistakable “dot-and-carry-one” footfall of Billy Beale climbing the stairs. The door opened and immediately Maisie felt the energy in the room change as Billy entered. Clearly he had news to impart.

“Afternoon, Miss. Nice to see the days starting to get longer, innit? Not that you’d notice this afternoon.” Billy shook out his overcoat and hung it on the back of the door, while Maisie looked in dismay at the droplets of rainwater that now speckled the floor. “Didn’t it come down, all of a sudden? I thought it’d ’old off, what wiv it clearin’ up this mornin’.”

“Indeed, Billy. Um, could you get a cloth and wipe up the water on the floor?”

“Aw, sorry, Miss.” Billy took a rag from one of the drawers in his desk and slowly bent down to mop up the rainwater, favoring the aching knee.

Having completed the task, Billy took his notebook, Charlotte Waite’s address book, and a newspaper from the inside pocket of his overcoat, and sat down beside Maisie at the table by the window.

“Well, I don’t know about you, Miss, but I’ve ’ad a very interestin’ day.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

Billy placed the address book in front of Maisie, inclined his head toward it, and grinned.“Notice anything strange about this ’ere book?”

Maisie picked up the black leather-bound book, ran her fingers around the closed gilt-edged pages, and flicked open a page or two.

“Go on.”

“Well, I ain’t never ’ad an address book meself. I might scratch down somethin’ on the back of me Daily Sketch, but I’ve never gone in for addresses all written down in alphabetical order, like.”

Maisie nodded.

“But what I reckon is that people like you, what ’ave address books because they know enough people to ’ave to write down all the names and addresses and telephone numbers and all, don’t ’ave address books that look like this.” Billy reached for the book, flapped it back and forth, and then set it down on the table again for effect. “I bet if we looked through your address book, it’d be full of directions and notes and some telephone numbers, and some people would’ve moved so many times, you’ve ’ad to scribble out the address to put the new one in. Then no sooner’ve you done that, they’ve either moved again or gone and got themselves married and changed names, so you ’ave to move the ’ole thing.”

“You’ve got a point there, Billy.”

“Well, I looked at this book, and I thought to meself that she either don’t know many people or this ain’t ’er main address book.”

“Do you think she deliberately left a bogus address book to fool people who searched for her?” Maisie tested Billy.

“Nah, I don’t think she’s that sort. ’Specially if she ran off a bit quick. No, ’ere’s what I think ’appened: She ’ad a new book for a present or bought ’erself a new book because the old one’s got a bit tatty. So she starts to put in the names and—course, I’m speculatin’ ’ere, Miss—starts with the people she knows best now. They’re the ones it’s most important to ’ave in the book. But because it’s not the most thrillin’ job, she puts it off and still goes back to ’er old book, because she’s used to it, it’s like an old friend in itself.”

“Good thinking, Billy.”

“Anyway, this is all well and good, because the people who’re important now in ’er life are all ’ere—and by the way, I saw one of ’em today, I’ll tell you about that next—but the ones from a long time ago, what she probably ’asn’t seen for ages and only keeps the name in the book so she can send a card at Christmas, ain’t ’ere . . . and Charlotte Waite took ’er old book with ’er to wherever she went off to.”

“I am very impressed, Billy; you’ve put a lot of thought into this.” Maisie smiled.

Billy sat up straighter and reached for his notebook. “So, I was standin’ outside the ’ome of, let me see, ’ere we are—Lydia Fisher. Lives in Cheyne Mews—very nice, I’m sure. So, I was standin’ outside, taking a dekko at the premises, when up she comes in ’er car. Very posh, I must say. She was dressed to the nines, bright red lips, and that black stuff on ’er eyes, fur draped over ’er shoulder. Of course, I ’ad to say somethin’ to ’er, didn’t I?” Billy held out his upturned palms for effect. “Seein’ as she’d almost knocked me into the wall with ’er drivin’ and that she’d see me again when we do our official inquiry. So I told ’er my name, and that I worked for you, and that what I ’ad to say was in confidence.”

“And you had this conversation out in the street?”

“Well, the beginnin’ of it, yes. I said that we was workin’ for the Waite family, and she says, ‘Do come in.’ There was a maid who brought us tea in the upstairs drawin’ room. Mind you, the lady knocked back a couple of quick ones, poured ’em ’erself from one of them fancy crystal decanters on the sideboard. She’s only got a maid and a cook, is my guess. Probably no chauffeur because she seems to like ’avin’ the car to ’erself.” Billy cleared his throat and continued. “So I says that, it’s all confidential, that Charlotte Waite ’ad left ’er father’s ’ome, and that we’d been retained to look for ’er.”

“Good.”

“Well, she rolls ’er eyes, says, ‘Again!’ all snotty, like, then says, “That’s no surprise, she’s run so many times, they should put that woman in the Olympics!’ I knew what she meant, what wiv what we already know about Miss Waite. Then she says, ‘Well, not to worry, she’s finally run off to a convent, I expect,’ to which, Miss, I said, “Are you serious, Miss Fisher?’ She says, all airs and all, ‘Mrs. Fisher, if you please.’ Anyway, it turns out that in their last two luncheons, Miss Waite’d talked about the end of her engagement and ’ow she couldn’t find someone she really loved, so she might as well go off to live in a nunnery where she could at least be useful.”

“Did Fisher think she meant it?”

“The funny thing is, y’know, she said that at first she thought Charlotte was tryin’ to shock ’er. Then she said she realized that Charlotte might be serious, and that she’d been down to a place in Kent somewhere. ’Ow about that, then?”

“Well, that’s interesting.” Maisie understood how the serene image of a nun might appeal to a bored, unhappy young woman. She recalled wartime nurses being photographed in such a way as to evoke the purity and dedication of those in religious orders. Such romantic images subsequently encouraged more young women to enlist.“I wonder what Waite will have to say about that?” she added. “He didn’t seem to be a religious man, and there’s no references to either his beliefs or Catholicism in Maurice’s notes.”

“Do you think Charlotte is trying to annoy ’er father?”

“Well, she’s not a child, but she’s clearly capable of such behavior.” Maisie was thoughtful. “You know, we could be awfully lucky here. I didn’t say anything about it this morning because I didn’t want to jump to conclusions and close our minds in the process, but I used to know an enclosed nun, Dame Constance Charteris. She was abbess of a community of Benedictines living close to Girton. She met with several students for tutorials on religious philosophy. Because they’re an enclosed order, communication with outsiders takes place with a sort of barrier in between. I remember it was rather strange at first, being in tutorial with someone who sat behind a grille. “

“And ’ow’s that lucky, Miss?”

“I can’t remember all the details, but shortly after I left Girton to become a VAD nurse, the nuns had to find a new place to live. I think their abbey in Cambridgeshire was requisitioned for military use, and I could swear they went to Kent. I just need to make a couple of telephone calls to find out, and if that’s so, I’ll send word to Dame Constance, asking to see her as soon as possible.”

“Can’t we just go down there, see if Miss Waite is there, and put a tin lid on this case?”

Maisie shook her head. “No, Billy. If Charlotte Waite has sought her out, Dame Constance will be very protective of her and what the Benedictines stand for.”

“I bet old Waite would just march in, find out if Charlotte was there and—if she was—drag her out.”

“He could try.” Maisie smiled at her assistant. “But I wouldn’t bet on his chances against Dame Constance. No, let’s do this with an eye to protocol; it’ll serve us well.”

Billy nodded, and Maisie reached for her own notes.

She described Joseph Waite, the way in which his forceful personality filled the shop, drawing customers to him with his easy camaraderie while at the same time intimidating his staff. Maisie explained to Billy how such intimidation seemed at odds with the regard the assistants appeared to have for Waite, especially for the way he looked after the families of those fallen in the Great War.

Billy chimed in, “Y’know what my ol’ father used to say, don’t you? ’e used to say that if you ’ad workers, it wasn’t so important to be liked as it was to be respected, and it was possible to respect someone without actually likin’ them. P’r’aps Waite doesn’t need to be liked.”

“I think that’s a fairly accurate assessment of the situation.” Maisie nodded, and continued, “The other thing, and the most important: Joseph Waite lost a son in the war, a son who worked for him at the shop. He was probably being groomed to inherit the business.”

Billy was surprised.“P’r’aps that’s why ’es so, y’know, miserable. After all, ’e would be, especially if that girl of ’is is a bit of a drooping flower.”

“I think ‘wilting lily’ was the phrase he used. And yes, it could account for a lot, but might have nothing at all to do with Charlotte’s disappearance, which must obviously be our focus.”

“What ’appened to ’im, the son?”

“It appears that young Waite was killed along with many men employed by Waite’s. They joined up together. Joseph was a product of Waite’s first marriage. Waite married, quite literally, the girl next door, when he was twenty-four and she was twenty. Sadly, she died in childbirth a year later. By then Waite was doing quite well, but it must have been yet another heavy loss to add to his list.”

“It’s a wonder ’e didn’t mention it the other day. Y’know, when ’e was going on about despair.”

“Yes and no. Extreme emotions are strange forces, Billy. The loss of his son might be kept separate from his other griefs, his alone, shared with no one.” Maisie stopped for a moment, then continued speaking: “One of Waite’s sisters, who was unmarried at the time, came to live at his house to care for the child. As you can imagine, Waite kept his family employed, so they were well looked after, except the brother he spoke of yesterday, who had gone to work at the pit. The son would have been about six when Waite remarried in haste and, as you know, Charlotte was born seven months later. So Joseph, the son, was seven when his sister was born. By the way, you’ll notice young Joseph’s middle name was Charles, and the daughter was christened Charlotte. Joseph Waite’s father was Charles. Thus he effectively named both children after their late grandfather.”

Maisie reached for the colored pencils and drew them toward Billy and herself. “Now then, let’s map this out and see what we might have missed.” They began working together, and after a few minutes Maisie continued. “I’ll visit Lydia Fisher this week, Billy. Tomorrow morning, I think, so don’t expect me in until lunchtime-ish. It’s going to be a very busy week, I may not be able to keep my Friday luncheon appointment with Inspector Stratton.”

“Oh, Miss—” Billy suddenly laid a red pencil down on the desk and hit his forehead smartly, as if to reprimand himself for his forgetfulness. “That reminds me, you mentionin’ D. I. Stratton. I spoke to ol’ Jack Barker—y’know, who sells the Express outside Warren Street station— and ’e spoke to ’is mate what sells the Times, who ’ad a copy or two leftover from the weekend.”

“What has that got to do with Inspector Stratton?”

“Remember we was talkin’ about ’im bein’ on that case of the woman who’d been murdered, in Coulsden?”

“Yes.”

“I said I’d find out what Charlotte Waite was readin’, y’know, when she did a runner out of the room where they ’ad breakfast.”

Maisie drew breath sharply.

“Anyway, it turns out that the Times—and every other paper this last weekend, for that matter—printed the latest news about that woman who’d been found murdered in Coulsden. ’er name was Philippa Sedgewick. She was married, about your age—remember I remarked on it? And she was a vicar’s daughter. The Times listed it on the front page, wiv the main story on page two. It was right there wiv all the important news, about the deficit and unemployment, and about Mr. Gandhi’s walk to the sea for salt. All the papers ’ad the murder story, wiv all the ’orrible details. Would’ve turned anyone off their breakfast.”

Maisie tapped her pencil on the palm of her hand. Billy said nothing, knowing that Maisie was disengaging her mind from his. She looked out of the window at the evening sky. Perhaps it wasn’t such a coincidence that Billy had mentioned Mr. Gandhi. Khan had spoken of the man and his idea of satyagraha, which in Sanskrit meant “insistence on truth.” Maisie shivered, remembering the emotions she had experienced while sitting in Charlotte Waite’s rooms, the most powerful of which was the melancholy that seeped from every nook and cranny in the place where the missing woman had lived. Perhaps fear and not an overbearing father had been the true impetus for Charlotte’s flight.

CHAPTER FOUR

The previous September Lady Rowan had insisted that Maisie leave the rented bed-sitting room next to her Warren Street office and live in their Belgravia mansion’s second-floor apartment. At first Maisie declined, for she had been a resident of the house before, when she came to live in the servants’ quarters at the age of thirteen. And though the veil of class distinction that separated Maisie and her employer had been lifted over the years—especially as Lady Rowan became more involved in sponsoring Maisie’s education—the memory of those early days in their relationship lingered like a faint scent in the air. The offer was well meant, yet Maisie feared that the change in status might be difficult. Finally, however, she had allowed herself to be persuaded.

One evening just after taking up residence, Maisie had waited until the downstairs staff were having a cup of nighttime cocoa in the kitchen, then quietly slipped through the door on the landing that led to the back stairs. She made her way up to the servants’ quarters, to the room she’d occupied when she first came to 15 Ebury Place. The furniture was covered in sheets, as the girls who usually slept in this room were currently at Chelstone, the Comptons’ country estate in Kent. Maisie sat on the cast-iron-framed bed she had once wearily climbed into every night, with work-worn hands and an aching back. It was Enid she thought of, her friend and fellow servant who had left the Compton’s employ to seek more lucrative work in a munitions factory in late 1914. Maisie had seen her for the last time in April 1915, just a few hours before she was killed in an explosion at the factory.

Maisie consulted her watch. She had to hurry. She wanted to look her best to gain an audience with the possibly indisposed Mrs. Fisher, and to do that she must appear on a social par with her.

She had purchased several new items of clothing recently, an expenditure that nagged at her, for she was not given to frivolous spending. But as Lady Rowan pointed out, “It’s all very well wearing those plain clothes while you’re snooping around London or tramping through a field, but you’ve important clients who will want to know they are dealing with someone successful!”

So Maisie had invested in the burgundy ensemble that subsequently seemed to pick up lint all too quickly, a black dress suitable for day or early-evening wear, and the deep-plum-colored suit she now laid out on the bed. The long-line jacket had a shawl collar that extended down to a single button at just below waist level and set to one side. Maisie chose a plain cream silk blouse with a jewel neckline to wear under the jacket, and a string of pearls with matching earrings. The jacket cuffs bore only one button, and revealed just a half inch of silk at each wrist. The matching knife-pleated skirt fell just below the knee. The cost of her silk stockings made her shudder as she put them on. She took care to lick her fingers quickly before running her hand through each stocking, to prevent a hangnail catching and causing an unsightly pull.

Maisie drew the line at matching shoes for each outfit, instead selecting her best plain black pair with a single strap that extended across her instep and buttoned with a square black button. The heels were a modest one-and-a-half inches.

She collected her black shoulder bag, her document case, an umbrella— just in case—and her new plum-colored hat with a black ribbon band gathered in a simple rosette at the side. The cloche she’d worn for some time now seemed tired, and though perfectly serviceable for an ordinary day’s work, would not do today. This hat had a slightly broader, more fashionable brim, and revealed more of her face and midnight blue eyes. Maisie took care to pin back any tendrils of hair that looked as if they might creep out and go astray.

Maisie set off to walk to Cheyne Mews, exercise she enjoyed, for this morning the sky was robin’s-egg blue, the sun was shining, and though she passed only a few people, they smiled readily and wished her a good morning. Gradually the number of pedestrians thinned out, until Maisie was the only person making her way along the avenue. A light breeze ran though the trees, causing newly unfolded leaves to rustle, and she was suddenly aware of a chill in the air, a chill so strong that it caused her to stop. She rubbed her arms and shivered. A sensation seemed to run across the back of her neck, as if an icy finger had been drawn from just below one earlobe across to the other, and Maisie was so sure someone was standing behind her that she turned quickly. But there was no one.

She was quite cold by the time she reached 9 Cheyne Mews, a typical mews house in which horses had once been stabled, facing a brick street. Now the only means of transportation evident to Maisie was a sleek new Lagonda parked outside the Fisher residence. She knew from George, the Comptons’ chauffeur, who regularly regaled her with news of the latest automobile inventions, that this was an exclusive motor car, capable of more than ninety miles per hour. The Lagonda had been parked without due care; one of the front wheels rested on the narrow pavement. Unlike the neighboring houses, the three-storey house was plain, unadorned by windowboxes. There was just one step up to the front door. Maisie rang the bell and waited for the maid to answer. When no one came, Maisie rang the bell again and then a third time, at which point the door finally opened.

“Sorry M’um. Begging your pardon for keeping you waiting.” The young maid was flushed and in tears.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Fisher.” Maisie inclined her head. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, M’um.” Her bottom lip trembled. “Well, I don’t know, I’m sure.” She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her lace apron and dabbed her eyes.

“What is it?” Maisie placed a hand on the maid’s shoulder, a move that caused the girl to break down completely.

“Let’s get you inside, and then tell me what’s wrong.”

Standing in the narrow hallway, the maid blurted out her fears. “Well, the lady hasn’t got up yet, and I’m new here, see, and the cook, who knows her better than me, doesn’t get here till half past eleven. The lady told me yesterday afternoon that she didn’t want to be disturbed until nine this morning, and look at the time now! I’ve knocked and knocked, and I know she had a drink or two yesterday afternoon, and I know she would’ve kept going—I’ve learned that already—and she’s got a temper on her if she’s crossed, but she did say—”

“Now then, calm down and show me to her room.”

The maid looked doubtful, but when Maisie informed her that she had once been a nurse, the maid nodded, rubbed her swollen eyes, and led Maisie up a flight of stairs to the first floor where the main reception and bedrooms were situated. She stopped outside a carved door that looked as if it might have been brought from an exotic overseas locale. Maisie knocked sharply.

“Mrs. Fisher. Are you awake? Mrs. Fisher!” Her voice was loud and clear, yet there was no answer. She tried opening the door, which was locked. Maisie knew that it was crucial that she gain entrance to the room.

“She may be indisposed, especially if she overindulged. I’ll need to get into the room. Go downstairs and prepare a glass of water with liver salts for her.”

The maid hurried downstairs. Maisie shook her head: She’s so new she hasn’t even asked my name.

Opening her document case, Maisie reached for a cloth bag with a drawstring top that contained several implements, similar to fishermen’s needles, of varying size. She selected one. That should do it. She knelt, inserted the sharp point into the keyhole and manipulated the lock. Yes! Maisie stood up, closed her eyes for just a second to control the images rushing into her mind’s eye, and opened the door.

Lydia Fisher’s body lay on the floor between an elegant pale blue chaise longue and an overturned side table, the contents of a tea tray strewn across an Aubusson rug. Maisie was never shocked upon encountering a scene of death. Not since the war. She automatically reached under the woman’s left ear with her fingertips, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. No sign of life. Mrs. Fisher was dressed for an afternoon out. It appeared that she had not changed her clothes after arriving home yesterday.

The corridor floor creaked as the maid returned. Maisie moved quickly to the door to prevent the high-strung young woman from seeing into the room. She stopped her just in time.

“You must do exactly as I say. Telephone Scotland Yard. Ask to speak with Detective Inspector Stratton and no one else. Say that you are acting on the instructions of Miss Maisie Dobbs and that he is to come to this address immediately.”

“Is Mrs. Fisher all right, M’um?”

“Just do as I say—now! When you’ve done that, come back to the room only if there is to be a delay or if you have not been able to speak personally to Inspector Stratton. When the police arrive, direct them to me straightaway.”

Maisie estimated that she would have twenty minutes or so alone in the room. Not as much as she would have liked, but enough. Again she brought out the drawstring bag. She pulled out a folded pair of rubber gloves that were at least one size too small and pulled them onto her hands, pressing down between each finger for a snug fit. She turned to the body of Lydia Fisher.

The woman’s clothing had been torn many times, though there was little blood from the multiple knife wounds to her chest. Kneeling, Maisie looked closely at each burnt umber-rimmed wound, taking care not to disturb the fabric of the victim’s clothing or the position of her body. Next she turned her attention to the terror-filled dead eyes, then to the purple lips and mouth, and the fingers. Ten minutes.

The teapot had been smashed, but some of the dregs were caught in part of its base. Maisie reached into the drawstring bag and took out a small utensil similar to a salt spoon. She dipped it into the liquid and tasted. Then she moved closer and sniffed. Next she turned her attention to the room. Little time remained. Apparently Lydia Fisher had been killed while taking tea with a guest. Maisie suspected that the disarray in the room had been caused by Lydia herself. She walked around the body, noting the position of the chaise and of other furniture that had been disturbed. Ornaments had fallen from another side table, bottles had been knocked from the cocktail cabinet. Maisie nodded: morphine. The narcotic would have caused intense muscle spasms and hallucinations before death. The killer would have watched, perhaps avoiding ever weaker lunges by the victim for fifteen minutes or so before death occurred. And once Fisher was dead, the murderer, who had watched the woman die, had taken another portion of revenge with a knife. Five minutes.

Maisie closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to get a sense of what energies the events of the last twenty-four hours had left in their wake. Though death had surely accompanied him, Maisie felt that the visitor had been known to Lydia Fisher. Maisie had been to murder scenes on many occasions and had immediately felt the frenzy of attack. Fear, and hatred, the emotions that led to such a terrible outcome lingered and caused a constellation of violent jagged colors to blur her vision temporarily, as they had done this morning when she stood outside Lydia Fisher’s carved door. One more minute.

Two motor cars screeched to a halt outside. Maisie deftly removed her gloves and returned them to the cloth bag, which she slipped into her case before moving to a position outside the door to wait for Stratton. She took one last look at Lydia Fisher’s body and the terrible fear etched in the woman’s wide-open eyes.

Maisie heard the maid answer the door, which was quickly followed by an introduction lacking any pleasantries by Stratton, and a terse “Good morning” from his sergeant, Caldwell. The maid informed them that Miss Dobbs was waiting upstairs.

Maisie greeted Stratton and Caldwell and led them into Lydia’s drawing room.

“I came to the house hoping to meet with Mrs. Fisher in connection with an assignment. The maid was distressed that Mrs. Fisher had not answered her knock. She’s new and I think somewhat intimidated by her employer. I informed her that I had been a nurse, and had her bring me here.”

“Hmmm.” Stratton, kneeling by the body, turned to Caldwell, who was inspecting the disarray in the room.

“Looks like she fought off the murderer, sir. Probably a big bloke, I’d say, what with all this mess.”

Stratton met Maisie’s eyes briefly. “I’ll need the murder bag, Caldwell. And try to get hold of Sir Bernard Spilsbury. If you can’t get him, then call out the duty man. Secure the property and place a cordon around the area.”

Caldwell regarded Maisie with a smirk. “Will you be needing me when you question Miss Dobbs here, sir?”

Stratton sighed. “I will question Miss Dobbs later. This woman was murdered yesterday, probably late afternoon—as Miss Dobbs already knows.” He glanced at Maisie. “For now I want to ensure that the body is inspected and removed for postmortem before the newspapermen arrive. And I have no doubt they’ll arrive soon.”

Maisie was asked to wait in the ground-floor reception room, where she was later questioned by Stratton, accompanied by Caldwell. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the famous pathologist, arrived and Maisie was permitted to leave, though she knew there would be more questioning to come. As she departed the house she heard Caldwell voice his unsolicited opinion: “Well, sir, if you ask me, it’s her old man. Nearly always is. Mind you, could be she had one on the side, woman like that, all furs and a big car of her own to gad about in. Who knows what she brought home!”

Maisie knew very well who Lydia Fisher had brought home yesterday afternoon. But who might have visited soon after—perhaps soon enough for the tea still to be warm in the pot? Had she answered the door herself? Billy had said the maid left the house on an errand after bringing tea, so he had seen himself out. Had Lydia poured another cup of tea in an effort to regain sobriety in the face of an unexpected caller? How had the visitor found an opportunity to introduce a narcotic into the tea? Had the caller seen that Lydia was intoxicated and offered to make fresh tea? Tea that could so easily be laced with poison? And could more of the drug have been administered while Lydia’s muscles began to spasm after the first few sips? So many questions spun through Maisie’s mind and the one person who could answer them was decidedly not available for questioning. Or was she?

Maisie wondered how she might gain access to Lydia Fisher’s home once more. She wanted to know how Lydia Fisher lived and what had caused her grief, because of one thing she was sure: Lydia Fisher had grieved.

While she walked, Maisie remembered feeling a prickling of the skin on her neck while she stood in the upstairs hallway of Lydia Fisher’s house, outside the room where her body lay. She had not shied away from the sensation but had instead silently asked, What is it you want me to see? Never before at the scene of a crime had Maisie had felt such a duality of sensation, like a fabric that on one side is smooth and satinlike but on the other, rough with a raised pile. She knew that the last person who had come to the house came with a terrible burden. A burden that was no lighter for having taken Lydia Fisher’s life.

Maisie walked quickly toward Victoria underground station. She planned to return to her office as quickly as possible. She would leave a message for Billy to the effect that she would be back at five o’clock. Not a moment was to be lost in the search for Charlotte Waite. If the Coulsden victim, Philippa Sedgewick, had been Charlotte’s friend, as was Lydia Fisher, then Charlotte must be found. One dead friend was a tragedy. Two dead friends . . . a terrifying coincidence.

Just as Maisie reached Victoria, the black car she had already seen once that day drew alongside her. The door opened, and Detective Inspector Richard Stratton emerged and tipped his hat.

“Miss Dobbs, I thought I might find you on your way to the station. I noticed that you didn’t have your little red motor with you today. Look—you’ve had a horrible time this morning—would you care to join me for a quick cup of tea?”

Maisie looked at her watch. Lunchtime had passed and she had hardly noticed. “Yes, I do have time—just—but I must be back at my office by five.”

“I would be delighted to escort you there in the motor car. Let’s just nip across the road.” Stratton indicated a small teashop, and Maisie inclined her head in agreement.

Stratton took Maisie lightly by the elbow to steer her through the sparse traffic. Maisie knew he would likely be less solicitous when he questioned her again formally.

A waitress directed them to a corner table.

“Miss Dobbs, I’m curious about the fact that you visited Mrs. Fisher today of all days. Is there anything else you can tell me about your presence at the scene?”

“I’ve told you all I can, I believe. The victim was once a friend of the young woman I am seeking on behalf of a client. I thought she might be able to assist me.”

The waitress returned with a tray and proceeded to set a white china teapot on the table, followed by a hot-water jug, sugar bowl, milk jug, and two matching white china teacups and saucers. She bobbed a curtsey and left the table, returning a moment later with a plate containing sliced Hovis bread with butter and jam, several iced fancy-cakes and two Eccles cakes.

“Hmmm. Interesting. Mind you, this woman had lots of friends.”

“Perhaps mere acquaintances, Inspector.”

“Yes, possibly.” Stratton looked thoughtful as Maisie began to pour tea.

“So you put the milk in after the tea,” said Stratton.

“The old London way, Inspector Stratton: Never put the milk in first because you might waste some. If you put it in last, you can tell exactly how much you really need.” Maisie handed the cup of tea to Stratton, pushed the sugar bowl toward him, and filled her own cup.

As Stratton lifted the hot tea to his lips, Maisie pressed ahead with her own question. “I take it you agree that the murder at Cheyne Mews is linked to the Coulsden murder, Inspector?”

Stratton set his cup on the saucer so fiercely, the sound caused several people to look in their direction.

“Inspector, it really doesn’t take much in the way of deduction.” Maisie spoke softly.

Stratton regarded Maisie before answering. “In confidence . . .”

“Of course.”

Stratton continued, “The scene was very much the same as the Coulsden murder, with very little bloodshed given the extent of the attack. Spilsbury suspects ingestion of a narcotic, most likely morphine, prior to an assault with a more violent weapon. The same method was used with the Coulsden victim. The body was cold, and rigor had set in.”

“Has Spilsbury indicated the time of death yet?”

“Informally he confirmed it was yesterday, either in the late afternoon or in the evening. I’ll have to wait until he submits his detailed report. He’s usually more definite even at the scene of the murder. Apparently Lydia Fisher dismissed the maid after being served tea yesterday and neither she or the cook had seen her since. But according to the staff, that wasn’t unusual. She was frequently known to go out at night without first requesting the assistance of her maid. And she often took to her rooms for several days on end, demanding not to be disturbed and furious if she was. The murderer could have locked the door to the room behind him, let himself out, and no one the wiser for hours. The cook said that the previous maid wouldn’t turn a hair if Mrs. Fisher remained in her rooms for two or three days. If you hadn’t arrived at the house and found the young maid in tears, the body could have lain there for a long time. The cook would have come along, told her not to fuss, and that would have been that.”

“Thank heavens I called to see her.”

“There’s something else. The maid went out after tea on Wednesday, which the victim took with a man of about thirty to thirty-five. By the way, Miss Dobbs, I must underline again the need for absolute confidence.” Stratton sipped his tea and looked at Maisie intently.

“Of course, Inspector.” Maisie wanted Stratton to continue.

“Anyway, he was of medium build, with a slight limp—possibly an old soldier—and he had hair ‘like a stook of hay,’ according to the maid. He’s our best suspect thus far, so we must identify and find him as soon as possible.”

Maisie set her cup on the saucer, wondering whether she should preempt Stratton’s discovery that Billy Beale had been an earlier visitor. She quickly decided against it. Perhaps there had been another caller whose description was similar.

“Inspector, I know you might find this somewhat irregular, but I wonder, might I revisit the room where the body was found? A woman’s insight might be helpful.”

“Well, it is most irregular, Miss Dobbs.”

Stratton looked at his watch. “I will consider it. Now then, I should ensure that you are escorted to your office.”

Maisie waited for Stratton to pull back her chair. They were met outside by Stratton’s driver, who drove them swiftly across London and, arriving at Fitzroy Square, parked the motor car on the pedestrian area outside Maisie’s office.

“Having a police car is handy at times,” said Stratton.

The driver opened the door for Stratton and Maisie to alight and, just as Stratton held out his hand to bid Maisie good-bye, Billy Beale came around the corner. He was carrying his cap. At that moment the last ray of afternoon sun caught his unruly blond hair at the same time as a rogue breeze swept across the square, giving the impression of a wayward halo around his head.

“Evenin’, Miss; evenin’, Detective Inspector Stratton.”

Stratton shook hands with Billy, who touched his forehead, nodded to Maisie, and turned toward the front door. His appearance was not lost on Stratton, who watched Billy walk up the steps, pull the sleeve of his coat down over his hand and polish Maisie’s nameplate in his customary fashion before taking out his key, unlocking the outer door, and entering the Georgian building. As he closed the door behind him, Stratton turned to face Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs, I think perhaps that there is more to discuss regarding your presence in Cheyne Mews this afternoon. However, we can do so tomorrow. I will be here at nine o’clock to collect you so that we may visit Lydia Fisher’s house together. As you said, a woman’s perspective might be of use to the police in the investigation of this crime.”

Maisie held out her hand to Stratton. “Very well, Inspector. However, I would prefer to meet you at Victoria at, say, a quarter past nine? Then we can go on from there. I have other engagements during the day, so I must be back at my office by half past ten.”

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.” Stratton nodded, stepped into the police car, and was driven away.

CHAPTER FIVE

Maisie doubted that Stratton would seriously consider Billy Beale a suspect. They had met before and Stratton seemed both impressed by Billy’s devotion to his employer and amused by his enthusiastic approach to his new job. On the other hand, he might suspect that Maisie had gone to the house to cover up Billy’s tracks. No, the Inspector was an intelligent man, he would not seriously consider such a thing, though he would want to question Billy to eliminate him from inquiries and to extract any useful observations.

Maisie reached the top step of the first flight of stairs and lingered over a concern: Joseph Waite’s demand that the police not be notified of his daughter’s disappearance despite the possible relevance of Charlotte’s friendship with Lydia Fisher. The pursuit of the murderer might require that this information be disclosed. Maisie worried about the consequences of withholding evidence from Stratton. And she worried about something else: What if Waite was wrong? What if Charlotte had not disappeared of her own free will? What if she knew the murderer? Could she have become another victim? But then again, what if Charlotte had killed her friend—had killed two friends?

Before she could open the door to the office, it swung open and Billy stood waiting, his jacket removed and shirtsleeves rolled up, ready for work. Maisie looked at her watch.

“Billy, let’s sit down.”

Billy’s ready smile evaporated. “What’s wrong, Miss?”

“Sit down first, Billy.”

Billy became agitated, which accentuated his limp. Maisie understood, knowing that the unease of the moment would strike his leg, a point of physical vulnerability.

Maisie sat opposite him and deliberately relaxed her body to bring calm to the room and to communicate that she was in control of the situation. “Billy, this morning I went to the home of Lydia Fisher in Cheyne Mews and found her—dead.”

“Oh my Gawd!” Billy rose from the chair, half stumbling, to stand by the window. “I knew she was drinking too much.” Agitated, he ran his fingers repeatedly through his hair. “I should’ve taken away the bottle, got on the blower to you, got you over there. You would’ve known what to do. I could’ve stopped ’er, I knew she was downin’ ’em too fast, I should—”

“Billy.” Maisie left the table and stood in front of her assistant. “Lydia Fisher was murdered after you left her yesterday. There was nothing you could have done.”

“Murdered? Topped by someone?”

“Yes. The exact time of death has yet to be determined, but when I quickly examined the body, I estimated that she had lain there since early yesterday evening.”

Maisie recounted her visit to the Fisher home, finding the body, her subsequent initial questioning and the meeting with Stratton later. Billy was fearful of the police interrogation that would doubtless ensue. Maisie asked Billy to describe this meeting with Lydia Fisher again, and his departure from the mews house.

“Billy, you did a good job,” she said when he had concluded shakily. “I will explain to Detective Inspector Stratton that you were working on behalf of a concerned father, and so on. The challenge will be to keep the Waite name out of the conversation.” Maisie rubbed her neck, thought for a moment, and continued. “But the fact is, apart from the killer, you were possibly the last person to see Lydia Fisher alive.”

“And she was pretty well oiled when I left, and that’s a fact.”

“What was the time again?”

“I got back ’ere at five, didn’t I? For our meetin’.” As he spoke, Billy reached into his jacket, which was hanging over the back of the chair, and pulled out his notebook. “And I ’ad a couple of other errands to do, so it was about . . . ’ere we go, Miss, it was twenty-five past three in the afternoon.”

“Was anyone else in the house at the time, other than the staff?”

“Now, it’s funny that you should say that, Miss, because although I didn’t see anyone, I thought someone else might be about. In fact, now I come to think of it, I saw a suitcase—one of them big leather ones with the straps—on the landing.”

“That’s interesting. I don’t remember seeing a large suitcase this morning.”

“P’r’aps the maid moved it. It could’ve belonged to Mrs Fisher, couldn’t it? Remember, she corrected me, Miss? I noticed she ’ad a wedding ring on, but the ’ouse didn’t ’ave that feelin’ about it, y’know, like there was a man about.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about this, Billy?”

“Well, Miss, she wasn’t dead then, was she? And I wasn’t lookin’ out for ’er . I was only there to find out about Miss Waite, wasn’t I?”

Maisie sighed. “Fair enough. But remember—”

“Yeah, I know, ‘Everything in its entirety must be written down.’Well, Miss, I did do that, I did write it down in my book, but I just didn’t say nothin’ because Mrs. Fisher wasn’t the one what’d run off, was she?”

Billy sat down awkwardly, though Maisie remained standing and looked out across the square. It was darker now. He had mentioned earlier that he wanted to be home in time to take his children to the recreation ground. It crossed Maisie’s mind that he had been optimistic in thinking that he would get home while it was still light enough to play outdoors. She turned back to him.

“Yes, you’re right, Billy. Now then, recall one more time what happened when you left.”

“When she’d told me about Miss Waite and the nuns, and all, she seemed to be lollin’ all over the place, so I said my good-byes and thank-you-very-muches, and off I went.”

Maisie sighed. “Oh dear. I do wish one of the household had let you out.”

“So do I, come to think of it. But the maid wasn’t there. Mind you, I think someone else went in after me.”

“Well, I would hope so, Billy.”

“Nah, Miss, you know what I mean. Directly after me.”

“Explain.”

“I was on the street, and you know ’ow narrow them mewses are, don’t you? Well, it was that funny it was, because I came out of the ’ouse, ’ad to squeeze past that big car of ’ers, the way she’d parked it all over the pavement, then I turned right to go down toward Victoria. I ’adn’t gone but a couple of yards when I ’eard steps behind me; then the door slammed. I thought it must’ve been Mr. Fisher, comin’ in from work or somethin’ and I just ’adn’t seen ’im.”

“You’re sure it was Number Nine’s door that opened and closed?”

“As sure as I can be. It was the sound, Miss. I’m good wiv noises. It’s ’avin the nippers what does it—always gotta know where the noise is comin’ from, otherwise the little beggars’ll be getting’ up to no good at all. Anyway, if it’d been the next ’ouse along, it wouldn’t ’ave sounded the same, in either direction. No, it was Number Nine.” Billy looked at Maisie, his eyes revealing the shock of a sudden unwanted thought. “’ere, Miss, you don’t think it was the one what did ’er in, do you?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Maisie considered another possibility, that Lydia Fisher might have been lying to Billy throughout. The suitcase he noticed could have belonged to Charlotte Waite. It might have been Charlotte who— alone or aided by another—had slain her friend. Waite had referred to his daughter as a “wilting lily” but Maisie was begining to consider her a dark horse.

“This is getting’ interestin’, innit, Miss?”

“Intriguing is what it is. Intriguing. I’ve written to Dame Constance at Camden Abbey in Kent, and expect to hear from her by return. Whether Charlotte has run there for shelter or not, Dame Constance will be able to throw light on the mind of an aspiring nun. I’ll visit her as soon as I can. And I want to consult with Dr. Blanche, so I’ll stop at the Dower House at Chelstone to see him first.”

“Will you see your old dad while you’re there?”

“Of course I will. Why do you ask?”

“Wonderful man, your dad. You just don’t seem to see much of ’im, that’s all, seein’ as ’e’s your only real family.”

Maisie drew back, surprised. The simplicity of Billy’s observation stung her, as if she had been attacked by an unseen insect. She knew that it was only the truth that could injure in such a manner, and her face reddened.

“I see my father as much as I can.” Maisie leaned toward a pile of papers, which she shuffled before consulting her watch. “Goodness me, Billy! You should be on your way. You won’t be home in time to play with your children though, will you?”

“Oh yes I will, Miss. Never miss a play before they go up to bed. Nice to ’ave a bit of a romp around, although the missus moans about it, says it gets ’em all excited so they won’t sleep.”

“We might as well finish work for the day. I’m meeting Detective Inspector Stratton tomorrow morning to go to Lydia Fisher’s house. Be prepared to hold the fort for a couple of days while I am down in Kent.”

“You can count on me, Miss.” Billy extended his wounded leg and rose from his chair.

“That leg giving you trouble again? You seemed to be in less pain this morning.”

“It comes and goes, Miss. Comes and goes. I’ll be off then.”

“Very well, Billy.”

Billy pulled on his overcoat and gave a final wave before clambering down the stairs in an ungainly fashion that could be heard with each receding footfall. The front door opened and closed with a thud. It was six o’clock.

Maisie was in no rush to leave. It had been a long day, and so much had happened. But far from being anxious to return to her rooms, Maisie felt a dragging at her heart as she contemplated the evening ahead. Perhaps she would go down to the kitchen and have a cup of cocoa with Sandra, one of several housemaids who remained at the Comptons’ Belgravia mansion while the rest of the household were at Chelstone. Though Sandra, Valerie, and Teresa were all nice girls, they weren’t quite sure about Maisie Dobbs, whom they knew had been one of them once upon a time but wasn’t anymore. So they were often uneasy about initiating conversation with her, though they were friendly enough.

Gathering up her notes, Maisie placed some outstanding correspondence in her document case, checked that her desk was secure, turned off the gaslights and left the office. Tomorrow was another working day, which, it was to be hoped, would reveal more about the death of Lydia Fisher and, perhaps, about the character, motives, and whereabouts of her client’s daughter. She made a mental note to prepare some additional questions for Joseph Waite about his daughter’s friends. She had not yet decided whether to ask him about his son.

The square was busy when she closed the outer door behind her. There were people wandering across to visit friends, art students from the Slade returning to their digs, and a few people going in and out of the corner grocery shop where Mrs. Clark and her daughter, Phoebe, would be running back and forth to find even the most obscure items that the eclectic mix of customers in Fitzroy Square requested, despite the fact that the country was in the midst of a depression.

Maisie had turned right into Warren Street, pulling on her gloves as she walked, when she stopped suddenly to look at two men who were standing across the road. They had just exited the Prince of Wales pub and stood for a moment under a streetlamp, then moved into the shadows away from the illumination. Maisie also stepped into the shadows to avoid being seen. They spoke for a few moments, each nervously casting glances up and down the street. One man, the stranger, pulled an envelope from a pocket inside his coat, while the other looked both ways, took the envelope, and placed something in the first man’s waiting hand. Maisie suspected that it was several pound notes rolled together, payment for the first item. She continued to watch as the men departed. The one she did not know walked back into the pub, while the fair hair of the other man caught the faint light of the streetlamps burning through an evening smog, as he limped unsteadily on his way toward the Euston Road.

Maisie was deeply troubled as she sat in her rooms at 15 Ebury Place that evening. When Sandra came to inquire whether she would like “a nice cup of cocoa,” Maisie declined the offer and continued to stare out of the window into the darkness. What was happening to Billy? One minute he seemed to be in the depths of a debilitating malaise, the next revitalized and energetic. He seemed to ricochet between forgetting the most basic rules of their work together—work that he had taken to so readily—and being so productive in his duties as to cause Maisie to consider an increase in wages at a time when most employers were rendering staff redundant. Billy’s war wounds were still troubling him, no matter how strong his protestations. And perhaps she had completely underestimated his ability to cope with memories as they were brought in on the tide of pain that seemed to ebb and flow in such a disturbing manner.

Silence encroached, seeping even into the very fabric of the rich linen furnishings. Maisie gathered her thoughts and sought to banish the sound of nothing at all by reviewing her notes on the Waite case once again. Lydia Fisher had been killed before she could ask her about Charlotte Waite. Had she been murdered to prevent Maisie from seeing her? But what about the Coulsden case? Had it really been the newspaper account of that murder that had caused Charlotte to bolt? Could the two murders be random and simply a coincidence that should have no bearing on Maisie’s assignment? Maisie pondered more questions, then finally put her work aside for the night. She felt a lack of composure in her body, a sure sign of the turmoil in her mind, which must be stilled if she was to enjoy a good night’s sleep and a fruitful morning.

Taking the pillows from her bed, Maisie placed them on the floor, loosened her dressing gown slightly for greater freedom of movement, and sat down with legs crossed. There was only one way to still her thoughts and racing heart, and that was to secure dominion over her body in meditation. She took four long breaths through her nose, placed her hands on her knees with the thumb and forefinger of each hand touching, and half closed her eyes. Allowing her gaze to rest on a barely discernible stain on the carpet in front of her, Maisie endeavored to banish all thought. Slowly the stillness of the room embraced her being, and the heartbeat that had been so frantic seemed to become one with her breath. As a consideration or worry struggled to enter her mind, Maisie relaxed and refused such thoughts an audience, instead imagining them leaving the range of her inner vision, like clouds that pass in the afternoon sky. She breathed deeply and was calm.

Later, as Maisie opened her eyes fully, she acknowledged the truth that had been revealed to her in the silence—the truth that had caused her to avoid visiting her father, for he would see it immediately. The truth that Maisie had been avoiding for so long was a simple one: She was lonely. And as she remained still for just a moment longer, she wondered if that, too, had been Charlotte Waite’s sorrow.

CHAPTER SIX

Maisie awoke as the sun forced its way through the crack where the curtains met, fingering at her leaden eyelids until they opened. She moved her head on the pillow to avoid the blade of light, reached out, and pulled her bedside clock a little closer.

“Oh, lumme, a quarter past eight!”

She leaped from the bed, ran to the bathroom, turned the bathtub taps, and then pulled the lever to activate the shower that had only recently been installed. In addition to piping-hot water that pumped from the eight-inch-diameter showerhead, a series of sprays on the vertical pipe ensured that water reached not only the head but the whole body.

“Oh no!” said Maisie, as she stood under the streaming water and extended her arm to reach the soap, for she had realized that her long tresses, now completely drenched, would not be dry by the time she left the house. Exiting the shower, complaining aloud about the “newfangled thing,” she dried herself quickly, wrapped a thick white towel around her head and put on a plain cotton robe. Sitting at her dressing table, she applied just a little cold cream to her face, rubbing the residue into her hands. She dabbed her cheeks, removing any excess cream with a corner of the towel. She applied only the smallest amount of rouge to her cheeks and lips, then hurried back into her bedroom, opened the wardrobe door and selected a plain midnight blue day dress with a dropped waistline and sleeves that came to just below the elbow. Maisie had generally chosen dresses and skirts that came to her mid-calf, and was glad that fashion was moving in her direction once again following a flirtation with shorter hemlines. Her trusty dark blue jacket, some years old now, would have to do, as would her old cloche and plain black shoes. In fact the cloche would come in very handy this morning.

She removed the towel from her head and consulted the clock: half past eight. It would take fifteen minutes walking at a brisk clip to reach Victoria, so she had only a quarter of an hour to dry her hair. Grabbing her jacket, hat, gloves and document case, she took six hairpins from a glass bowl on her dressing table and rushed out of her room, along the landing, then through a small disguised door to the left that led to the back stairs of the house.

As Maisie entered the kitchen, the three housemaids, who were talking, seemed to jump as she spoke.“Oh dear, I wonder if you can help, I need to dry my hair ever so quickly!”

Sandra was the first to step forward, followed by Teresa.

“Tess, take Miss Dobbs’s things. Come over here, Miss. we won’t be able to get it bone dry, but enough so’s you can pin it up. Quick, Val, open the fire door.”

Maisie noticed that now she was on downstairs territory, the staff called her “Miss” rather than the more formal upstairs “M’um.” She toweled her head once more, and was instructed to lean over in front of the fire door of the stove, so that the heat would begin to dry her hair.

“Now then, don’t get too close, Miss. You don’t want to singe that lovely hair, now, do you?”

“Singe it? I feel like burning the lot off, Sandra.”

“I suppose we could always go and get Her Ladyship’s new Hawkins Supreme, you know, that green hair-drying machine thing of hers. She only used it the once. Said it was like having a vacuum cleaner going over her head.”

As Valerie flapped the morning newspaper so that heat would move around Maisie’s black tresses, she began to giggle. Then Sandra lost the battle to hold back her own laughter, as did Teresa. Maisie looked up through a veil of ringlets of still-damp hair and, for the first time in a long time, she began to laugh, too.

“Oh, don’t, don’t make me laugh like that!” As tears began to fall from her eyes, Maisie rubbed them away.

“Miss, Miss, I’m sorry, it’s just that, well, we suddenly saw the funny side of it, I mean, we’ve all ’ad to do it, you know, I s’pose we never thought you’d ever rush in ’ere all of a fluster.”

Maisie leaned back, took up her brush, and began to sweep her hair into a manageable twist. “I’m only human! You know, Mrs. Crawford would have boxed my ears for brushing my hair in the kitchen, and that’s a fact!”

Valerie moved to close the stove door, as Sandra wiped down the long kitchen table with a cloth. “Well, Miss, it’s nice to see you laugh, it really is. It’s good for a body, laughing. Puts a spring in your step, it does.”

Maisie smiled. “I appreciate the help, and the company.” Maisie looked at the silver watch pinned to her dress, “I had better get moving or I’ll be late for my appointment.”

Sandra put down the cloth she was holding. “I’ll go to the door with you, Miss.”

Maisie was about to insist that she need not be escorted, when it occurred to her that Sandra, the longest-serving housemaid and the oldest at twenty-six, might want to speak with her in confidence. At the top of the stone steps at the side of the mansion Maisie turned to Sandra in silence and smiled, encouraging her to speak.

“Miss, I hope this doesn’t sound, you know, out of place.” Sandra stood with her hands clasped behind her back and looked at her polished black shoes for a second, as if searching for the best way to deliver her words. She hesitated, and Maisie said nothing but moved just slightly closer. “Well, you work very hard, Miss, anyone can see that. Even late into the night. So, what I wanted to say was, that you’re always welcome to come down for a chat if you want. You see—” she picked at loose thread on her pinafore “—we know you can’t do that when everyone’s in residence, because it’s not done, is it? But when you’re alone at the house, we just want you to know that you don’t have to be.” Sandra looked at Maisie as if she had finished, then quickly added, “Mind you, we’re probably all a bit boring for you, Miss.”

Maisie smiled at Sandra, and said, “Not at all, Sandra. You are most kind. Some of my happiest times were spent downstairs in that kitchen. I’ll take you up on the offer.” Maisie looked at her watch. “Oh heavens, I must dash now. But Sandra . . .”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Thank you. Thank you for your understanding.”

“Yes, Miss.” Sandra bobbed a curtsey, nodded, and waved good-bye to Maisie.

Detective Inspector Stratton climbed out of the police car as soon as it came to a halt, and opened the rear passenger door for Maisie. He took the seat next to her and, without any niceties of greeting, began immediately to speak of “the Fisher Case.”

“I’ll get straight to the point, Miss Dobbs: What was your assistant doing at Lydia Fisher’s house on the day she was murdered?”

“Inspector Stratton, you have not yet informed me as to whether, in fact, my assistant visited on the actual day of her death, as she was not found until eleven yesterday morning.”

“Please do not be obstructive, Miss Dobbs. I am allowing you to revisit the victim’s home this morning in the hope that you might be able to assist us.”

“Indeed, Inspector, I appreciate your trust, though I am only trying to point out that we do not know yet exactly when the deceased met her fate. Or do we?” Maisie smiled at Stratton with a warmth that remained from the laughter that had embraced her less than an hour before.

Stratton looked mildly put out. “Spilsbury has reported the time of death to have been at about six o’clock in the evening on the day before you found her. Now, what about Beale?”

“Mr. Beale did indeed see Mrs. Fisher at her home. However, he left Cheyne Mews before four o’clock to return to the office to meet with me, and I can vouch for him.”

“When did he leave you again?”

“Oh, Inspector—”

“Miss Dobbs.”

“It was approximately six o’clock. No doubt his wife would be able to confirm his arrival at home by, say, half past six or so. He travels to and from work by either bus or the underground, though I believe he prefers to go home by train as it’s a bit quicker—from St. Pancras on the Metropolitan Line to Whitechapel. Depending upon the trains, I suppose he might not get home until seven. I doubt if he’d be out much later, Inspector, as he likes to play with his children before they go to bed.” Maisie thought for a moment, then added, “I know that occasionally he stops for a quick half pint at the Prince of Wales, but only at the end of the week.”

“I’ll have to question him, you know.”

“Yes, of course, Inspector.” Maisie looked out of the window

The car slowed to make the turn into Cheyne Mews, and drew alongside Number 9. A single police constable stood outside. Stratton made no move to leave the car but turned to Maisie again.

“Tell me again why you were coming to visit Mrs. Fisher, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie had prepared an answer to this question. “I have been clutching at straws, Inspector, and Mrs. Fisher might have been able to throw light on a case I am working on concerning a daughter who has left the home of her parents. It was a tenuous connection. I believe they were acquainted at one point and I wanted to speak with her to see if she could illuminate aspects of the girl’s character. I should add, Inspector, that the ‘girl’ is in her thirties, and has a very overbearing father.”

“And Beale?”

“He had been confirming the names and whereabouts of her acquaintances. Our subject’s connection with Mrs. Fisher had been so intermittent that we did not even know whether we had her correct address. He was checking our information when she came along and he took the opportunity to speak to her. They conversed and he left. I’ve told you the rest.”

“And the name of the woman you are looking for?”

“As I said yesterday, I have signed a contract of confidentiality. Should it be absolutely necessary to divulge the name of my client, I will do so in the interests of public safety and justice. At this stage I request your respect for my professional obligation to my client.”

Stratton frowned but nodded. “For now, Miss Dobbs, I will not press the point. We are looking for a male suspect, not a woman. However, have you any other information that might be pertinent to this case?”

“Only that Mr. Beale commented upon the alcoholic beverages that Mrs. Fisher enjoyed instead of tea.”

Stratton rubbed his chin and looked at Maisie again, “Yes, that is in line with Spilsbury’s findings.”

Maisie pulled on her gloves and took up her bag in anticipation of leaving the car. “Inspector, did Spilsbury comment upon the poison theory?”

“Oh yes,” said Stratton, reaching for the door handle. “She was definitely poisoned first. It was taken in tea—so she probably had a cup or two at some point after Beale left the house. Cuthbert is currently beavering away in his laboratory to identify the exact poison or combination of substances employed, though Sir Bernard Spilsbury has said that he suspects an opiate, probably morphia.”

“What about the knife attack?”

“She was dead when the attack took place, hence—as you saw— there was little blood at the scene. But there are some lingering questions about the knife.”

“Oh?”

“It seems that the stab wounds are very much like those inflicted by a bayonet. But you know Sir Bernard. We can expect a very precise description of the weapon soon.”

Maisie drew breath quickly and asked one more question as Stratton opened the door for her. “And has he confirmed a connection to the Coulsden case?”

Stratton took her hand as she stepped from the motor car. “The means of murder is identical.”

“Spoiled a nice piece of carpet, didn’t he?” Stratton was looking out of the drawing room window to the street below.

Flippant comments were not unusual among those whose job it was to investigate the aftermath of violent crime. Maurice had told Maisie long ago that it was part of the unconscious effort to bring some normalcy to that which is far from usual. But it was the first time she had heard an Aubusson rug being referred to as a “nice piece of carpet.”

“Inspector, may I have some time alone in the room, please?”

He paused, then shrugged before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. Though he had never liaised professionally with Maurice Blanche, he had heard of his methods from colleagues who had worked with the man, and knew his “strange” ways often led to a quick solution of the crime in question. Blanche’s former assistant was indubitably using procedures learned from her employer. The room had been thoroughly investigated, so there was no risk to evidence. And Stratton knew that, had she wanted, Maisie Dobbs could have altered or removed evidence when she first found the corpse.

Maisie walked slowly around the room, touching the personal belongings of Lydia Fisher, and again she was assailed by the sense that this was a lonely woman. That she had yearned for conversation rather than talk; for heartfelt passion, not indulgence; and that she had ached for the intimate connection that came with true friendship rather than from a cadre of society sycophants.

She took careful stock of the contents of the drawing room: Pale blue velvet curtains, the deeper lapis blue chaise with pale blue piping, an oak writing table in the art nouveau style, a set of side tables, now properly nested rather than tipped over, a mirror shaped like a huge butterfly on one wall, and a modernist painting on the other. The drinks cabinet in the corner to the right of the window had been “dusted” by the police, and there was a gramophone in the opposite corner. It had been a pleasing, airy room. But it was the room of a person who lived alone, not a married woman.

She walked over to the chaise, knelt by the umber stain on the rug, and touched the place where Lydia Fisher had fallen. Maisie closed her eyes and breathed deeply, all the time keeping a light touch upon the place where the dead woman’s blood had spilled grudgingly onto the carpet. As she did so a cold, clammy air seemed to descend and envelop her. The sensation was not unexpected, and she knew it would come as she reached out to the past in search of a reason, a word, a clue. Anything that would tell her why Lydia Fisher had died. Anything that might tell her why there was something so recognizable in a room she had never entered before coming to visit Mrs. Fisher yesterday.

Seconds passed. Time was suspended. Instead of seeing the room in which she stood, she saw the one Charlotte Waite had left so hurriedly five days earlier. Some emotion was shared by the two women, and though she was quick to consider loneliness, which she would find so easy to understand, Maisie knew a more elusive feeling she was as yet unable to name linked them.

Maisie opened her eyes, and the connection with Lydia Fisher began to ebb. She heard Stratton’s voice coming closer. He had obviously thought that she’d had time enough to commune with whatever Lydia Fisher had left behind. Maisie took one last look, but just before she opened the door she felt drawn toward the window where Stratton had stood earlier. Leaning on the sill, she wished she could raise the window for air. A sudden warmth in her hands caused her to look down. Perhaps the radiator underneath had heated the wood. She ran her hands along the sill, then knelt to see if she could turn down the heat. To her surprise the iron pipes were cold. Running her hands down the wall, then along the floorboards, Maisie searched with her fingertips. There was something here for her, something of consequence. Just as she heard Stratton’s footfall outside the door, Maisie felt a hint of something both soft and prickly brush against her forefinger. She leaned closer. The item was tiny and white, so small, in fact, that it could have been swept up by the cleaners. It would be of no interest to the police. It might have fallen to the floor at any time, a small, stray wisp.

“Miss Dobbs,” Stratton knocked at the door.

“Come in, Inspector.”

As Stratton walked into the room, Maisie was folding a linen handkerchief.

“Finished, Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes, Inspector. I was rather saddened; do excuse me.” Maisie sniffed as she placed the handkerchief in her pocket.

Stratton and Maisie left the house and continued their conversation in the car.

“Your thoughts?”

“I’d like to know more about Mr. Fisher, wouldn’t you, Inspector?”

“Absolutely—in fact, I’ve got my men on the job now.”

“Where is he? What does he do?”

“Ah, well, it’s what he does that directly affects where he is. He’s some sort of traveler, an explorer if you like. According to the maid, he’s rarely home. He spends most of his time going off to some far-flung locale with a group of interested individuals—all wealthy—who pay him handsomely to be dragged off into British East Africa, the Gobi Desert, or some such place to be photographed with animals that you could quite easily see at Regent’s Park Zoo!”

“So that explains it.”

“What?”

“Her loneliness.”

“Hmmm.” Stratton looked sideways at Maisie.

“Inspector, I wonder if I could ask a favor?” Maisie smiled.

“Miss Dobbs, I fear that your request may be for something else that will bring me near to losing my job.”

“Not if it helps to find the murderer. I wonder if I could see any belongings taken from the Coulsden victim’s home?”

“Look, Miss Dobbs, though I am grateful for any interpretations you can give me from your ‘woman’s perspective,’ I am intrigued as to why you are interested in that case. The Fisher woman is understandable, given the ‘tenuous’ link to one of your own private cases. But there can be no reason for you to examine Mrs. Sedgewick’s effects. It would be most irregular.”

“I understand perfectly, Inspector.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“I can have my driver take us right to your door, if you wish.”

“No, Inspector, that will be quite all right, I have other errands to complete before returning to my office.”

The car drew up outside Victoria Station and once again Stratton alighted first to offer Maisie his hand.

“Thank you, Inspector.”

“Miss Dobbs. While I am sure that your assistant’s meeting with Mrs. Fisher went exactly as you have described, I must question him tomorrow morning. You will appreciate that in normal circumstances the procedure would be more formal. However, in this case I will simply ask you to instruct him to present himself at the Yard for questioning at ten o’clock.”

As he departed Stratton wondered what Maisie Dobbs might have gleaned from the minutes spent alone in Lydia Fisher’s house. What could a nice young woman like Miss Dobbs possibly know about the life of an inebriate partygoer like Lydia Fisher?

It was eleven o’clock in the morning when Maisie left Stratton. Before making her way to Fitzroy Square, Maisie hurried back to 15 Ebury Place. She used the staff entrance at the side of the mansion, walked quickly through the kitchen, which was late-morning silent, and went directly to her rooms, using the back stairs. Once there, she took off her blue jacket, removed the white linen handkerchief from the pocket and,without looking at the wisp that was now secure within its folds, placed it in the left-hand drawer of her writing table. It would be safe there.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Not bad for a Friday morning, is it, Miss?” Billy took off his overcoat and set it on the hook behind the door. He rubbed his hands together and smiled at Maisie. “Missed seeing you for our little meeting at five yesterday, though I got your note that you were visiting Miss Waite’s hairdresser and her seamstress in the afternoon, after your mornin’ with D.I. Stratton. I’ve been checking on more names in that address book, not that there’s much else there to be getting on with.”

“I thought that might be the case, but we must leave no stone unturned.”

“Too right, Miss. Did the hairdresser say anything interesting?”

“No, not really. Only that Charlotte’d changed in recent weeks. Apparently she used to have her hair set once a week, sometimes more often if she had parties to go to. But she’s only been in for one cut in the past six weeks, and she wanted it very plain, so she could draw it back in a bun.” Maisie reached for a folder on the desk. “And the seamstress hadn’t seen her for some weeks, which was unusual, because apparently she was always having alterations made to her very expensive clothing.”

“Well then, as we’ve got to see Mr. Waite this afternoon, p’r’aps we can get some more information from ’im. Bet you’re glad it’s the weekend, ain’t you?”

“My weekend is going to be taken up with the Waite case, and with driving down to Kent. And your weekend is a long way off, Billy; I hate to tell you this, but you’ve to be at Scotland Yard at ten sharp.”

Billy’s countenance changed immediately. “Scotland Yard, Miss?”

“Don’t worry, Billy, it’s in connection with the Fisher case.” Maisie looked up from her desk, where she was removing papers from her document case and setting them on the blotting pad in front of her. “Why? You haven’t done anything else they’d be interested in, have you?” She smiled but looked at him intently.

Billy turned toward the tea tray and replied with his back to Maisie, “Nah, not me, Miss. Tea?”

“Yes, that would be lovely, Billy. We both have a busy day, especially as I’ll be away early next week and we’ve to leave at two for our three o’clock appointment with Joseph Waite. I don’t want to be late for him.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

“And before you ask, my lunch has been canceled, so I won’t be seeing the Detective Inspector today, which isn’t surprising seeing as you will be with him for a couple of hours. We need to make faster progress in our work on the Waite case. Charlotte has absconded before, though we both think she’s old enough to be off on her own anyway. But the fact is that our opinions don’t count, and what goes on in the relationship between Joseph Waite and his daughter is for them to worry about—at this stage anyway.” She held her hand up to silence Billy, who seemed about to comment. “Yes, I know we’ve gone as quickly as we could, but I’m concerned that Lydia Fisher might have been inadvertently or deliberately misleading you about Charlotte’s desire to become a nun. We have to ensure that our client is satisfied, and satisfied as quickly as possible, but there are now more pressing reasons to locate Charlotte Waite quickly. We may be compelled to bring in the police.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“We cannot get away from the fact that we have identified a possible— and I must emphasize possible—link between the murders of two women and Charlotte Waite’s disappearance.”

Billy blew out his cheeks.“Gawd, Miss, when you put it like that . . .”

“Quite.”

“Mind you,” said Billy, changing position in the chair to stretch out his leg. “Mind you, I looked at the address book again, and that first woman, you know, the murder victim in Coulsden, well, she ain’t in there. I checked under the P’s for Philippa, and under the S’s for Sedgewick. So if Miss Waite knew ’er, she’s in the other address book.”

“Good point. We need to find out more about Mrs. Sedgewick. Look, if you’ve got time when you get out of the interview with Stratton and Caldwell, see what else you can dig up on the Sedgewick murder, go through the newspapers again. Oh, that reminds me— don’t let Sergeant Caldwell annoy you, Billy. Rise above it, and remember it’s his job to goad you a bit.” Maisie was thoughtful, “I wish there was a way you could get chatty with Inspector Stratton while you’re there.”

Billy laughed. “I don’t think it’s me ’e wants to get chatty wiv, Miss.”

Maisie blushed, and stood up to view the case map.

“So you ’aven’t ’eard from your Dame Constance yet, Miss?”

“No, not yet. One cannot expect to hear from a cloistered nun by telephone. But I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I’ll hear by this afternoon’s post. Dame Constance will have replied immediately—if she’s half as precise as she used to be. My letter to her would have arrived by yesterday morning, so assuming her reply went by the afternoon post, it should arrive today.”

“And you’ll be off to Kent on Monday, then?”

“Perhaps earlier. I’ve spoken to Dr. Blanche and will see him first about Waite.”

“You’ll remember to say ’ello to Mr. Dobbs for me, won’t you?”

Maisie looked at her watch and nodded. “Yes, of course I will, Billy. You should be getting along now, you don’t want to keep Inspector Stratton waiting.”

Billy scraped his chair back and winced slightly as his foot dragged along the floor.

Maisie pretended not to notice, but as Billy pulled on his overcoat she voiced her concern. “Are you sure I’m not leaving you with too much on your plate? I should only be away for a couple of days, but I’ll cut my journey short if you aren’t feeling up to it.”

“Nah, Miss. I told you last week, I’m much better now. Loads of energy, and the pain ain’t as bad as it was. Tell you the truth, I reckon it was the weather rusting the shrapnel they left in me legs.”

Maisie smiled. “Very well, Billy.”

Maisie began to collect her papers, which she placed under lock and key in her desk drawer. She consulted her watch and had just gathered her mackintosh, hat, and gloves, when the bell above the office door rang out as someone tugged the brass bell-pull by the outer door. Maisie wondered who could be summoning her at this inopportune moment. The thought crossed her mind that Dame Constance might have sent word via telegram. She ran downstairs.

“Why, Mrs. Beale, what a surprise!” Maisie was amazed to see Billy’s wife standing on the doorstep, holding one child by the hand and the other on her hip. She had met Doreen Beale only once before, at Christmas when she delivered gifts to the Beale’s two-up-two-down terraced home in Whitechapel. Maisie had suspected then that this small, sturdy countrywoman did not quite fit into the close-knit neighborhood, as she came from Sussex and did not share the rough-and-tumble language or raucous humor of the people her Cockney husband had grown up with.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind, Miss Dobbs, me coming here without sending word first, but I wonder if you could spare me a moment. I know Mr. Beale isn’t here. I watched him leave. I didn’t want him to know I’d come to see you.”

“Of course. Do come up to the office.” Maisie stood back to allow Doreen Beale to enter the building.

“Will the pram be all right, you know, left out here?”

“I’m sure it will, Mrs. Beale. I confess, I’ve never seen children in these parts, but I think it’s safe. Come in; let’s go up to the office.” Maisie smiled at the toddler, who hid his head in the folds of his mother’s coat, and then at the baby, who copied her brother, turning her head into the coat’s upper sleeve, which, Maisie noticed, was already damp with dribble.

She pulled out a chair for Billy’s wife, and then took some plain white paper from her desk, which she put on the floor with the jam jar of colored pencils.

“There you are, you can draw me a train!” Maisie smiled again at the little boy with an elflike cap of white-blond hair, who looked up at his mother.

“Go on, Bobby, make a nice train.”

With one child occupied and the other beginning to fall asleep in her mother’s arms, Maisie smiled at Doreen Beale. “Now then, Mrs. Beale, what can I do for you? Is something wrong with Billy?”

The woman’s eyes reddened, which accentuated her fair skin. Maisie noticed that the light blue veins at her temples had become swollen as she fought back tears.

“Oh, Mrs. Beale, whatever is the matter? What is it?”

Maisie reached out to the woman, then came around the desk to place an arm around her shoulder. The baby began to whimper, and the little boy stopped drawing and seemed frozen on the floor with his thumb in his mouth. Tears began to well in his eyes, as he mirrored his mother’s countenance.

Doreen Beale composed herself, and turned to her son with a smile.

“Come on, young Bobby, draw a nice picture for your daddy.” She stood up from her chair, and with her head indicated for Maisie to walk to the window with her. “Little ears—” she whispered. “It’s Billy, Miss Dobbs. I thought you might be able to tell me what’s wrong with him.”

“Whatever I can do—” Maisie began, but was cut off by Doreen Beale, who clearly needed to shed her burden.

“You see, my Billy used to be your solid sort. No tempers, no ups and downs. Even just after the war when we first started walking out together—we were both young then, of course—but even after all he went through, he was always so, you know, straight as a die. Like I said, no moods or tempers.” She moved slightly to reposition the child on her hip. “Well, just lately, in the last few months, all that’s changed. Now, I know his leg has been giving him trouble again—it never went away, really—and that got him down, you know. It wears you out, that sort of nagging pain.”

Maisie nodded, but did not speak. Doreen Beale took a handkerchief from the pocket of her plain brown coat and rubbed a dewdrop of moisture that had accumulated at the end of her nose. She sniffed and rubbed again.

“One minute he’s all over the place, doing jobs around the house, playing with the children, you know. He’s like a bumblebee, off to work, home again, going over to our allotment to get some vegetables— hardly makes time even to eat. Then it seems that just as quickly he comes down like a lead balloon, and even his face looks gray. And I know it’s his leg that’s at the bottom of it all. And the—you know— the memories, I suppose.” Doreen Beale sniffed and blew her nose again. “Oh, excuse me, Miss Dobbs, for all this. My mother always said that whatever you do, you should never take on so in front of your children.”

Maisie was quiet for a moment, then spoke. “I have to say, Mrs. Beale, that I’ve noticed changes in Billy’s behavior, too. I’ve also been worried, so I’m glad you felt able to speak to me about it. You must be very concerned.”

Doreen Beale nodded. “Billy’s a lovely dad to the children, and a good provider, always has been. And he’s a diamond to me, you know, a real diamond. Not like some of them I see. But, I just don’t know what wrong with him. And the terrible thing is, that I’m afraid to ask again.”

“What happened when you asked before?”

“Oh, he says, ‘I’m awright, love,’ and then goes off and does something. Then, of course, he used to stay after work for a half a pint with his friends of a Friday night. Like I said, he’s not like some of them— just one half-pint a week, my Billy. But now he’s home late two or three nights a week, sometimes full of beans, and sometimes with a face as long as a week. He was out Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, not back home until long after seven.”

Maisie tried not to show alarm. “He was late Tuesday and Wednesday?”

“Yes, Miss, though I don’t blame you, even though you’d asked him to work late.”

Maisie did not reveal her surprise. She waited for a moment before asking, “Mrs. Beale, would you like me to speak to Billy?”

“Oh, Miss Dobbs, I don’t know. I mean, yes, I would—but there again, I feel like such a yellow belly. You know, my mother always said that you should never speak of your marriage outside the four walls and two people who are in the marriage, that it wasn’t right.”

Maisie thought for a moment, knowing how difficult it must have been for Doreen Beale to come to the office. “I believe your mother’s advice was well meant, but sometimes speaking to someone else, someone trusted, helps. At the very least your load is lightened knowing that I have noticed the same behavior. I’ll have a word with Billy. And don’t worry, I won’t let on that we’ve spoken.”

Doreen Beale dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, and nodded. “I’d best be getting on, Miss Dobbs. I’ve got a wedding dress to finish this week.”

“Are you getting much work, Mrs. Beale?” said Maisie, knowing that the income of a dressmaker was directly affected by the amount of money in people’s pockets.

“Not as much as I was getting, but the jobs trickle in. And people do still appreciate fine work.”

“Good. Now then, would you like to splash some cold water on your cheeks? I’ll keep an eye on the children while you nip along the landing to the lavatory. There’s a basin in there, and I put a fresh towel on the hook this morning.”

When she returned, Bobby was still very deliberately using the pencils to draw a train, and Maisie was standing by the table with the baby’s head nestled into the curve of her neck. Doreen Beale collected her children and left the office. Maisie watched as she made her way toward Warren Street, pushing the pram with Lizzie asleep under a blanket and Bobby perched on the end, his stubby fingers clasped around the handlebar. And as she turned away, knowing that she now had to hurry to keep her appointment with Charlotte’s milliner, Maisie touched the place on her neck where she could still feel the soft downy head of Lizzie Beale.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Maisie suspected that Billy’s interview with Stratton had been draining—especially now that she knew that Billy had not returned home immediately upon leaving the office on the evening that Lydia Fisher had been killed. Though Maisie could not believe that Billy had returned to Cheyne Mews, in light of the underhand transaction she had witnessed between Billy and another man on Wednesday outside the Prince of Wales pub on Warren Street, she was concerned.

The interview with Stratton and Caldwell at Scotland Yard had been a long one, and as soon as Billy arrived back at Fitzroy Square, they set off for the appointment with Joseph Waite at his home in Dulwich. On the way, Maisie hoped to discuss their position regarding the search for Charlotte Waite, and for Billy to recount details of the interview, but Billy seemed to have slipped into an abyss of fatigue. He stared out of the passenger window, offering none of the usual commentary upon the people he saw going about their daily business as the MG sped by, nor did he offer conversation peppered with quips and puns.

“I expect you’re a bit tired after this morning’s meeting with Stratton, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no. Just thinking, Miss, just thinking.”

“What about, Billy? Is there a matter of some concern to you?” Maisie was watchful as she spoke, both of the traffic and of Billy’s demeanor.

Billy folded his arms, as if against the cold. “I’ve just been thinking about them two women, you know, Miss Waite and Mrs. Fisher. Like two peas in a pod, they were.”

“What do you mean?”

“They both seemed, you know, sort of cut off. I mean, they went out and all—well, at least they did before Miss Waite got all quiet. Right pair of social butterflies they were, but when all’s said and done, they weren’t, you know . . .” Billy crinkled his eyes as he searched for the right descriptive word. “Connected. That’s it, they weren’t connected. You know, not like, say, me, f ’r instance. I mean, I’m connected to me wife and the nippers. People are connected to them they love, and who loves them back. You can feel it when you walk into a room, can’t you, Miss?” Billy looked at Maisie for the first time since they had set out. “You know, you see photographs on the dresser, and all sorts of bits and bobs lying around that they’ve been given. And there’s comfort, in’t there? O’ course, my wife would call it clutter, but you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, Billy.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Now, like I said earlier, when I spoke to my mate, you know, the one who works for the Express, well, he told me that the word is—and you know they can’t print this sort of thing—that the Coulsden woman, Philippa Sedgewick, was seeing a gentleman who was married to someone else.”

“Will your friend keep you in mind when he gets some more information?”

Billy gave a half-laugh. “Well, ’e’s a bit of a new friend, ain’t ’e, Miss. You remember, you said I ’ad to make me own connections wiv them what could give me information? This one only took a pint or two down the Prince of Wales on Wednesday after work, and ’e was singing like a nightingale.”

“Wednesday night? Weren’t you going to try to get home early before the children went to bed?”

“Got to strike while the iron’s ’ot, ’aven’t you, Miss? Saw ’im going in for a swift one as I was walkin’ past, and thought I’d take advantage of the situation, as you might say. Certainly worked, didn’t it?”

“Well, we’ll talk about it all a bit more after meeting with Waite. I can’t say I’m looking forward to this.”

“Me neither, Miss. Now then, mind you point your nose out!”

Harris, Waite’s butler, had obviously recovered from his illness and welcomed them into the spacious hallway, whereupon he pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket.

“Four minutes to three. I will show you into the library, where Mr. Waite will join you at three on the dot.”

Harris led the way to the library, ensured that they were seated comfortably, and left the room. Maisie and Billy had been alone for barely a moment when the door swung open. Waite strode into the room, pulled out his chair before Billy could stand respectfully. He sat down with a heavy thud and checked his watch.

“Ten minutes, Miss Dobbs. Now then, it’s been four days since I gave you the job of finding my daughter. Where’s Charlotte?”

Maisie breathed deeply and spoke in a level tone. “I believe she may be in Kent, Mr. Waite, though I cannot yet positively confirm the location of her refuge.”

“Refuge? And what does my daughter need with a refuge?”

“May I speak frankly, Mr. Waite?”

The heavy-set man leaned back, folding his arms in front of his chest. Maisie wondered if he knew how quickly he gave himself away. With that one move, he was effectively telling her that her frankness was not welcome.

“I suspect that fear was at the heart of your daughter’s departure from your house.”

Waite moved forward in his chair. “Fear? What’s she got to be—”

Maisie cut him off.

“I’m not sure at this stage, though my assistant and I are pursuing several lines of inquiry. Our first priority is to make contact with Charlotte.”

“Well if you know where she is, just go and get her; that’s what I’m paying you for.”

“Mr. Waite. Your daughter may be secure within the walls of a convent. If that is the case, without attention to certain protocols of communication I will not even be able to speak to Charlotte.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a load of nonsense in my life.” Waite stood up and leaned on the table, resting his weight on his knuckles. “If you know where my daughter is, Miss Dobbs, then I want you to bring her back to this this house at once. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly, Mr. Waite.” Maisie made no move, except to lean back just slightly. Her hands remained folded in her lap in a relaxed manner. Billy followed her lead.

“Is there something more, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie consulted her watch. “We have almost five minutes left, Mr. Waite, and I’d like to ask you some questions.”

Waite stared at Maisie for a second, as if gauging how much power he would relinquish by reclaiming his seat. He reseated himself and folded his arms again.

“Can you tell me if you have ever met Philippa Sedgewick or Lydia Fisher?”

“Aye, I can. They were both acquaintances of my daughter, years ago. I think she’s still in touch with Mrs. Fisher but doesn’t see her that often. I doubt if she’s seen the other woman in years.”

“What about other friends, Mr. Waite? Surely your daughter had more than just two?”

Waite hesitated, frowning. He leaned forward and turned the ring on his little finger. “Aye, there was another friend.” He sighed, continuing to twist the sparkling ring. “She’s dead now. Killed herself a couple of months ago.”

Maisie showed no surprise at Waite’s revelation. “And what was her name?”

“Rosamund. Thorpe was her married name. She lived down on the coast somewhere. They were all at school together, years ago in Switzerland.”

Maisie leaned forward. “Was Charlotte upset at the news of her friend’s death?”

“Well, like I said, they hadn’t spoken in years. Charlotte only found out when she saw Mrs. Thorpe’s name in the obituary columns, far as I know.”

“Mr. Waite, it would seem that Charlotte’s engagement to Gerald Bartrup ended at approximately the same time as she learned of her friend’s death.”

“Oh, Bartrup. So you’ve seen him, have you?”

“Of course. And according to Bartrup, your daughter broke off their engagement. I have no reason to doubt his word.”

Waite closed his eyes for a second and shook his head.

“Mr. Waite. Why did you not tell me that Charlotte was your second child?”

Waite was visibly startled. He pursed his lips, then took a deep breath as if to compose himself before responding curtly to Maisie’s question.

“Because it has nothing to do with Charlotte’s behavior, that’s why. It has nothing to do with her running off. I’ve taken you on to investigate my daughter’s disappearance, Miss Dobbs, not my life. Oh, I know, I know, you’re thinking of some explanation based on her grief, or something like that. Well, they weren’t close, though Joe was as soft as they come and looked after his sister, but she had all the false airs and graces of her mother.”

Waite leaned forward but Maisie remained calm while Billy scribbled notes on an index card.

“He was one of the best, Miss Dobbs, the apple of my eye. Always there to help. I started him off in the shops, at the bottom so he’d earn the respect he’d need as he moved up in the company. Took to it like a duck to water, he did. Never complained that a job was beneath him. But to answer your question, I didn’t tell you because she was no’ but a girl when her brother died, and she’s a woman now. This nonsense of hers has nothing to do with my Joe!”

Maisie checked her watch. She had one minute. “And when did your son die, Mr. Waite?”

Joseph Waite stared down at the table, and when he looked up, his eyes were filled with tears. “Joe was killed in 1916. In July, Miss Dobbs, during the Battle of the Somme.”

Maisie nodded in understanding. There was no need to acknowledge his loss with words: Grief from the war cast a shadow that at times was dense and at others seemed as pale as a length of gauze. But it was never gone.

Joseph Waite looked at his watch and shook hands with Maisie and Billy; then, as he turned to leave, asked, “Miss Dobbs, why the interest in Charlotte’s three old friends?”

Maisie picked up her document case. “Because they are all dead, Mr. Waite. I thought you might have seen news of the deaths of Mrs. Sedgewick and Mrs. Fisher in the newspapers. Something of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“I must have read straight past those items. I tend to be more interested in overseas commerce and the business of the country, aspects of current affairs that directly affect Waite’s International Stores. Which is what details of my daughter’s disappearance will do if she is not brought back to this house soon. That’s up to you, Miss Dobbs.”

“I hope to communicate with her directly very soon. Of course you realize, Mr. Waite, that while Charlotte might be persuaded to return to your home, she cannot be forced.”

Waite said nothing but gave a loud hmmph! before opening the door. He turned to claim the last word. “I want her back in this house, Miss Dobbs. If she won’t find a suitable husband to share a house with, then she’ll live under my roof!” Glaring at Maisie, he gave an ultimatum: “I’m off to visit some of my shops for a few days, back next Tuesday. I expect to see you with my daughter upon my return. Tuesday, Miss Dobbs. You’ve got until Tuesday.”

The door slammed, to be quickly opened by Harris, who escorted Maisie and Billy out. Billy was holding the driver’s door of the MG open for Maisie when they were both startled by the sound of furiously flapping wings overhead as a flight of doves rose from an old-fashioned dove-cote in the corner of the gardens.

“Lawd, would you look at that!” said Billy.

“Oh, my, they are beautiful!” said Maisie.

Billy shuddered.“Can’t see it meself. Rather look at a mangy old dog.”

The doves returned in ones and twos, landing on the dove-cote and entering it through tiny doorways.

“Look at that, ‘noses out,’ Miss!” said Billy, joking again.

“Come on, we’d better be off.”

Neither of them said a word as they drove steadily toward the main gate, which was opened by the young man who had let them in on their first visit. Each breathed a sigh of relief upon leaving the Waite residence behind.

“I tell you, Miss, that Joseph Waite really is a study, i’n’t ’e?”

“No doubt about that.”

“ ’ere, do you think ’e was tellin’ the truth, y’know, when ’e said that ’e never knew about them two women bein’ murdered?”

Maisie accelerated the car confidently and replied, “Not in a million years, Billy. Not in a million years.”

As soon as they returned to the office, Maisie and Billy set to work, adding new information to the Charlotte Waite case map as well as reviewing other cases in hand. While Maisie was away from London, Billy would complete reports for two clients, in addition to his other duties. Issuance of a final report also meant submission of an invoice, and with clients tending not to pay “on the button,” as Billy observed, timely presentation of a final account was vital.