“Made an appointment for Friday, sayin’ that I just ’ad to let ’im know if there were any difficulties, and that you was to let ’im know if ’e could be of service. Very strange man, Miss. Very odd, that about-turn.”
“He’s certainly odd where family are concerned, I’ll give you that.” Maisie paused as she noted the details. “With a bit of luck I’ll have good news for Waite. I’m going to Camden Abbey tomorrow, to speak with Charlotte.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve got your plate full.”
“My father’s not allowed any visitors until late this afternoon, and probably only once a day until the doctor says anything to the contrary, so I’ll be able to work on the case while I’m here.”
“Right then. Dr. Dene telephoned again.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And it’s interestin’ because ’e wanted to leave a message for you about your visit to see—let me look ’ere. I tell you, Miss, I can’t even read me own writin’ sometimes—Mrs. Thorpe’s housekeeper.”
“What was the message?”
“Didn’t say, except ’e wanted to pass on a message from ’er, that she’d like to see you again. She remembered something that might be useful.”
Maisie wrote notes on an index card as she spoke to Billy, and checked her watch.
“I’ll make time.”
“Awright, Miss. Anythin’ else?”
“Actually, there is. You know we spoke about your coming down to Chelstone for a while, perhaps a month or so? And you didn’t want to ‘sit on your duff,’ I think you said?” Without pausing to allow Billy to reply, Maisie said, “Well, I’ve got something for you to do that’s vital to me and to Lady Rowan. Billy, it’s to do with Chelstone Dream, the odds-on favorite to win the Derby in 1934.”
Before she was able to retreat to the Groom’s Cottage, Maisie fielded inquiries about her father’s health from Carter and Mrs. Crawford. As she walked into her father’s home, Maisie shivered. Never before had she felt a chill in the house, yet today the heavy dew outside seemed to permeate the stone walls and storm windows, creeping into each nook and cranny to claim a place.
Well, this won’t do! thought Maisie as she looked around the cottage.
Her father had obviously left in a hurry to tend to the mare. An enamel teapot three-quarters filled with old cold tea sat on the table; a loaf of bread, now crusty and hard around the edges, had been roughly cut and not returned to the bread bin. The butter dish and a jar of Mrs. Crawford’s homemade three-fruit marmalade were open on the table, with a sticky knife set on a plate. Maisie smiled, imagining her father hurriedly drinking scalding tea, quickly spreading a doorstep-like slice of bread with marmalade, then running out to get to the stable. She set about cleaning the room before seeking the comfort of a hot bath.
She lit the fire and set two large kettles of water on the hotplate, along with a cauldron usually used for soup. She dragged a tin bathtub from a hook in the scullery and placed it on the floor in front of the stove, ready to receive the scalding water, which she would cool to stepping-in temperature with cold water from the tap. She closed the curtains, locked the doors and went to the small box-like bedroom that had once been her own. Opening a wardrobe, she wondered if she would find anything to wear. She touched garments that should have been given to the rag-and-bone man years ago. There were her clothes from university years, the cast-offs from Lady Rowan so expertly fitted for her by Mrs. Crawford’s dexterous needlewoman’s fingers. There was the blue ball gown given her by Priscilla, her friend at Girton. As she touched the cool blue silk, she thought of Simon, of the party where they had danced the night away. Shaking off the memories, Maisie pulled out a pair of rather baggy brown trousers that had also been given her by Priscilla, at a time when women who wore trousers were considered “fast.”
As soon as she had found an old pair of leather walking shoes, Maisie took a clean white collarless shirt from her father’s chest of drawers, along with a pair of socks to complete her ensemble for the day. She would find an old corduroy jacket hanging up in the scullery, or she would simply wear her mackintosh while waiting for her clothes to be cleaned up at the manor. She’d not had time to pack a bag before leaving for Kent, but she could make do.
Maisie prepared her bath, opened the door to the fire and settled down to soak before embarking on the rest of her day. She began to soap her body, wondering what Rosamund Thorpe’s housekeeper might want to speak to her about. The Old Town in Hastings housed a small community, and Maisie imagined the grieving woman remembering something, some vital piece of information, after her visit. Then, not knowing how she might contact Maisie—for she would not readily have used her former employer’s telephone—Mrs. Hicks would have sought out Dr. Andrew Dene hoping that he might pass on a message for Maisie to see her when next in Hastings. But why did she not simply tell Dene what it was that she had remembered? Maisie suspected that the loyal housekeeper probably would consider such a disclosure tantamount to gossip. And that would never do. She soaped her shoulders and with a cloth allowed hot water to run across her neck. Rosamund Thorpe, Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick. Maisie saw each woman in her mind’s eye. What have you in common? Charlotte Waite, why did you run? Four women. Four women who had known each other years ago. A coterie. A coterie of young girls on the cusp of womanhood. What did that feel like? Maisie closed her eyes, plunging her thoughts once again into the past. The library at Ebury Place, Girton, old clothes from Lady Rowan, the blue ball gown, Priscilla laughing as she pressed another cigarette into an ivory holder, the London Hospital . . . France. When she had been little more than a girl, she had served almost at the battlefront herself. Still sitting in the cooling water, Maisie allowed her thoughts to wander further. What did you do during the war, you sheltered young women cocooned in your world of privilege, your safe little circle?
A sharp knock at the door jolted Maisie from her reflections. Unwilling to interrupt her train of thought, she did not move, did not reach for a towel hanging over the back of a chair, did not call out, Just a minute! Instead, she silently waited until she heard the rustle of paper being poked under the door, and footsteps receding along the garden path. She settled back into the water for just a few more minutes, the now-blazing fire keeping her warm. Rosamund, Lydia, Philippa and . . . Charlotte. What did you do in the war? And if Charlotte, too, is in danger, why does someone want you all dead?
A note had been delivered by Maurice Blanche’s housekeeper, inviting Maisie to join him for breakfast. She dressed quickly, pulling on trousers, white shirt and the pair of brown leather walking shoes which, she thought, were set off quite nicely by her father’s best Argyll socks. Before leaving the groom’s cottage, Maisie took her folded linen handkerchief from the document case and slipped it into the pocket of the old jacket she had found, as predicted, hanging up in the scullery. Instead of drawing her hair back into a tidy chignon, Maisie plaited her long tresses into a loose braid so that, walking toward the manor house with her clothes folded under one arm, she caused Mrs. Crawford— who was on an expedition into the far reaches of the kitchen garden— to exclaim, “Maisie Dobbs, you look five and ten all over again!”
Seeing Maisie approach, Maurice opened the door as she made her way along the path leading from the Groom’s Cottage to the Dower House.
“He came round, Maurice, he came round as I was sleeping!”
Maisie ran to his side, and in the same way that Mrs. Crawford was taken aback, so Maurice was reminded of the years when Maisie was his pupil, drinking eagerly from the well of knowledge he provided.
“I am so glad, so very glad. Now he will be on the mend. It’s amazing how the body and mind are connected. Even when conscious thought has slipped away, the patient is aware of the healing presence of love.”
“If I had that much power, Maurice, he’d walk out of there today. But, listen, there’s more. We began to speak . . . together.”
Maurice stood aside, holding out his arm to allow Maisie to enter his home.
“It is indeed a wondrous universal alchemy, is it not? When one’s heartfelt intentions cause mountains to move.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m glad, very glad. And if it’s not too selfish of me, I’d like a mite more alchemy in my work on this case. The conservatory?”
“Yes. There’s eggs and bacon, if you like, and some quite delightful fresh rolls. They quite remind me of my childhood in Paris.”
Maisie smiled, looking forward to the strong black coffee that Maurice favored.
Teacher and pupil, master and apprentice, Maurice Blanche and Maisie Dobbs sat together in the warm, light-filled conservatory, which commanded a flower-filled view across the garden to the fields beyond, as Maisie gave Maurice a full account of her work on the Charlotte Waite case, and how it had expanded to encompass the murders.
“Yes, your investigation thus far does seem to indicate that the Thorpe woman’s death should be looked at more closely.” Blanche leaned back in the Lloyd Loom wicker chair, watching a flight of sparrows descend on the bird table freshly laden with breadcrumbs. Maisie waited.
“An overdose for Thorpe? Followed by morphine and the bayonet of a Lee Enfield rifle for the other two women, you say?”
She sipped the soothing coffee but hardly touched her crusty roll, despite her realization that she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s lunch with Detective Inspector Stratton. She was beginning to wish she had a glass of Maurice’s elderflower wine clasped in her fingers. Her interrogation was beginning.
“It’s as if the murderer was not satisfied with the poison alone, as if a deeper . . . emotion—yes, I think that’s the right word, emotion— needed to be vented. Vindicated.”
“Have you spoken to Mrs. Thorpe’s physician regarding her mental well-being? Have you completely ruled out suicide?”
“No . . . not completely. Her physician is the one who issued the death certificate. He’d concluded it was suicide. I spoke to the housekeeper, who knew her very well, and to others in the town.”
“I don’t doubt your instinct, but intuition must be supported by footwork. Now then, about the Sedgewick woman. You say that Fisher has been arrested based on evidence linking him to Mrs. Sedgewick, suggesting that they were romantically involved?”
“According to John Sedgewick, her husband, Fisher had been in touch regarding his wife’s drinking, which was beyond his power to control. He also said that his wife did not want to meet with Fisher, but acquiesced out of some sort of loyalty to her old friend. It’s a very different relationship to the one the police have posited. I get the impression, Maurice, that—with the exception of a level of communication between Lydia and Charlotte—these women, who had once been good friends, kept well away from one another.”
“And why do you think there was a division among them?”
Maisie allowed her eyes to rest on the bird table, at the flurry of excitement, beaks peck-pecking for a crumb of food, peck-pecking at one another as they pressed tiny, fragile bodies onto the wooden platform.
“What do you think, Maisie?”
“I think that something happened, years ago.” Maisie spoke slowly and deliberately while watching the frenzied feeding at the bird table. “Something . . . I’m not sure, but I feel . . . very much, that it’s something of which they want no reminder. And seeing each other, keeping in touch, brings back the . . . shame.”
Silence enveloped the room. Then Blanche said, “Do you have something to show me.”
“Yes, I have.” Maisie reached into her pocket, taking out the folded handkerchief and setting it on the table between them. “Shall I get your spectacles, Maurice? I think you’ll need them.”
Blanche nodded.
“Here you are.” Maisie handed the lizard-skin-covered case to Maurice, who opened it so carefully that she could hear the almost imperceptible whine of hinges separating. He took out the wire-rimmed half-moon spectacles, placed them on his nose and leaned forward to watch as Maisie unfolded the handkerchief, his chin tilted upward just slightly to improve his view.
With the tips of the thumb and forefinger of each hand, Maisie spread out the handkerchief to reveal her evidence.
Maurice looked at the opened fine linen square, then back into Maisie’s eyes. They had moved into such proximity that they could feel each other’s breath.
“Ah, so delicate. Nature is by far the most talented artist.”
“Yes, she is, isn’t she?”
“And you found one at the Fisher house and the other at the Sedgewick house?”
“I entered Lydia Fisher’s house soon after her murder, and was drawn to the first, although it was almost concealed. The one at the Sedgewick house was hidden inside a book.”
“Which you just happened to open, no doubt?”
“Yes.”
“And the woman in Hastings? Mrs. Thorpe?”
“Many weeks have passed since her death, Maurice, and Mrs. Hicks has ensured that the house is immaculate for a potential buyer. I fear that if there was one, it would have been swept away by now.”
“So, Maisie, what are your thoughts? What does this mean?”
“I’m not sure, but I feel that they are significant.”
Like marionettes orchestrated by the same puppeteer, Maisie and Maurice reached forward at the same time to touch the delicate perfection that lay before them: two small, white, downy feathers.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After breakfast Maisie reclaimed the MG from George— who protested that he had baredly started work on paintwork— and left for Hastings, planning to be there in plenty of time to allow her to return to her father’s side that afternoon. As she came over the hill into the Old Town, the sea sparkled on the horizon with sunlight reflecting on the water, making it seem as if diamonds had been sprinkled liberally on the surface. Parking outside All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital, Maisie stopped for a while to admire the view and to look down at the lilliputian Old Town itself. In the distance she could hear the clinker-built fishing boats being drawn up onto the pebble beach with heavy winches, and seagulls wheeling overhead. The morning catch was late coming in.
“That sea air does you the power of good, you know!”
“Oh, Dr. Dene! I didn’t see you walking as I drove up the hill.”
“No, you wouldn’t have, I took a short-cut. The Old Town’s full of nooks, crannies, twittens and secret places that only the locals know and I’m a fully fledged local now.”
Andrew Dene reached to open the door for her. She saw that he had noticed her informal attire.
“I just have to let the office know I’m here; then let’s go to my lair, where we can discuss the two things on your mind.” Dene poked his head around the door to the office. She heard his voice, then laughter among the staff before he retracted his head and led Maisie along the corridor to his “lair,” which was still just as untidy.
“So: Your father’s convalescence and Rosamund Thorpe?”
Maisie removed her gloves. “How do you know about my father?”
Dene raised an eyebrow. “The jungle drums have been a-beating. And I had cause to speak with Maurice this morning. I know Dr. Simms at Pembury who attended your father when he was brought in. Good man. All his patients make an excellent recovery. I’ve worked with him on several cases.”
“I see.”
As if reading her mind, Dene continued. “We have a first-class accident recuperation record here, Miss Dobbs. I’d be delighted to arrange for your father to be admitted upon his discharge from Pembury. I can start—” Dene leaned toward a pile of folders that wobbled precariously at his touch. Maisie instinctively reached to steady the pile.
“Don’t worry, Miss Dobbs, haven’t lost a file yet.” He pulled a buff-colored folder from the mountain of paperwork. “That’ll tell you how much work I have to do. As I was saying, I can start the file right now and contact Dr. Simms to let him know we’ve spoken.”
“Thank you. That will be a weight off my mind.”
“Good, good. It’s settled, then. We can go over the admitting details with the administrator as you leave.” Dene made several notations on a sheet of paper, closed the folder and set it on the desk. “Now to Mrs. Thorpe.”
“Yes. I wonder if you could tell me something more about her, especially her demeanor in the days leading up to her death. I know she spent a good deal of time here.”
“Frankly I thought she was doing quite well, especially as she was so recently a widow. But she was clearly still in mourning.” Dene leaned to one side, moved another pile of folders, and looked out at the sea before turning to Maisie again. “You think she was murdered, don’t you?”
Maisie’s eyes registered her surprise. She had not expected to hear such speculation from Andrew Dene. “Well, actually—”
“Oh, come on, Miss Dobbs. I know Maurice, remember. I know very well what you do. And Rosamund Thorpe was well liked and respected in the Old Town, even though she was an outsider.”
“Do you think she killed herself, Dr. Dene? Wouldn’t you recognize the symptoms of the despair that precedes such an action?”
Dene was thoughtful.
“Does your silence mean there is doubt?”
“My thoughtfulness is simply that, Miss Dobbs: Thoughtfulness. You see, though I think it unlikely that a woman such as Mrs. Thorpe would take her own life, I noticed her sadness on several occasions, particularly when she was reading to veterans. Now, it’s a subjective observation, completely lacking in the protocols of diagnosis, but —her sadness seemed more poignant than anything I observed with respect to other volunteers. You have to understand that among volunteers there are differing emotional responses to what they see. For example, we all know a veteran of the war when we see one on the street, whether he’s an amputee, blinded, or disfigured, but when we are close to that person, in a setting like this, filled with others who are equally disabled—it’s a reminder, a terrible reminder. I believe it can make people recall events and feelings that they would rather forget. Most quickly get over it and before they know where they are, they’re singing ‘I Don’t Want To Go Into The Army’ with the patients at the hospital Christmas party.”
“But Mrs. Thorpe?”
“She wasn’t like that. Though she had a broad smile for every patient—and she particularly asked to be of assistance to those who were soldiers—she was grieving as she left after each visit. It was as if coming here, doing this volunteer work, was a sort of self-flagellation.”
“Do you think she killed herself?”
“Put it like this: Because of what I saw, I think she had it in her to reach certain depths of despair, but at the end of the day, I just can’t see her actually taking her own life.”
“Why?” asked Maisie.
Andrew Dene sighed. “I’m trained as a doctor of medicine. I specialize in accidents and rehabilitation. I deal in the specifics of what is happening to the body, though I am interested in what motivates a person to become well again. I am used to fine lines, but only have a passing familiarity with the type of speculation that is clearly your bailiwick. But if I were to hazard a guess . . .”
“Yes?”
“I would say that she . . .” Andrew Dene faltered. As Maisie said nothing, Dene exhaled, and continued, “I think she felt she had a debt that had not yet been repaid. So coming here was part of that repayment, wasn’t it? Don’t get me wrong—” For just a moment, Maisie detected Dene’s original accent breaking through. “I don’t want to stick my neck out and have you take it as fact. It’s just my opinion.”
“Thank you, Dr. Dene. I appreciate your honesty, which will be kept in absolute confidence. Now, you said that Mrs. Hicks wants to see me again?”
Dene looked at his pocket watch. “She’ll be at the house now. I’ll telephone her, to tell her you’re on your way.”
Andrew Dene moved several books and papers to reveal the telephone. He quickly placed a call to the Thorpe house and informed Mrs. Hicks that Miss Maisie Dobbs was just leaving the hospital. Then he set down the receiver and pushed the books and papers back on top of the telephone. Maisie’s eyes widened at such disarray.
“Dr. Dene, please forgive me for saying this, but wouldn’t it behoove you to invest in a cabinet for your files?”
“Oh no. I’d never find a thing!” he replied with an impish grin. “Look, would you be free for a spot of lunch after you’ve seen Mrs. Hicks?”
“Well . . . visiting time at Pembury is at four, so . . . as long as I’m on my way again by one-thirtyish. I like to leave plenty of time.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do. We can walk along by the net shops and perhaps have some fish and chips. There are no posh restaurants down there, it’s all a bit spit and sawdust. But you’ll never taste fish like it anywhere else in the world.”
As Maisie parked the MG outside Rosamund Thorpe’s house on the West Hill, Mrs. Hicks opened the front door to greet her.
“Thank you for getting in touch, Mrs. Hicks, I do appreciate it.”
“Oh, Miss Dobbs, I’m only glad to help. I had the feeling that you were acting in Mrs. Thorpe’s best interests, so when I remembered, I thought I’d better get in touch. Hope you don’t mind me asking Dr. Dene. Such a nice man.” She closed the door behind Maisie and led her into the drawing room, where a teapot and two cups were set on a tray with some biscuits.
Maisie took a seat on the settee and once again removed her gloves. Despite extra clothing she still felt the cold, in her hands as much as in her feet.
Mrs. Hicks poured tea for Maisie, passed her cup, then offered biscuits which Maisie declined. She would need to leave space for a hearty helping of fish and chips. “Right. I expect you’ll want me to get straight to the point.”
“Yes, please. It really is important that I understand why Mrs. Thorpe might have taken her own life or, on the other hand, who might have wanted her dead.”
“Well, as you know, I’ve racked my brains trying to answer the first question, and haven’t had much luck with the second. Everyone thought well of Mrs. Thorpe. Then I remembered a visit; years ago, it was, not long after she was married. Probably not long after the war, either. Joseph Waite—”
Maisie set her cup into the saucer with a clatter.
“Is that tea cold, Miss?”
“No . . . no, not at all. Please continue, Mrs. Hicks.” Reaching into her document case, she took out an index card and began to make notes.
“Well, anyway, Joseph Waite—he’s the father of one of her old friends. Mind you, they hadn’t seen each other for years and years, not since the war. Anyway, Mr. Waite came here, big motor car and a chauffeur and all, and asked to see Mrs. Thorpe. Perhaps he didn’t know her married name, because he took liberties. What he actually said was, ‘I’d like to see Rosie.’ It was the first I knew that she used to be called Rosie, and I thought it was a bit of a cheek, calling a respectable married woman by the name of Rosie—in fact, any woman, when I come to think of it.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I showed him into the front parlor, then informed Mrs. Thorpe that she had a caller and who he was. She was shaken, I know that. Didn’t like it at all. Said, ‘Thank heavens Mr. Thorpe isn’t here’; then, ‘You will keep this to yourself, won’t you, Mrs. Hicks?’ And I never told anyone, until now.”
“What happened?”
“Well, she goes into the parlor to greet him, like the lady she was, and he was all huffy. Didn’t want tea or any refreshment. Just says he wants to speak to her in private, looking across at me. So I was dismissed.”
“Do you know what he came to see her about?”
“No, sorry, Miss, I don’t. But he was angry, and he got her all upset, he did.”
“Did you hear anything?”
Mrs. Hicks sighed and tried to gather her thoughts. “Of course, at my age, you forget things, but him I remember. These houses are built like fortresses, on account of the wind and storms. Built for Admiral Nelson’s lieutenants, they were, originally. You can’t hear much through these walls. But he upset her, I do know that. And as he was leaving the parlor—he’d opened the door, so I heard everything—he said something . . . well, threatening, I suppose you’d call it.”
“What was it?”
“He said ‘You’ll pay. You’ll all pay one day. Mark my words, my girl, you will pay.’ Then he left, slamming the front door behind him so hard I thought the house would fall down. Mind you, as it’s been here this long, the likes of Joseph Waite won’t hurt it now!”
Mrs. Hicks was quiet for a while before speaking again, this time with less forcefulness.
“But you know what was the strangest thing?”
“What was that, Mrs. Hicks?” Maisie’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper.
“I came out of the dining room, where I had been arranging some flowers, when I heard the parlor door open. I wanted to be ready to show him out. Well, he held up his hand to me, like this”—Mrs. Hicks held her arm out as a London bobby might when stopping traffic— “when he’d finished speaking, to stop me from coming toward him. Then he turned away quickly. You see, Miss, he was crying. That man had tears streaming down his face. I don’t know whether it was anger or sadness, or what it was. But . . . very confusing it was, what with Mrs. Thorpe so upset, too.”
That the control-obsessed Joseph Waite had lost his composure did not surprise Maisie, for she knew that when such people cross an emotional boundary, it often leads to a breakdown. She remembered Billy’s despair, and those times when she, too, had known such sadness, and as she did so, her heart ached not only for Rosamund but, strangely, for Joseph Waite. Whatever else he might have done, this was a man who had truly known sorrow.
“Did he come here again?”
“Never. And I would have known about it if he had.”
“And she never took you into her confidence, about the reason for his visit?”
“No. Seemed to me like he wanted to make her as miserable as he was.”
“Hmmm. Mrs. Hicks, I know I’ve already asked you this, but I must be sure: Do you really think that Mrs. Thorpe’s death was caused by someone else?”
The housekeeper hesitated, turning her wedding ring around on her finger repeatedly before replying.
“Yes, I do. There is some wavering in my heart. And I can’t be sure because I wasn’t here. But to take her own life? I do doubt it very much, very much indeed. She seemed to be on a mission to help people, especially those men who’d been to war, the ones who were just boys, wounded boys.”
The clock on the mantelpiece began to strike a quarter to twelve.
“Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Hicks. You have been very helpful once again.”
Mrs Hicks took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her moist eyes.
Maisie stood and placed an arm around the housekeeper’s shoulder. “Oh, Mrs. Hicks, you must miss her very much.”
“Oh, I do, Miss Dobbs. I do miss her very much. Mrs. Thorpe was a lovely, kind woman, and too young to die. I haven’t even had the heart to send her clothes away, like Mr. Thorpe’s children told me to do.”
Maisie felt a sensation of touch, as if another hand had gently been placed upon her own as it lay on Mrs. Hicks shoulder. A picture of Rosamund had formed in her mind.
“Mrs. Hicks, was Mrs. Thorpe in mourning attire when she died?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she was. Her nice black dress, very proper, yet fashionable. She wasn’t a dowdy one, Mrs. Thorpe, always beautifully turned out.”
“Was she buried in—”
“The dress? Oh no, I couldn’t allow that, not going into the cold ground in her widow’s weeds. No, I made sure she was in her lovely silk dressing gown. Like a sleeping beauty, she was. No, the dress she was wearing is in the wardrobe. I put it away as soon as I’d dressed her. Didn’t want strangers putting clothes on her so I dressed her myself. I thought I should throw it out, the black dress, but I couldn’t bring myself to.”
“May I see the garment, please?”
Mrs Hicks seemed surprised at the request, but nodded. “Well, of course, Miss Dobbs. Through here.”
Mrs. Hicks led the way into the bedroom, where she opened a mahogany wardrobe and took out a black low-waisted dress in fine wool with a silk sash that matched silk binding at the neckline and cuffs. There were two elegant patch pockets on the bodice, each rimmed with black silk.
Maisie held up the dress by the hanger, then walked to the bed and laid the garment out in front of her.
“And the dress has not been cleaned since?”
“No, I put it straight in the wardrobe, with mothballs of course.”
Maisie nodded and turned to the dress again. As Mrs. Hicks moved to open the window to “let some air in here,” Maisie reached into the left pocket and searched inside carefully. Nothing. She leaned over and looked down into the right pocket and again reached inside. Something pricked at the pillowed skin on the underside of her fingertips. Maintaining contact, with her other hand Maisie reached into her own pocket for a clean handkerchief, which she opened before carefully pulling out the object that had so lightly grazed her fingertips. The soft white feather of a fledgling. She inspected her catch briefly before placing it in the waiting handkerchief, which she quickly returned to her jacket pocket.
“Everything all right, Miss Dobbs?”
“Yes, it’s lovely. Such a shame to waste a beautiful dress, yet it’s tinged with so much grief.”
“I thought the same myself. I should’ve burned it, really I should. Perhaps that’s what I’ll do.”
The dress might be evidence, and must not be lost. Maisie cautioned the housekeeper, careful not to cause alarm. “Oh no, don’t do that. Please keep it—look, I think I know someone who could make good use of the dress. Shall I let you know?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Well, it is too good to destroy. I’ll keep it until I hear from you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hicks. You’ve been most kind, especially as I came unannounced and on short notice.”
“Oh, but you weren’t unannounced. Dr. Dene said to help you in any way I could. That you were completely trustworthy and acting in Mrs. Thorpe’s best interests. You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for your lunch.”
“How did you know?”
“It was just a good guess, Miss Dobbs. Dr. Dene seemed a bit too sparky when I told him I had some information for you, as if he quite liked the idea of speaking to you again himself. Now, it’s none of my business, and it’s not how it would have been done in my day, not when Mr. Hicks and I were walking out together. But I thought he might invite you to have a spot of lunch with him today. He had that sound in his voice.”
Maisie blushed. “And what sound is that, Mrs. Hicks?”
“Oh, you know. That sound. The one that a gentleman has when he’s pleased with himself.”
Maisie suppressed a smile and said good-bye to Mrs. Hicks. Though she was looking forward to lunch with Andrew Dene, she was also anxious to be alone, to spread out the index cards that she had made notes on, to assess what this morning’s gathering of information meant. The picture was becoming clearer, as if each conversation were a series of brushstrokes adding color and depth to a story that was now unfolding quite rapidly. She had three feathers, evidence that the three deaths were linked, and that Rosamund Thorpe, too, had most definitely been murdered.
She drove down the hill to meet Andrew Dene, by the fishing boats at the place where the old horse turned the winch that brought the boats ashore, wishing she could get back to London, yet feeling guilty for wishing because of her father’s need for her. She was anxious to sit with Billy at the incident table with all their clues, suspicions, evidence, hunches, and scribbles laid out in front of them. She wanted to find the key, the answer to her question: What was the connection between three small white feathers, three dead women and their murderer? And how was Joseph Waite involved? She felt for the handkerchief in her pocket, and patted it.
“Thank you, Rosamund,” she said, as she placed her hand on the steering wheel again.
Maisie parked the car at the bottom of the High Street, to much attention by passersby. As she walked along the seafront, where seagulls and pigeons followed pedestrians in the hope that a breadcrumb or two would be dropped, she made a mental note to ask Billy why he couldn’t stand pigeons.
The weather was crisp, but fine enough for Andrew Dene and Maisie to walk to the pier after a quick fish-and-chips lunch. The sun was higher in the sky and had it been warmer, one might have thought it summer.
“I cannot believe you removed all that lovely batter before eating the fish!” Andrew Dene teased Maisie.
“I love the fish, but don’t really care for batter. Mind you, the chips were tasty.”
“But you fed most of them to the seagulls, and they’re fat enough already!”
They walked in silence. Maisie looked at her watch once again.
“Do you know how many times in one minute you’ve looked at your watch? I know you can’t find my company that tedious. You should break yourself of the habit.”
“I beg your pardon?” Maisie’s eyes widened. She had never met a man of such impertinence. “I was going to say that I ought to be turning around, to get to my motor by—”
“Half past one? Ish? Yes, I haven’t forgotten. Have you made any headway today, Miss Dobbs?”
“I’ve certainly gleaned more information, Doctor. It’s putting the pieces together in a logical form that’s the challenge. Sometimes it’s guesswork all the way.”
“Anything more I can do to help?” They were strolling back to the car, Maisie consciously keeping her hands deep in the pockets of her raincoat, holding tight to the linen handkerchief that held the third feather. She would not look at her watch again until she was well away from Andrew Dene.
“No . . . yes, yes there is, actually. Tell me, Dr. Dene, if you were to name one thing that made the difference between those who get well quickly and those who don’t, what would it be?”
“Phew. Another simple question from Maisie Dobbs!”
“I’m serious.”
“And so am I. It’s a tricky one, and one that you are probably more qualified to answer than I. You were a nurse and, more important, you have training in psychological matters.”
“I’d like your opinion. Please, take a stab at it.” Maisie turned toward him as she walked, challenging Dene to respond.
“Well, if I were to name one thing, it would be acceptance.”
“Acceptance? But doesn’t that stop the injured or wounded from trying to get better?”
“Ah, now you’re playing devil’s advocate, aren’t you? In my opinion acceptance has to come first. Some people don’t accept what has happened. They think, ‘Oh, if only I hadn’t walked up that street when I did,’ or in a case like your father’s: ‘If only I’d known the ground was that wet and that Fred, or whatever his name was, had left his tools in the way.’ They are stuck at the point of the event that caused the injury.”
“Yes, I think I know what you mean.”
“So, in the case of the soldiers who find it difficult to move on— and of course, some have had terrible injuries that all the therapeutic assistance in the world can’t help—but those who find it difficult to accept are stuck in time, they keep thinking back to when it happened. And it’s not so much, ‘Oh, I wish I’d never enlisted.’ In fact most say, ‘At least I went,’ but instead it’s a case of ‘If only I’d ducked, jumped when I could have, run a bit faster, gone back for my friend.’ And of course, it all gets mixed up with the guilt of actually surviving when their pals didn’t.”
“So what’s the answer?”
Dene stopped as they came alongside the MG, and Maisie leaned on her car, facing the Channel, her face warmed by the sun.
“I wish I had one, but, I would say that it’s threefold: One is accepting what has happened. Three is having a picture, an idea of what they will do when they are better, or improved. Then in the middle, number two is a path to follow. For example, from what I’ve heard about your father, he’ll make a good recovery: He’s accepted that the accident happened, he has a picture of what the future holds for him when he’s better—ensuring that the colt is in tip-top condition ready for training at Newmarket—and in the middle he’s already aware of the steps that he’ll take. At first he’ll only be able to stand for a minute or two, then he’ll use crutches, move on to walking sticks, and then the casts will come off. Dr. Simms will give him instructions as to what not to do, and the sort of activities that will set him back.”
“I see.”
“There are gray areas,” Maisie resisted the urge to look at her watch again as Andrew Dene went on. “For example, if we take Mr. Beale— oops, you had better get going, hadn’t you, Miss Dobbs?” Andrew Dene opened the door of the MG for Maisie.
“Thank you, Dr. Dene. I enjoyed our lunch.”
“Yes, I did too. I look forward to seeing your father at All Saints’ soon.”
“ I’ll be in touch with the administrator as soon as I can confirm the arrangements.”
“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.”
Phew! What a character he is! Still, Maisie found Dene to be interesting, engaging, challenging—and fun. He was able to laugh at himself. But there was something else about him, something that nagged at her, that she both liked and found confusing at the same time: He seemed to know who she was. Not by name. Not by accomplishment or by profession. No. There was more than that to her identity. Andrew Dene understood her roots. Even if he had never been privy to her story, Maisie knew that he understood her.
Following her father’s accident, and the talks at the hospital with Maurice and later her father, Maisie had been able to recollect more of the times spent with her mother. She remembered being in the kitchen, a girl of about nine. Her mother had been telling her the story of how she’d met Maisie’s father and known straight away that Frankie Dobbs was the one for her. “I set my hat for him there and then, Maisie, there and then.” And she’d laughed, wiping the back of her sudsy hand across her forehead to brush back ringlets of black hair that had fallen into her eyes.
Maisie wondered about the business of setting one’s hat for a man, and how a woman of her age might go about doing such a thing.
As she drove along, up over the ridge toward Sedlescombe, her thoughts shifted to Joseph Waite and the many tragic events that had befallen him. A father and brother killed in mining accidents, a wife dead in childbirth, a son lost to war, and an estranged daughter whom he tried to control without success. Hadn’t Lydia Fisher indicated to Billy that Charlotte had been something of a social butterfly? But as she passed into Kent at the boundary near Hawkhurst, Maisie checked herself, and the certain pity she had begun to feel for Joseph Waite. Yes, she felt pity. But was it pity for a man who had stabbed three women, quite literally, in cold blood?
Perhaps Charlotte Waite had the answer. Tomorrow she would be able to judge Charlotte for herself. Was she, as her father believed, a ‘wilting lily’? Or, was she, as Lydia Fisher had intimated to Billy, a habitual bolter? Magnus Fisher’s account did not help. But each narrator’s story revealed only one perspective, one representation of the person that Charlotte revealed herself to be in their company. Where did the truth lie? Who was Charlotte, really?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Thursday greeted Kent with driving rain and howling winds. Maisie looked out at the weather from the cozy comfort of the Groom’s Cottage, shivering but not at all surprised.
“Typical! Bring in the clouds for a drive to the marshes!”
Today she would make her way across Kent again and on through the relentless gray of the marshlands, where people—if she saw any— would be rushing along with heads bent, anxious to get to and fro from work or errands. It was a day when locals tried not to venture outside and even farmworkers found jobs to do in the barn rather than out in the fields. Today she would finally meet Charlotte Waite.
“Ugh,” uttered Maisie as she ran to the MG.
George joined her, wearing the sort of foul-weather clothing one usually associated with fishermen.
“Going to catch a trout for tea, George?”
“No, Miss. I’d’ve thought catching things was more in your line of work.”
“I deserved that, George.” Maisie laughed as George lifted the bonnet to turn on the petrol pump, the first of five steps to start the MG. “Thank you for coming out.”
“Saw you running across in this rain, Miss, and wanted to make sure you got off safely. Pity you’ve got to go somewhere today, so you mind how you go, Miss. Take them corners nice and easy.”
“Don’t worry, George.”
“Know what time you’ll be back? Just so’s I know?”
“I won’t be back to Chelstone today. After Romney Marsh, I’m off to Pembury to visit Mr. Dobbs, and afterwards straight on to London. I expect to return to Kent as soon as I can to see my father.” Maisie waved good-bye to George, who patted the back of the MG with his hand before running into the garage and out of the rain.
Apple orchards that were filled with blossom only yesterday were now sodden and sorry. Tall cherry trees bent over and the branches of roadside elder laden with bloom seemed almost to ache with the task of standing tall. Maisie hoped that the storm would pass, that the trees and land would dry quickly, and that spring, her favorite season in Kent, would be restored to its resplendent richness soon.
As she maneuvered the MG, Maisie reflected upon her visit to see her father the day before. She had entered the ward to see Frankie at the far end of the column of beds, straining forward in his sitting-up position to greet her as she approached.
“How are you, Dad?”
“Better every day, expect to be up and about soon.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve just spoken to Dr. Simms, and he says that you should have two weeks convalescence by the sea before returning home, and even then, you shouldn’t be putting any weight on your right leg at all.”
Frankie was about to protest, then looked at his daughter. “You’ve got a bit more color in your cheeks, my girl, and you’re looking more rested.”
It was true, even Maisie had noticed that the gray rings usually etched under her eyes had diminished, her hair seemed more lustrous, and she felt much better, though she’d had so much on her mind that she hadn’t even noticed feeling below par in the first place. It was Maurice who pinpointed a possible reason for Maisie’s fatigue: “You’ve taken something on, Maisie. You’ve absorbed something of whatever was held inside the three women. And though being a sponge can aid in your work, it can also hinder, for becoming one with the subjects of your investigation does not necessarily help you.”
During her visit more was revealed to Maisie, more wounds were healed, more firm footing added to the ground as father and daughter tentatively made their way forward. As her reflections became illuminated by the light of understanding, so she felt a certain resentment lift, enabling her to look back on the past more kindly, with a little more compassion. And as she made her way toward Camden Abbey, she thought of Lydia, Philippa, and Rosamund, her thoughts coming back time and time again to who might not have been able to forgive them, and what it was they might have done to warrant such deep, unrelenting anger. An anger laced with a passion that led to murder.
She was close to Camden Abbey when the rain seemed to become lighter and for a moment it seemed as if the sun might manage to push its way through leaden clouds scudding across an already purplish gray sky. But that was the way of the marshes. The promise of light made it seem as if the elements were holding their collective breath. Then the observer realized that such a breath was only a minute’s respite before it started blowing again even harder, a biting wind with a volley of more stinging rain.
Parking in front of the abbey, Maisie secured the car and ran inside, where she was immersed in silence, broken only by the drip-dripping of water that came from her mackintosh.
“Dame Constance has instructed me to escort you directly to the sitting room, where you can dry off.” The young postulant avoided eye contact as she reached out to take Maisie’s outer clothing. “Your coat, hat, and gloves will be ready for you by the time you leave.”
“Thank you.” Maisie inclined her head, and followed her guide, who walked close to the wall as she made her way to the room where Maisie had met with Dame Constance previously.
Once again, a fire crackled in the grate, though this time two wing chairs had been positioned alongside the grille. Maisie sat down, and leaned back with an audible sigh. The door behind the grille slid open to reveal Dame Constance. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke.
“Good morning, Maisie.”
“Good Morning, Dame Constance. You have been most kind to encourage Miss Waite to agree to this meeting.”
“I know it’s important for you, Maisie, and the work you must do. However, my concern is primarily for Miss Waite. We have to consider how we can best be of service in her healing and recovery.”
Maisie understood that this preamble to the meeting with Charlotte was important.
“You see, when a young woman makes a petition to join the community . . .” Dame Constance looked at Maisie intently. “You are surprised? Ah, Maisie, I would have thought that you had intuited by now that Miss Waite wishes to remain here, to join us. It is an attractive option for a woman who has found a measure of solace within these walls. However, I should add that there is no instant acceptance. Ever.”
Dame Constance waited for a comment from Maisie. Then she went on. “There is a misconception that a religious community is a place of escape, that the refuge offered on a temporary basis can easily become more permanent. But that is not so. Our novices are women who are at peace with the world outside. They have enjoyed society in its broadest sense; they have had the support of loving families and in some cases no shortage of suitors. I have advised Miss Waite that her foundations must be solid before she can commit to a relationship with God. She cannot come out of fear, to hide.”
“What do you mean, Dame Constance?”
“Joining a religious order is not a means of escape. It is a positive undertaking. One’s foundation is the relationship one has with family, with one’s first love, so to speak. Charlotte Waite has had difficulties with familial interactions, especially with her father. Such difficulty represents a crack in the foundation. The house of her future cannot be built if her very foundations are compromised.”
Maisie frowned, thinking of her own situation rather than Charlotte’s. Was that why she had felt such loneliness? Had it been the rupture in her relationship with Frankie that had prevented her from making other associations, so that she felt that she was always missing the mark in some way? Never quite able to join in, and surprised when she did? Never able to open her heart to another? Perhaps. After all, hadn’t she noticed, now she came to think of it, a greater ease in her more personal interactions of late? She thought of Andrew Dene.
“Ah, I see you understand, Maisie.”
“Yes, I think I do, Dame Constance.”
The nun smiled, then continued. “I believe that Charlotte Waite might reveal to you what is at the heart of discord between her father and herself. I will summon Miss Waite to meet you, but I will remain during your interview, at her request, though she will join you here in the sitting room.”
“Thank you, Dame Constance.”
The small door closed and Maisie was left alone with her thoughts. She would rather have seen Charlotte alone, but was grateful for any meeting. She had undertaken to urge Charlotte to return to Dulwich, to her father’s home. But in so doing, would she be persuading Charlotte to risk her life? Might she be putting the lives of others in harm’s way? Was it even possible that Charlotte was now seeking a religious life to expiate the crime of murder?
The sitting room door opened quietly and a woman of average height entered the room at the same time as the sliding door behind the iron grille that separated Dame Constance from visitors opened again with a thud.
Maisie studied Charlotte quickly. She wore a gray skirt, a long woolen cardigan knitted in a fine gauge, a plain white blouse, black shoes and opaque stockings. Her mousy hair, parted in the center and drawn back into a loose bun, seemed to form a pair of curtains framing her face. Her only color came from her bright, pale blue eyes. So presented, she was unremarkable and completely forgettable. And as she opened her mouth to greet Charlotte, Maisie remembered Andrew Dene’s remark about Rosamund Thorpe: “It was as if coming here . . . was a sort of self-flagellation.”
Maisie rose from her chair. “Good morning, Miss Waite.” She held out her hand, quickly trying to take the measure of her subject in the mood and emotions revealed by her stance. “I am so pleased that you agreed to see me,” Maisie assured the still figure before her.
Charlotte Waite seemed to be frozen to the spot. Only her eyes gave away a certain dislike of Maisie, based in all likelihood upon her hostility toward the person whom she represented.
“Let’s sit down,” offered Maisie.
Charlotte moved silently toward the other wing chair set opposite, smoothed the back of her skirt and was seated, her knees together with her legs slanted to one side, as she had been taught at her finishing school in Switzerland.
Maisie cleared her throat. “Charlotte, your father is very worried about you.”
Charlotte looked up, then shrugged, giving the impression of a spoiled girl rather than a grown woman.
Maisie persisted. “I realize that there may be some miscommunication between yourself and your father. Please help me to understand what has come between you. Perhaps I can be of service in some way.”
Charlotte Waite appeared to consider the question. Eventually she spoke in a voice that seemed to Maisie very much like her father’s. It was a strong voice, a voice that didn’t belong in the gray-clad, slender, almost frail body.
“Miss Dobbs, I appreciate your efforts. However, Joseph Waite wants only to have what he considers his property collected nicely together with all the rest of his possessions. I am exercising my choice to belong not to him but to myself.”
“I understand your position, Miss Waite. But surely this cannot be attained by flight?” Maisie stole a glance at Dame Constance through the grille.
“I have tried to speak to my father. I have lived in his house for a long time. He wants me to be dependent upon him for my every thought, for me to remain in his sight, under his control.”
“And what is the reason, in your estimation, for such behavior?”
Maisie knew she must suspend all judgment. But she had begun to dislike and mistrust Charlotte Waite and her rationalizations. Had her earlier feeling of pity for Joseph Waite biased her?
“Well, you’re certainly different from the last investigator he sent after me.”
“Indeed. But my question remains.”
Charlotte Waite took a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “I’ve tried, Miss Dobbs, all my life, to make up for the fact that I am not my brother. I am not Joseph the Second. All the things I was good at were so different from all the things that he was good at, and he excelled at being my father’s favorite.” Charlotte Waite blurted out her words.
Maisie suspected that she had never confided her true thoughts before. “And what were your feelings toward your brother, Miss Waite?”
Charlotte Waite began to cry.
“Speak to me, Charlotte.” Maisie deliberately addressed her by her first name.
“I loved Joe. I adored him and looked up to him. He was always there, always. He protected me, but . . .”
“Yes?”
“I was torn, too.”
“Torn?”
“Yes, I . . . I was sort of . . . envious of him, especially as I grew older. I wondered why he was the favorite and not me. He could work for my father, while I was treated as if I didn’t have a brain at all. I was pushed to one side and ignored.”
Maisie was silent. How fortunate, by contrast, she had been in her growing up and in her opportunities, though Charlotte was a rich man’s daughter. How very lucky she had been. She took a deep breath. Maisie wanted to move on, to the day that Charlotte left her father’s house. She must balance her undertaking to bring back Joseph Waite’s daughter to him with her need to solve the murders of three women. The other members of Charlotte’s coterie.
“Miss Waite. Charlotte, if I may. Perhaps you could explain to me the connection between the feelings you describe, and what happened on the day you left your father’s house.”
Charlotte sniffed, and dabbed at her nose. Maisie watched her carefully, mistrusting the volatility of the other woman’s emotional state. She’s on her guard again.
“Frankly, I was fed up with being in my father’s house. I had wanted to leave for years, but he wouldn’t support me unless I remained under his roof.”
Maisie bristled at Charlotte’s words of entitlement. Remain dispassionate. Maurice’s teaching echoed in her mind. This case was challenging Maisie at every turn.
“Support you, Miss Waite?”
“Well, it would never do, would it? The daughter of Joseph Waite living alone and working.”
“Hmmm. Yes,” said Maisie, in a manner she hoped would encourage Charlotte to continue. She could feel Dame Constance watching her now, and suspected that she had intuited her thoughts and understood her dilemma.
“Anyway, life had become difficult. Breakfast was the last straw.”
“Did you have an argument with your father?”
“No, we didn’t say a word to each other, except ‘Good morning.’ Perhaps it would have been better if we’d argued. At least it would have meant he noticed me.”
“Go on, Charlotte.”
Charlotte breathed in deeply. “I sat down, opened the newspaper and read that an old friend had . . .”
“Been murdered.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s my job, Miss Waite.”
“You knew that I had been upset by reading of Philippa’s death?”
“I suspected it. But why did you leave your father’s home? What did you fear?”
Charlotte swallowed. “I hadn’t actually seen her for a long time, not since the war. If I had told my father about her death, he would have thought my distress unwarranted.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
She’s lying, thought Maisie, who continued to press her subject, as far as she dare. “Was there another reason for your departure? You said that relations between you and your father had been troublesome for a while.”
“All my life!” Charlotte was vehement.
“Yes, I realize that. It must have been very difficult for you. But you seemed to suggest that relations with your father had been more difficult than usual.”
Charlotte stared at Maisie, as if trying to guess how much she already knew, then relented. “Another friend had died several weeks earlier. She . . . had taken her own life. We hadn’t been in touch since the war either, and I only knew because I read about it in the obituary column of The Times. In fact, I didn’t know at first that she’d . . . done it herself. I found out later when I telephoned the family to offer my condolences.”
“I see. And your father?”
“Wouldn’t let me attend the memorial service. Forbade it. Of course, she didn’t have a funeral, not a proper one, because the church doesn’t permit funerals for suicides.”
“And why do you think he forbade you to attend?”
“Oh, probably because I had known her so long ago, and I . . . I get upset.”
“Is there anything else, Charlotte? Any other reason?”
“No.”
Too quick. Too quick to answer.
“How did you first become acquainted with these two friends, Philippa and . . . ?”
“Rosamund.” Charlotte picked at a hangnail. “We knew each other ages ago, first at school, then during the war,” she replied, dismissively.
Her manner was not lost on Maisie, who pushed for a more concrete answer.
“What did you do during the war, together?”
“I can’t remember now. It was so long ago.”
Maisie watched as Charlotte Waite rubbed her hands together, in an effort to disguise their shaking.
“So, your father disliked two of your friends. And what did he think of Lydia Fisher.”
Charlotte jumped up from her chair. “How do you know Lydia? Oh, my God, you knew all the time, didn’t you?”
“Sit down, Miss Waite. Take a deep breath and be calm. I am not here to antagonize you or to harm you. I am simply searching for the truth.” Maisie turned briefly to the grille and saw Dame Constance raise an eyebrow. I’m on shaky ground, but she’ll let me press on. For now.
Charlotte took a seat once again.
“What’s Lydia got to do with this?”
“You won’t have seen the papers, Charlotte, but Lydia Fisher is dead.”
“Oh, no! No!” It seemed to be an outcry of genuine surprise.
“And her husband, Magnus, has been arrested for the murders of both Philippa and Lydia.”
“Magnus?”
“You seem surprised.”
Charlotte Waite’s throat muscles were taut. “But he hadn’t seen Rosamund since school!”
“Rosamund? I thought she took her own life?”
Charlotte hid her face in her hands. Dame Constance cleared her throat, but Maisie tried for one last answer.
“Charlotte!” The tone of Maisie’s voice made her look up. Tears were running down her face. “Charlotte, tell me—why was a white feather left close to each of the victims?”
Charlotte Waite broke down completely.
“Stop! This must stop now!” said Dame Constance, her voice raised. The door to the sitting room opened, and two novices helped Charlotte from the room.
Maisie closed her eyes and breathed deeply to steady her heartbeat.
“So, that is how you work, Maisie Dobbs?”
“When I have to. Yes, it is, Dame Constance.”
Dame Constance tapped the desk in front of her and thought for a moment. Then she surprised Maisie.
“She’ll get over this interlude,” she sighed. “And it is evident even to me that she is withholding information. That, however, is her prerogative.”
“But—”
“No buts, Maisie. Your questioning was not what I had expected.”
“Perhaps I could have been kinder.”
“Yes, perhaps you could.” Dame Constance was thoughtful. “However, you might have rendered me a service, not that it excuses your manner with Charlotte.” She sighed again and explained. “To rebuild a relationship means first confession, which is best spoken aloud to one who hears. There is a confession to be spoken here and you managed to lead her to the edge of the fire, though Charlotte is clearly afraid of the heat.”
“That’s one way of putting it, Dame Constance.” Maisie thought for a minute. “Look, I know I pushed rather hard, but three women have been murdered, and an innocent man has been arrested. And Charlotte. . . .”
“Holds the key.”
“Yes.”
“I will advise her to speak with you again, but not before she has recovered. Maisie, I must have your word that you will not conduct your next interview in such a hostile manner. I remain deeply disappointed in you.”
“Dame Constance, I would be most grateful if you would urge Miss Waite to speak to me again. I give my word that I will be more considerate of Miss Waite’s sensibility when we meet. But . . . time is of the essence.”
Dame Constance nodded, and when the sliding door behind the grille closed, Maisie stood to leave.
A postulant entered the room with Maisie’s dry mackintosh, hat, and gloves, which she donned before returning to the MG. As the engine stuttered into life, Maisie hit the steering wheel with her hand. “Damn!” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maisie was already at her desk when Billy arrived on Friday morning. Much work had to be completed on several cases, and two potential new clients who had come to the office during her absence had to be discussed.
“You’ve been working long hours, Billy.”
“Takes my mind off it.”
“Leg been bad this week?”
“Just nags away at me all the time now. And I’ve bin good, Miss. On the straight and narrow.”
Billy’s eyes seemed to be framed with circles as dark as her own. If only he would go to Chelstone soon.
“Have you given thought to my proposal?”
“Well, Doreen and me ’ave talked about it and all. Of course we’re worried about the money.”
“I’ve given you my assurance, Billy.”
“I know, I know, Miss. But, I feel sort of, oh, I dunno. . . .”
“Vulnerable?”
“Sounds about right.”
“Billy, that’s to be expected. I cannot tell you how much your help with my father means to me. Having someone I trust to be with him, and to assist with the horses—he’ll make himself ill worrying about them otherwise. And I know your leg bothers you, so one of the farmworkers will take on the really heavy work. Dad’s doing very well. He’ll be out of the wheelchair by the time he comes back to Chelstone, and we’ll set up a bed downstairs at the cottage. You won’t have to do any lifting.”
“Be like two old peg legs together, won’t we?”
“Oh, come on now, you’ll see—you’ll come back with all fires blazing. I’ve heard that Maurice’s friend, Gideon Brown, is an amazing man and has worked wonders with wounded and injured people. Plus you’ll be outdoors, in the fresh air. . . .”
“And well away from temptation, eh, Miss?”
Maisie sighed. “Yes, Billy. That’s another thing.”
Billy nodded. “Awright, then. Awright, I’ll go, but not until this business with Miss Waite and them women is closed. I can’t leave work ’alf done.”
“Right you are, Billy.” Maisie acquiesced. “And is there anything else?”
Billy looked at Maisie in earnest. “Can Doreen and the nippers come down?”
“Of course they can. It isn’t prison, you know. In fact, if she wants, I think Doreen could get work from Lady Rowan.”
“Oh, she’d like that.”
“Yes, apparently Lady Rowan has been so preoccupied with the mare and foal, that she is ‘behind’—as she puts it—with preparing for her return to London. She wants to have several gowns altered rather than buy new ones, so I told her about Doreen.”
“You should get a job down the labor exchange, Miss. You’d ’ave everyone in work and off them lines in next to no time.”
Maisie laughed. “Come on, let’s get cracking. I want to see where we are with everything that’s happened while I’ve been away. We should leave here by ten. And we’ll continue this afternoon as soon as we’re back. Also, I’ll need to speak to Detective Inspector Stratton later today.”
“T’ see whether Fisher has spilled the beans?”
“Yes, in a way. Though I think the only beans Fisher has to spill concern his wife’s drinking and his gambling debts. But the newspapers are having a field day with him.”
“All over him like a rash, Miss. Feel a bit sorry for him, I do.”
“You should. I would bet my business on his innocence.”
Quite deliberately, Maisie had not discussed her latest news on the Waite case in detail with Billy. Though she wanted to work on the case map as an artist would an unfinished canvas, she also knew the value of letting facts, thoughts, observations and feelings simmer. In the hours of driving that followed her meeting with Charlotte Waite, Maisie had concluded that the only person who was at risk now was Charlotte. A plan had begun to form in Maisie’s mind. Execution of that plan would depend upon Charlotte.
At ten o’clock on the dot, just as they were about to leave for the appointment with Joseph Waite, the telephone rang.
“Always the way, innit?”
“You can say that again.” Maisie reached for the receiver and gave the number.
“May I speak to Miss Maisie Dobbs?”
“Speaking.”
“Ah, Miss Dobbs. My name is Reverend Sneath, from the village of Lower Camden. I have an important message for you from Dame Constance at Camden Abbey. I visited her earlier today, and she asked me to telephone you as a matter of some urgency as soon as I returned to the vicarage.”
“What is the message, Reverend Sneath?” Maisie was filled with dread. Seeing her complexion change, Billy moved closer to the desk.
“I’ll read it out to you, so I don’t miss a thing.”
Maisie bit her lip as she listened to the rustle of paper, the message being unfolded. The reverend cleared his throat. “Dear Maisie. Miss Waite has left Camden Abbey. She went to her cell immediately after your meeting with her yesterday, and did not join us for our meals or for our devotions, as is her practice. I gave instructions for a food tray to be left for her, and when it was discovered untouched this morning we searched the abbey to no avail. I fear that yesterday’s distressing events have weighed heavily on her. I have not informed the authorities as Miss Waite is not a member of the community. However, I am concerned for her well-being. Do all that you can to find her, Maisie. I need not remind you that her safety is your responsibility. We will hold you and Miss Waite in our prayers.”
“Oh God.” Maisie slumped into her chair.
“Yes, quite.”
“Thank you. Reverend Sneath. Please destroy the message. And would you be so kind as to get word to Dame Constance that I will be in touch as soon as I have located Miss Waite.”
“Of course. Good day to you, Miss Dobbs.” The line clicked.
“She’s run away again, Billy.” Maisie’s hand was still on the receiver, as if willing the telephone to ring with news of Charlotte.
“Oh blimey! Now what’re we goin’ t’ tell ol’ Waite?”
“Nothing. I don’t want to alarm Waite until we’ve made inquiries. For now we’ll carry on as if we know where she is. But we have to find her—and pretty sharpish. Come on, let’s get going. We can talk about it in the car.”
Maisie and Billy exchanged ideas throughout the journey to Dulwich, until Maisie put a stop to their speculation. “Let’s give this problem some air. Now we’ve speculated back and forth, let’s allow some room for inspiration.”
“Awright, Miss. Let the ideas come to us instead of chasing them.”
“Exactly.” Maisie spoke as forcefully as she could but was unable to escape the dread that pulled at her stomach. Where was Charlotte Waite now?
Once again, Maisie was required to park “nose out” at the Waite mansion and, once again, after being most cordially greeted by Harris, the calm was broken by the entrance of Miss Arthur, Joseph Waite’s secretary, clutching her files.
“Oh, Miss Dobbs, Miss Dobbs, Miss Dobbs. I tried to telephone you, but your line was engaged, and then when I telephoned a second time, there was no answer. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Miss Arthur reminded Maisie of a startled hen, with her arms flapping. Maisie raised her hand, as if to smooth the other woman’s ruffled feathers.
“What is wrong, Miss Arthur?”
“It’s Mr. Waite.” Miss Arthur ushered Maisie and Billy into her wood-paneled office neighboring the entrance hall. “Of course, he sends apologies, many apologies, but he has been . . . called away urgently . . . on a business matter.”
Miss Arthur was not a practiced liar, Maisie noted. She frowned. “I see.”
“I tried to reach you, but I expect you had already left,” the flustered secretary continued.
“Not to worry, Miss Arthur. Of course I have much to report to him.”
“Yes, yes, he expected that. He asked me to attend immediately to any interim bills you may wish to submit. For your services.”
“That is very kind.” Maisie turned to Billy, who handed her a brown envelope, which she in turn handed to Miss Arthur. “Perhaps I can make an appointment for next week?”
“Indeed, Miss Dobbs.” Miss Arthur stepped quickly to the other side of her desk, reached into a drawer and pulled out a checkbook and ledger. She glanced briefly at the bill, and commenced writing a check while still speaking to Maisie. “In fact Mr. Waite said to let you know that he’s reviewed your previous conversations and he’s satisfied with your progress. He trusts that you will be bringing Miss Waite back to the house in the fullness of time.”
“A bit of an about-turn, Miss Arthur?” Maisie was suspicious of the fact that both Charlotte and her father were eluding further confrontation by her. A coincidence? Or by design?
Miss Arthur did not respond as she continued to sign the check in her small, rounded hand. She slipped the check into an envelope that she passed to Maisie; then she looked down to complete the ledger entry before reaching for a substantial desk diary. “Let me look at his diary. How about next Wednesday? At noon?”
Maisie nodded at Billy, who noted the time on an index card.
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to inform Mr. Waite that I expect to be in a position to make arrangements for Miss Waite’s return very soon.”
“I understand, Miss Dobbs. We are all very anxious to see her back home.”
“Yes.” Maisie looked sharply at Miss Arthur, who seemed intent on shuffling the papers on her desk. She had always thought that Miss Arthur, along with the other members of Joseph Waite’s household, dreaded Charlotte’s return. What was the secretary keeping from her? Was Charlotte already in the house? Had Waite located his daughter and dragged her home? But, if so, why conceal her whereabouts from Maisie?
“I’ll summon Harris to show you out.”
“Thank you, Miss Arthur.”
Maisie and Billy were almost at the door when Maisie turned to the butler. “Is Mrs. Willis available? I just want to see her for a moment.”
“She’s taken an afternoon off, Miss. Mind you, she may still be in her quarters. Shall I summon her?”
“Oh no, I’ll quickly knock on her door, if that’s all right. I saw her at the bus stop in Richmond recently, and wanted to offer her the occasional lift.” Maisie began to move as she spoke, which she knew would subtly pressure the butler into acquiescing.
“Of course, M’um. Follow me.”
“Billy, wait for me in the car, won’t you?”
Billy hid his surprise. “Right you are, Miss.”
Maisie was escorted along a corridor that led first to a staircase giving access to the lower floor, then, once downstairs, continued to the side of the house. The property’s design, though intended to give the impression of an older architectural style, was actually modern. The staircase leading to the kitchens was wide and airy, the apartments for senior staff spacious. This house had been designed to give owner and servants alike a measure of comfort unknown in times past.
Harris knocked on an eggshell-gloss-painted door. “Mrs. Willis? Visitor for you.”
Maisie could hear movement inside; then the door opened to reveal the housekeeper, who was patting the sides of her head to calm any stray locks of hair. She wore a light amethyst woolen day dress, with a narrow white collar and cuffs, and was still kneading the leather of one of her black shoes with her heel in an attempt to get it on her foot without having to stoop in front of her visitor.
“Oh, this is a surprise.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Willis.” Maisie turned to Harris. “Thank you for showing me the way.” He bowed and left, as Maisie turned again to Mrs. Willis.
“May I come in?”
“Of course, of course. I am sorry. I don’t get visitors, so do pardon me not being ready to receive a guest.” Mrs. Willis beckoned Maisie to follow her into the immaculate sitting room. A small settee and matching armchair were positioned to face the fireplace and a gate-leg table, one flap folded to fit neatly into the limited space, was placed near the wall, the highly polished wood reflecting a vase full of daffodils that stood on a lace doily. A series of photographs sat on the sideboard by the window, which offered a pleasing view to the gardens at the side of the house.
“May I offer you refreshment, Miss Dobbs?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Willis.”
“Do sit down. I expect you’ve come to make arrangements for Miss Waite coming home.”
“Actually, Mrs. Willis, I came to see you.”
The woman looked across at Maisie, her eyes wide. “Me, Miss Dobbs?”
“Yes. I hope this isn’t a cheek, but I saw you in Richmond last time I visited a dear friend. He’s being cared for in the same home as your son.”
“Oh, I am sorry, Miss Dobbs. Was he your sweetheart?”
Maisie was a little surprised by the forthright question. But such an observation might be expected, as there were many women of Maisie’s age who had remained spinsters, their loved ones lost to war. “Well, yes. Yes, he was, but it was a long time ago, now.”
“Hard to forget though, isn’t it?” Mrs. Willis sat opposite Maisie.
Maisie cleared her throat. “Yes, sometimes. But look, Mrs. Willis, I just wanted to say that if I can give you a lift, you must let me know.”
“That’s very kind of you, but—”
“I don’t go there every week, but I can telephone first to see if you would like a lift when I am planning to visit, if you like.”
“Well, Miss, I can’t put you to any trouble. Really I can’t.”
“It’s no trouble at all. And if you should see my motor car outside when you’re visiting, do wait for me to bring you home.”
“All right, Miss Dobbs. I’ll do that.” The housekeeper smiled at Maisie.
She won’t ask for help. Ever, thought Maisie.
Suddenly, a clatter at the window caused Maisie to gasp. Mrs. Willis stood. “Here they come, after their lunch!”
“What on earth is that noise? It frightened the life out of me.”
“It’s just the doves, Miss Dobbs. Always after a bit extra, always. It’s lunchtime; they know who’s a soft touch and where they can get a tidbit or two.” The housekeeper took the lid off a brown-striped earthenware biscuit barrel set on the mantelpiece, selected a biscuit, and walked to the window. Maisie followed, and watched as she leaned over the sideboard and lifted the sash window to reveal a dozen or more doves sitting on the windowsill.
“There you are, you little beggars. Eat up, because that’s all you’re getting today!” Mrs. Willis crumbled the biscuit onto the windowsill.
Maisie laughed to see the birds jostle for position, pushing and shoving in an effort to get more.
“You watch, they’ll try upstairs next.”
“Why, who else feeds them?”
“Oh. Mr. Waite. He’s a soft one, if ever there was. He pays all the bills for my son’s care, you know. His bark is far worse than his bite, as they say.”
As if drawn by the unheard signal of a mystical piper, the doves swept up and away from the windowsill, taking to the air in a cloud of wings. Maisie watched as they flew up, while Mrs. Willis closed the window very slowly. And for a moment it seemed to Maisie as if time were faltering yet still moving forward, for in their wake the doves discarded dozens and dozens of tiny, perfect white feathers, each one zigzagging down, borne on a light breeze, until it fell onto the freshly cut lawn, or fluttered against the windowpane like snow.
“Oh dear, are you one of those people who doesn’t like birds?” asked Mrs. Willis.
“No, not at all.” Maisie turned back into the room, and regained her composure. “Mind you, my assistant doesn’t care for them.”
“Why ever not? They’re so beautiful.”
“Yes, they are, aren’t they? I don’t know why he doesn’t like them. I must make a point of asking him.” Maisie looked at her watch. “I really should be going now, Mrs. Willis. Don’t forget to ask if you need a lift.”
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Dobbs.” Mrs. Willis walked Maisie to the door, which she opened for her. “Will we be seeing Miss Waite home soon?”
“Yes you will. Probably in the next week.”
“That’s very good news, very good. The sooner she’s back home, the better. Let me show you the way.”
Maisie allowed Mrs. Willis to escort her to the front door. It would not have been correct for a guest to be left to find her own way out, especially in the mansion of Joseph Waite. At the door, she bade farewell to Mrs. Willis again. Then, as she reached the bottom of the front steps and heard the door closed behind her, Maisie set a course for the corner of the house where the front garden looped around. She heard Billy rushing to catch up.
“Don’t run, Billy! For goodness’ sake, spare your leg and your lungs!”
Billy came alongside. “What was all that about, Miss? The little chat with Mrs. Willis?”
“Initially just doing a favor. But now I don’t know.”
“Not followin’ ya, Miss.”
“I’ll explain later.” Maisie reached the corner of the house and looked first toward the outer windowsill of Mrs. Willis rooms, then up to the windows above.
“Aw, them bleedin’ birds!”
“Don’t worry, Billy, they’re not interested in you,” said Maisie, her attention on the window as she watched a hand reach out to sprinkle more crumbs for the hungry doves. It was a broad hand, a hand that Maisie could easily recognize from the ground, helped by the sun which broke through the clouds at just the right moment to catch the light reflected by a gold ring encrusted with diamonds.
“See anything interestin’, Miss?”
“Oh yes, Billy. Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.”
Billy seemed relieved to be inside the car again and on his way back into London.
“Shall we talk about Charlotte Waite’s possible whereabouts?”
“No. Wait until we get back to the office. We need to get our heads really clear. First, tell me why you don’t like doves or pigeons. Does your dislike extend to all birds?” Maisie pulled out into the middle of the road to pass a rag-and-bone man, his horse clip-clopping along as if it knew instinctively that it had been a bad day for business.
“Aw, Miss, it don’t make sense, not really. I mean, it ain’t the bird’s fault, is it?”
“What isn’t the bird’s fault?”
“Nah, Miss. Can’t tell y’. It’ll make you think I’m a few coals shy of a load, it will. S’ all a bit silly, all a bit in me ’ead, as you would say.”
“I don’t think I’d say anything of the sort.” Maisie pulled over to the side of the road and stopped, allowing the engine to idle as she turned to him. “Spill the beans, Billy. Why do you hate birds?” She had a distinct feeling that, with his “silly” feelings, Billy might have something for her to consider.
He sighed. “S’pose I’m gonna ’ave to tell you, ain’t I?”
“I suppose you are.”
“And you ain’t gonna move this jam jar till I do, are you?”
“Absolutely right.”
He sighed again. “Well, it in’t all that stupid, now I know a bit more about what goes on up ’ere, from working wiv you.” Billy tapped the side of his head. “But . . . I don’t like ’em because of the war, and even thinkin’ about it makes me leg get bad again.” Billy rubbed his leg.
“What’s your leg got to go with it?”
“Well, y’ see, I didn’t enlist straightaway. There was only me and me brother, both workin’ for me dad. Not like we came from one of them big families, not like there was ten of us and if one went there was always a few left. Anyway, I was going to join up, but me mum didn’t like it, though I thought I should do my bit. But you know what it’s like when you keep meanin’ t’ do something. . . .”
Maisie nodded. You’re rambling, Billy.
“Then one day, I decided that there was no time like the present, so I went down and got meself enlisted. Me mum, when I told ’er, aw you should’ve ’eard ’er go on, and on, and on. At least me brother was too young to go, so she’d still ’ave ’im at ’ome. Anyway, I ’ad a few days at ’ome before I ’ad to report for duty, so me and me little brother, fifteen at the time, ’e was, went out for a bit of a laugh one afternoon. I didn’t ’ave a uniform yet, in fact, let me tell you, even after I was at the barracks in Colchester, I never ’ad a uniform for three weeks. They were enlistin’ so many at once, they’d run out of uniforms. Run out of uniforms? I tell you, it’s no wonder we ’ad trouble over there. No wonder.”
Billy shook his head, while Maisie waited for his story to unfold.
“Gawd, seems I was like an old man already, but I was only eighteen. Anyway, there we were, walking down the street, when this young lady comes up to us, all smiles. Then she ’ands me and ’im a feather each, and tells us we should be in uniform, and—”
“Oh my God!” Maisie gasped. “It was there all the time, only I couldn’t see it!”
Maisie pushed the car into gear, looked over her shoulder, and pulled out onto the road.
“See what, Miss?”
“I’ll tell you later, Billy. Keep on with your story.”
Billy was silent.
“It’s all right, Billy, I’m still listening.” Maisie pressed down on the accelerator to gain speed.
“Well, it’s them feathers. Sign of cowardice, ain’t they? I mean, I was signed on anyway, so it didn’t bother me, did it? Water off a duck’s back. But not Bobby, oh no, ’e was only a youngster. Couldn’t wait to be a man. And o’ course, nice young woman comes along, calls ’im a coward, what does ’e do, eh? Goes an’ enlists on the sly, just after I left.”
Maisie blushed, remembering the lies she told about her age in order to enlist for nursing service, and her father’s furious frustration at her actions.
“Me mum does ’er pieces, me father went mad, and all the time, I’m runnin’ around takin’ orders from ’igher-ups who didn’t know much more than I did.”
Suddenly, Maisie slowed the car, her speed checked by the cold chill of realization. “What happened to your brother, Billy?” She looked sideways at him, her hands clutching the steering wheel.
Billy looked out of the passenger window.
“Copped it, didn’t ’e. Silly little bugger. Sixteen years of age, and pushin’ up daisies in a place where ’e couldn’t even talk the lingo. All because of a bleedin’ feather.”
“Why ever didn’t you tell me all this?”
“S’long time ago, ain’t it, Miss? Mind you, it seems that every time I see a bird, you know, look at a bird, well, the stupid animal seems to drop a feather or two, just as they’re flappin’ their wings t’ get away, and every time I see a feather, I see our Bobby with the feather between ’is fingers, runnin’ after me, sayin, ‘She called me a coward. Did you ’ear that? Eh, Billy? She called me a coward! Now everyone’ll think I’m not up to it!’ But ’e weren’t no coward. Sixteen, and gave ’is life.”
Billy rubbed at his legs again. Maisie let the silence linger. I must get him to Chelstone as soon as I can.
“Billy, Billy, I am so very sorry.”
“Named my boy after ’im, I did. Just ’ope there won’t be any more wars, in case I lose ’im. My biggest fear, that is, Miss. That there’ll be another war, when ’e’s enlistin’ age.”
Maisie nodded, fearfully.
“So what’s all this about, then? Y’know, what you couldn’t see when it was there all the time.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Maisie picked up the telephone to place a call to Scotland Yard as soon as she and Billy returned to the office.
“My old mum always used to say that the best place to ’ide a thing was in plain view. She’d say that when I gave up me wage packet of a Friday night. She’d take the money, stick it in a pot on the table, and then give me a couple o’ bob back for meself. P’raps Miss Waite is ’id-ing somewhere in plain view?”
Maisie held up her hand for silence as her call was answered.
“Inspector, I wonder if we might meet to discuss the Sedgewick-Fisher case? I have some information that might be of interest to you.”
Maisie heard an audible sigh.
“Is it regarding Mr. Fisher?”
“Well . . . no, no, not directly.”
“Miss Dobbs, we are convinced we have the right man.”
Maisie closed her eyes. She must tread carefully. “I’ve made some observations that may be useful to you.”
Another sigh, augmented by the sound of voices in the background. Would this telephone call to Stratton be fodder for mirth among the men of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad? It was a risk she would have to take. She could not withhold evidence from them once she was convinced of its importance. If the police refused to listen, that was quite another matter.
“Look, Miss Dobbs, I am grateful for any and all information. Obviously in my position I can hardly say otherwise, and if your information concerns Fisher, I would be more than delighted to have it. But the point is that we find that investigating many so-called leads wastes valuable time when we already have the killer.”
“You’ve taken an innocent man into custody, and you should hear me out!”
“I say, Miss Dobbs, now just you wait a minute!”
“But Inspector, another perspective might—”
“All right, Miss Dobbs.” Stratton sounded exasperated, but Maisie knew she had appealed to his sense of duty. “Meet me at the caffy on the corner of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road in—let me see— half-an-hour. ”
“Thank you, Inspector Stratton. I know exactly where you mean— diagonally opposite Waite’s International Stores.”
“That’s it. See you in half-an-hour.”
“Until then.”
Maisie replaced the receiver and blew a gust of breath between lips rounded into an O.
“Bit frosty, was ’e, eh, Miss?”
“More than a bit. And I’ve got to be careful too. In providing Stratton with information, I risk undermining him or antagonizing him further. After all, if he chooses to listen, he’s the one who has to return to The Yard and retract the accusations against Magnus Fisher. I need to keep him as an ally.”
“What’s wrong wiv ’im, then?”
Maisie took the folded linen handkerchief from her case and walked to the table where the case map had already been unfurled and pinned ready for work. She motioned for Billy to join her.
“He’s let two things get in the way, I think: His personal history and his standing in the department. Of course, he has to be careful, because if I were to take a bet on it—”
“And we know you’re not the bettin’ type.” Billy smiled at her.
“No, but if I were, I’d wager that Caldwell is after the Detective Inspector’s job, and is making Stratton’s life a misery while he’s nipping at his heels. So Stratton has to be careful in terms of who he is seen taking information from.”
“What’s ’is personal history, then?”
Maisie leaned over the map, and unfolded the handkerchief. “Well, he’s a widower. His wife died in childbirth about five years ago, leaving him to bring up his son alone.”
Billy scrunched up his face, “Aw, blimey, Miss. Tha’s terrible. Wish you ’adn’t’ve told me that. Now I’m gonna think about it every time I see the man.” He leaned forward. “What’ve you got there?”
“Feathers. Tiny white feathers. The ones I collected during my investigation. I found one feather for each woman. Two were close to where the victims had been sitting just prior to meeting the murderer. In Rosamund Thorpe’s case, the feather was in the pocket of the dress she was wearing when she died.”
“Ugh.” Billy shuddered.
“They can’t hurt you. The women who gave them out in the war are the ones who did the harm.”
Billy watched as Maisie placed the feathers on the case map, using a smudge of paste to secure each one to the paper.
“Do you know who the killer is, Miss?”
“No, Billy, I don’t”
Billy looked sideways at Maisie and refleced for a moment. “But you’ve got an idea. I can see it there.”
“Yes, yes, I have, Billy. I do have an idea. But it’s just an idea. Right now we’ve got our work cut out for us. We must find Charlotte Waite. Here’s what I want you to do—”
Billy flipped open his notebook ready to list his instructions as Maisie closed her eyes and ran though a catalog of possibilities: “An animal will make for its lair if in fear or wounded. Mind you, Charlotte may have no reason to fear, she may just want to get away, to escape from being Joseph Waite’s daughter. We have to consider that she may have fled to Europe, after all, she’s familiar with Lucerne and Paris. See if you can check the passenger list for the boat-train. Charlotte might have traveled from Appledore station on the branch line to Ashford, or she may have come to London first. There are one hundred ways she could have traveled. Check with Croydon Aerodrome and Imperial Airways—oh, and there’s an aerodrome in Kent, at Lympne. Check as many hotels in London as you can—but don’t start with the big ones. Contact the hotels that are neither too posh nor too shabby. Telephone Gerald Bartrup. No, visit Bartrup. I want you to look at him when you ask him if he’s seen Charlotte in the past twenty-four hours. Pay attention, Billy, with your body as well as your eyes. You’ll know if he’s lying.”
The list was long and Billy would be hard at work until late. Maisie wondered if Charlotte had funds that were known only to her, squirreled away into a private account. Where had she gone? Where was she now?
Though their conversation was sometimes strained, Maisie looked forward to her meeting with Detective Inspector Stratton. She knew that he admired her and was taking tentative steps to further their acquaintance. But how prudent would it be to agree to such an outing? Would her work and her reputation be put at risk by a closer friendship?
Stratton stood outside the cafeteria where Maisie joined him after walking down Tottenham Court Road from Fitzroy Square. He lifted his hat and opened the door for Maisie.
“There’s a seat over there. This place is definitely more caff than café, but it’s quick. Tea, toast, and jam?”
“Lovely, Inspector Stratton.” It was at that point, that Maisie realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Maisie sat on a bench by a wall decorated with floral wallpaper that was now quite faded and stained in places. She unbuttoned her jacket and looked out of the window while she waited for Stratton, who was at the counter placing cups of tea and a plate of toast and jam on a tray. She craned her neck to watch customers going in and out of Joseph Waite’s double-fronted grocery shop across the road. And they say there’s no money about!
“Here we are.” Stratton set the tray down on the table, pulled out the chair opposite Maisie, and sat down. “You could stand a spoon up in that tea. They make it strong here.”
“Stewed tea, fresh from the urn—nothing like it, Inspector. It’s what kept us going over in France.”
“Yes, and there’s been many a time when a flask of that stuff has sustained me when I’ve had to work all night, I can tell you. Let’s get down to business. I didn’t come here to discuss the tea. What have you come across, Miss Dobbs? I know you did some snooping around when you found Lydia Fisher’s body.”
“Lydia was a friend of Charlotte Waite. I had been asked by Joseph Waite to locate his daughter, who had left her father’s home temporarily. He is my client.” Maisie reached for a triangular wedge of toast. She was ravenous and quickly took a bite, then dabbed at the sides of her mouth with a handkerchief. This was not the kind of establishment where table napkins were supplied.
Stratton raised an eyebrow. “Not much to get your teeth into, a missing debutante, if you don’t mind me saying so, Miss. Dobbs.” Stratton reached for a slice of toast.
“But enough to pay for my own office, an assistant, and a nippy little motor car, Inspector,” replied Maisie, her eyes flashing.
Stratton smiled. “I deserved that one, didn’t I?”
Maisie inclined her head.
“So, let’s get down to brass tacks. What have you got to tell me?”
“Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick were friends.”
“I know that!”
“As was Rosamund Thorpe, of Hastings.”
“Who is?”
“Dead. She is thought to have committed suicide some weeks before Mrs. Sedgewick was murdered.”
“And this has . . . what to do with your investigation or our murder inquiry?”
“They were all friends once, the three dead women and Charlotte Waite. A coterie, if you like.”
“So?”
Maisie appraised Stratton before speaking again. He’s being deliberately obtuse.
“Detective Inspector Stratton, people who knew Rosamund Thorpe cannot believe she took her own life. Also, the four former friends seemed to have made a point of avoiding one another. I think they were kept apart by shame. During the war, I believe they distributed white feathers to men who were not in uniform.”
“Oh, those terrible women!”
“And . . .” Maisie halted. Shall I tell him about the feathers I found? Will I be mocked? “And . . . I believe that Magnus Fisher did not kill his wife or Philippa Sedgewick. The person you seek is someone—”
“We have our man!”
“Inspector, why are you so . . . so . . . quick to send Fisher down?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“The public wants a murderer behind bars, and you—you and Caldwell—have decided to give them one.”
Stratton sighed. “And we are right. It’s an open-and-shut case.”
Maisie clenched her fists in frustration. “And you can’t stand a man who abandoned his wife, and whom you believe deprived a loving husband of his.”
“Look here, Miss Dobbs, leave this sort of work to the professionals. I know you’ve had some luck in the past. You’ve helped us before when you worked for a man of some stature, but . . . do not interfere!” Stratton stood up. “I hope we can meet again under less strained circumstances.”
As much as she wanted to have a last word, Maisie knew that she must not allow them to part with rancor. “Yes, indeed, Inspector. I am sorry if I have offended you. However, do expect to hear from me again soon.”
Stratton left the cafeteria, as Maisie took her seat once again. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have lost control. I could see by the way he moved, the way he sat and the manner in which he spoke, that he was obdurate. I’ve told the police as much as they would hear. Should I have mentioned the feathers? No, he would have laughed.
Maisie gathered her belongings and followed Stratton out.
She was ready to turn the corner into Tottenham Court Road, when she stopped to look back at the blue and gold-fronted Waite’s International Stores. She changed direction and walked instead toward the entrance of Joseph Waite’s most prominently situated grocery store.
Once again, when Maisie entered the hubbub of the shop, she watched as assistants reached forward to point to a cheese and nod, or hold up a cut of meat for inspection. Dried fruits were weighed, biscuits counted, and all the time money passed back and forth and shop assistants constantly washed their hands. Maisie stood in the center of the floor, near the round table with a display of the latest foods imported from overseas. Yes, there was money about, despite long lines at soup kitchens in other parts of London.
Maisie watched the busyness of business in Joseph Waite’s domain. Why have I come back? There is something here for me. What is it? What did I not see last time? She looked up at the walls, at the intricate mosaics that must have cost a fortune. Then down at the polished wood floor and across at the boy whose job it was to walk back and forth with a broom, ensuring that Waite’s customers never noticed so much as a crumb underfoot.
No one paid attention to the young, well-dressed woman who stood without a shopping bag, making no move toward a counter, and displaying no intention to purchase. Both shop assistants and customers were too preoccupied with their tasks and errands to see her close her eyes and place her hand where she could feel the beating of her heart. Just for a second, just for fleeting moment, Maisie gave herself over to her inner guidance in this most public place. Then, as if responding to a command that only she could hear, she opened her eyes and looked up at the place above the door, at the tiled memorial to the employees of Waite’s International Stores. She allowed her eyes to rest on the tile dedicated to Waite’s son, Joseph, beloved heir of a self-made man. A man known to be as hard as rock but at times also a man of compassion. A man of extremes. Don’t stop, said a voice in her head. And Maisie obeyed. She read each name, starting from the beginning: Avery . . . Denman . . . Farnwell . . . Marchant . . . Nicholls . . . Peters . . . so many, oh, so many . . . Richards, Roberts . . . Simms, Simpson . . . Timmins . . . Unsworth . . . every letter in the alphabet was represented as she silently mouthed the names, like a teacher reviewing the class register. Then Maisie stopped reading. Ah. She closed her eyes. Ah. Yes. Of course.
Opening her eyes again, Maisie looked at each food counter until she saw one of the older members of staff. “Excuse me. I wonder if you could help me?”
“Yes, Madam, Of course. The sausages are fresh made this morning, by our very own butchers. Personally trained by Mr. Waite, they are. These are the best sausages in London.”
“Oh, lovely, I’m sure. But could you tell me where I can find someone who worked for Waite’s during the war? Someone who might have known the boys up there?” Maisie pointed to the memorial.
“But, Miss, there’s names up there from all over. Mind you, old Mr. Jempson in the warehouse knew just about all of the London boys. Joined up together you know, as pals. Most of the boys who enlisted came from the warehouse; it’s where the apprentices start, and where the butchering is done before the carcasses go out to the shops. Waite’s delivers to its own shops with special ice-packed lorries, you know.”
“Could you tell me where the warehouse is?”
“Across the water. In Rotherhithe, the ‘Larder of London,’ where all the warehouses are. Let me get a piece of paper and write down the directions for you. It’s easy to find, close to St. Saviour’s Docks, Madam. Relative, are you?”
“A friend.”
“I see. Mr. Waite’s own son was down at the warehouse, before he went over there. Started him at the bottom, did Mr. Waite. Said he had to work his way up like anyone else.” The assistant left the counter and returned with a folded piece of paper, which she handed to Maisie. “There you are, Madam. Now then, what about some sausages for your supper?”
Maisie was about to decline, then thought otherwise. Smiling at the assistant, she gave her order. “Lovely. A pound, please.”
“Right you are.” And with a flourish copied directly from Joseph Waite, the assistant swept up a string of bulbous pork sausages, and laid them on the scale. The Beale family would eat well tonight.
“Stratton any easier to talk to this afternoon, Miss?”
“I wish I could say yes, Billy. It started out well enough, then became rather difficult.”
“Funny, that. ’e always seemed such a reasonable bloke.”
Maisie took off her mackintosh, hat, and gloves, and laid her document case and a brown carrier bag on her desk. “It’ll settle down and we’ll all be talking again after this case is closed, Billy. Men in Stratton’s position can’t close too many doors, especially those leading to people they’ve consulted with in the past. No, there are two struggles going on there: One in the department and one inside Stratton. As long as we are seen to be doing our part, I’m not going to worry.” Maisie looked at her watch. “Oh, look at the time, Billy! It’s almost half past four. Let’s just go over some details on the Waite case and make plans for Monday. I’m driving down to Chelstone tomorrow morning first thing, and I must also visit my fath—”
Maisie was interrupted by the telephone.
“Fitzroy five —Miss Waite. Where are you. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” The line crackled.
“Miss Waite? Miss Waite you may be in danger. Tell me where you are.”
Silence.
“Miss Waite? Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here.”
“Well, can you speak up a bit, please? This is a terrible line.”
“I’m in a telephone kiosk.” Charlotte’s voice was slightly louder.
“Why have you called me, Miss Waite?”
“I . . . I . . . need to speak to you.”
“About what?” Maisie held her breath as she pushed Charlotte just a little.
“There’s more to tell you. I didn’t tell you . . . everything.”
“Can you tell me now?”
Silence.
“Miss Waite?”
“I have to speak to you privately, in person.”
“Where are you? I’ll come right away.”
Maisie thought she heard Charlotte crying; then there was silence but for the crackling telephone line.
“Miss Waite? Are we still connected?”
“Oh, it’s no use. It’s no use—”
There was a click and the line was dead. Maisie replaced the receiver.
“Damn!”
Billy’s eyes widened. “What was all that about, eh, Miss?”
“Charlotte Waite. She said she wanted to talk to me, then hung up the receiver saying it was ‘no use.’”
“Lost ’er bottle, did she?”
“She certainly did. It was a bad line. She could have been anywhere. Mind you, there was noise in the background.” Maisie closed her eyes as if to hear the entire call again. “What was that sound?”
“D’you still want me to do all this?” Billy held up the list.
“Yes. She could have been in Paris for all I know. Or outside an hotel on the Edgeware Road. But at least we know she’s still alive. It’s getting late, but you can make a start, and then get on with it again tomorrow morning.”
“Right you are, Miss.”
“I’ll need to speak to Lady Rowan at Chelstone before I see my father, then I’ll come back to London to continue the search for Charlotte Waite.”
“How can ’er Ladyship help?”
Maisie turned to Billy. “She was involved in the suffrage movement before the war, and knows a lot about what different women’s associations did. I could use more color on the page.”
“I know, Miss.”
Maisie looked up at Billy, walked over to her desk, and sighed. “Billy, give it another half an hour or so and then get on your way. It’s been a long day—in fact, it’s been a long week, and you’ll have to put in quite a few hours tomorrow.”
“Aw, thanks, Miss. I want to see the nippers before they go to bed.”
“Oh, and Billy—here’s something for you.” Maisie held out the brown paper carrier bag.
“What’s all this, Miss?”
“A pound of Waite’s sausages. Best in London, they say.”
Shortly after Billy began his evening journey back to Whitechapel, Maisie climbed into the MG, started the engine, and pulled out of Fitzroy Square. A telephone call had confirmed that Waite’s warehouse in Rotherhithe remained open until late in the evening, while lorries bound for the shops were packed with the next day’s deliveries. Mr. Jempson, the warehouse manager, was available and had kindly agreed to see Maisie as soon as she arrived.
Fog horns bellowed along the Thames as carriage drivers, motorists and barge captains alike made their way through the murky smog that once again began to shroud London. Maisie negotiated the MG along narrow roads that were almost lanes, byways that led from the docks to riverside warehouses. Following directions carefully, she eventually turned into a cobbled side street and drew up in front of a pair of open gates with a sign above in blue-and-gold lettering: WAITE’S INTERNA-TIONAL STORES. SOUTH-EASTERN WAREHOUSE. A guard in a blue-and-gold uniform waved from the gatehouse and came out to greet Maisie, a clipboard under his arm.
“Evening, Miss.” He touched the peak of his blue cap. “Expected, are you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Jempson, in the offices.”
“Ah, of course, he telephoned through to put you on the list not long ago.”The guard leaned down toward Maisie and pointed ahead, to an extensive courtyard illuminated by a lamp in each corner. “Don’t park by the lorries, otherwise you’ll have them drivers givin’ me a row. Go over to where it says ‘Visitors’ and put the motor there. And, Miss, park nose out, if you don’t mind.”
Nose out at the warehouse, too? Maisie’s countenance revealed her thoughts.
“It’s the way Mr. Waite likes it, Miss.” He smiled at Maisie. “You see that door there, the big wooden one? You go through there, up the stairs, and one of the clerks will be there at the top to meet you. I’ll telephone to let them know you’re on your way.”
Maisie thanked the guard, noting that no expense seemed to have been spared even in equipping the warehouse. Having parked the MG following the guard’s instructions to the letter, Maisie entered the granite building through the wooden door and was greeted at the top of the stairs by a young man in dark gray trousers, polished brogues, a crisp white shirt, and black tie, with armbands to keep his sleeves drawn away from his wrists. A freshly sharpened pencil protruded from behind his right ear.
“Evening, Miss Dobbs. My name’s Smithers. Come this way to Mr. Jempson’s office.”
“Thank you.”
Maisie was led to an office surrounded by windows that looked down onto the warehouse floor, the rich cherrywood frames and paneling gleaming under the glow of several lamps that illuminated the room.
“Thank you, Mr. Smithers.”
Jempson held out his hand for Maisie to take a seat in the leather chair on the opposite side of the desk. It was obviously reserved for guests. A rather less comfortable chair was situated alongside.
“I am most grateful for your time, Mr. Jempson.”
“How may I be of service to you?”
Maisie had to tread carefully. She already knew that Mr. Jempson’s employer was held in great esteem by his staff
“I wonder if you could help me with a most delicate matter.”
“I’ll try.” Jempson, a tall, thin man wearing an ensemble almost identical to his assistant’s, looked over half-moon glasses at Maisie, on his guard.
Maisie relaxed into her chair, an adjustment that was mirrored by Jempson. Good. Sensing that the conversation might now proceed, Maisie envisioned the tiled memorial of names in Waite’s International Stores, and began to ask the questions that had plagued her since the visit to Dulwich this morning.
Maisie took her leave from the warehouse an hour later. Mr. Jempson had indeed been most helpful. In fact, as he confessed while escorting her to the MG, “It’s done me good to talk about it all. I saw them all go, and most of them never came back. Broke the boss’s heart, it did. Couldn’t do enough for the families either. Must be terrible for him. To be reminded of it every day, every day when you look into the eyes of your own daughter. It’s a wonder he wants her back, if you ask me. Mind you, like I said upstairs, he had to keep her at home, after all that business with the windows being broken when he got her that flat on her own, after the war. Everyone loved Mr. Waite, but there’s no love lost on his daughter or them harpies she was with. I wouldn’t blame anyone who, you know, had lost someone. . . .”
Maisie placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you again, Mr. Jempson. Take good care, and don’t worry, this conversation is in absolute confidence.”
The man touched his forehead as Maisie left him to drive away into the thick darkness pierced by foghorns. Maisie did not go far. Parking close to the water, she remained in the motor car for some moments to review her plans. She would telephone Lady Rowan that evening, to ask if she might join her for a walk before breakfast. She knew that the older woman would have valuable insights to add to the evidence Maisie now had to hand. Her absolute priority was to find Charlotte. Was she ready to make a confession? Or was she in immediate danger? Maisie shook her head, pulled her collar up, and stepped from the car. She walked along Bermondsey Wall and stopped to watch the thick smog which seemed to curdle above the water. A wall had originally been built to keep out floodwaters in the Middle Ages; as people walked on the wall to avoid the muddy ground, the wall became a road, but the name was never lost. Maisie stood in silence feeling as if she were caught in the mud, unable to move. Charlotte was lost, and it was her fault. The chain of foghorns up and down the Thames began their round of blasts again, and as they did so, Maisie closed her eyes. Of course! What was it that Billy had said to her? Just after she’d received the call from Reverend Sneath? Something about being hidden in plain view? While listening to Charlotte speaking from the telephone kiosk, she’d heard the foghorns from south of the river. Charlotte was somewhere right under her father’s nose. She was close to the warehouse. But where?
The area was always teeming with people. It would be like finding a pebble lost on the beach. Sarson’s Vinegar, Courage’s Brewery, Crosse &Blackwell’s tinned foods, the leatherworks, Peek Freans biscuit factory, the docks, warehouses receiving foods from all over the world—she could be anywhere in Bermondsey. Maisie knew that the journey to Kent could not be delayed, but she would return to London quickly. Charlotte might have chosen to call from an identifiable area deliberately to send them in the wrong direction. She needed a source of information in Bermondsey. Maisie smiled. A Bermondsey boy. That’s what I need.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Leaving London at the crack of dawn, Maisie arrived at Chelstone early. The interior of the small cottage was cold and not at all welcoming as it would have been if Frankie Dobbs were at home. Maisie began opening curtains and windows to let in shafts of early morning sunshine, and a breath of fresh air. The rooms were neat and tidy, revealing regular attention from staff up at the manor house. Frankie Dobbs was much loved at Chelstone. His house had been well kept in anticipation of his return, but it lacked the life that Frankie brought to his simple dwelling.
Maisie moved around the cottage, running her fingers across her father’s belongings, as if touching the leather traces kept in the scullery awaiting repair, or his tools and brushes, brought him closer. She made a list of things that required attention. A bed must be moved into the small sitting room so that Frankie would not have to negotiate the stairs. A room must be prepared for Billy upstairs. She must speak again with Maurice about plans for Billy’s rehabilitation, in body, mind, and soul. She knew her father’s contribution to this part of Billy’s recovery was just as important, for Frankie was above all else a father, and Billy would gain as much from him as he would from Maurice, Gideon Brown, or Dr. Andrew Dene.
Her task complete, she left the cottage to join Lady Rowan, who was in the distance striding as purposefully as she could across the lawns at the front of the manor.
Lady Rowan waved to Maisie with her walking stick and called out. “Good morning, Maisie,” followed by, “Nutmeg, drop it! Drop it now and come here!”
Maisie laughed to see the dog come to his owner, tail between his legs, head down, and filled with remorse.
“This dog will eat anything, absolutely anything. How lovely to see you, my dear.” Lady Rowan reached out and squeezed Maisie’s upper arm. Though she held Maisie in great affection, Lady Rowan, restrained by considerations of position and place, had only once demonstrated her feelings. When Maisie returned from France, Lady Rowan had taken her in her arms and said, “I am so relieved, so very relieved that you are home.” On that occasion Maisie was silent in her embrace, not knowing quite what to say.
“And it’s lovely to see you, too, Lady Rowan,” replied Maisie, placing her hand on top of Lady Rowan’s for just a second.
“Now then, before we get down to business”—she glanced at Maisie as they began to walk together across the lawn—“because I know you’re here on business, Maisie, what’s the news about your dear father and the young man you’re sending to help.”
“Well, I’ll see my father later, before I return to London. I’ve spoken to Dr. Simms, who thinks it’ll be another week before he’s transferred to the convalescent hospital. I think he’ll be there for about three or four weeks, according to Dr. Dene, who says it might have been longer, but he’s spoken to the doctors at Pembury, and my father is making excellent progress, even at this early stage. During that time Mr. Beale will look after the horses. Then, when Dad comes home to Chelstone, Mr. Beale will stay on at the cottage and work under his supervision.”
“Which as we both know means that your father will be hobbling over to the stables each day even though he shouldn’t.”
“Probably, though I’ve told Mr. Beale to keep an eye on him.”
Lady Rowan nodded. “I’ll be so relieved when he’s back in charge. Then I’ll feel I can leave for Town.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, L—”
Lady Rowan held up her hand to silence Maisie, as they leaned toward each other to avoid the low branch of a majestic beech tree.
“What can I do for you, Maisie Dobbs?” Lady Rowan smiled at Maisie, a gleam in her eye.
“I want you to tell me what you know about the different women’s affiliations in the war. I’m particularly interested in those women who handed out white feathers.”
Lady Rowan blinked rapidly, the sparkle vanishing instantly. “Oh, those harpies!”
“Harpies.” It was the second time in two days that Maisie had heard the term in connection with the women. And in her mind’s eye she saw the illustrated flyleaf of a book that Maurice had given her to read, years ago. A short note had accompanied her assignment: “In learning about the myths and legends of old, we learn something of ourselves. Stories, Maisie, are never just stories. They contain fundamental truths about the human condition.” The black-and-white charcoal drawing depicted birds with women’s faces, birds carrying humans in their beaks as they flew away into the darkness. Maisie was jolted back to the present by Lady Rowan.
“Of course, you were either engrossed in your studies at Girton or away overseas doing something worthwhile, so you would have missed the Order of the White Feather.” Lady Rowan slowed her pace, as if to allow memories to catch up with the present. “This was before conscription, and it was all started by that man, Admiral Charles Fitzgerald. After the the initial rush to enlist had fallen off, they needed more men at the front, so he obviously thought the way to get them there was through the women. I remember seeing the handbills starting to pop up all over the place.” Lady Rowan mimicked a stern masculine voice: “Is your best boy in uniform yet?”
“Oh yes, I think I saw one at a railway station before I went into nursing.”
“The plan was to get young women to go around giving the white feather—a sign of cowardice—to young men not in uniform. And—” she raised a pointed finger in emphasis. “And those two women—the Scarlet Pimpernel woman—what was her name? Oh yes, Orczy, the Hungarian baroness, well, she was a great supporter of Fitzgerald, and so was Mary Ward—Mrs. Humphrey Ward.”
“You didn’t care for her, did you?”
Lady Rowan pursed her lips. Maisie realized that she was so intent upon Lady Rowan’s words that she had been ignoring the vista of the Weald of Kent around her. They had reached a gate and stile. If she had been alone, Maisie would have clambered over the stile with the same energy as the three dogs before her. Instead, she pulled back the rusty iron gate lock, and allowed Lady Rowan to walk through first.
“Frankly, no, I didn’t.” Lady Rowan continued. “She did a lot of very commendable work in bringing education to those who might not otherwise have had the opportunity, organizing children’s play groups for working women, that sort of thing. But she was an anti-suffragist, so we were like oil and water. Of course she’s long gone now, but she supported recruiting men for the trenches by this most horrible means, through the accusations of women. And as for the women themselves—”
“Yes, I’m interested in the women, the ones who gave out the white feathers.”
“Ah yes.” She sighed. “You know, I wondered about them at the time. What made them do it? What made young women say, ‘Oh, yes, I’ll do that. I’ll walk the streets with my bag of white feathers, and I’ll give one to each boy I see not in uniform, even though I don’t know one jot about him!’”
“And what do you think, now that time has passed?”
Lady Rowan sighed and stopped to lean on her walking stick. “Maisie, that question is more up your alley than mine, really. You know, the business of discovering why people do what they do.”
“But?” Maisie encouraged Lady Rowan to speak her mind.
“When I think back, it’s alarming, some of the things that came to pass. One minute the suffrage movement was seen as a tribe of marauding pariahs by the government, then, as soon as war was declared there was a division in our ranks. One lot became the darlings of Lloyd George, who persuaded women to release men to the battlefield by taking up their work until they returned home. The other half of our number went all out for peace, joining with women throughout Europe. Frankly, on an individual level, I think women needed to take part. We’re all Boadiceas really.” Lady Rowan’s smile was sad. “But some women, some young women who perhaps didn’t have a cause, found some level of belonging, of worthiness—possibly even of some sort of connection—in joining together to force young men to join the army. I wonder if they saw it as a game, one in which they scored points for each man intimidated into joining up.”
The two women turned simultaneously and began to make their way back toward Chelstone Manor. They walked together in silence for some moments, until Lady Rowan spoke again.
“Aren’t you going to tell me why you’ve come to me with these questions? Why the curiosity about the Order of the White Feather?”
Maisie took a deep breath. “I have reason to believe that the recent deaths of three young women are connected to the white feather movement.” Maisie checked her watch.
Lady Rowan nodded, seeming somewhat weary now that the early walk was coming to an end. “That’s one more thing that I detest about war. It’s not over when it ends. Of course, it seems as if everyone’s pally again, what with agreements, the international accords, and contracts and so on. But it still lives inside the living, doesn’t it?” She turned to Maisie. “Heavens, I sound like Maurice now!”
They followed the path back to the manicured lawns of Chelstone Manor.
“Will you join me for breakfast, Maisie?”
“No, I’d better be on my way. Before I go, may I use your telephone?”
“You’ve no need to ask. Go on.” Lady Rowan waved Maisie on her way. “And take good care, won’t you? We expect to see your Mr. Beale here by the end of the month!”
Only if I close this case quickly, thought Maisie, as she ran toward the manor.
“Miss Dobbs. Delightful to hear from you. I’ve had another word with Dr.—”
“This isn’t about my father, Dr. Dene. Look, I must hurry. I wonder if you can help me. Do you still know Bermondsey well?”
“Of course. In fact, once a fortnight I work at Maurice’s clinic for a day or two on a Saturday or Sunday.”
“Oh, I see.” Maisie was surprised that she didn’t already know about Dene’s continued connection with Maurice’s work. “I need to find a person who may be hiding in Bermondsey. She may be in danger, and I have to locate her soon. Very soon. Do you know anyone who might be able to help me.”
Dene laughed. “All very cloak-and-dagger isn’t it, Miss Dobbs?”
“I am absolutely serious.” Maisie felt herself become impatient with him. “If you can’t help, then say so.”
Dene’s voice changed. “I’m sorry. Yes, I do know someone. He’s called Smiley Rackham and he can usually be found outside The Bow & Arrow; it’s just off Southwark Park Road, where they have the market. Just make your way along the market until you see a pie ’n’ mash shop on the corner, turn on that side street and you’ll see The Bow. Can’t miss it. Smiley sells matches and you’ll recognise him by the scar that runs from his mouth to his ear. It makes him look as if he’s pulling a huge grin.”
“Oh. Was he wounded in the war?”
“If he was ever in a war, it was probably the Crimean. No, Smiley worked on the barges as a boy. Got an unloading hook caught in the side of his mouth.” He laughed, “Knowing Smiley, it was open too wide at the time. Anyway, even though there are lots of new people in Bermondsey now, he doesn’t miss a trick. He’s a good place to start. He’ll cost you a bob or two though.”
“Thank you, Dr Dene.”
“Miss Dobbs—”
Maisie had already replaced the receiver. She had just enough time to drive to Pembury for morning visiting hours.
Maisie was filled with guilt from the time she left Pembury Hospital until she parked the car in Bermondsey. The conversation with her father had been stilted and halting, each searching for a subject that would engage the other, each trying to move beyond a series of questions. Maisie was too preoccupied to speak of her mother. Finally, sensing her discomfort, Frankie had said,“Your mind’s on your work isn’t it, love?” He insisted that she need not remain and, gratefully, she left the ward, promising that she’d stay longer next time. Next time . . . He’s not getting any younger. With Maurice’s words pounding in her head, Maisie sped toward London. Now she had to locate Smiley Rackham.
The market was a writhing mass of humanity by the time she arrived, and would be alive with people until late at night. Even the women stallholders were dressed like men, with flat caps, worn jackets, and pinafores made from old sacks. They called to one another, shouted out prices, and kept the throng noisy and moving. Maisie finally found The Bow & Arrow. Smiley Rackham was outside, just as Dene had predicted.
“Mr. Rackham?”
Maisie leaned down to speak to the old man. Smiley’s clothes, though dapper, as if they had once belonged to a gentleman, had seen much better days. His eyes sparkled below a flat cap, and his stubbled chin dimpled as he smiled. It was a broad smile that accentuated the livid scar so well described by Dene.
“And who wants ’im?”
“My name’s Maisie Dobbs,” Maisie continued, deliberately slipping into the south London dialect of her childhood. “Andrew Dene said you’d ’elp me.”
“Old Andeeee said to see me, eh?”
“Yes. Andy said you knew everyone hereabouts.”
“Gettin’ tricky, what wiv all these Oxford and Cambridge do-gooders comin’ in.”
Had the situation not been so urgent, Maisie might have grinned. Now she wanted to get down to business. She took out the photograph of Charlotte Waite and handed it to Rackham.
“Course, me old eyes ain’t what they were. Probably need to get some glasses.” He squinted at Maisie. “Mind you, cost of glasses today—”
She reached into her purse and handed Smiley a shining half-crown.
“Very nice pair of glasses, too. Now then let me see.” Smiley tapped the side of his head. “This is where I’ve got to rack ’em, you know, the old brain cells.” He looked at the photograph, brought it closer to his eyes, and squinted again. “Never forget a dial. Got a photographic memory, I’ve been told. Now then”—Smiley paused—“she looks a bit different nah, don’t she?”
“You’ve seen her?”
“I’m not one ’undred percent. It’s me eyes again.”
Maisie handed him a florin.
“Yeah. Dahn the soup kitchen. Only been there a coupl’a days, but I’ve seen ’er comin’ and goin’. She weren’t all dolled up like this though.”
“Which soup kitchen? Where?”
“Not the one run by the Quakers, the other one, on Tanner Street, just along from the old workhouse—” Smiley gave directions.
“Thank you, Mr. Rackham.”
Smiley’s eye’s sparkled. “O’ course my name ain’t Rackham.”
“It isn’t?”
“Nah! My surname’s Pointer. They call me Smiley Rack’em cos that’s what I do.” He tapped the side of his head. “But now I won’t ’ave to do anythin’ for a day or two, thanks to you, Miss Dobbs.” Smiley rattled the coins as Maisie waved and went on her way.
She stood for a while just inside the door of the soup kitchen, in the shadows, where she would be able to observe without being seen. There was one large room lined with trestle tables, all covered with clean white cloths. The staff were working hard to maintain the dignity of people who had lost so much in a depression that was affecting every stratum of life. And at the lowest end there was little or no comfort. Men, women, and children queued for a bowl of soup and a crust of bread, then filed to the tables to find a place among known faces, perhaps calling out to a friend, “Awright, then?” or making a joke, even starting a song going for others to join in. Maisie saw that there was something here that money could not buy: Spirit. As she watched, one man at the front of the line began to shuffle his feet in a dance, then clapped out a tune. Everyone started to sing as they waited, so that even in her anxiety to find Charlotte, Maisie smiled. Boiled beef and carrots,
Boiled beef and carrots,
That’s the stuff for your Darby Kel,
Makes you fat and it keeps you well.
Don’t live like vegetarians,
On food they give to parrots,
From morn till night blow out your kite
On boiled beef and carrots.
Then she saw Charlotte.
It was a different woman whom Maisie watched moving back and forth between the kitchen and the tables, talking to other workers, smiling at the children, leaning over to tousle the hair of a mischievous boy or stop a fight over a toy. Two days. She’s been here only two days and people are looking up to her. Maisie shook her head as she watched Charlotte help another worker. And no one knows who she is. There was something in the way that Charlotte moved and spoke with the people that reminded Maisie of someone. A natural and decisive leader. Charlotte Waite was her father’s daughter.
Maisie made her move. “Miss Waite.” She touched Charlotte’s sleeve as she was returning to the kitchen with an empty cauldron.
“Oh!”
Maisie reached for the pot just in time, and together they placed it safely on a table.
“How did you find me here?”
“That’s not important.You wanted to speak to me?”
“Look—” Charlotte glanced around her. “I can’t talk here, you know. Meet me when I’ve finished. I’m on duty until seven, then I go back to my digs.”
Maisie shook her head. “No, Miss Waite. I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’ll stay here until you finish. Find me an apron, and I’ll help out.”
Charlotte’s eyes grew wider.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Miss Waite, I’m no stranger to a bit of elbow grease!”
Charlotte took Maisie’s coat, and when she returned they began to work together while another refrain from the hungry Londoners echoed up into the rafters.I like pickled onions,
I like piccalilli.
Pickled cabbage is all right
With a bit of cold meat on Sunday night.
I can go termartoes,
But what I do prefer,
Is a little bit of cu-cum-cu-cum-cu-cum,
A little bit of cucumber.
The women left the soup kitchen together at half past seven. Charlotte led the way through dusky streets to a decrepit three-storey house that was probably once the home of a wealthy merchant, but now, a couple of centuries on, had been divided into flats and bed-sitting rooms. Charlotte’s room on the top floor was small, with angled ceilings so that both women had to stoop to avoid collision with the beams. Despite being confident in her soup kitchen role, Charlotte was now nervous and immediately excused herself to use the lavatory at the end of a damp and dreary landing. Maisie so mistrusted her charge that she waited on the landing, watching the lavatory door. In those few moments alone she prepared her mind for the conversation with Charlotte. She breathed deeply, and with eyes still closed she visualized a white light shining down on her head, flooding her body with compassion, with understanding, and with spoken words that would support Charlotte as she struggled to unburden herself. May I not sit in judgment. May I be open to hearing and accepting the truth of what I am told. May my decisions be for the good of all concerned. May my work bring peace. . . .
Charlotte returned and, stooping, they entered her room again. It was then that Maisie saw a framed prayer on the wall, most probably brought from Camden Abbey to her Bermondsey refuge.In your mercy, Lord, give them rest.
When you come to judge the living and thedead, give them rest.Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord,
And let perpetual light shine upon them; inyour mercy, Lord.Give them rest.
Had Charlotte found any rest at Camden Abbey? Were Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa now at rest? And the killer? Would there ever be rest for all of them?
Charlotte pulled up two ladderback chairs in front of a meager gas fire, and they sat down, neither taking off her coat as the room was far too cold. They were silent for some minutes before Charlotte began to speak.
“I don’t know where to begin, really. . . .”
Maisie reached across with her now-warm hands and, taking Charlotte’s hands in her own, spoke gently. “Start anywhere; we can go back and forth as we need.”
Charlotte swallowed and pursed her lips before speaking.
“I . . . I think the beginning is when I first realized how much my father loved my brother, Joe. It wasn’t that he didn’t love me. No, it was just that he loved Joe so much more. I think I was quite young. Of course, my mother wasn’t there very often. They weren’t at all suited, I expect you know that already.” Charlotte sat in silence for a few moments, her eyes closed, her hands trembling. Maisie noticed how her eyelids moved, as if conjuring up the past caused her pain.
“It wasn’t obvious, it was little things, really. He’d come home from work and, as soon as he saw Joe, his eyes would light up. He’d ruffle his hair, that sort of thing. Then he’d see me. The smile he gave me wasn’t so . . . so alive.”
“Did you get along with your brother?” asked Maisie.
“Oh, yes, yes. Joe was my hero! He knew, I know he knew how I felt. He’d always think up a special game for us to play, or if my father wanted to play cricket with him or whatever, Joe would always say, ‘Charlie has to come, too.’ That’s what he called me: Charlie.”
Maisie was silent, then touched Charlotte’s hand again for her to continue.
“I don’t know when it started to annoy me. I think it was when I reached twelve or thirteen. I felt as if I were running a race I could never win and I was out of breath with trying. Of course my mother was firmly ensconced in Yorkshire by then, kept out of the way by my father, who was doing very well in business. New shops were opening, and Joe was always there with him. Joe was seven years older than I and being groomed to take over the business eventually. I remember at breakfast one day, I announced that I wanted to do what Joe was doing, start working for the business, at the bottom, like all the other apprentices. But my father simply laughed. Said that I wasn’t cut out for hard work—graft he called it. Not got the ’ands for a bit o’ ’ard graft.’” Charlotte mimicked her father’s broad native accent perfectly.
“Then he sent me off to Switzerland, to school. It was horrible. I missed Joe, my best friend. And I missed home. But . . . but something happened to me. I’ve thought about it a lot.” She looked directly at Maisie for the first time. “I’ve really considered what might have happened. I became . . . very detached. I had been pushed away for so long, you see.” Charlotte began to stutter. “It seemed the best thing to do, to be. If I was going to be the one pushed to the outside, I might as well stay there. Do you understand?”
Maisie nodded. Yes, she understood.
“I made some friends, other girls from the school. Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa. It was the sort of school where girls were ‘finished’ rather than educated. I felt humiliated, as if he thought me only good for arranging flowers, buying clothes and knowing how to correctly address servants. Then, when war was declared, we all came home to England. Of course, my father, the great man of commerce”—Maisie noticed the sarcasm in Charlotte’s voice—“had already secured government contracts to supply army rations.” Charlotte looked up thoughtfully. “It’s amazing, when you think of it, the people who do well out of war. My clothing allowance came courtesy of soldiers being fed by Joseph Waite.” She looked away and for a while they sat in silence until Charlotte was ready to take up her story again.
“After we’d returned home, the four of us were pretty much at a loose end. We tried knitting scarves, socks, that sort of thing. Rolling bandages. Joseph was working at the warehouse. He’d started off at the lowest rung and at that time was a clerk in receivables. Mind you, he had apprenticed with the butchers, taken the deliveries out, and he was the blue-eyed boy of the whole business. Everybody loved ‘Young Joe.’” She mimicked a south London accent, which made Maisie look up suddenly.
“How did you get along with Joe after your return?”
“Very well, actually. When I asked to work for the business and my father refused, Joe stuck up for me, said it would be a good idea, a good example.” Once again, she looked into the distance. “He was a wonderful young man, Joe.”
Maisie said nothing while Charlotte paused to gather her thoughts.
“So, there we were, young girls with few skills, time on our hands and—for my part—nowhere I seemed to . . . to . . . belong.” Charlotte exhaled deeply. “Then I found out about the Order of the White Feather. I saw a bill posted. So I persuaded the others. It didn’t take much. We went along to a meeting.” Charlotte held out her upturned hands helplessly. “And that was the beginning.”
Maisie watched Charlotte. A natural and decisive leader.
“Then the game went on, and we were more than willing players. Each day we would venture forth with our little bags of white feathers, and we’d hand them out to young men not in uniform. We each took out an equal number of feathers and when we saw one another later, we’d see if all the feathers were gone. Of course, we thought we were doing the right thing. Sometimes . . . sometimes, I’d walk past an enlistment office and I’d see a young man standing there, or two together, still holding the feathers I’d given them. And I thought, Oh, good.”
“No one at home knew what I was up to. My father was busy, always so busy, and Joe was working hard at the warehouse. No one wondered what I might be doing. Joe always asked for me as soon as he came home. I think he knew that I was unraveling. But inside me . . .” —she touched the plain belt buckle of her dress with the flat of her hand— “inside me, I was resentful toward Joe. It was as if I didn’t know where to put all the horribleness that was festering inside me. It was like a disease, a lump.” A single tear slid down her cheek. “Then, one day, I thought of a way to get back at him—my father—and to get Joe out of the way for a while. The trouble was, I didn’t think. I didn’t think that it would be forever.”
Silence descended. Maisie rubbed her upper arms with hands that had become cold once again. May I not sit in judgment.
“Go on, Charlotte.”
Charlotte Waite looked at her. Some might have thought the woman’s posture arrogant, Maisie knew that she was searching for strength.
“I suggested to the girls, to Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa, that we should try to place feathers in the hands of as many young men as we could. And I also suggested a means of accomplishing the task. The warehouse, which employed so many young men—the runners, the drivers, the packers, the butchers, clerks . . . an army, in fact—was run in shifts, with a bell sounding for the change between each shift. It was my plan for the four of us to wait outside the gates when the shifts changed, to hand out feathers.” Charlotte put her hand to her lips together, then plunged on. “We handed a feather to each and every man who walked from the warehouse, regardless of age or job. And when we had done that, we went to the main shops, as many as we could get to in a day, and did the same thing. By the time my father found us, I’d handed out all but one of my feathers.” Charlotte’s chin dipped. “He drew alongside us in the motor car, with another motor following. The door opened, and he was furious. He instructed the chauffeur in the other car to take Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa to their homes, and he grabbed me by the arm and almost threw me into the motor.” Opening her eyes, Charlotte looked again at Maisie. “You are no doubt familiar, Miss Dobbs, with the wartime practice of men enlisting as ‘pals’—men who lived on the same street, worked with one another, that sort of thing?”
Maisie nodded.
“Well, Waite’s lost a good three-quarters of its workforce when the men joined up as pals within a week of our handing out the feathers. Waite’s Boys, they called themselves. Joe was one of them.”
Maisie’s attention was drawn to Charlotte’s hands. The nails of one had dug into the soft flesh of the other. Her hand was bleeding. Charlotte covered the wound and began speaking again.
“My father is a quick thinker. He saw to it that the families knew that the men’s jobs would be there for them upon their return. He offered wives and daughters jobs, with the promise that they would be paid a man’s wages and he saw to it that each man who enlisted was sent a regular parcel from Waite’s. He’s good at taking care of the families, my father. The trouble is, none of that compassion extended to me. The workers thought he was marvelous, a real patriarch. There were always parties for the children, bonuses at Christmas. And all through the war, Waite’s kept going, doing very well.”
Without thinking, Charlotte inspected her bloody hand and wiped it along the side of her coat. “And they were all lost. Oh, a few came home, wounded, but most of them were killed in action. Joe died. He’s buried over there.” She looked into Maisie’s eyes again. “So, you see, we—I—killed them. Oh, I know, you might say that they would have been conscripted sooner or later, but really, I know that we sent them off to their deaths. Counting the parents, the sweethearts, the widows, and the children, there must be a legion of people who would like to see the four of us dead.”
In the silence that followed, Maisie took a fresh handkerchief from the pocket of her tweed jacket. She held it between Charlotte’s hand and her own, pressed their palms together, and closed her eyes. May I not sit in judgment. May my decisions be for the good of all concerned. May my work bring peace.
CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE
Maisie insisted that Charlotte accompany her back to Ebury Place. It was too dangerous for her to be left alone in Bermondsey. They said little on the drive across London, which included a detour to Whitechapel where Charlotte remained in the MG while Maisie called upon Billy briefly to ask him to meet her at the office the next morning. Sunday was to be another working day, and an important one.
Confident that Charlotte would not abscond now, Maisie settled her into a guest suite on the same floor as her own rooms, before finally finally taking rest. It had been a very long day and would be a long night as her plan, which must be executed soon, took shape. It was past ten o’clock when she went to the library to telephone Maurice Blanche. She heard only one ring before her call was answered.
“Maisie!” Maurice greeted her without waiting to hear her voice. “I have expected your call.”
Maisie smiled. “I thought you might.”
They both knew that Maisie needed to speak with her mentor when a case was nearing closure. As if drawn by invisible threads, they each leaned closer to their respective telephone receivers.
“I was speaking with Andrew Dene this morning.” Maurice continued.
“Oh—did he telephone to talk about my father?”
“No, actually, he came here this morning.”
“Oh?” Maisie was startled.
Maurice grinned. “You are not the only pupil who comes to my house, Maisie.”
“Well, yes, of course.” Maisie was glad that Maurice could not see the blood rising to her cheeks.
“Anyway, Andrew came to see me about several things, including Mr. Beale.”
“And?”
“Nothing of great concern, simply a discussion of how we may best help the man.”
“I see.”
“I expect he’ll be here shortly, in the next day or so?”
“Yes. When this case is closed.”
“So, Maisie, I sense that as far as your assignment is concerned, the case is already closed. You have found Charlotte Waite?”
“Yes. Though Mr. Waite insisted that her return to his home in Dulwich would be the point at which he would consider our work complete.”
“And when will that be?”
“I will be meeting Billy at the office tomorrow morning. The three of us will take a taxi-cab to Dulwich.
“You have another plan, don’t you, Maisie?”
“Yes.Yes, I do”
Maisie heard Maurice tap out his pipe and the rustle of a packet of sweet Old Holborn tobacco. Maisie closed her eyes and envisaged him preparing the bowl, pressing tobacco down, then striking a match, holding it to the tobacco and drawing on the stem to light the fragrant leaf. Maisie breathed in deeply, imagining the aroma. In that moment she was a girl again, sitting at the table in the library at Ebury Place, reading aloud from her notes while her teacher paced back and forth, back and forth, then, holding the bowl of the pipe in his right hand, pointed at her and asked out loud, “Tell me what evidence you have, upon which to base such conclusions.”
“So, what else have to to tell me? And where, if I may ask, are the police?” asked Maurice.
“Charlotte has confessed her part in bringing about the enlistment of a good number of her father’s employees, including her older half-brother, Joe, who was the apple of her father’s eye.” Maisie drew breath deeply and told Maurice the story that she had first heard from the warehouse manager and then from Charlotte. “She believes herself guilty of a crime.”
“I take it that you do not consider Charlotte capable of murder.”
“I am sure she is not the killer, though she may be the next victim.”
“And the man in custody, the man the police believe to be the murderer?”
“I believe him to be innocent of the crime of murder. He may not be a good man . . . but he did not kill Rosamund, Philippa, and Lydia.”
“Stratton seemed a fair man in the past. Has he not heard your protests?”
As they spoke, Maisie felt, not for the first time, a sensation of oneness with the mind of her teacher, an intimacy of intellect and understanding, even as he quizzed her. “Detective Inspector Stratton has brought his prejudices to the case. He lost his wife in childbirth and was left with a son. His inner turmoil has clouded his usual sound judgment. The man he believes to be the killer—Magnus Fisher—is an unlikable character, one who has not treated women fairly. Indeed, he admits that he married Lydia Fisher for her money.”
“Ah, I see.”
“I’ve tried to communicate my suspicions to him on several occasions, to no avail. Stratton will not believe that Fisher is not the guilty man until I hand him the real murderer on a plate.”
“Yes, yes indeed.” Maurice drew deeply on his pipe. “And you plan to trap the killer, do you not?”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I do.”
Maurice began to speak once more. “Tell me about the means of death again, Maisie.”
“Sir Bernard Spilsbury has concluded that poison was administered, which Cuthbert has identified as morphine. In two of the cases the victim’s death was followed by a brutal stabbing.”
“The weapon?”
“The bayonet from a short-barrel Lee Enfield rifle.”
Maurice nodded. “The killer venting his fury after the death of his victim.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Anger, pain, suffering . . . loneliness,” said Maisie. “There’s quite a cocktail of motives there to be going on with.”
“Charlotte is right, Maisie. It could be any one of a hundred people.”
“One hundred people might have reason for vengeance, but not every one of those people would seek revenge in such a way. The killer is a person tormented day in and day out, one for whom there is no respite, not for one minute in twenty-four hours. And that person has discovered, tragically, that in meting out punishment, there has been no escape from the terrible ache of loss. The killer isn’t just anyone in that mass of grieving relatives, Maurice. No, it’s one person in particular.”
Maurice nodded. “And you know who it is, don’t you?”
“Yes. I believe I do.”
“You will take all necessary precautions, Maisie.”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
They were silent for a moment, then Maurice spoke quietly. “Be wary of compassion, Maisie. Do not let it blind you to dangers. Never let pity gain the upper hand. I know this killer must be stopped, that he may not feel that his pain is assuaged even if he kills Charlotte. He may go on killing thereafter. We have together faced great dangers, Maisie. Remember all that you have learned. Now then—go. You must prepare for tomorrrow. It will be a long day.”
Maisie nodded. “I’ll be in touch as soon as it’s over, Maurice.”
Before finally seeking the comfort of her bed, Maisie once again put on her coat and hat and slipped out of the house, remembering her mentor’s counsel when they first worked together: “When we walk, and when we look out at a view other than one we are used to every day, we are challenging ourselves to move freely in our work and to look at our conclusions from another perspective. Move the body, Maisie, and you will move the mind.” As she walked the quiet nighttime streets of Belgravia, Maisie realized that in his final words to her, Maurice had made an assumption, an assumption that was quite wrong.
She had spent hours in silent meditation and was now ready for what the next twenty-four hours might hold. Before taking a light breakfast in the kitchen, where Sandra confirmed that she had personally served breakfast on a tray to Miss Waite in the guest suite and had run a bath for her, Maisie placed a telephone call to the Waite residence. In the kitchen, she went over her other arrangements before knocking on the door of Charlotte’s room.
“Good morning.” Charlotte answered the door.
“Are you ready, Miss Waite?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s get on then, shall we? It’s time we left. I will meet you by the front door in twenty minutes.”
It was ten o’clock when they arrived at the Fitzroy Square, which was Sunday quiet. As they drew up alongside the Georgian building that housed Maisie’s office, Billy crossed the square.
“Oh, good timing,” said Maisie. “My assistant has arrived. He is part of my plan, and will be going with us to Dulwich.”
Maisie formally introduced them and, once in the office, Billy reached out to take Charlotte Waite’s coat. Maisie removed her jacket and hung it on the back of the door.
“Let’s get down to business. We should leave by one. That should give us enough time to be absolutely sure of each step.” Maisie beckoned Charlotte to join her and Billy at the incident table. A large sheet of paper had been placed where a case map would usually have been unfurled and pinned. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” Maisie took up a pen, and began to explain.
During the conversation that followed, Charlotte excused herself twice and each time Billy stood outside the office door until she returned, to ensure that she did not leave the building. These were the only interruptions until Maisie pushed back her chair and walked over to the telephone on her desk. She dialed the Waite residence in Dulwich.
“Hello. Maisie Dobbs here. I want to confirm that all necessary arrangements have been made for Miss Waite’s arrival home this afternoon.” Charlotte and Billy looked on as Maisie listened. “Indeed, yes, I spoke with Mr. Waite early this morning and I know that he was just about to leave for Yorkshire. Back on Tuesday, isn’t he? Yes, good. Do remember, though, Miss Waite does not wish to see anyone and no one must be informed of her arrival. Yes, she’ll go straight to her rooms and I will remain there with her until she is settled. Quite. Yes. No, absolutely no one. Good. Right you are. Thank you.” Maisie replaced the receiver and turned to Billy.
“Time to get us a taxi cab, Billy.”
Billy reached for his coat. “Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Miss.”
As Billy closed the door behind him, Maisie turned to Charlotte. “Now then, you are clear on what you are to do?”
“Of course. It’s simple, really. You’re the one taking all the risks.”
“As long as you know that when you do your part, you must not be recognized. It’s imperative.”
“And you think it’ll—you know—all be over in a few hours?”
“I believe the murderer will strike again quickly.”
Billy returned, flushed with exertion.
“Billy, I’ve told you not to run!”
“Miss, the taxi cab’s outside. Better get going.”
They climbed into the taxi cab but were silent throughout the journey, each mentally reviewing the part to be played as the evening unfolded. Upon arrival at Waite’s Dulwich mansion, Billy took Charlotte’s bag.
“All right?” Maisie put her arm around Charlotte’s shoulders and led her toward the house. Charlotte’s head was lowered, with only a few strands of hair visible beneath her close-fitting gray hat.
“Yes. I won’t let you down.”
“I know.”
The door opened before they reached the bottom step leading up to the front door, and Maisie nodded acknowledgment to Harris as she hurried Charlotte inside.
“Thank you. We’ll go straight to Miss Waite’s rooms.”
The butler bowed, inclined his head to Billy as he came though the doorway with Charlotte’s bag, then followed the two women upstairs.
“Billy, wait outside this door until I come for you.”
“Right you are, Miss.” The door to Charlotte’s rooms closed behind him as Billy took up his place.
Maisie took off her coat, then her hat, followed by her blouse. “Hurry, I want you to leave as soon as possible.”
Charlotte began to undress. “I . . . I’m not used to . . .”
Maisie pointed to the bathroom. “Go in there, undress, leave your clothes behind and use your dressing gown.”
Charlotte scurried into the bathroom, while Maisie removed the rest of her clothing. After several moments, Charlotte opened the door and came into her small sitting room again. Maisie pointed to the pile of clothes on the chair.
“Now, put those on and pull some strands of hair free. I’ll be out in a minute.”
She dressed as swiftly as she could. Her hands were cold and she found it hard to work the buttons at the front of Charlotte’s dress. Perhaps she didn’t really need to wear Charlotte’s clothes, but in case someone looked up at the sitting room from the garden, she must be prepared. It would be Billy who had to take care not to be seen.
Returning to the sitting room, Maisie gasped. “Oh, my . . . if I didn’t know better”
“Your clothes fit me very well, Miss Dobbs.”
“And the hat seems to be a good size for you, too.”
Charlotte smiled. “I . . . I should thank you—”
Maisie held up her hand. “Don’t say anything . . . not yet, anyway. This day is far from over.You know what to do next?”
“Yes. I have to return directly to Number 15 Ebury Place. Sandra is expecting me and will remain with me at all times until you return.”
“And you must not leave your room. Is that understood? You must stay with Sandra!” Maisie spoke quietly but urgently.
“I understand, Miss Dobbs. But what about my father?”
“One step at a time. One step at a time. Right, are you ready?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Good.” Maisie opened the door and beckoned Billy into the room.
Billy looked from Maisie to Charlotte Waite and back again. “So, this is it, then?”
“Ready, Billy?”
“I’m ready.” Billy reached for the door handle. “You know, there’s one question I’ve been meaning to ask you, Miss Waite?”
Charlotte looked first at Maisie, then back at Billy. “Yes, Mr. Beale?”
“Did you ’ave two address books, you know, one what was old with all your addresses in, and another what you left behind?”
“Why . . . yes, yes I did. I took the old one with me, because I never did get used to the new one. It was so empty, it made me feel as if I didn’t really know anyone.”
“Thought so. We’d better be on our way now.” He turned to Maisie. “Take care, Miss.”
The light was beginning to fade. Maisie watched from the window of Charlotte’s sitting room as they left, noticing how Charlotte had straightened her spine. The small rear lights of the taxi-cab were extinguished as it drove toward the gatehouse. She knew that she had taken a chance with Billy; his weak leg rendered him a questionable asset. But she was forced to ask him to return surreptitiously to the Waite mansion. She needed a witness, someone on her side, and did not know how far the household could be trusted. If only Stratton had been open to another view—but he had not.
Maisie’s eyes were drawn to the dove-cote, where it seemed for just a second that she saw movement in the evening shadow. Something stirred again, and a few doves flew up. Maisie watched the ghost-like flapping of wings in the twilight sky as the doves circled before swooping down to return to their home for the night. When she looked at the dove-cote again, the shadow was gone. She knew that, disguised as Charlotte Waite, she had cause to fear. Entering the bedroom, Maisie closed the curtains then walked across to the bed. Drawing back the counterpane and bed linens, she pulled off the pillows and repositioned the long bolster so that it seemed as if the bed were occupied.
The oldest trick in the book—let’s hope it works. She turned on the dressing-table lamp and scanned the room before reopening the curtains; then she surveyed her handiwork from the door. Yes. Very good.
In the sitting room, Maisie was reaching for the curtains when she heard a soft knock at the door. She did not answer. There was another gentle knock, then a woman’s voice.
“Miss Waite? Miss Waite? I thought I’d come to see if you’d like a cup of tea. Miss Waite?”
Maisie breathed a sigh of relief. She sat in silence. A minute passed before she heard steps receding along the hallway. She checked her watch, the one accessory she had not relinquished. Billy should be back soon. She sat in the same chair she had occupied on her initial visit to the rooms, when she had first felt Charlotte’s lingering fear and sorrow. And she waited.
Another knock at the door. She listened carefully, for if all had gone well, Billy should have returned by now.
“Miss Waite? Miss Waite? Can you hear me? What about a bowl of thick chicken-and-dumpling soup? You need to keep up your strength, Miss Waite.”
Maisie was silent, listening. When at last footsteps receded along the hallway for a second time, Maisie realized that she was indeed in need of sustenance. Opening Charlotte’s bag, she took out a bottle of lemonade and a sandwich. To maintain absolute silence, she went into the tiled bathroom to eat and take a few sips of lemonade.
It was now completely dark outside. Had she been wrong to anticipate that the murderer would strike again quickly? Time passed slowly.
Ten o’clock. Another knock. Maisie tensed.
“Miss Waite? Miss Waite? You must be gasping for a nice cup of tea and something to eat by now. As you don’t want to see anyone, I’m leaving a tray outside the door. There’s a pot of tea and some macaroons. They’re fresh from the oven, I made them especially for you.”
The tray was set down. Retreating footsteps indicated that the corridor was now empty. Very slowly Maisie turned the key and handle and pulled the tray inside. She closed and locked the door behind her, then set the tray down on the table next to the wing chair.
Maisie lifted the lid of the teapot and sniffed the Earl Grey, strong with the smell of bergamot. Yes. Then she crumbled the fresh macaroon, still warm and filled with the aroma of almonds. Simple attempts to disguise a toxic feast. Taking up the pot, she poured a cup of tea, added milk and sugar, swirled the liquid around then went to the bathroom to pour all but a few dregs into the sink. She poured away half of the tea in the pot, so that the provider would think she had taken two or three cups. Then, leaving the door to the bedroom ajar, she dropped the cup and saucer to the floor, spilling what poison-laced tea was left across the carpet. She was so close to the window that her silhouette could be seen from the gardens so, knowing that there was an observer, she half-staggered across the bedroom and fell onto the bed. Once there, Maisie rolled sideways onto the floor and crawled to the corner, where she took up her hiding place behind the wardrobe. From this vantage point she could see the doorway and the bed. Her only concern now was for Billy’s arrival.
She waited.
Just at the point when she thought a leg cramp was becoming unendurable, a key turned in the lock of the main door to Charlotte Waite’s suite of rooms. Maisie held her breath. A light footfall stopped at the chair; then came a clinking sound as the intruder reached for the fallen china and set it on the tray. She heard the lid being taken off the teapot, then replaced. Another moment passed, footsteps came closer and Maisie crouched lower as a long shadow unfolded across the floor when the door opened wide.
She swallowed and, in the tension of the moment, feared that the person who had come to kill Charlotte Waite might have heard her. Once again she held her breath and watched as a hand was held high with blade ready. The killer moved toward the bed, then lost all control and screamed to the heavens. Doubling over, she keened so deeply and with such passion, that even her shadow seemed to emit a deep guttural cry. She sobbed as only a mother can, her whole body given over to the grief and rage of one who has lost her children. Again and again she rammed the bayonet home into what she believed to be the already cold body of Charlotte Waite.
The killer slumped to the floor, her chest heaving, her lungs gasping for air. Maisie moved to her side, knelt and pulled the woman to her, holding her close while taking the bayonet from her limp, unresisting grasp.
“It’s all over now, Mrs. Willis. It’s all over. It’s over,”
CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO
“Miss!” Billy snapped on the light, kneeling awkwardly beside Maisie. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefuly removed the bayonet from her hand.
“Miss, I couldn’t get back in again. I tried, but there was too—”
“Never mind, Billy. Summon Stratton immediately. Go now, but first make sure that bayonet is somewhere safe!”
When Billy returned, Maisie had already helped Mrs. Willis into the sitting room, seating her in Charlotte Waite’s wing chair. She was calm, but her eyes were dull as she stared in front of her.
“He’s coming right over. They telephoned ’im at is ’ome, Miss, and ’e’s on ’is way.”
There was time to sit with the woman who had taken three lives and would have taken a fourth. Billy stood by the door, Maisie kneeling beside Mrs. Willis, who sat gazing into the fire Maisie had lit for her comfort. The scene might have reflected a young woman visiting a favorite aunt.
“I’ll hang, won’t I, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie looked into the glazed eyes of the woman leaning forward in Charlotte’s wing chair
“I cannot second-guess a jury, Mrs. Willis. When the whole story is told, they may find grounds for mercy. You may not even be considered fit to stand trial.”
“Then they’ll send me away.”
“Yes. You will lose your freedom.”
Mrs. Willis nodded, her lips forming a crooked smile. She gazed into the flames. “I lost my freedom a long time ago, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie remained still. “I know.”
“They killed my whole family. All except my youngest, and he’s as good as lost to me.”
“Yes.” Maisie knew that now was not the time to raise the issue of nuances, of what might have happened anyway, after conscription.
“It seems if it were yesterday.” Mrs. Willis looked up at Maisie. Billy came a little closer so that he, too, could hear.
“My Frederick was a master butcher. Had worked for Waite’s for years. We were young when we got married. I fell for our eldest straight away; honeymoon baby, that’s what they called him. Our Anthony. Oh, he was a love. Soft, was Tony. If that boy saw a bird in the street that couldn’t fly, well, it would be in the kitchen with a saucer of bread and milk before you knew it. Then a year later came Ernest. Different kettle of fish altogether, that Ernest. . . .” Mrs. Willis smiled as she looked into the past.
“Ernest was a little tyke. If there was mischief, then you could bet Ernest was in the middle of it. But Tony was there to put him right, and as much as they were chalk and cheese, they were always together. Always. Then came Wilfred, Will, our youngest. Loved books, loved to read. And so thoughtful, you’d have supposed he was in a dream half the time. The neighbors said I was lucky, to have three boys who got on so well. Of course there were times that they had a bit of a dustup. Like puppies, tumbling all over each other until Frederick had to go out and take each of them by the scruff of the neck. He was a big man, my Frederick. He’d end up there with them, wrestling in the garden with them all over him. People said I was born under a lucky star, with my boys.”
Billy had moved even closer. In the distance, Maisie heard the main gate open, and the crunch of tires as Stratton’s Invicta motor car made its way to the front of the house. Another vehicle followed, presumably the van that would transport Mrs. Willis. She motioned to Billy to stand by the door, ready to prevent a noisy entrance by the police
“Well, first Tony went to work at Waite’s, then Ernie went, and Will last.” Mrs. Willis brought her gaze back to Maisie. “Mr. Waite liked having families work for the company, said it was good for morale for sons to learn from their fathers. He was doing the same thing, with young Joseph.” She stared silently
“Go on.” Maisie could hear voices in the corridor, which then subsided as Billy met the police. When Billy, Stratton, and a newly-minted woman police constable stepped into the room, Maisie raised her hand to stop them. Mrs. Willis continued her story, oblivious to the new arrivals.
“Then one day Tony came off his shift, very down at heart. Not like himself. Ernie and Will came home, didn’t say much. Went straight upstairs. I could hear the three of them talking, but I thought something had happened in the warehouse, you know, a bit of trouble, something like that. Frederick wasn’t there that day, he’d gone to the abattoir. Mr. Waite liked one of his master butchers to go there, to check up, to make sure work was being done to the highest standards.”
Mrs. Willis paused. Maisie’s eyes met Stratton’s. He was prepared to wait.
“You know, I can’t say as I know quite what happened next. It was as if one minute there we were, going along nicely, this lovely little family. We weren’t well-off, not by any means, but we got by with a bit of room to spare, ’specially now that the boys were bringing something home. Then it all changed. Tony and Ernie came home the next day—they’d been very quiet—and they’d joined up. Enlisted! Their father and me, we just couldn’t believe it. Everything crumbled, my house crumbled. Frederick said that he couldn’t have his boys joining up without him to look after them. He was still a young man, really. Not even forty. He was too old on paper, but the enlisting office wasn’t that picky, as long as you were a fit man. Joined up with them, he did, and of course, they were together with all the other men and boys who’d enlisted from Waite’s.” Mrs. Willis looked up into Maisie’s eyes again. “And do you know, the thing was that I still didn’t know then what had caused it all, what had made them run off and do it. Frederick said it was that being a soldier made them feel big, that they were still so wet behind the ears, they didn’t know what it was really all about. I don’t think any of us did.”
Mrs. Willis fell silent. The WPC moved toward Mrs. Willis, but Stratton placed a hand on her arm.
“It was Will that told us. Mind you, word had already started to go around, about the Waite girl and those friends of hers with their little white feathers. Stupid, stupid, stupid girls.” She balled her fists and pounded her knees. Tears began to flow again as she spoke. “Frederick told Will—I can see him now, standing in the doorway on the day they left, all in uniform, a little family army marching off to war—‘You look after your mother, my boy. You stay here and do the work for me and your brothers.’” She placed a hand on her chest. “But the silly little beggar wouldn’t listen. Too young by half, he was, too young by half. He had to go and join up, didn’t he? Said that no one called the Willis men cowards, that if his dad and brothers were over there, then he’d go too. Oh, I wish his father had been there to stop him. ‘You’ll be all right, Mum, Mr. Waite will look after you, all the families will be all right. Then we’ll all be home again before you know it.’ But they weren’t. Even Will, he might have come home in body, but he never came home to me again, not as my Will.” Mrs. Willis slumped forward, crying into her hands. Maisie moved to her side. “I lost them all, I lost them because of those wicked, wicked girls. And . . . and . . . I just couldn’t bear it anymore. I just couldn’t bear the . . . the . . . ache. . . .”
Maisie was aware of the silence of the group watching, but did not look back. She placed a comforting arm around Mrs. Willis.
“It was like a knife through my heart,” the woman sobbed. “The man came with the telegram, and at first I couldn’t do a thing. I couldn’t hear, couldn’t even breathe. I just stood there like I’d been frozen.” Mrs. Willis pressed her hand to her heart. “The man said, ‘I’m sorry, love’ and there I was, completely alone. I was in a daze, a terrible daze, with this flimsy piece of paper in my hand, wondering, Which one? Which one? Then the knife went in, right there. And it happened three times; three times I was stabbed, and then again when I saw the state Will was brought home in. And the pain hasn’t stopped since . . . right here, right here. . . .” The woman pounded her chest and struggled for breath.
Maisie closed her eyes and remembered the last three names commemorated in hand-made tiles above the door of Joseph Waite’s shop on Oxford Street: Frederick Willis, Anthony Frederick Willis, Ernest James Willis. She spoke softly, yet took care to ensure that Stratton could hear all that was said.
“Is that why an overdose of morphine wasn’t enough?”
Mrs. Willis nodded. “I drugged them first. I wanted them to hear, before they died. I didn’t want them to walk away or ask me to leave. I wanted them to die as they listened to me tell them about my boys. I wanted them to know why, and I wanted it to be the last thing they heard on this earth. God only knows what my boys heard.”
“And then you left the white feathers behind?”
“Yes. I left them behind. If their spirits lingered, I wanted them to linger in torment. I wanted them to be reminded. I wanted them to suffer as my boys suffered, as all those boys suffered, and as their people at home suffered. I wanted them to be between this world and the next, never at peace. Never, ever at rest.” Exhausted, Mrs. Willis leaned into Maisie’s arms and wept.
As Maisie held the grieving woman to her, she lifted her head and motioned for Stratton and the WPC. Passing the weight as gently as one would hand a new baby back to its mother, Maisie allowed the WPC and Stratton to help Mrs. Willis to her feet. As Maisie joined Billy, she noticed moisture in his eyes. She touched his arm.
“S’awright, Miss. I’m awright.”
Mrs. Willis mustered the strength to stand tall while Stratton formally cautioned her and as the three moved toward the door, she stopped in front of Maisie.
“Would you look in on my Will, Miss Dobbs? He won’t even know I’m not there. I think my visiting is just for my sake, really. But I’d like to know that someone is looking out for him every now and again.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll visit, Mrs. Willis.”
“Me, too. I’ll go, too,” added Billy.
Two constables stationed outside the door accompanied Mrs. Willis and the WPC to the idling vehicles. At the far end of the corridor, a cadre of staff waited, all of whom reached out to touch Mrs. Willis as she passed. Two more constables waited for orders to secure the crime scene.
“I owe you an apology, Miss Dobbs,” said Stratton.
“I think the apology must go to Magnus Fisher. And perhaps to John Sedgewick.” Stratton nodded, and for a moment neither knew quite what to say.
“And once again, I must offer my congratulations. I’ll also have to ask you to come down to the Yard to make a formal statement.”
“Of course.”
“And you, too, Mr. Beale.”
“Right you are, Detective Inspector. Oh, and by the way . . .” Billy reached over to the fire irons and took out the bayonet. “Couldn’t think of where else to put it. But like I mentioned to you before, Miss, my old mum always said that it was ’ardest to find something ’idden in plain view.”
CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE
Billy was loath to leave his family, and Maisie despaired of ever getting him to Chelstone. But he finally acquiesced, and on the first Monday in May, Maisie parked the MG at Charing Cross station and accompanied him to the platform.
“Thanks for bringing me to the station, Miss. Don’t think I would have left Doreen and the nippers if you ’adn’t.”
“It won’t be long until you see them again, Billy. And it’s for the best.”
Billy pulled change from his pocket to buy a newspaper. “Look at this, Miss.” Billy pointed to the front page, “I dunno, there’s this young lady, Amy Johnson, flying off to Australia on ’er own—twenty-six she is—and goin’ in a little aeroplane, if you please. And here I am, scared of going down to Kent on the train.”
Maisie placed her hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Never judge a journey by the distance, Billy. Your journey, from the time you went over to France, has demanded bravery of a different kind—and I admire you for it.”
Maisie drove to Joseph Waite’s house in Dulwich after seeing Billy off. It was a fine day, one that was welcome after the fiercely cold Easter. It seemed to presage another long hot summer, perhaps to rival the previous one. Maisie had dressed in summer clothes for the first time that year, and wore a new pale gray suit, with a hip-length jacket and mid-calf skirt with two small kick pleats at the front and back. Simple black shoes matched a new black hat made of tightly woven straw with a gray ribbon joined in a flat rosette at the side—at two guineas the hat had been an extravagant purchase from Harvey Nichols. The jacket had a shawl collar, a style that Maisie favored, even though it had been more fashionable several seasons earlier.
She parked according to the usual instructions, and smiled as the door opened and Harris inclined his head in greeting.
“Good morning, Miss Dobbs. I trust that you are well?”
“Yes, very well, thank you very much, Harris.”
The butler smiled and a moment passed when neither knew quite what to say next. Maisie took the lead.
“Have you seen Will this week?”
“Oh yes, Miss Dobbs. Two of the maids went on Sunday afternoon, and I expect to go on Thursday, my afternoon off.”
“How is he?”
“The usual, Miss. The usual. He seemed a little confused when new people turned up to take him into the gardens, but settled down again quickly. We can let his mother know that he’s not been forgotten.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Will you visit him, Miss Dobbs?”
“I promised Mrs. Willis that I would, so I’ll see him when I next visit my . . .” Maisie stopped speaking for a second as an image of Simon came to her, not as he was now, but as a young man. “When I next visit my friend.”
The butler indicated the library’s open door.
“Mr. Waite will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.”
Maisie walked over to the library window, which commanded a broad view of the gardens and the dove-cote. The white birds flew to and from their home, cooing as they settled again, perched among their kind.
“Good morning, Miss Dobbs.” Joseph Waite closed the door behind him and offered her one of the chairs by the fireplace. He waited until Maisie was seated, then settled into his own chair.
“How are you, Miss Dobbs?” he asked.
“I’m well, thank you. Is Charlotte settling in comfortably?”
“Yes, she seems to be.”
“Have you spent much time with her, Mr. Waite?”
Joseph Waite shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“I know this is a difficult time for you, Mr. Waite—”
“You think this is difficult? I lost my son, you know.”
Maisie allowed a moment for Joseph Waite’s still pent-up anger to settle, and watched as the tension he felt coursed through him. Unmoved, she was determined to continue.
“Mr. Waite, why did you instruct your staff to tell me you were not at home when I came here for our previous appointment?”
Joseph Waite twisted the diamond ring on his little finger, the ring that had caught the sun so easily as he reached out to feed doves at his windowsill.
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Maisie settled into the chair, a move that caused Joseph Waite to look up.
“Yes, Mr. Waite, you know very well what I’m talking about. So please answer my question.”
“I don’t have to take this! Just give me your account and—”
“With respect, Mr. Waite, I risked my life in this house, so I will be heard.”
Waite was silent, his face flushed.
“The truth is that you kept your daughter in this house because you feared for her life. Your grief and anger over what she had done when she was but a foolish young girl festered, but your love for her caused you to keep her close.”
“Hmmmph!.” Waite looked away.
“You thought that if she lived alone, she would be in danger.” Maisie paused. “So you insisted that she, a grown woman, live at home. You didn’t even trust a potential husband to keep her safe, did you? Yet, though she was under your roof, you could not forgive her.”
Waite was restless and again fidgeted in his chair. “You don’t know what you’ re talking about. You have no idea what it’s like—”
“You gave Mrs. Willis a job as soon as her family went to war. You felt her predicament so keenly that you asked her to come to your home to work as your housekeeper. You paid for Will’s care, so that she would never have to worry. And you watched her bitterness grow. But you thought that as long as she, too, was under your roof, you would be in control. When Rosamund and Philippa were murdered, you suspected Mrs. Willis, but you didn’t do anything about it. Was it because you felt as angry and aggrieved toward them as she did?”
Waite placed his head in his hands, but still he did not speak. Maisie continued.
“When Charlotte disappeared you wanted her back, for you believed that Mrs. Willis would not strike at her in your home. It was only close to the end that you became unsure. Though the three deaths were terrible, you did not grieve for those families. Your all-consuming rage at what the women had done was still as sharp as a knife in your side. But if Charlotte was taken from you, too . . .”
Waite shook his head. “I couldn’t go to the police. I had no evidence. How could I point the finger at a woman who was broken already, whose family had given their all for my business and for their country.”
“That decision, Mr. Waite, is subject to debate. You’d visited each woman a few years after the war, to give them a piece of your mind. But it didn’t afford you much relief. Anger still gnawed at you, along with the terrible grief at losing Joe.”
“Your final account please, Miss Dobbs. Then leave.”
Maisie did not move. “What are you going to do about Charlotte, Mr. Waite?”
“It’ll all work out.”
“It hasn’t worked out in fifteen years, and it won’t work out now unless both you—particularly you—and Charlotte embrace a different idea of what is possible.”
“What do you mean? You come here with your fancy ideas—”
“What I mean is this: Resentment must give way to possibility, anger to acceptance, grief to compassion, disdain to respect—on both sides. I mean change, Mr. Waite. Change. You’ve remained a successful businessman by embracing change, by mastering it, even when circumstances were against you. You should know exactly what I mean.”
Waite opened his mouth as if to argue, but then fell silent, staring into the coals. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. “I respect you, Miss Dobbs, that’s why I came to you. I don’t believe in buying a dog and barking myself. I pay for the best, and I expect the best. So say your piece.”
Maisie nodded and leaned forward, forcing Waite to look at her. “Talk with Charlotte, not at her. Ask her how she sees the past, how she feels about losing Joe. Tell her how you feel, not only about your son, but about her. Don’t expect to do it all at once. Go for a walk every day in that big garden of yours where the grass is never disturbed by a footprint, talk a little every day, and be honest with each other.”
“I don’t know about all this talking business.”
“That’s quite evident, Mr. Waite.” Maisie continued while she had his ear, “And give her a job. Ask Charlotte to work for you. She needs a purpose, Mr. Waite. She needs to stand tall, to do something, to gain some self-respect.”
“What can she do? She’s never done—”
“She’s never had the chance. Which is why neither of you know what she is capable of accomplishing, of becoming. The truth is that from the time she was a girl you knew which of your two children had it in them to succeed you, didn’t you? Joe was a lovely young man, as everyone who knew him agrees, but he didn’t quite have what it takes to be the leader your company needs, did he? And though you love Charlotte, you wanted Joe to be the leader so much that you stifled her spirit and she floundered.”
“I don’t know . . .” Waite struggled. “It’s too late now.”
“No, it isn’t. Experiment, Mr. Waite. If one of your grocery items doesn’t sell in the front of the shop, you put it in another place, don’t you? Try that with Charlotte. Try her in the offices, try her out on the shop floor, have her check quality. Start her at the bottom, where she can show her worth to the staff as much as to you—and to herself.”
“I suppose I could.”
“But if you really want to blaze a trail, Mr. Waite, you’ll put her where she can do some good.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Joseph Waite is known for philanthropy. You give away surplus food to the poor, so why not put Charlotte to work on distribution? Make your contributions into a job and allow her work her way up. Let her prove her mettle, and give her a means to earn respect.”
Joseph Waite nodded his head thoughtfully, and Maisie knew that the canny businessman was three steps ahead already, was envisioning capitalizing on her advice in ways that even she could not imagine. She fell silent. Joseph Waite looked at her directly. “Thank you for bringing Charlotte home. And for being frank. We might not always like what we hear but, where I’m from, folk value honest talk, plainly spoken.”
“Good.” Maisie stood up, reached into her document case and pulled out a manila envelope. “My final account, Mr. Waite.”
Over the summer months, Maisie traveled to Chelstone each weekend, to spend time with Frankie and to see how Billy had progressed. A generous bonus from Joseph Waite allowed her the financial leeway to enjoy her father’s company for longer periods of time. In addition, Waite retained Maisie’s services for her continuing counsel in rebuilding the relationship between Charlotte and himself.
For his part, Billy regained strength and movement in both legs, each week meeting with the practitioner who instructed him in exercises and movements to counteract the lingering effects of battlefield injury.
“What ’e says, Miss, is that I’m increasing my core.”
“Your core?” Maisie watched Billy brush out the mane of Lady Rowan’s latest purchase, a bay mare with an enviable track record, now out to grass and ready for breeding.
“Yep, me core. Makes me sound like a Cox’s Orange Pippin, don’t it?” Billy curried the horse’s mane, continuing with his work as he spoke. “There are all these different exercises, some to stretch me legs, some me arms, and me middle, and some of ’em are really small movements right ’ere.” Billy pointed to his stomach with the curry comb. “Which is me core.”
“Well, it seems to be doing you a lot of good. I saw you walk across the stable yard with barely a limp.”
“The main thing is that the pain ain’t what it was. Of course I ’ave to go over for these little chats with Dr. Blanche, and then there’s Dr. Dene, who comes up to see me every now and again, you know. And of course, ’e sees yer dad as well.”
Maisie felt her face flush, and she looked at the ground. “I would have thought that Dad didn’t need any more checkups from Dr. Dene, not with the doctor coming up from the village.”
Billy secured a lead rein to the mare’s halter, and they walked outside into the sunshine.
“I think Dr. Dene likes to see Dr. Blanche, so ’e drops in on yer dad. Asks about you every now and again, ’e does.”
“Asks about me?” Maisie shielded her eyes.
Billy grinned, then looked around as tires crunched on the gravel and a new Austin Swallow came to an abrupt halt at the far end of the courtyard, close to the Groom’s Cottage.
“Well, talk of the devil, there’s Dr. Dene now.”
“Oh!”
“Miss Dobbs. How very nice to see you here. And Mr. Beale, still making good progress, I see.”
“Yep, doing very nicely, thank you, Dr. Dene. Wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
“No, I’m on a flying visit to see Maurice.” He turned to Maisie. “Stroke of luck meeting you, Miss Dobbs. I’ve to come up to London soon, for a meeting at St. Thomas’s. I wondered if you would join me for supper, perhaps a visit to the theater.”
Maisie blushed again. “Um, yes, perhaps.”
“Righty-o, I’ll get on the dog-and-bone when I’m up there.” Andrew Dene shook hands with Billy again, executed a short bow in front of Maisie, then turned and sprinted in the direction of the Dower House.
“Don’t mind me sayin’ so, Miss, but ’e’s a bit of a cheeky one, ain’t ’e, what with the old rhymin’ slang and all. Where did ’e learn that then?”
Maisie laughed. “Bermondsey, Billy. Dr. Dene’s a Bermondsey boy.”
Now that her father was well on the way to a full recovery, and Billy’s sojourn in Kent almost at an end, it was time for Maisie to complete the ritual of bringing a major case to a close in the way that she had learned from Maurice. In visiting places and people pertinent to the case, she was honoring her teacher’s practice of a “full accounting” so that work could move on with renewed energy and understanding. First she visited Hastings again, spending time with Rosamund Thorpe’s housekeeper, who was busy packing belongings now that the house had been sold.
“I’ve found a very nice little cottage in Sedlescombe,” said Mrs. Hicks. Maisie had declined to come into the house, respectful of the task of packing up to begin a new life. Now she strained to hear the woman’s soft voice which was drowned by the seagulls wheeling overhead. “Of course, I’ll miss the sea, people always do when they leave the Old Town, not that many do.”
Maisie smiled and turned to leave, but Mrs. Hicks reached out to her.
“Thank you, Miss Dobbs. Thank you for what you did.”
“Oh, please, don’t—”
“You know, I always thought that I’d see Mrs. Thorpe’s killer hang and not feel a shred of pity about it. But, I feel terrible for that woman. Terrible. They say she probably won’t hang, that they’ll send her away. Mind you, if it was me, I’d want to be dead. I’d want to be with my family.”
Later, when Maisie pulled up outside the Bluebell Avenue house in Coulsden, which John Sedgewick had shared with his wife, Philippa, a ‘For Sale’ sign was flapping back and forth in the breeze, and Sedgewick was working in the garden. He brushed off his hands and came to greet Maisie as soon as he saw her opening the gate.
“Miss Dobbs, I am so glad to see you!”
“Mr. Sedgewick.” Maisie held out her hand, which Sedgewick took in both of his.
“How can I ever thank you?”
“Please, there’s no need.”
“Well, thank you for finding out the truth.” Sedgewick placed his hands in his pockets. “I know that what Pippin did was wrong, but I also know that she was a good person. She tried to make up for it.”
“Of course she did, Mr. Sedgewick. I see you’re moving.”
“Oh, yes. Time for a complete change, a very complete change. I’ve accepted a position in New Zealand. There’s a lot of building going on there, so chaps like me are rather welcome.”
“Congratulations. It’s a long way, though.”
“Yes, it is. But I had to do it, make a clean break. It’s time to go, no good staying here and moping. In any case, this is a street for families, not widowers. They say that change is good for you.”
“Good luck, Mr. Sedgewick. I’m sure you’ll find happiness again.”
“I hope so, Miss Dobbs. I do hope so.”
Though she walked by the mews house owned by Lydia Fisher, she did not ring the bell. The upper windows were open, and she could hear a gramophone playing at a volume that showed no consideration for neighbors. A woman laughed aloud, and even from the street below Maisie could hear the clink of glasses. She thought of the vaporous loneliness that had seeped into every piece of furniture, every fabric in Lydia Fisher’s home, and whispered, “May she rest in peace.”
The red brick of Camden Abbey seemed almost aflame against a seldom-seen blue sky that graced the Romney Marshes, but a chill breeze whipped across the flat land to remind all who came that this was pasture reclaimed from the sea. Once again Maisie was led to the visitor’s sitting room where, instead of tea, a small glass flagon had been placed on a tray with some milky white cheddar and warm bread. Dame Constance was waiting for her, smiling through the grille as she entered.
“Good afternoon, Maisie. It’s lunchtime, so I thought a little of our blackberry wine with homemade bread and cheese might go down well.”
Maisie sat down opposite. “I don’t know about wine, not when I have to get behind the wheel again soon. I think I should beware of your Camden Abbey brews.”
“In my day, Maisie—”
Maisie raised a hand. “Dame Constance, I confess I wonder how they ever let you in, what with the things you did in your day.”