Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Excuse me.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “You mean financially?”

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

  “I see. Very generous, isn’t he?”

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

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

  CHAPTER THREE

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

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

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

  “And I you, Mr. Bartrup.”

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

  “No thank you, Mr. Bartrup.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I beg your pardon?”

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

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

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

  “She broke off the engagement?”

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

  “Do you have any idea—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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