Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’m delighted to hear it.”

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

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

  “Go on.”

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

  Maisie nodded.

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

  “You’ve got a point there, Billy.”

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

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

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

  “Good thinking, Billy.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Good.”

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

  “Did Fisher think she meant it?”

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

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

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

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

  “And ’ow’s that lucky, Miss?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Billy nodded, and Maisie reached for her own notes.

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

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

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

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

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

  “What ’appened to ’im, the son?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes.”

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

  Maisie drew breath sharply.

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

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

  CHAPTER FOUR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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